ii. 2play


The second time isn't so much of an accident. But then, it's not really on purpose, either.

It's so simple it's stupid, honestly. It's all just because you're a stubborn, loser piece of shit who would rather die than function like a human being.

It's no secret to anyone you know, least of all your brothers, that you aren't the fondest of dogs. It's not like you hate them or anything, but they sort of freak you out. Fitting for a Kittymatsu like you, they tease whenever the subject comes up, like when you stiffen while passing any dog taller than your knees on the street. Easy for fucking them to say. They haven't been chased by a crazy mutt snapping at their tail before.

Though… most people probably haven't. Still. Assholes.

Part of you thinks that the reason Jyushimatsu likes to dress up like a dog in the first place is to give you an excuse to get over your anxiety, which is definitely not a phobia, but you don't deny that dogs in general make you uncomfortable. It's a nice thought, but walking your own brother down the street while he's wearing a dog suit is pretty much the definition of 'uncomfortable '. He seems to like it, though. So you put up with it.

Jyushimatsu in a dog suit, you can put up with.

Actual dogs are different.

You're seriously minding your own business in your favorite alley, coaxing a new face from behind a pallet with a spoonful of tuna, when you're reminded exactly why you can't handle them.

There's a yowl and a hiss behind you that you instantly recognize as coming from Pachinko, the rowdy tomcat you'd named because of how much he reminded you of Osomatsu. By definition, always picking fights with things that can probably kick his ass.

Fuck.

You abandon the tuna and leap to your feet, whirling around and speeding towards the alley's second bend. Right on cue, there's stupid little Pachinko. He's got an entire ear missing and bald patches on his tail that refuse to grow back, and there's honestly not much of him left to tear apart, but his knobby spine is arched in a violent angle, and he spits angrily at the massive dog he's cornered two feet away that could gobble him down in two bites.

Worse, the dog doesn't even look pissed. It looks freaking scared of this tiny, insane furball. You might not be fond of dogs, but you can read them, and this dog feels trapped. You can see the fear building like a pressurized bottle behind its swirling eyes.

Crap.

Stupid Pachinko.

You've usually got a pretty gentle hand at defusing animal aggression, mastering tactics you've even used on Jyushimatsu. Except it's clear that you've stumbled in on a confrontation way past its saving point. All you really have time to do is lunge forward at the same time the dog does, swatting Pachinko to the side - shit, sorry, you dumb cat -

Ah, and fuck.

Agh, your arm -

Fuck!

You're not sure you even cry out in pain. Everything is just white, just fucking agony, like electric wire being shoved through your forearm and sawed through your skin in and out. Shit, shit, what are you even supposed to do right now? Fight the dog off? You don't even want to hurt it, it's just scared, and god it hurts but you can't even bring yourself to twist around on the ground and punch it in the nose or something. You can't.

Pachinko keeps yowling and hissing somewhere to your side. Stupid ungrateful cat. He's getting dry food for the rest of his life.

If you get out of this alive. Seriously. Who else but you would die from a shitty goddamn dog mauling. Screw dying alone on some freezing street somewhere. This is what you deserve.

The pain is all-enveloping, sucking the entire world into a pinpoint like a straw, and it takes you… too long to realize that you're not even under attack anymore. The dog is freaking gone. It ran away with a mouthful of you because it was so freaked out by this old-ass cat, and you've just been lying here for god knows how long. You must have just blacked out at the start and let things happen the way they were gonna happen. Even while you're being mauled. Yeah, that sounds like you.

A low, pained sound wheezes in your throat before you can stop it. A rough tongue like sandpaper rasps over your arm, and it's Pachinko, probably, but shit. You don't wanna look. You don't want to see how bad that dog screwed you up.

That's another hoodie you've got to throw out.

You just lie there like painful trash for way too long before you finally roll into a sitting position and hike your sleeve up.

You look at the damage. Honestly, you thought the wound would be dramatic, with a huge chunk of skin gone and whiteness of bone peeking out from a valley of pulverized flesh. It's not even that. The dog must not have bitten that hard, or didn't shake you or whatever, because while the bite is definitely ugly, it looks more like a series of puncture marks and bruises slicked with drool than anything else.

It's not even bleeding that badly anymore.

You mutter a string of unintelligible sounds under your breath. You want to curse the dog, or Pachinko, or just the gods in general, but you can't even summon the will to do any of that. You just want to put this embarrassing incident behind you.

Crap. Your brothers are going to be a pain in the ass about this.

There's soft pressure against your lower back, brushing against your thighs, and you twist around to see that most of your feline companions have joined you. Some are sniffing in concern at your arm, others kneading your legs gently, and despite yourself, you find an uneven smile crawling across your face. You roll your slobber-covered sleeve down and reach out for Pachinko's good ear with your good hand.

You should probably go home and take care of the bite, but…

You'd rather put up with these guys than the monsters that live there.


It's late at night by the time you finally make it home.

No big deal. Out of all your brothers, save maybe Shittymatsu, you're the one no one really worries about if you don't come home at a decent hour. They know you vastly prefer the company of your cats to them, after all. Also, they most likely just don't care. No need to sugarcoat it.

You wonder if they'd care about the fact you were mauled by a freaking dog today. You doubt it. They'd just laugh at you.

The second story windows are dark when you get to the house, which means your brothers have already gone to sleep. You're fine with that. You think you might have stayed out a little too long - your bite is really stinging, even though it stopped bleeding hours ago. You should probably take care of that.

But you really just want to go to bed.

No, stupid. You've applied enough first aid to Jyushimatsu to know that you at least have to clean it out. Wrap it in clean bandages or something, if there are even any in the house.

But you don't feel like doing all that. Especially if you end up making a bunch of noise and waking someone up. Specifically, Choromatsu, that light-sleeping, high-strung, fappy bastard.

You at least manage to scold yourself into the bathroom. Peel your hoodie off - and, ugh, it actually does become a matter of peeling around the bite wound. That freaking hurt more than you expected it to. Squinting at the wound, you try to make out what you can from the glimmer of light filtering through the window from the next-door porch light.

You can't really make out the details, but it still doesn't look that bad. And of course it hurts. It's a god damn dog bite. Just stop being a wuss about it.

You run the warm sink water, wad up some toilet paper, pump a glob of soap onto it, and dab the wound as clean as you can bear. Crap, it hurts. Just the thought of scrubbing it out with rubbing alcohol makes you want to die on the spot. This is good enough, right? It's just a few small punctures.

Satisfied, you lob the toilet paper into the trash bin and shut off the water. When you trail into the room, it actually surprises you to see your brothers all stretched out on the futon completely awake, watching a movie.

"Oh," Choromatsu says, "welcome back."

You grunt your usual reply out of reflex more than anything else. You're suddenly glad that your undershirt escaped damage this time, or coming home shirtless might become your thing among your brothers.

You're also kind of annoyed. All that trouble you went through to be quiet, and they're all awake anyway.

"Okay, Kittymatsu is back," Osomatsu announces. He sits up straight and flicks the movie off. "Bedtime."

What the heck? They were actually waiting up. Sometimes these guys really do surprise you. Well, Mom probably asked them to before going on her trip thing tonight, so it's not that weird. Wordlessly, you pick your way across the dark to the closet, dump your hoodie into the corner of banished clothing that no one ever looks at, and exchange your short-sleeved undershirt for your usual pajamas. By the time you slink into your usual spot, everyone else is practically snoring already.

You roll onto your right side, ignoring the barb of pain that shoots through your arm. Ugh. Sleeping is going to suck.

At least you'll feel better in the morning.


You feel awful in the morning.

Actually, you don't think it's even morning by the time you drag yourself into consciousness. The futon is rolled up all the way to your back, which is your brothers' favorite passive-aggressive way of telling you to put it away when you finally get your ass out of bed, but.

Shit.

You don't think you're going to.

Your bad arm is sticking out from the comforter, and it feels hot and swollen. You feel hot and swollen, all of you, from your fingertips to your toes to the fucking cowlicks sticking out of your hair. You pull your arm back under the covers and cradle it close, sucking in a breath against the pain.

Crap. You might have messed this one up.

The rolled-up portion of the futon is making you feel trapped, trapped like a freaking dog, so you shove it back with your good elbow. It probably unrolls, there's a flutter of noise somewhere beyond your reach; it takes you a few moments more to realize that the steady blur of sound has been there since you woke up, you just weren't registering any of it.

"Ichimatsu-niisan?"

Well, that one's close enough for you to hear. You crack open one eye and level it at Todomatsu, who's leaning over you with something that actually looks like concern.

You don't answer, because you never answer, but Todomatsu seems to think it's exceptionally odd. With a hum, he daintily presses the back of two fingers against your forehead. Then he gives a quiet shriek and snatches his hand back.

"You're sick! Ugh! I'm out of here!"

Oh, there's the dry monster you know. Good old Totty. You hear him beat feet across the room and start calling for someone better equipped to handle someone unforgivably germ-ridden as you. Mom or Choromatsu or something. Right, no, it has to be Choromatsu; Your parents are out for a week at some business thing of Dad's.

Ugh. You don't care.

Your arm hurts like hell.

You're going back to sleep.


You wake up again, and you're still in pain. The room is dark and vacant - which means your brothers must have found you so disgusting that you've basically been quarantined in here by yourself. Assholes. You have an infection, not a virus. Though you don't blame them for thinking you're vile.

You blink through a haze of pain and heat at a dark outline in front of your face; something that shouldn't be there. A glass of water and a few fever pills.

You should take them. Even you're aware enough of your situation to know that. You really, seriously should take them.

Your brothers left them for you. Todomatsu must have told the whole damn house. They probably figured out what really happened, though. You wouldn't be surprised if one of them saw the bite marks while you were getting changed last night. They must know that stupid Kittymatsu got torn up by a big bad -

Kittymatsu. So it was the eldest; it must have been.

Bastards. They're pitying you, aren't they?

You don't want their pity.

You snarl softly, feeling grit in your throat. Then you roll onto your other side, your injured arm crumpling limply over your stomach, and try to go back to sleep.


You wake up again. You really hurt, and it's dark outside but bright in here.

One of your brothers is leaning over you. You want to call him a bastard, but you don't exactly remember why right now. He says something to you and tries to force a bowl under your nose. You're not stupid, you can see the pills sitting in the bed of rice like seaweed flakes, and it pisses you off.

You don't know why it does but

It does.

"Go to hell," you mutter, trying to prop yourself on your good arm and failing. What you try to say doesn't match up at all to the sludgy mess of words you hear from yourself, but you're pretty sure the message gets through. Your brother's expression falls, and he sets the bowl down compliantly, bits of rice sticking to his overstretched sleeves - it's Jyushimatsu, shit. He's the one brother who isn't a bastard. You've half a mind to scarf down all the rice right this moment to make up for your mistake, but your stomach is swirling with nausea and pain and you just... you can't.

It's too late to apologize; Jyushimatsu's moved beyond your line of sight and you're too dizzy to search for him. You curl tighter and escape into unconsciousness.


You wake up.

You hurt.

What time is it? What day is it? You have to feed the cats.

Even Pachinko, that trash cat.

Maybe the dog, if it's still-


You wake up.

Fuck, it's hot.


Someone actually shakes you awake.

"Ichimatsu!" he says, and wow he sounds angry, which isn't the best note to wake you up on because now you're angry. You lift your hand to swat at the offending brother, but a cataclysmic fusion of agony and nausea makes you realize that the hand isn't responding. The hell. "Will you just take the pills already?"

"Stop messing around," comes another voice, curt and… maybe even more ticked off than the first one. It takes you a second to even recognize it. Holy crap, that's Shittymatsu. "Just shove them down his throat."

"I'm not sure about this..." Choromatsu. The three oldest; of course it's them. No one else can make you feel this pissy before you've even identified them, it's as though it's in their very auras. "He's not getting any better. Shouldn't we start thinking about a hospital by now?"

What.

No fucking way.

You lurch upward, managing a good growl of defiance before wilting back into the futon. In retrospect, that display probably doesn't help your case, but you're seriously not going to a hospital. You don't need it, you're not sure your family can afford it - not that you're worried about that kind of thing - and you're not about to let yourself be humiliated like that.

"No," you grit out, mothballs in your tongue.

Apparently your opinion isn't in the running. There's some brisk arguing over your head, and you hurt, and your arm fucking hurts. The stress builds into a pressure in your face and if you didn't know better you're pretty sure you're close to crying.

But, hell no.

You go back to sleep -

Except you don't.

The same rough hands haul you up, and there's another set of fingers that practically force you to deepthroat them up to the knuckles - taste like metal from those stupid fucking guitar strings - and then there's a glass of water dribbling at your lips, and you have no choice but to drink or drown. Though maybe you should just drown at this point. Or at least spit it all back in Fappyfuck's face.

It's over in seconds. Literal seconds. Choromatsu releases you, and Osomatsu eases you back down like you're breakable, and Karamatsu replaces the cold towel that had tumbled off your forehead in the brief violence. Then the three shitbags sit back with a sigh of relief, like a few Tylenol are going to quell the raging fever eating you from the inside out. You need antibiotics or something, not fever pills. The stupid assholes don't even know it's infection.

Because you didn't tell them.

Shouldn't you make up your mind already? Do they know about the bite or not?

You don't know anymore.

You don't care anymore.

He just keeps getting worse -

Won't eat, can't even stay awake -

I'm worried -

You shove your consciousness deep under before you can make out their low, anxious chatter.


You wake up. Your arm is in agony, and you try to pull it in again, but something stops it. Peeling an eye open with monumental effort, you make out the figure of one of your brothers crouched next to you, his silhouette dark against the window.

The hell… he's holding your hand.

"What're you doin," you slur out, because Totty is allergic to being within five miles of germs, let alone holding the hand of a disgusting, festering trash heap like you. You tug weakly with your whole arm and suppress the groan of agony, a mild flicker of wonder that the entire thing didn't just slough off from its socket like the necrotic lump of flesh it must be by now. "Le'ggo."

Todomatsu's mouth is set into an unusually straight line. He squeezes your hand softly, and you… must have some kind of withered big brotherly instinct left, because you don't let it show how much that hurts.

"Niisan, I called Mom. She's coming home tomorrow night. She'll know if we have to take you to the hospital or not, okay?" Todomatsu strokes your hand soothingly, completely fucking unaware of the roiling bacteria pit a foot away from him. Fuck. He doesn't know at all, does he?

You should tell him. You should tell all of them.

"... 'kay," you murmur.

That you actually responded seems to brighten him a little. All of you hurts, but your chest suddenly has the worst of it. It was just a bite. It wasn't a big deal. How did you fuck up this bad? You're actually starting to think that they seriously will take you to the hospital whether they can afford to or not, and that they haven't already might be because it falls into the or not category. There's no way they care that much. That's too terrifying.

It's not too late to tell them that this is more serious than they think, but.

Well, frankly...

You deserve this.

Fuck you.

"You'll feel better soon, Niisan," Todomatsu says with confidence. He lets your hand go, and then he's gone.

You don't go back to sleep.


You don't exactly wake up from sleep, either.


And then Choromatsu's bellowing in your ear.

"All right, you shitty Suicidalmatsu... Mom's gonna be home in a few hours -"

He chokes off with a sound of surprise so genuine that you're amazed it doesn't tansform into a Sheeh right then and there. Glancing over your shoulder, you send him a lazy, lopsided wave before returning to your task of rolling up the futon.

"'Kay," you say in a drawn-out drawl, just to fill in the silence.

"W-what…" Rapid pounding of feet. Choromatsu drops at your side and palms your forehead so quickly it's practically a slap, which you let slide. "Your fever is gone! It's totally gone! What the hell, Ichimatsu?"

You shrug. "Not a big deal," you say.

"Not a big deal? Ichimatsu, you…"

"Forget it." You stand, hefting the futon as best you're able with your right arm. "I'm gonna wash this thing. It smells like shit."

Probably because he's so flabbergasted, Choromatsu doesn't seem to notice that you've already had a bath yourself this morning; you've had plenty of time to figure out and process the results of your rapid recovery. Plenty. It's seriously not a big deal.

It's not.

You roll the futon down the stairs, kicking it towards the laundry room like a soccer ball. You probably should have said something like 'thanks for taking care of me', but honestly, you're not that kind of guy. The fact that you're doing something like laundry at all should show how grateful you are to them, besides.

Even if they pity you. Screw them, and screw you.

As you unroll the futon on the laundry room floor, you scratch at the scar under your sleeve; perfectly healed, preserved only in faded patches of off-color skin. You still haven't found the length of scarring hidden somewhere beneath your scruffy mop of hair, but that doesn't bother you much, honestly.

What's there left to bother you? You're still alive.

You're still fucking alive.