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Saburo stared down at the paper in his hands with a scowl. He never should’ve let Ichiro convince him to join his school’s chess club—then he wouldn’t be in this mess. It had been a well meaning suggestion, of course—Saburo knew that, and he’d joined to make his big bro happy, but now? Now, with the cultural festival just around the corner and the role of the head heroine thrust upon him for some stupid play his club decided to put on? Now he couldn’t help but resent himself for joining the damn club in the first place.
“‘Though I know this love will surely bring us both to ruin, still I wish to pursue it’? Ugh, this writing is so amateur…” Saburo scoffed, crinkling the page before tossing it to the couch, crossing his arms and falling back into the cushions with a pout. He tries to repeat the last few lines to himself, muttering, “That’s all you have to say?… Don’t say such foolish things… Though I know this love will surely… surely lead us to… ugh, damn it!”
He grabs at the paper, skimming his lines once again, contemplating tearing the page in two.
“Surely bring us both to ruin? Oh, come on, that’s basically the same thing!”
Ichiro appears behind the couch, peering over at his youngest brother, papers strewn all over the cushions and floor.
“How’s it going, Saburo? How many scenes do you have left to memorize?”
“Too many,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and flopping against a pillow.
Ichiro reaches over the couch, ruffling Saburo’s hair, despite the awkward angle, “Hang in there. I’d help you out if I didn’t have this job to finish… maybe Jiro can help you.”
“Jiro?” Saburo scoffs, “As if he could even read the lines fast enough to help me.”
“Come on, Saburo, just give him a chance, will you?”
He weighed his options. Yeah, Jiro was a huge dumbass that probably wouldn’t even be able to sight read the kanji in the script, but doing this alone was proving to be a slow going process, akin to pulling teeth. He breezed through so many scenes when he practiced with the other guys in the club, so maybe he needed to do the same here.
“… Fine.”
He can feel Ichiro beaming.
“I’ll go grab him for you before I head out. Thanks for giving him a chance, Saburo.”
It’s how he found himself on the floor, sitting cross legged, facing his dumbass brother, who held a copy of the script in his hand.
“So… you’re playing a… Queen?”
“Yes. It’s a combination of classic folklore and the political intrigue of chess. I was chosen to play the Black Queen.”
“So… this scene is…”
“The White King and the Black Queen expressing their forbidden love for each other.”
“Wow. Dramatic,” he murmurs, eyebrow raised.
Saburo scowls, “Just read the damn script.”
“Okay, okay, sheesh,” Jiro slumps over, squinting at the paper, “There’s so much kanji here… okay. Uhm, go ahead.”
Saburo straightens up where he sits, clearing his throat, putting on his best dainty, arrogant Queen-like voice, “Who’s there?”
“Uh… Just a wary—weary traveler.”
Though he’s irked by the mistake, Saburo continues, scoffing in-character, “I thought I made it clear I don’t care for jests.”
“Jests?” Jiro asks, putting the script down.
“It’s something said or done for amusement. A joke. How do you not know this?”
“It’s just a stupidly fancy word, is all. Why don’t they just say ‘jokes’?”
“They’re royalty! They speak in pretentious ways, are you really going to nitpick?”
It wasn’t as if Saburo didn’t have his own issues with the writing, but Jiro’s stupidity irked him more than the play did.
“Sheesh. Fine, okay, I get it,” he raises the script again, “You have.”
“And?”
“I think you could use a spare vest… what? Oh. Jest or two in… what did you call it? Your dreary life?”
“Have you come to poke fun at my misery?”
“I thought it was clear my intentions. Man, this is boring.”
Saburo threw down his copy of the script, “Forget it. I’m done for tonight. I’m never going to finish memorizing these stupid lines, and I’m just going to have to live with that.”
He pushes himself to his feet, grumbling to himself as he heads to the stairs.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To my room, to sulk and be miserable!”
“Saburo, come on—”
Ignoring Jiro’s call, Saburo stomps to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. He drops onto his bed, pulls his pillow over his face, and simply lays there. He hated that his clubmates roped him into this play, he hated that they deemed him a “perfect fit” for the role of the Black Queen, and he hated that the president of their club even wrote this stupid folklore-chess fanfiction in the first place.
Eventually Ichiro comes home from the job he picked up and the three of them have dinner together—though when Ichiro asks how their rehearsing went, Jiro quickly makes a cutting motion across his neck to get their brother to cut the topic entirely. Saburo doesn’t eat much, poking and prodding at his food in silence before excusing himself to bed earlier than usual.
He’s unable to rehearse with clubmates the next day—the boy with the role of White King had other obligations, so Saburo heads home as soon as school’s out. He’s surprised to find Jiro waiting for him, script in hand, looking practically dead on his feet, bags under his eyes, yet much too eager for his own good.
“Saburo. Gimme another chance. I wanna help you rehearse!”
“Huh? Why?” Saburo barely spares him a passing glance as he kicks off his shoes, hanging his backpack on the hook near the door. He brushes past Jiro, making his way to the couch.
“‘Cause—!” Jiro follows after him, “‘cause ya need the help, and… well, what else are big brothers for?”
Saburo looks him up and down, strongly considering telling his brother to “piss off”, but… well, he looked so adamant, and Saburo did need all the help he could get.
“Fine. But if you keep messing up the lines or interrupting the scene, we’re done.”
Jiro nods, stepping closer to Saburo, “Okay, that’s fair.”
Saburo raises an eyebrow, “Why are you standing so close?”
“They’re standing pretty close in the scene, right? From what I can tell, at least,” he looks at the script, seemingly skimming it, eyes drooping briefly before he blinks rapidly, seemingly waking himself up. Saburo couldn’t fathom why he was so tired, but he didn’t care to ask.
“Did ya wanna start from the top, or from where we stopped yesterday?”
Saburo took a step back, widening the space between them.
“We… can pick up from where we left off.”
Saburo ran the lines through his head, remembering the next line fairly easily.
“Forgive me for being skeptical.”
“How shall I put this, then…” Jiro started, his tone surprisingly regal—Kingly, even, “perhaps simplicity would be the best. I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Surprised by the fact that his brother seemed to be taking this seriously, Saburo raised an eyebrow, but remained in character.
“Is… that so?”
“You’re all that’s on my mind. I find myself struggling to focus on little else. My wife, this war—”
“Perhaps you should focus, then.”
Jiro takes Saburo’s hand, holding it close to his chest, his eyes flicking to Saburo’s before focusing back on the script. Sure, it was what was written in the stage directions, but that didn’t mean Jiro had to actually do it!
“Don’t you feel it, too? This yearning? This longing?”
Saburo can’t help but find himself distracted by the beat of Jiro’s heart. He wrenches his hand away as if Jiro were a burning stove, shooting a glare at his brother before continuing.
“What… gave you that idea?”
“It’s why you agreed to meet me here, is it not?”
“I… perhaps I simply came to end this.”
Saburo holds his hand against his chest, looking away ever so slightly. The play called for it, after all.
“End it, you say…”
Saburo’s gaze flickered to Jiro’s. Surprisingly, he looked legitimately sad. Was Jiro actually decent at acting? When the Hell did that happen?
“It would be the responsible thing to do, wouldn’t it? Especially amidst this war.”
“Perhaps. But is it what you want?”
“It’s what is expected of us.”
“But is it what you want?”
Jiro takes a large step forward, coming toe to toe with Saburo, peering down at him with an intense gaze, the exhaustion in his eyes nearly unnoticeable. Saburo stiffens, taking a step back with a huff. If Jiro didn’t knock this off…
Though, what did he expect? He’d wanted the help, and snapped at Jiro for not taking this seriously, so maybe he just had to deal with the consequences of his own actions.
Ugh.
“What I want, what you want, what we want… that doesn’t matter.”
“Does it not matter that I love you?” Jiro looks at the script, skimming the stage directions before cupping Saburo’s face. Did he have no shame? Or was he just too tired to have second thoughts about his actions? Regardless of the answer, he managed to remain generally stoic, “That when I look at you, I see my happiness? My future?”
Saburo wants to step away… yet, strangely, he also… doesn’t? Jiro’s performance is impressive, and the heat of his hand against his own skin felt strangely comforting. He doesn’t remember the last time the two of them were willingly this close without hitting each other. In a moment of weakness, he places his hand over Jiro’s, though he can’t remember if the stage directions actually call for it. It seemed to fit the scene, at least. He wouldn’t let Jiro of all people out perform him.
“I… can’t say it doesn’t matter, can I… not when you’re looking at me like that.”
“My feelings aren’t the only ones that matter, you know. Yours do, too. Share them with me. Please.”
“I’ve never been very good with this kind of thing.” Saburo looks away, solemnly, with the hesitance of a Queen in an illicit, forbidden relationship.
“It’s okay. Just let your heart speak for you.”
“I… feel a sense of ease, just being around you,” Saburo looks down, ever so slightly, then back up, “Nothing about us feels… forced. Wrong. Unnatural. Your smile makes my heart soar, your touch makes my skin tingle. When you’re gone, I yearn to be by your side again.” He pauses, lip trembling as he attempts to force himself to cry. It doesn’t work, but he figures he’ll get to that point if he rehearses enough, “I’m terrified by how much I like you—because I know it’s wrong, I know I shouldn’t want this, and yet I do. More than anything.”
Jiro looks legitimately surprised—but whether it’s due to Saburo’s acting, or if he was simply acting as the White King, Saburo didn’t know.
“Wow.”
Saburo bristles at the response, entirely in character, “That’s all you have to say?”
Jiro looks ashamed and apologetic, “No, sorry, I just… didn’t think I could fall in love with you anymore that I already have.”
The faux honesty in his voice was disarmingly convincing. Saburo feels his cheeks tinge with heat, though he has no idea why. This was his stupid oaf of a brother, after all—his words, his acting, shouldn’t make him feel anything besides indifference, especially since his words were for the Queen, not him. What was wrong with him? He shakes it off, continuing on regardless.
His shoulders slump as he looks elsewhere in embarrassment, “Don’t say such foolish things.”
Jiro tilts Saburo’s head until he’s facing forward again, a soft smile on his face, and it’s the gentlest expression he’s seen his brother make in a long time, “It’s the truth.” He pauses, as per the script, his smile falling into a frown, “Are you certain you want to end this?”
Saburo sighs, “Though I know this love will surely bring us both to ruin, still I wish to pursue it. Is that foolish?”
Jiro flashes him a brief grin and a thumbs up, which Saburo knows must mean he’d gotten the line correct. Finally. That line, for some reason, had been such a pain in his side for days. He’d even written something akin to ‘this line is the bane of my existence’ on the copy in Jiro’s hands. He’s so excited he could run to the window and toss the whole damn script into the wind—but he holds off. The scene was almost over, after all.
“Foolish? Yes. But… that makes me a fool as well.”
Saburo knows the stage directions say the White King pulls the Black Queen into his arms, but he doesn’t expect Jiro to actually do it—though at this point, he doesn’t know why he didn’t see it coming. Regardless, he’s taken off guard, his hands grabbing Jiro’s shirt to steady himself, eyes wide. His mind’s frazzled for a bit, but he manages to remember the next line regardless.
“Does it?”
“I’d say it does. What good am I, a foolish King, pursuing a love that could doom myself, doom my Kingdom. But… you know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t care.”
Jiro’s voice is just above a whisper, his eyes boring into Saburo’s in a way that makes him shiver. He was… charming?
What the Hell.
And then as if a flip were switched, Jiro falls out of character, looking back at the script with an eyebrow raised.
“So, do ya actually gotta kiss this guy?”
Saburo blinks, then wrenches himself out of Jiro’s grasp, “No, idiot, we’re gonna fake it. Turn away from the audience and just hold our heads close? Obviously.” He smooths out his shirt, grumbling, “Honestly surprised you didn’t try to plant one on me, since it’s written in the script.”
“Hey, ya wanted help, and I didn’t wanna half-ass it. But I ain’t just gonna kiss ya outta nowhere.”
“Well, good. You’d probably be horrible at it anyway.”
“Oi! Whassat supposed to mean?”
“It means what you think it means,” Saburo says haughtily, “Maybe you’re decent at reading lines, but an idiot like you wouldn’t be able to pull off a convincing kiss. Not in a million years.”
Logically, Saburo knew he was being ridiculous. Jiro’s acting was fine. Better than any of the other kids in his chess club, even. Maybe he found that fact annoying—that his dumbass brother could pick up on something like this so fast when Saburo himself had struggled with it.
So maybe he wanted to press Jiro’s buttons a bit. Not like that was unusual. The fact that it was on the topic of kissing was just happenstance. It wasn’t like he wanted Jiro to follow the stage directions and plant one on him. That would be gross.
Regardless of the topic, Jiro was easy to goad into a fight, and today was no different.
“Pft, please. Fake kissin’ is easy. Pussy shit. Real actors kiss for… uh, real, and you bet your ass I’d knock the socks off anyone I’d plant one on.”
Saburo snorted, “Oh yeah? Prove it.”
The words left his lips before he even thought about it. The dumbfounded look on Jiro’s face, while usually hilarious, made Saburo panic.
“Huh?”
Run, Saburo. Book it out of there and hide in your room until you die.
Instead, like the stubborn brat he was, Saburo doubled down, positive he could somehow save this mess.
“Ha, see? You can’t prove it. And since you can’t, I win.”
Jiro seems to legitimately consider this, staring away at no point in particular with a frown. Saburo’s pretty sure Jiro’s about to admit defeat, but then his brother does something entirely unexpected.
Jiro grabbed Saburo by his shoulders and pressed their lips together.
He didn’t know what he expected, honestly, but Jiro actually kissing him to show him up did not cross Saburo’s mind as a possibility. He freezes, brain struggling to catch up, yet knowing that he brought this upon himself. He knows he should shove Jiro away, call his brother the pervert he is, and storm off to his room, but for some reason, when he grips Jiro’s arms to shove him away… he can’t bring himself to do it. For some reason he can’t understand, Jiro’s lips against his own is a really, really nice feeling.
There’s a nearly indescribable jolt of electricity in the kiss, one that makes his stomach flip and his heart ache, and strangely Saburo doesn’t want it to end. Jiro’s lips move against his own slowly, and though his lips are dry and chapped and he tastes like melon pan, which he almost definitely ate as an after-school snack mere moments before Saburo returned home… well, Saburo doesn’t care. He wants to kiss Jiro. He wants to feel his brother’s hands on his skin. He wants… more…?
But Jiro pulls away. Saburo’s eyes flutter open—he hardly realized he closed them—and Jiro stares at him with a look of pure longing. Something about this moment, their lips finally being apart, makes Saburo truly realize what just happened. Jiro just kissed him. And even worse, Saburo had liked it.
“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
Saburo had hardly realized he’d even spoken until the words reached his ears and they were, unmistakably, in his voice.
Jiro’s eyes go wide. He flushes red, leaping away from Saburo like he’s hot to the touch, and clears his throat, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his brother.
“I… I’m sorry, I don’t know what I… why I… uhm.”
The panicked look on his face almost made Saburo feel bad, but he didn’t get a chance to even say anything before Jiro choked out a final “I’m so sorry” and books it out the front door in the blink of an eye. Saburo wasn’t even sure if he took his shoes.
He doesn’t return until sundown, and even then, he refuses to even look at Saburo. He books it to his room as soon as dinner is done. Ichiro exchanges a look with Saburo, who just shrugs in feigned ignorance—Ichiro didn’t need to know what had happened. It was best left between him and Jiro.
“How’s rehearsal going?” Ichiro asks as the two clean up dinner.
Saburo shrugs, “Fine. I finally got past this scene I’ve been stuck on.”
“That’s good. I know Jiro spent practically all night working on that scene so he could help you.”
Saburo stares at Ichiro in stunned silence. His brother catches him staring and ruffles his hair.
“What? He didn’t tell you?”
“Why would he do that?”
Ichiro shrugged, stepping away to rinse one of the plates off in the sink, “He told me he felt like he let you down, when I asked why he was up so late. He said he wanted to memorize all your scenes so he could help you. But I think he didn’t realize that you’d already gotten the first half of the play memorized and likely wouldn’t need help on that…”
“Wait. He memorized the first half of the play, too? So he could help me?”
Ichiro shrugged, “I guess so. If you ever want to rehearse, you might as well ask. I know you don’t really need help with the first half, but maybe just so his work doesn’t go to waste?”
Saburo scoffed, his cheeks feeling awfully warm all of the sudden, “Geez. To go through so much trouble…”
“He did it because he loves you, you know.”
Somehow, that very sentence makes Saburo flinch.
Love, huh…
He spends the rest of the evening reading over the lines for the next scene. However, he can’t seem to focus—that kiss is practically the only thing on his mind.
Saburo knows he’s lucky he’s smart and already knows the lessons like the back of his hand, because he can barely focus at all the next day in class. He can’t stop thinking about Jiro’s lips on his, the way his skin tingled, the way electricity seemed to course through his very veins. Was that just what it felt like to kiss? Maybe it only felt so good because that was how kissing always felt. It wasn’t like he had any other frame of reference, after all.
He meets up with the chess club after school to rehearse. The boy playing the White King is a year younger than Saburo, and several centimeters shorter. He timidly asks Saburo if they can rehearse some of their scenes together, and Saburo has no reason to refuse, so he finds himself in a secluded corner with the boy, scripts in hand—though Saburo doesn’t really need it for the scenes they’re practicing.
One of them is the kissing scene, after all.
The kid stumbles over the lines worse than Jiro had—much worse, considering Jiro managed to get through the scene without much difficulty at all, when they’d practiced the day before. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was apparently up late memorizing as much of the script as possible?
“I’d day—uhm, say it does,” the boy says, fidgeting, “What good am I, a foolish King, uhm, pursuing a love that would… could doom myself, doom my Kingdom. But… you know what?”
“What?” Saburo asks, his tone a combination of annoyed yet gentle. It seemed to suit the Queen in this scene, at least.
“I don’t care.”
Saburo expects the scene to end there. They could practice the fake kiss during actual rehearsal… and yet his clubmate leans in close, places a shaky hand over Saburo’s, and kisses him.
To say he was surprised would be an understatement.
It’s strange, feeling this boy’s lips on his own. He’s timid, his lips almost as shaky as his hands, and the kiss is feather-light. It’s uncertain. And it’s horribly, awfully awkward. There’s little emotion in it—the emotion of a kid with a crush, maybe, but it feels so lifeless. There’s no tingle Saburo feels. No desire to be touched. No electricity.
It was nothing like how Jiro kissed him.
He finds himself asking the same question again when the boy pulls away.
“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
He finds himself asking… nicer this time. Softer. He doesn’t want to cause a scene, not at school amongst a bunch of people he barely tolerated. Plus, this kid already looked like he was one step away from a breakdown at all times. Saburo didn’t want to be the one to have to pick up the pieces when he shattered.
“O-oh! I… I’m sorry, I don’t know why…! I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, uhm, it won’t happen again…”
Saburo rolled his eyes.
“Okay. Good. Let’s do the next scene.”
His clubmate flips through the script, red in the face, and stumbles through his lines just as badly as he had all day. Saburo’s thankful to finally work on later scenes, though they only manage to run through a few scenes before they need to part ways for the day.
Saburo continues rehearsing at home, spending the next few days cycling between after school rehearsals and at-home memorization sessions. Jiro is scarce, which is somewhat understandable, all things considered. It was fine–Saburo would just have to memorize the rest of the play without Jiro.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about that damn kiss.
Jiro starts talking to him again after about a week. The cultural festival was still two weeks away and his club had just started to get their costumes together for dress rehearsals–most of it were recycled pieces from previous years, though they were expected to sew at least some of the costumes on their own. Saburo sat at the kitchen table for hours, attempting to sew a hat that mimicked the top of a Queen chess piece. It was horribly ugly and he kept pricking himself with the needle, which just left him miserable and irritable.
“What the Hell is that?”
Saburo looks up when Jiro speaks, finding his brother staring at the mess of cloth in his hands with an amused expression.
“It’s a hat. For the play.”
“Oh, right, right,” Jiro nodded, crossing his arms, “How’s that going, by the way? Got all your scenes memorized?”
It was somehow a relief that Jiro seemed to be back to normal, electing for the “act like nothing ever happened” route. Saburo expected as much, though it did irk him. How the Hell was he supposed to know if Jiro felt that same weird electricity between them if he refused to talk to Saburo about their kiss? Maybe he’d have to get creative and force it out of him somehow… or rely on attempting to replicate the event to see if the results were the same. After all, it could’ve been a fluke. With that in mind, a chance had presented himself, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.
“Actually,” Saburo says slowly, placing the hat down on the table, “I’m… having trouble with just one scene.”
“Oh. Want me to help?”
“If you have the time.”
“Yeah, sure. I got nothin’ else goin’ on.”
Saburo knew full well that he had his lines down… more or less. He knew he didn’t need Jiro’s help with any of his scenes at that moment in time. But an opportunity arose, and Saburo chose to seize it.
Jiro stared down at the script in his hands, skimming over the scene, blushing slightly.
“Oh. This… this scene. You seemed to get through it just fine, last time.”
“I haven’t been able to do it again since then,” Saburo lies easily, “I need to go over it again.”
Jiro sighs, “Fine, fine. Go ahead, you have the first line.”
Saburo clears his throat, putting on the voice he’d adopted for the ‘Black Queen’, “Who’s there?”
They run through the scene easily, neither one flubbing or stumbling over any lines. Jiro’s not as into it, at first–simply reading the lines instead of performing, but he slowly starts to actually act, just like he had before.
He was much more suited for the role than Saburo’s clubmate, that was clear with each passing line. It was strange, seeing his brother as suitable for such a role, considering Jiro was… well, Jiro. Maybe it was the kiss that had him thinking in such a weird way.
Speaking of the kiss…
It neared the end of the scene. Jiro had neglected to step any closer to Saburo, despite what the stage directions called for. That was fine, Saburo would just have to be the one to do so. He watches Jiro flinch as he steps closer, eyeing Saburo warily but making no effort to step away.
Finally, those final words are spoken. A soft, barely above a whisper line, full of loving emotion: I don’t care.
… and Jiro moves away, avoiding the kiss entirely.
Saburo wouldn’t have it.
He grabs Jiro by his shirt and surges forward, hurriedly pressing their lips together before his brother could protest.
Saburo squeezes his eyes shut, shaking, finding himself utterly terrified by Jiro’s response. The moment their lips touched, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he couldn’t take this back. He’s all too aware of how horribly fucked up this was, to force a kiss on his own brother. Jiro could push him away, should push him away, should call him disgusting and fucked up and a whole manner of harmful yet true insults, and yet…
And yet, Jiro kisses him back.
It’s as electric as it was the first time, if not more. Jiro cups Saburo’s cheek, stepping closer to him and pulling their bodies flush together. Saburo nearly falls against him, grabbing Jiro’s upper arm with his free hand to sturdy himself. He pushes himself up onto his toes, ever so slightly, pressing their lips more firmly together. He hardly knows what he’s doing, but he has a feeling Jiro’s in the same boat. Despite that, every moment leaves Saburo tingling from head to toe, skin burning with desire, his head fuzzy and unfocused as all he can think is Jiro, Jiro, Jiro.
Jiro pauses for only a moment, taking a deep breath and whispering Saburo’s name against his lips–and Saburo’s breath hitches in his throat. He whimpers, whining out his brother’s name in turn.
“J… Jiro-nii–”
Jiro curses under his breath, grabbing Saburo and practically shoving him against the wall, surging forward to press their lips together again, kissing Saburo with a newfound bruising intensity. It’s a desperation that makes Saburo’s heart ache, and it’s a desperation he mimics, parting his lips with a soft gasp when Jiro presses his tongue into Saburo’s mouth. He slips his hand into Jiro’s hair, curling his fingers around a handful of messy black locks, uncaring that it was a bit damp from sweat. Usually he’d be grossed out by this, but for some reason, right now, he doesn’t care. He just wants to touch Jiro, to be touched by Jiro, to swap spit and steal the breath out of each others’ mouths. Electricity surges through him, his heart aching as it yearns for more, and he hardly gives his own actions a second thought before he bucks his hips against Jiro’s.
The way Jiro moans into his mouth is enough to make Saburo nearly pass out.
Jiro pulls away from their kiss, staring down at Saburo briefly before pressing their foreheads together. Gasping for breath, Saburo clings onto his brother, staring at him in utter awe. He doesn’t remember the last time he willingly stood this close to Jiro, he doesn’t remember the last time just looking at him didn’t fill Saburo with irritation. How could just a kiss fundamentally change how he saw his brother?
No, it wasn’t just a kiss. A simple kiss couldn’t make Saburo feel the way he did, that much was proven when his clubmate planted one on him recently. So why was Jiro different? Saburo stares into his brother’s eyes, searching for an answer that felt just out of his reach. He bites his lip, feeling the need to either fill the silence or kiss Jiro again, and based on the way Jiro looked at him, he felt the same way. Saburo parts his lips, unsure where to start but knowing he needed to say something–
The front door unlocks. They jump apart just in time for Ichiro to swing the door open, beaming, “I’m home!”
They both greet him with their usual, ‘Welcome home aniki/Ichi-nii,’ and spend the rest of the night pretending nothing ever happened between them.
They don’t talk about it for two weeks, though not a day goes by where Saburo doesn’t think about it. Jiro was his dumb, dopey, annoying, smelly, irritating older brother—he shouldn’t have these kinds of feelings for him. He shouldn’t. But regardless of any moral objections he had, it didn’t change the fact that every time he remembered their kiss, the feeling of Jiro’s tongue in his mouth, the feeling of being pressed against the wall and ravaged, he found himself flushed, heart pounding in his chest.
The week before the play, Saburo elects to shove that all aside and focus on the task at hand—he can deal with his confusing feelings later. With such a short time limit bearing down on him, Saburo finds himself frazzled and nervous, restarting his sewing attempt on that stupid hat no less than five times until Ichiro offers to help. He spends hours at a time pacing back and forth, reciting his lines until he’s satisfied. He spends every day after school with the club, prepping for the performance and running through dress rehearsals to prepare for the festival itself.
Eventually, the day comes. He’s in such a rush, he doesn’t realize until much too late in the day that he left his hat—that stupid hat— on the kitchen table. He texts Ichiro in a panic, unsure if he can run home in time to grab it, but Ichiro reassures him easily.
‘It’s ok, Saburo. I’ll bring it to the school.’
Saburo sighs, hand against his chest, willing himself to calm the fuck down.
‘Thanks ichi-nii!!’
‘No prob. Jiro and I can’t wait to see your performance :-)’
Ah, so Jiro was coming, too. He was… glad? Maybe? His feelings toward Jiro were complicated as of late, admittedly. He knew they needed to talk about it, but that certainly wasn’t happening anytime soon.
But as if the universe itself hated him, the brother that walked into the nearly empty classroom to find Saburo pacing back and forth wasn’t Ichiro. Jiro looked around the room, Black Queen’s hat in hand.
“Gee, where is everyone?” He asks, approaching his younger brother, halting when he grew close enough in the dimly-lit room to properly see his brother, “… and, uh… what are you wearing?
“Everyone’s setting up for the play. Like I should be,” Saburo huffs, swiping the hat from Jiro’s hands, “and it’s my costume. I’m playing a queen, remember? It’s modeled after a junihotoe.”
“Right, yeah, but, uh… your face. Are you wearing—”
“Make up? I’m a Queen, remember?”
“Yeah, uhm. Right. The, uh… lipstick suits you.”
There wasn’t a hint of teasing in his voice for once, but Saburo rolls his eyes regardless, blatantly ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest. He struggled to pin the stupid hat to his head, silently cursing the club President for not getting them a damn mirror for their make-shift dressing room.
“Dude…” Jiro sighs, reaching out to take the hat, “Let me. Just hold still.”
Saburo wants to protest, but Jiro had already confiscated the damn thing, and seemed to be focused on securing it to Saburo’s head, so he begrudgingly kept still. Ugh.
“And… there.”
Jiro took a step back, and Saburo gave his head an experimental shake. The hat stayed in place, meaning Jiro actually did a good job securing it.
“Thanks.”
“Huh? Oh, don’t mention it.”
Silence awkwardly stretched between them, neither knowing what to say to break it. They’d hardly even looked at each other as of late, not since they made out like a couple of love sick teenagers.
Which… maybe they were. Though being in love with Jiro was an absolutely terrifying thought.
… could it be true, though? Was he in love with Jiro?
And, was Jiro also…?
“Don’tchya gotta get goin’?” Jiro asks, pointing over his shoulder casually, wrenching Saburo from his thoughts. He blinks, wide-eyed, looking towards the door with absolute dread.
“I…”
“Somethin’ wrong? You didn’t forget your lines, did ya?”
“What? No, who do you take me for? I’m fine.”
“Ah, okay. Sorry. Just thought I’d… offer. If you needed help.”
Saburo eyes Jiro carefully, noting how his brother seemed to avoid Saburo’s gaze entirely, cheeks tinged a light shade of red.
Was he, in a roundabout way, asking if Saburo wanted to…?
Saburo swallowed the lump in his throat. Truthfully, he did. He did want to, but…
Were they making a mistake? They’d be committing a societal taboo (again) if they continued down this path. No one would understand them—no one would accept them.
They’d have to hide their relationship for the rest of their lives.
With a start, he realizes just how applicable that scene, that damn scene, was.
“… This love will surely…” Saburo mutters, brows furrowed as the line that started it all filters through his head.
“Ah, ya gotta speak up, bro. I didn’t hear that.”
Lips pressed together, Saburo meets his gaze with Jiro’s, fingers nervously curled into fists, “This love will surely… bring us to ruin.”
Jiro stares at him, blinking, the words seemingly slowly settling in, until…
“Oh, that scene again? Sure.”
“Wh—? No, Jiro, I meant—forget about the damn play for a minute, I meant us.”
Jiro doesn’t respond right away, seemingly mulling over his words.
“I don’t think it will,” he finally says, much too simply, as if the gravity of the situation just wasn’t clicking in his brain.
“Don’t be stupid,” Saburo snaps, “on what planet does this not end in misery?”
“C’mon, Saburo, you’re bein’ dramatic.”
“No, you’re being stupid if you think anyone in their right mind would accept us! Our friends, society as a whole, even Ichi-nii… we’d be complete societal outcasts. Don’t you realize that?”
“So… then, this is it?” Jiro’s words were empty of any kind of bite, challenge, or fight. They were calm, like he was asking a question he simply didn’t know the answer to, “We’re ending this now? Keepin’ things just familial?”
The obvious answer was “yes”, and yet that simple word stuck in his throat.
He thought about it, about the two of them going back to the way things had always been, barely able to tolerate each other. He thinks about Jiro, inevitably getting a girlfriend, maybe even getting married someday, settling down, starting a family…
The way his heart ached was only the nail in the coffin.
“I… don’t want that.”
“Okay,” Jiro says slowly, nodding, “Then what do you want?”
“I-it’s…!” Saburo flushes, avoiding Jiro’s stare, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“If it was obvious, I wouldn’t ask.”
Saburo was going to throttle him.
“You, you absolute idiot,” he fully intends on his tone being nothing short of annoyed, but he barely makes it through a single word before it falters, replaced by a distraught awe that hits him without warning, “I just want you.”
It felt so final, those words falling from his lips. As if, by speaking those words, he’d finally accepted it on some level. Maybe he already had. It was terrifying and exciting and he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry or both, but thankfully he didn't get the chance to do either. Jiro closes the space between them in an instant, cupping his brother’s face in his hands, and Saburo meets him halfway. His hands curl in the fabric of Jiro’s shirt, eyes drifting closed as he lets his worries fade away.
He’d almost given this up. He’d tried to force himself to do the right thing, do the easy thing, and though he wasn’t stupid and knew there would likely be struggles, the more they kissed the more he was certain he’d never give this up.
There’s a passion to the kiss that’s reminiscent of the last time they did this, but it feels less frantic, less “giving into something taboo” and more appreciative, more certain. Jiro leads them both a few steps to a desk just behind Saburo, hoisting his brother onto it without breaking the kiss, settling himself between his legs. A hand snakes its way into Saburo’s costume, gripping Saburo’s thigh and he groans, a deep, erotic sound that strikes Saburo to his very core. He didn’t know Jiro could make a sound like that. His legs wrap around his brother’s waist, blindly grasping for a fist full of Jiro’s hair in his hands. He doesn’t know when that stupid baseball cap disappeared, but he wasn’t going to complain—it’d be in the way anyway.
Saburo’s breath hitches in his throat when he feels the unmistakable wetness of a tongue slip between his lips with ease, the undignified squeak he made a surprise to him as much as Jiro, but it seemed to spurn his brother on more than anything. It always seemed so disgusting on TV and in movies, but now that he was able to feel it himself, his brother’s tongue exploring every inch of his mouth? He finally understood. The twist in his gut and heat in his very veins from arousal had been nothing but a headache anytime the mood had hit before, but feeling it now with Jiro, it was addicting. He wanted his brother closer, closer, hands on his skin and mouth in places he should be ashamed to even imagine—
The familiar clatter of their rickety classroom door sliding open jolts him back to his senses just as quickly as it does Jiro’s.
“Yamada-san? The play’s about to start, are you in here?”
Fuck, it was his teacher.
Jiro leaps away at record speed as Saburo scrambles off the desk, smoothing out his costume and patting down his hair, hoping he looked presentable. His eyes flicker to Jiro and he doesn’t know if he should laugh or panic.
“You have lipstick smeared on your face!” He hisses, watching in real time as Jiro realizes what a dead giveaway that would be if Saburo’s teacher saw Jiro with the same shade of lipstick Saburo wore smeared against his own lips. He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to scrub away the makeup, but it’s hard to tell just how successful he is without a damn mirror.
Saburo’s teacher appears from around their portable hanger of costumes and Jiro spins around, his back to her, but luckily she hones in on Saburo.
“Yamada-san, good, you’re here. Your clubmates are looking for you, are you r— oh! Dear, your lipstick is… don’t worry, I’ll fix it for you, let me just…” she turns to locate the makeup Saburo had been provided, finally noticing Jiro loitering around awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, who is…?”
“This is my brother,” Saburo hurriedly explains, “he brought me a piece of my costume I left at home. He was just leaving.”
Jiro turns, albeit briefly, giving the teacher a quick bow, “Hi nice to meet you sorry for intruding goodbye!”
And he’s gone before she can ever see his face.
If she finds his behavior strange, she doesn’t comment on it, focusing instead on cleaning the makeup smears on Saburo’s face and reapplying his bright red lipstick. She’s fast, he has to give her that, and she’s ushering him out the door seconds later.
For what it’s worth, the play seems to go over well. He’d expected to be distracted, eyes skimming the audience and finding his brothers sitting side by side, gaze lingering on Jiro just a moment longer, but his presence wasn’t as distracting as he expected. In fact, he’s able to channel his feelings easily into the play, feeling a new sort of kinship to his character that he hadn’t felt before. He understood her, now—he understood her hesitence and longing, the split between what she’d been taught was right and what she feels is right. He wondered if Jiro understood that sooner than he, when he stayed up all night studying the script to help him.
The play seems to be a relative success, based on the general audience reaction. He didn’t care much of what everyone else thought of him, but his brothers beam at him from the crowd, and that’s enough to make him feel fulfilled.
Ichiro manages to grab him before he makes it back to his classroom to change, pulling him into a crushing hug and insisting on taking up-close pictures of him in his costume. He can’t say no to Ichi-nii, it’s impossible, so despite his embarrassment he does as he’s asked.
“Alright, I think I got enough. Go ahead and get changed, we can check out some of the food stands together. You must be hungry.”
He’s right, of course. Saburo had been so nervous before, that he’d hardly eaten anything all day. He rushes off to change and wash off his makeup, and meets his brothers, stomach already grumbling. The hallways are pretty damn packed, making it near impossible to stick together, and Ichiro scans the crowd with a frown.
“Why don’t the two of you find somewhere to sit? I’ll grab us all some food.”
They agree it’s the best course of action and Ichiro disappears in the crowd. Jiro scans for some open space, somewhere out of the way where they can eat without being in anybody’s way, and he seems to find one. He takes Saburo’s hand in his and drags his brother through the crowd and into a secluded corner, though neither one makes any effort to pull their hand free even once free from the stampede of people.
It's silent between them for a few long moments, then when it seems they won’t be overheard, Jiro speaks.
“You did really good. During the play, I mean. And…” he rubs the back of his neck, as if embarrassed, “I know it’s dumb, but sometimes it seemed like you were talkin’ to me, and not… y’know. That king.”
“You’re… not too far off,” Saburo admits, too embarrassed himself to make eye contact with his brother, “I was, uhm… thinking about you. Through it all. It helped make me more convincing, I think…”
Jiro smiles, squeezing Saburo’s hand, “That’s a relief to hear. Though I’m hopin’ it doesn’t end the same.”
Saburo rolls his eyes, “You hope, huh? What, worried I’ll have to kill you on the battlefield for the sake of everlasting peace in my kingdom?”
“I meant more like ‘I hope it doesn’t end with you renouncing the whole relationship and hating me forever’.”
“Is that what you got out of the ending? Sheesh, the subtleties of my acting must’ve gone straight over your head!”
“Oh yeah?” Jiro raised an eyebrow, “What’d I miss, then?”
“Well it’s obvious that she loved him until the end. Renouncing their relationship was something she had to do for the good of her people, even if it hurt.”
“Kinda cruel of her to rip his heart out before killin’ him.”
“She ripped his heart out so he’d give up on her. Instead, he came after her to try and win her back, like a stubborn oaf.” Saburo shakes his head, “If he just took her at her word instead of rushing into battle to try to win her back, then he wouldn’t have had to die.”
Jiro seems to consider this for a moment, “Hm… maybe he knew. That she still loved him, I mean.”
“Ha? If he did, then what he did was even more idiotic than I initially thought!”
“I dunno. Now that I think about it, kinda seems to me like he’d rather die in her arms than live a life without her.”
Jiro’s surprisingly insightful interpretation catches Saburo off guard. He hadn’t considered that, but perhaps Jiro had a better understanding of the King than he. Saburo sighs, slumping against Jiro’s side.
“Well, whatever. You’re not allowed to do anything like that. I won’t allow it.”
Jiro chuckles, “I’ll make ya a deal, then. I won’t get myself killed as long as ya don’t break my heart ‘for my own good’ or whatever. Sound fair?”
“You’re an idiot,” Saburo snorts, “but whatever. Deal.”
It occurs to him that a “deal” was quite possibly the least romantic way to solidify their relationship, but he can’t find it in him to mind all that much. It felt oddly fitting, if anything, for their relationship to develop in an unconventional way—not dissimilar to the King and Queen from the play that he’d been forced to play a part in.
And with Jiro’s hand in his, Saburo can’t help but feel grateful.