Chapter 1

Kenji sat cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of instant ramen balanced on his soft thighs. His fingers were still plump from childhood, his cheeks still round. At twenty-two, he looked younger than he was, and he knew it. He didn't mind. It meant people expected less of him, and he could stay close to Hiroshi without questions.

Hiroshi moved through the kitchen with practiced ease, rinsing dishes from dinner, his shoulders broad beneath a simple gray T-shirt. He was twenty-seven, with kind eyes that crinkled when he smiled and hands that had learned to be gentle. After their mother left and their father buried himself in work, Hiroshi had become the steady center of Kenji's world.

"More tea?" Hiroshi asked, not turning around.

"Mm." Kenji hugged the ramen bowl closer. The steam fogged his glasses.

Hiroshi poured two cups of green tea and brought them over, settling beside Kenji on the sagging couch. Their shoulders touched. It was nothing—they sat like this every night—but Kenji's heart still performed its familiar, stupid flutter.

"You finished your assignment?" Hiroshi asked, sipping his tea.

"Most of it."

"Most of it?"

Kenji hid a smile behind the rim of his bowl. "Okay, some of it. I'll finish it tomorrow."

Hiroshi sighed, but it was soft, fond. "You always say that."

"And I always do."

"Eventually."

Kenji laughed, a quiet sound that made Hiroshi's lips curve. These were the moments he lived for. The teasing, the warmth, the way Hiroshi looked at him like he was something precious. No one else had ever looked at him like that. No one else ever could.

The television murmured in the background, some drama neither of them was watching. The tea cooled in their hands. Kenji let his head rest against Hiroshi's shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and something deeper, something that was just Hiroshi.

"Tired?" Hiroshi asked.

"Comfortable."

Hiroshi shifted, wrapping an arm around Kenji's shoulders. "You're going to spill your ramen."

"Worth it."

They stayed like that until the bowl was empty and the tea was cold. Kenji didn't want to move. He wanted to freeze this moment, preserve it in amber, keep it forever. But Hiroshi eventually stood, taking the empty bowl, and the spell broke.

"Bedtime," Hiroshi said.

"It's only ten."

"You have class tomorrow. And that assignment."

Kenji groaned, but he stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of soft belly. Hiroshi's eyes flickered away quickly, and Kenji pretended not to notice. He noticed everything about Hiroshi. The way his breath hitched when Kenji touched him. The way his hand lingered sometimes, just a second too long. The way he looked at Kenji in the quiet moments, like he was seeing something he shouldn't.

Kenji had never said anything. He was too afraid. If he spoke, the fragile thing between them might shatter, and then what would he have? Nothing. Just an empty apartment and a brother who couldn't look him in the eye.

So he kept quiet. He tucked his feelings into the space behind his ribs, next to his heartbeat, and pretended they didn't exist.

The phone rang on a Tuesday evening.

Kenji was sprawled on the couch, textbook open on his stomach, half-asleep. Hiroshi was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of curry. The familiar rhythm of their evening had settled around them like a blanket.

Hiroshi wiped his hands on a towel and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

Kenji watched him, something in his chest already tightening. He didn't know why. Maybe it was the way Hiroshi's posture changed, stiffening slightly. Maybe it was the way his voice dropped, becoming formal.

"Yes, Father," Hiroshi said. "We're fine. Yes. Kenji's doing well."

Their father rarely called. When he did, it was always business. Always practical. Never warmth.

"A blind date?" Hiroshi's voice was carefully neutral. "I... I don't know, Father. I'm very busy with work, and—"

A pause. Their father's voice crackled on the other end, too low for Kenji to make out the words. But he could imagine them. The same words he'd heard before. "It's time you settled down. Find a nice girl. Start a family. Don't end up like your mother."

Hiroshi's jaw tightened. "I understand. Yes. I'll... I'll consider it."

He hung up. The kitchen was very quiet. The curry bubbled on the stove.

Kenji's hands were shaking. He didn't know when they'd started. "You're not going, are you?"

Hiroshi turned, his face carefully composed. "It's just dinner. One dinner. I'll go, be polite, and that'll be the end of it."

"But you said you'd consider it."

"I am considering it. I'm considering that if I say no, he'll keep calling. He'll keep pushing. And I'm tired, Kenji. I'm tired of fighting him."

Kenji sat up, the textbook sliding to the floor. His voice came out higher than he meant it to. "So you're just going to let him arrange your life? Let him find you a wife?"

"It's one dinner."

"And then another! And another! Until you're married to some woman you don't even love, and I'm—" Kenji's voice broke. He pressed his hand to his mouth, eyes burning.

"Kenji." Hiroshi stepped closer, worry creasing his brow. "It's not—"

"Don't." Kenji scrambled off the couch, backing away. His back hit the wall. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. "Don't tell me it's fine. It's not fine. Nothing is fine."

"Breathe," Hiroshi said softly, reaching out.

"No!" Kenji shoved his hand away. The touch burned. Everything burned. "You don't get to comfort me. You don't get to hold me and tell me everything will be okay when you're about to leave me."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You are!" The words tore out of him, raw and ugly. "You're going to find someone else. Someone better. Someone who isn't—" He gestured at himself, at his soft body, his trembling hands, his tear-streaked face. "This."

"Kenji, stop."

"Why? Because it's true?" He laughed, but it came out broken. "You've always taken care of me. Always. And I thought—I thought maybe—"

He couldn't say it. The words stuck in his throat, thick and painful.

Hiroshi's face softened. "What did you think?"

"Nothing." Kenji wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters." Hiroshi stepped closer again, slower this time, like approaching a frightened animal. "Tell me."

"I can't."

"You can. You can tell me anything."

Kenji looked up at him, at those kind eyes that had been his whole world for so long. The words were right there, pressing against his lips. But if he said them, everything would change. He would lose the comfort, the warmth, the quiet evenings on the couch. He would lose Hiroshi.

Except he was already losing him. One dinner at a time.

"I love you," Kenji whispered. "Not like a brother. I love you, Hiroshi. I've loved you for years."

The silence stretched between them, unbearable. Hiroshi's face was unreadable.

Kenji's heart pounded. He had said it. He had actually said it. And now there was no taking it back.

"I know," Hiroshi said quietly.

Kenji's breath caught. "What?"

"I know," Hiroshi repeated. He ran a hand through his hair, looking tired, looking older than his years. "I've known for a while. The way you look at me. The way you cling to me. I'm not blind, Kenji."

"And you just... let me?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Hiroshi's voice cracked, just slightly. "Tell you to stop? Make you feel ashamed? You're my little brother. I promised I'd protect you."

"From what?"

"From everything. Including yourself."

Kenji's legs gave out. He slid down the wall, landing on the floor in a heap. The tears came harder now, shaking his whole body. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I know it's wrong. I know I'm disgusting. I tried to stop, I tried, but you're all I have, Hiroshi. You're everything."

Hiroshi knelt in front of him. His hands hovered, not quite touching. "You're not disgusting."

"I am. I'm a freak. I'm—"

"Don't." Hiroshi's voice was firm. "Don't say that about yourself."

"Then what am I?" Kenji looked up, his face blotchy, his eyes red. "Tell me. What am I to you?"

Hiroshi was silent for a long moment. Then he reached out and cupped Kenji's face, his thumb brushing away a tear. "You're my brother. You're the person I've spent the last ten years taking care of. You're the only one who's ever made me feel like I mattered."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

Kenji shook his head, frustration and desperation warring inside him. "I don't want to be your responsibility. I want to be your—" He stopped, unable to say the word.

"What?"

"Yours," Kenji breathed. "Just yours."

He didn't know who moved first. Maybe it was both of them. But suddenly Kenji was on his knees, his chubby hands gripping Hiroshi's shoulders, and he was kissing him.

It was clumsy. Desperate. Tears and salt and the faint taste of green tea. Kenji's lips pressed against Hiroshi's, trembling, asking without words.

For one terrible second, Hiroshi didn't move. Then his hands came up, not pushing away, but holding. His fingers threaded into Kenji's hair, and he kissed him back.

It was soft. Gentle. Everything Hiroshi was.

When they broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Kenji's heart was pounding so loud he could barely hear anything else.

"You made me like this," Kenji whispered, his forehead pressed against Hiroshi's. "All those years of taking care of me, of holding me, of making me feel safe. You made me need you. And now you're going to leave."

"I'm not leaving."

"Then prove it." Kenji pulled back, meeting his brother's eyes. "Stay. Choose me."

Hiroshi looked at him for a long, painful moment. The curry burned on the stove. The television played to an empty room. The world outside kept turning, oblivious to the moment happening in this small apartment.

Then Hiroshi let out a breath, long and slow, like he was letting go of something heavy.

"Just don't tell anyone, okay?" he said.

And he pulled Kenji into his arms.