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All is silent in the Nijiku household. All but one is asleep, everyone but Goka knowing better to rest than to remain awake and working at their desk.
Goka glances at the clock. 2:45 a.m.
Sighing, he puts down his brush and buries his head in his hands. He's still so frustrated from yesterday afternoon, whilst doing personal training with Zanka– he hasn't been able to sleep a wink since then.
Goka is infuriated by Zanka's entitlement– the sheer audacity for him to talk back during training, to make a snide comment and expect no reparations for it. Sure, Goka can whack Zanka on the head, but since nothing gets through that thick skull of his, no lessons really stick.
He hates Zanka– loathes him, really. Kyoka talks about him and his determination like it's some sort of god's essence, but Zanka is pathetically human. Everyone can see that. Zanka could die, so damn easily, and it would be no loss to the family.
He's so weak. Goka wonders how fast he'd break if he put even just a little bit of serious pressure on him.
There's an idea.
Goka snuffs out his lamp, gets to his feet, and, with light footsteps, slips out of his room.
A little lesson won't hurt his little brother, he reasons. Just to scare him, teach him that things in the real world aren't as forgiving as his older siblings. It's a lesson Zanka will have to learn eventually anyway; better now than later.
He slides Zanka'a door open quietly, steps onto the tatami, and stops.
Zanka lies on his back, his arms splayed out like a starfish. It's infuriating how carefree he is, how he sleeps as if nothing could hurt him– the naivetè is almost enough to make Goka nauseous. His little brother is too soft to survive in a world like this, but only Goka seems to think so.
Goka's hands itch, and his heart fills with pure, unbridled rage.
Zanka's nose twitches in his sleep, and then he mumbles something under his breath with a strained expression. He must be dreaming.
How pathetic. Zanka– with such vulnerabilities like that, Zanka doesn't deserve the life he has. He doesn't deserve to live the carefree life of the ‘talented one’ when he has nothing to show for it. Why does Zanka get all the attention, all the eyes looking his way when he's been fed from a silver spoon from a silver platter?
He doesn't deserve what he has. Zanka must know this– so how can he sleep so soundly when the guilt of being a greedy, entitled child should be eating away at him. Zanka doesn't deserve to live so ignorantly.
Goka stares at Zanka, still fast asleep, and suddenly, an urge that he's never felt before washes over him.
Zanka doesn't deserve what he has.
Goka could–
Goka could take that away from him. He could remove the failure of the Nijiku family, could protect himself, and–
It would be so easy.
Goka takes a step forward.
He takes a deep breath, his blood boiling, and reaches for Zanka's bare, exposed neck.
Zanka remembers dreaming something about a rabbit that refused to listen, and trying to convince it of anything proved fruitless– frustrating to the point where Zanka was seriously considering employing some more stronger techniques. But as his dream-self opened his mouth to retort, something grabbed his neck, jolting him awake with a gasp.
Immediately, Zanka's first instinct is to cry out and push away, to get whatever's constricting his breathing off of him, but as his eyes fly open and he gasps for slivers of oxygen, he meets his brother's gaze.
“Go– kagh!”
“Pathetic,” Goka growls, his eyes full of blind rage as his thumbs press down onto his oesophagus, “Not even on your guard.”
Zanka's hands immediately wrap around Goka's wrists at his throat, trying desperately to push him off, but nothing works when he can't even fit his hands around the circumference of his forearms. In contrast, Goka's hands are able to encircle his neck easily– Zanka feels like a fly caught in the web of a spider, overwhelmed and powerless.
His neck is forced back as Goka's hands shift so that his thumbs press down just either side of Zanka's throat, the bridge between them and his palms pressing down instead– it does only very little to increase the amount of oxygen Zanka's able to rasp in, but simultaneously prolongs the agony.
Zanka whines, starting clawing at Goka's arms, but his brother doesn't stop. Goka doesn't break eye-contact, not even for a second, as he presses down harder, harder, harder.
“You're always so damn entitled,” Goka snarls, as Zanka kicks his legs weakly to try and get his brother to stop, to let him breathe, “That attention gets to your head; and you know it, don't you?”
It hurts. Zanka attempts to choke out a protest, but Goka's hands are unforgiving. They press down hard against the delicate flesh of his neck, fingers digging bruises into his skin.
It's quiet, so the sounds of Zanka's wheezes and the creaking of the bedframe and Zanka's legs slipping and sliding as he writhes against the bedsheets are almost deafening. Goka doesn't dig as deep as he could into Zanka's oesophagus, but there must be a reason for it– maybe this is a training exercise?
...Even if it's not real, Zanka is scared.
Goka has never done something like this before. Goka is sometimes a little mean and he doesn't care for when Zanka's trying to take a time-out in training but he doesn't– he hasn't tried to make Zanka feel as if he's about to die. Zanka doesn't want to die.
Shakily, he musters what little voice he has left to try and get his brother to stop; dragging his nails down his arms isn't working.
“S-Stop,” he whimpers, tears starting to gather in his eyes, “Plea…se–!”
Goka does not listen. He does not care.
“Where's that fight? Where's that genius of yours?” Goka demands, releasing Zanka for just a moment, just enough for Zanka to gasp for air before Goka slams Zanka back down by the neck, pressing him down into his mattress and once again cutting off Zanka's air. “Your classmates just rave about you, but you can't even fight me off?”
Zanka is trying, he really is– but Goka must overstimate his strength, because no amount of pushing or resistance will stop him. Zanka starts to kick harder, starts to aim for spots that will make his brother falter, but Goka anticipates it. He lets out a strangled cry as Goka's knees press down onto his thighs, the full weight of a nineteen-year-old no match for Zanka's pre-pubescent body.
He can't fight Goka off. He can't. Zanka is terrified.
“P-Plea…se…” Zanka begs, hot tears running down his cheeks, “Go… ka…”
Goka scoffs, ignoring Zanka's pleas. He's angry, angrier than Zanka has ever seen him, and Zanka is almost certain that Goka is trying to kill him.
His big brother–
“Don't fuckin’ beg,” he hisses, “The nerve of you to do so, when your very existence mocks our family! Can you even die like a Nijiku, or will you be a damn failure from start to end?!”
His big brother is trying to kill him.
“The least you could do is keep your dignity,” Goka mutters, and Zanka flinches as he spits– the saliva landing on his cheek and mixing with his tears, “A real Nijiku would die with honour, not by whining and begging for his life."
But Zanka doesn't want to die. He doesn't want his brother to kill him.
He tries his hardest to push back against Goka, but his strength is overwhelming. He's half Goka's size, and he knows it's essentially pointless but he tries anyway because he doesn't want to die.
No matter what he does, though, it's clear that the lack of oxygen is getting to his muscles, and his resistance is thus becoming weaker. Zanka's nails no longer drag red welts onto Goka's arms, and he can no longer focus on Goka's expression, twisted into a snarl.
Dark spots assault his vision, and Zanka's inhales grow shallower. Goka's hands keep pressing, just waiting for Zanka's life to wither away, and Zanka is so very, very scared.
He doesn't want to die.
“Lower than filth, you are,” Goka growls, and Zanka knows he's crying and that his brother is killing him but he can't do anything at all to stop him and he is scared.
It hurts. He doesn't want to die.
His voice has escaped him, in the absence of air. His vision grows hazier, body grows weaker. Zanka's eyes flutter as he struggles to keep them open, but it's like he has no autonomy over his own body, solely at the mercy of his brother.
Zanka's lips form the shapes of words, but no sound emerges, save for a faint wheeze. Zanka feels the sharp sting of nails on the sides of his neck, before his eyes roll to the back of his head and the last thing he thinks is no, Goka, stop, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't–
Zanka wakes up with a gasp, shooting upright as his hands dart to his neck. There's– no-one's here.
The sun drifts in through the shoji, indicating that it's well past Zanka's expected wake-up time, but because of last night, Zanka didn't wake up in time.
Last night, when Zanka saw Goka, and Goka grabbed him by the throat and–
His throat aches, and his heart hurts. Gingerly, Zanka's trembling fingertips brush against the welts buried in his neck due to– to–
It hurts. Before Zanka knows it, his vision is blurry, and his cheeks are wet. His fingers drift over sensitive bruises, and even the barest hint of pressure makes his breath hitch.
It was real. All of it was real– it wasn't just a nightmare. The confirmation is dizzying, allowing something deep and ugly to unfurl in Zanka's stomach. A hand drifts up to his mouth, and it's there it stays as Zanka stifles a whimper.
What should it feel like, to know your brother wants you dead?
Zanka doesn't know. He feels like maybe the first person ever to have to find that out, so terribly alone in a household that, now, is wishing for his death. Fear, shame, and pain mix into a disgustingly bitter pill, one that Zanka chokes on as his chest tightens.
Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to kill him. His big brother who he loves a lot and admires and wants to be exactly like tried to–
Goka tried to kill him, and Zanka passed out before he stopped. Goka could have killed him easily. Zanka's existenced could have been snuffed out like a candle flame– gone, in an instant.
Zanka presses his other hand to his chest to stop the pain, but it's like the muscles around his heart are constricting, shrivelling up his precious organ and forcing its desperate beats to pulse harder and harder and faster.
He would have died if Goka hadn't decided to stop. And his last words would have been him begging Goka not to kill him. He's never had to put much thought on what he wanted his last words to be, but it feels so wrong for them to be what they nearly were.
There's a lot of things about home that make Zanka hurt, or afriad, or stressed. But even so, Zanka knows that he shouldn't have to be afraid of being killed… right?
A choked noise escapes him, torn between a cry and a hiccup. He feels wrong, gross all over, every inch of his skin screaming to be torn off.
His breaths come rapidly as he grasps at the ache in his core fruitlessly, fabric scrunching between his fingers as they strain to reach deep enough.
Goka– Goka's hands didn't even stop. They kept squeezing, pushing down, forcing out the last few faint breaths from Zanka's throat as his brother spit on him and told him how he deserved it. Bile sits at the back of his throat.
His vision is a little spotty, and his head feels light. Someone's making a strange, wheezing sound with their breaths, and it's painful to listen to. Zanka curls in on himself, hanging his head as he tries his best to process everything.
It hurt. It hurt a lot. It still hurts. Zanka is crying again, salty tears sliding over the corners of his lips. His body trembles with each breath, every muscle, bone, and nerve exerting tremendous effort to continue Zanka's life.
Inhaling is difficult. It is difficult because Goka has his hands on Zanka's neck and he is not letting go, no matter how desperately Zanka rasps that he doesn't want to die, and especially not by his brother's hand.
Zanka releases his grip on his chest to silence his breaths. It hurts to breathe. The world is swimming in and out, colours slipping and black dots making everything appear grainy.
Goka tried to kill him.
A single, sharp bang on the shoji doors startle Zanka out of his possessed trance.
“Zanka! You should be up!” Kyoka barks, and it's with a growing sense of dread that Zanka realises he is not alone in this house.
He has never been alone. And yet before now, he has never been scared to not be alone.
A pause. Zanka tries to muffle his breathing by pressing his hands over his mouth, but he can't make the strained, pathetic noises stop.
Just like Goka's hands, pressing down onto his throat, it is unforgiving, relentless, unstoppable. Zanka is helplessly swept up in the waves of nausea and dizziness, no matter what he tries to do, no matter how hard he fights back or he begs for his body to obey him–
“Zanka!”
Kyoka slams open the door, dissastifaction clear, and Zanka's eyes immediately dart to meet her gaze.
Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to kill him. Goka tried to–
–Will Kyoka do the same?
“Zanka, what are you– what are those marks on your neck?!”
She storms over, thunder and storm-clouds contained in her every step, and Zanka freezes as she stops before him, where he's curled forward pathetically on his bed, his hands over his mouth to silence himself.
Kyoka's hands tug his wrists away, and Zanka whimpers, knowing that his sister is going to see him and think him just as pathetic, just as deserving of death as Goka thought him, and Zanka doesn't want to die.
She lets his hands go, and they fall into his lap. Zanka is paralysed, frozen in place as Kyoka reaches for his neck. He braces for the impact as best he can even with the fear of death engrained into his heart.
No fingers wrap around his throat, nor do thumbs press into his oesophagus. No insults are spat, and his resistance isn't choked out of him.
Still, Zanka can't help but tremble as his sister holds up his chin, inspecting the bruises around his neck with narrowed eyes. Her perfume is only a whispered scent, but it smells like rain.
“Zanka,” She says, lowly, threateningly, “Did you try to choke yourself?”
Zanka's hands shake as his voice fails him again, the only sound emerging from his throat that of a short, pained wheeze.
Will Kyoka punish him, too? Has she come to finish the job, upon realising that Goka didn't have the guts to do it? Zanka doesn't want to die.
Zanka can't breathe. His entire body hurts. He doesn't want to die.
There's something Kyoka's gaze that, if Zanka were more lucid, if he was less terrified of dying, that he might have been able to identify. As it stands, however, Zanka sees nothing but cold dismissiveness, ever present in his sister's irises.
She opens her mouth. Zanka flinches, unprepared for his final verdict. However, his sister hesitates for just a moment, just long enough to see her gaze drop to Zanka's lap, where his hands shake uncontrollably.
“...I'll give you the day off from training,” Kyoka says, her words clipped and voice curt, “But don't expect this to happen again.”
She pulls her hand away from the underside of Zanka's chin as if burned, turning away from Zanka and walking out of his room without saying another word.
The shoji slams. A tiny bolt of fear embeds itself in Zanka's heart at the sound.
The room is once again silent, discarding the sounds of Zanka's strained inhales.
How humiliating.
Zanka wishes, momentarily, that Goka had finished what he initally set out to do, instead of leaving Zanka alone to deal with the aftermath, to deal with Kyoka's coldness and the shame of having to miss training.
But he can't move. His body is no longer under his own control, his emotions bubbling and fizzling under the surface but with no external outlet. Zanka's vision swims.
He doesn't want to die.
Everything hurts.
It is like suffocating. Here, in this house, Goka's hands have now permanently wrapped around Zanka's throat, and it is there they will remain until Zanka gives in and finishes what his brother started.
Zanka can't breathe.