a/n: you know it took me months to even figure out osomatsu-san had a section on ffnet lol

hello everyone! this fic has already been completed and is being cross-posted here from over on ao3. updates will come weekly! or you can just go to ao3 and read the whole thing now, found under the same penname.

content warnings for this fic include: various deaths, implied/referenced self-harm, implied suicide attempts, swearing, and violence. this fic does not contain nor is intended to be interpreted as BLmatsu.

please enjoy!

- angel

i. 1play

You've always talked a big game, but the first time is a complete fucking accident.

Seriously. So embarrassing.

You can't even die properly.

In fairness, as often as you enjoyed entertaining scenarios of your demise in the past, you hadn't actually been trying to this particular evening. It was cold enough to want to die, but you didn't. Not until the dry-monster youngest had practically kneecapped you under the kotatsu with his heel, causing you to jolt backwards into the wall, and the shitty eldest had immediately proceeded to stretch out like a fucking hippo to swallow up your spot.

Those shit-eating grins barely had time to turn your way before you'd snatched up the empty kerosene container and were storming out the door. To hell with them. You needed to feed the cats anyway.

It wasn't a long walk. And you'd ignored Choromatsu's absent reminder to pull on one of the snow coats near the front door on your way out; mostly out of spite, because the bastard hadn't even glanced at you over the pages of whatever fappy magazine he had crammed between the job pages. To hell with him, too, and his faux concern.

Halfway down the street, as you took a mindful step around the rut of black ice that always accumulates over a gash in the road, you began to regret it. Because shit. You were freezing.

Oh well. Garbage like you deserved to suffer on a night like that.

You had a chance to warm up a bit while waiting for the kerosene to refill, but you didn't take it. The gas station was jam packed for some damn reason, people buying coffee and donuts and whatever, and all their eyes were on you. You could feel it. So you'd shoved the container at the clerk, demanded for him to fill it quick or you'd kill him, and shuffled outside to suffer in the biting cold.

When a different clerk called you back - probably the attendant who'd actually filled it - you'd roughly tossed a wad of bills at him, snatched a pack of dried sardines to feed the cats on the way, hefted the kerosene, and headed straight back.

Maybe it had been because the literal icicles forming up your nose were reaching your brain, but you weren't half as mindful of the black ice on the way back. And like an idiot, you'd stepped right on it with your stupid open-toed sandals.

On the plus side, your feet were so numb by then that you didn't even feel your ankle roll like a limp ball of yarn.

On the minus, you have no idea how much time has actually passed between the crack of pain in your skull, and waking up to the horrible stench of kerosene and metal.

You don't come even close to compiling your senses before you roll over onto your stomach and heave your guts into the icy street. It doesn't help the fucking smell, but it does something about the noxious fog in your head; that is, the jolt of following pain is so encompassing that you curse aloud, teeth chattering through the taste of bile. Holy shit you're cold and you hurt.

As you scramble to track the situation, drawing numbly to your knees, you automatically reach for the tipped container of kerosene. It's already half-emptied into the street, making up part of the unholy sludge splattered across asphalt; snow slush, kerosene, puke and…

Ah. Blood.

In what feels like slow motion, you tousle a hand through your bangs. Though your hair has the tendency to get greasy due to lack of proper care, the thick, frosty texture just isn't right. You tug experimentally at a bit of the ice, wincing at the pain in your scalp, and hold it close to your face in the flickering light provided by the half-frozen street lamp overhead.

Yeah. That's your blood, all right.

Shit. Maybe it's because you're so cold, but you don't even care. You just want to go home and warm up already. You climb unsteadily to your feet, your knees wobbling and half of your limbs numb, and the fact that your weak-ass body can lift the container so easily makes you realize a couple things.

One, your brothers are going to be pissed about you bringing back only half a container of kerosene. As far as that goes, they can eat crap.

Two, your hoodie is completely drenched in blood. And you stink.

To be honest, you're pretty sure your brothers will care more about the missing portion of their sweet, heated nectar than the fact that you almost died or whatever. But that doesn't mean you want to go back like this. With a growl that hurts your ribcage, you turn right back around, meticulously sidestepping the embarrassing brew (and the fucking ice), and make your way towards the bathhouse.

Thankfully, for some inexplicable reason the bathhouse is empty on a freezing night when a gas station isn't. There's no one that you, the gas-and-blood-and-vomit-covered weirdo wandering around at half past whenever the fuck, can't intimidate into leaving you alone.

You have to ditch the hoodie in the dumpster. There's no saving it.

(There's a few moments where you'd consider saving yourself the trouble of taking it off and just climbing in the dumpster yourself, because wouldn't that be two birds with one stone anyway, but you'd figured you were already committed to this cleaning up thing so you may as well follow through.)

You scrub down the kerosene container first and set it far to the side before focusing on yourself. The bath is scathing hot, and it frankly hurts more than it soothes, but you're not here for a nice soak to chase away the cold. You're here to make sure you're less of a disaster than usual when you walk through the front door.

Of course, you're barely lowered into the tub when rings of red bloom in the bathwater around you like puffs of underwater smoke. You bite out a distasteful scoff and start scrubbing yourself down with the soap you'd had to buy at the vending machine.

It doesn't take long to get your body clean. It's your head that you're worried about. Amazingly, the pain has dulled in the fifteen or so minutes it's been since you've woken up - but as you suck in a breath and duck underwater, furiously scrubbing at your scalp to loosen the congealed blood, you're anticipating the pain that will come with tearing off what is probably a huge, icy scab.

Actually, this is probably a terrible idea. You might bleed to death right here in the bathhouse. Embarrassing, but whatever.

Except the pain never comes.

You run out of breath long before you finish scrubbing. By the time you rise with a gasp, you look like you're sitting in an actual tub of cranberry juice. Your brows stay knitted in confusion as you massage your scalp again, this time intentionally probing for your head wound.

What the fuck.

You don't have one.

You look like some kind of virgin NEET sacrifice in a tub of your own blood and you don't even know where you bled from.

But it has to be your head, right? Your hair was matted with the stuff. Something close to the realm of anxiety seizes in your gut as your slop some cheap shampoo onto your hands and lather up your hair. You're not squeamish about your blood or anything, but what the hell is with this? Why aren't you bleeding?

Come to think of it, why isn't any of you hurting anymore?

It's too fucking weird. You don't like it.

After at least three more unsuccessful attempts to locate any sort of injury on yourself, you finally finish up and climb out of the bath. Holy crap, whoever walks in here next is gonna freak out. Oh well. You don't have the luxury of screwing around much longer before one of your brothers - probably Osomatsu - gets sent out after you.

And while imagining the inattentive Osomatsu eating shit in that smoothie of puke, kerosene, and blood is kind of funny, it's probably more trouble than it's worth.

The hoodie is gone, but your sweatpants are salvageable. You pat yourself dry and decide screw it; you'll go home like this. It'll be cold as hell but the walk is short. And maybe it'll help wake you up. You're not in pain anymore, but for some reason - maybe the bath - you're utterly exhausted.

You pick up the kerosene and head home.

You were right, it's still freezing, and even the extremely short walk from the bathouse to home almost made you keel over.

It's not even worth announcing you're home. You climb up the stairs, teeth chattering again, and slam the sliding door open, chucking the container at whichever brother first catches your eye. Luckily, it's Jyushimatsu, so he catches it with ease and whoops loudly.

"Kerosene from Ichimatsu-niisan! Muscle, muscle! No hustle, hustle!"

"Seriously!" cries Osomatsu the fucking hippo, dramatically rising from your spot. "What the hell took so long, Ichi..." he stops. And stares.

Try me, you telepathically drill into his brain with the subtlety of a lawnmower.

Surprisingly, he doesn't. But probably only because Choromatsu beats him to it.

"Ichimatsu!" Choromatsu gasps, flinging his magazine onto the table. "Where's your sweater?!"

You send him a withering glare and hug the edge of the room on your way back to the corner. It's easier to focus on Jyushimatsu happily refill the heater than look at your immediate older sibling.

"Dunno."

"Are you kidding? Don't 'Dunno…' me! I told you to put on extra clothing, not take something off. You're as white as a sheet!"

The hell? You can't tell if he's actually concerned or if he's just marveling at your stupidity. Probably the latter.

Todomatsu looks up from his phone, frowning.

"Yeah, this is kinda weird, even for you, Ichimatsu-niisan. I mean… I guess your hoodie is better than your pants again, but still."

"Uh, actually, I think keeping the hoodie would have been more helpful," Choromatsu objects.

"Whatever." You don't even care about the heater or the kotatsu anymore. You just want to go to bed. Hunkering down into your corner, you wrap your arms around your legs and try to block them out before they realize how much kerosene is missing.

"Seriously? Is he okay?"

"Ahh, it's fine," assures a voice thick with carefree dismissiveness. Ah, to truly not give a shit like Osomatsu-niisan. "Even without a shirt, it'll warm up in here soon."

"No, that's not exactly what I meant…"

Todomatsu suddenly coughs, and you try not to tense.

"W-what the… that smell… is that Niisan? I don't even know what to call that…"

"Soap! Puke! Gasoline!" Jyushimatsu yells from his corner.

"Maybe it's… his passion."

"... anyway, he must have just spilled some on himself and got sick from the stench," Todomatsu surmises with a chuckle. You peek over your kneecap as his face twists into a soft grimace. "But… isn't there another smell, too…?"

"No," you snap, and they all bristle as if they had no clue you could hear them from three feet away. What fakers. Roughly, you slump over and make an aborted attempt to pull your hood over your head before remembering that you can't. "I'm going to sleep. Do me a favor and shut up."

Because shit. You're exhausted.

You're fucking exhausted.

You just want to sleep like you're dead.

It turns out, you do fall asleep before they realize how little kerosene you brought back. Or maybe because it was Jyushimatsu who refilled it, he didn't notice.

Or if you're being generous - and you always are, when it's Jyushimatsu - he just didn't rat you out.

It's dark, and if your head didn't hurt earlier it sure does now. You groan and curl into yourself. It's closer to a splitting headache deep behind your eyes than a surface pain, though, not that you're sure if you'd be able to tell the difference - you just hurt.

Somewhere above the ache, you register that you're still shirtless, but the familiar softness of the futon and comforter are packed tight against your sore body. What the hell? They moved you to bed in your sleep. That's kinder than you expected from those monsters.

Kindness...

Shit.

Shit, your hoodie. The sardines.

Shit.

"I gotta feed the cats," you mutter in horror. You start to shuffle, even though you feel like lead garbage, but a hand on your shoulder - Shittymatsu, of course - gently pushes you down.

"Sleep, brother," he says way too gently, and seriously, what's with this. You must look like even paler shit than you feel if they're all being this nice. "They'll be there in the morning."

He's right. They always have been before, no matter the weather. Your instinct to tell him to shut his painful mouth is swallowed by something else that curls in your stomach.

Your head hurts. Something's not-

Something's…

Didn't - tonight, didn't -?

You're asleep before the offer of a lullaby hits your ears.