Issei dreams.

When morning comes (and it always, always comes), he peers into the not quite twilight of his unfurnished bedroom and remembers who he is. Even when he closes his eyes to catch a wisp of blurred visions and red hair, the scent that clings to his skin, to the sheets of his bed, reminds him of reality. No peach or pear for him. Only mold and sadness wrapped in sweat.

The young teen slowly breathes in, teeth bared against his pillow. It is a poor attempt to muffle any sounds he might make and surprise, surprise, it does not work. What it does do is stick the odor of his bed to his gums. He licks them and proceeds to gag.

His bed is definitely smelly. Gotta change the sheets, Issei. Adolescence and suddenly sweating like a Popsicle in a sauna suck. He doesn't even get thinner and his ugly mug looks more and more like a pepperoni pizza.

He wills away the bad thoughts and the urge to stay put with a groan. He wiggles on his sheets, kicking his legs free of their restraints. Going back to sleep will do no good. He has to get out of bed.

He rolls and sits. A moment is spent to rub his cranky muscles and aching bones. He hopes they're not signs of growing pains (they are. His body likes to spit him). The clothes haphazardly thrown around his bed are glaring at him accusingly. Perfectly good clothes he will have to give away in a few weeks, if his growth rate is to believe. Or mend to last longer. He could ask his mom to teach him how to sew during her good episodes.

One more housewife's skill added to his ever-growing list of manly teen's charms. Yay.

He leaves his room before the urge to roll over and play dead becomes too strong to handle.

The parquet creaks familiarly under his feet. Issei absently avoids the louder spots. They were his favorite once. When he was young, he thought the floor was talking, each lath whispering a different story. He thought he only had to learn their language to understand their creaks and rumbles. He had passed many rainy hours with his ear against the floor, listening, imagining wonderful adventures and mouthing his own secrets against cold wood.

Now, he just hopes he is not making too much noise as he haunts the hallway.

The bathroom is small, humid and starting to smell like death. All in all, not much changed since he swung by before going to sleep. The mirror that so kindly reflects his face is decorated with toothpaste stains. Issei checks another case in his mental list: one more room to clean. His mother hates it when it's dirty. The doctors would also have frowned and berated him if they could' have seen the room. A sick person should not approach a room that looks like the kingdom of germs.

Issei's reflection smiles somberly. A white smudge covers the corner of his grin and makes it look crooked.

Good thing they no longer come.

He scrubs his face in front of the mirror until his skin is raw and breaking apart. Like his mind.

His dreams are unrealistic. Stupid. Filthy. He hits his face a few times, as if they would magically leave him be at night. At day. Anytime. Issei is neither a pervert nor a part-time hero. He has no time for that. Reality is where he is. Reality is more fucked up than his dreams.

"My name is Hyoudou Issei. I'm thirteen years old." He stops there because there's nothing else to say. 'I won an athletic competition once' does sound kind of arrogant to add to a self-introduction. It wasn't a very big competition to begin with. The other things he could add aren't nice.

"I'm human." He mutters. The truth strangely stings his tongue. The mirror reflects his image, distorted and crooked and smudged. He snorts. Yep, he couldn't look more like a stumbling, stuttering guy with a chuuni problem.

Issei rinses his face. A wisp of a tiny girl with blonde hair and wings on fire blinks in the mirror when he looks up.

He flees the bathroom.

He navigates between the beams of sunlight that trickles from the windows. His silly little waltz prolongs the agony before his morning ritual. It also gives him more time to curse his imagination and his dreams. The sunlight, pooling in small patches of warmth, looks too fiery for him.

The boy knocks on his mother's door and waits for the rustle of sheets that tells him she has heard him and tried to get up. As always, she tries too hard. He breathes in. The artist in him paints a smile on his face as he opens her door.

He needs to be as bright as the light.

"Good morning, Mom." It isn't so good a morning, her face tells. She is pale and listless.

After a few moments, she smiles softly and finally acknowledges his existence. "Ise."

"Yes. It's me. Issei." He acknowledges himself softly. He is never the person she wants to see most. It must be a good thing that she hasn't taken him for that guy this morning. It has to be an improvement. She's not completely in her own wonderland where everything is perfect and normal and nobody is sick.

"Where is your father?"

Ah. His smile falters against his own will. His cheeks ache and suddenly, Issei doesn't see the point in playing the part of the good son. "He left."

The words are cruelly true. He regrets them the instant they leave his stupid mouth. His mother is fragile. She isn't really there. He can't be mad that they're not living in a fairytale where a girl with sunny locks and a heart of gold heals whoever is hurt. He can't be sad, even if they had that conversation a million times.

A twinkle lights his mother's eyes. "Oh, is he getting that fish I asked him to buy? I nagged him so much to get it, but he always refuses to go to the supermarket alone. 'It's your job, wife!', he always says. Let me tell you, he is just scared he won't find the things we need." Her giggle hides her son's silence. She pats his shoulder tenderly. Her bony fingers whip his flesh. "It's a good thing you can do simple things alone. You'll attract a good wife like that, you know. Women like it when a man can take care of himself like a grown-up and doesn't act like a baby in front of the simplest chore."

"Or I could be a good stay-at-home husband," Issei jokes softly. He's thankful she didn't understand his words, he really is. He is glad she doesn't remember, truly. His mouth tastes sour at the thought. What a fucked up thing to be thankful about. She's losing her grasp on reality and her memories and he's thankful.

She chuckles behind her hand, unaware of his flickering mood. "Then you should upgrade your cooking skills. You won't attract a high-salary wife with your shabby omurice. And let me remind you that your idea of cleaning is hiding your mess, young man."

Issei laughs. Each time a new wheeze leaves his mouth, his chest heaves and shakes until it is sore, unwilling to move as he would like it to. He wants to bury his face in his hands and weep. Each morning is the same and he can't deal with it the way he should. He should be strong, but he is a mess. One day, his mother will see through the cracks.

The rest of the morning is more natural for him. He gently helps her up and rearranges the mountain of pillows that is supposed to keep her in a comfortable position. Her forced smile when he moves her around tells a different story. He holds her hand (as if it could ease the pain). Her black hair is scattered on her pillows and everywhere else.

They chatter about nonsensical things, avoiding what hurts and what unsettles. She gives him orders from her bed when he prepares her breakfast. 'Put more salt, don't let the soup boils, the rice is going to be overcooked…' As always, he promises he will eat his breakfast while walking to school. He needs to get there early. Summer break officially ended yesterday and he doesn't want to be late, he claims.

She squeezes his hand one last time after she has eaten the last tiny rice grain in her bowl.

"Have a good day at school, Ise," she says softly.

Issei can almost catch a glimpse of the woman who raised him then. He stumbles and stutters. A quaking heave of his chest later, he is in control again. He nods. An easy smile covers his lies. "You too, mom."

Her son turns around and calmly leaves.

His boss nods at him when Issei sneaks his way into the storage room. The man briskly closes the door behind him. Issei ignores the distinct sound of a lock. He doesn't like small closed spaces, but he is an underage (illegal, the real word is illegal) worker. He can't ask for a real wage, so asking for an open door that will probably let people who shouldn't see him actually see him is a big no-no.

He rolls up his sleeves and attacks his first task. His job is simple. Put junks (sweets and shits that make his stomach churn and his mouth water) on shelves. Reorganize the shelves when it is needed. Put it all on paper so the boss knows where everything goes. Package pre-ordered stuff in boxes. Throw away the expired sweets. Turn his gaze as he does that. Important rule, that one. He can't eat them. No, no, no. His boss would kill him if he saw the sinful act of eating his property. Issei isn't even supposed to think about eating 'em. Plus, he threw up the last time he binged on expired candies. His mother was frantic.

All in all, his job asks for no brain power whatsoever. However, it beefs the muscles he didn't know he had. His big shoulders don't fit with the rest of his 'I'm-a-twig' body.

Nothing fits him, really. He is either a shrimp ready to be skewed for his bullies' pleasure or an abandoned son with a sick mother, sometimes both at the same time. He has not been Hyoudou Issei, the friendly neighboring kid with a perfectly normal and boring life, in a long time.

He is a pitiful child and that's it. Teachers pity his future and, ah, how do they call it? Issei remembers clapping mouths. They called it his 'wasted potential'. They do not punish him when he arrives a bit later than what is normally accepted. They give him light punishments when punishments they must give.

His classmates dislike him for that. The teachers pity him even more and his classmates are starting to hate him now. It's a vicious circle he hasn't quite figured how to get out of. So, he doesn't go to school. Maybe he will later, before his teachers or some kind of social workers come to his door, troubled for his well-being and education. They can't have another little kid join the small but still there group of dropouts.

Issei imagines adults fighting dropout statistics with tough love and long lectures. He snorts. Spoilers alert: it does not work. Not when his bank account is empty, and his mother needs to be fed.

All in all, working is simpler. Working pays the bills. Working means he doesn't have to talk with people he feels alienated from.

Thoughts he wants to run from evaporate when he stumbles on a tricky box. It takes him more time than necessary to locate all the products in the clean pandemonium that surrounds him. He silently curses whoever relocated the matcha candies without notifying anybody. He runs through the aisles to finish more quickly. The boss is always looming in the store, watching. He rewards efficiency with a pat and what he deems like slacking with a slap.

Issei is not a fan of his boss's slaps.

The teen stops to breathe in slowly. He stretches his shoulders, righting his spine with a sigh when the last sweet is packed away from greedy empty stomach. He feels as if his back is going to turn 30 soon when the rest of his body is still trying to understand what testosterone is.

His T-shirt shifts uncomfortably against his skin, already soggy with sweat. The temperature in the storage room is cool enough, yet his body produces smelly water no matter what. His shoulders sag. What is he even doing, running around like the illegal worker he sure is? He is underpaid and overworked. He could, should be at school-

Pain jolts his jaw close. Issei closes his eyes and tries to forget hard knuckles. No. School is not a place for him. Neither is home. Their old neighbor is taking care of his mother for a small wage. He is not needed there. He needs his job so it remains so.

He clenches his jaw and puts whatever he is feeling into lining and arranging the items perfectly on the shelves.

"Stay positive, Issei. Positive," he breathes through teeth.

Positivity is the key to a longer, worriless life.

The pay is good enough, the boss ain't treating him like an animal and the whole street knows he is ready to work like an ox for some pocket money. Or food. He hasn't enough time in his day to think about prepubescent monkeys or fake-ass adults.

Many minutes and boxes later, another worker shows up.

They glance at each other. They nod at each other. Issei turns and goes back to his boxes.

He knows her, somewhat. They did some shifts together in the past. They never did talk though. The boss is always looming close by. Silence improves productivity according to him.

Issei doesn't know what they could've talked about anyway, beside basic courtesy. Small talks and any kinds of normal subjects of conversation feel alien to him. Worse, his answers would probably put everyone in a tough spot. School? Don't go there. Parents? Ah, better not talk about that. Hobbies? I put shit on shelves for money.

His teacher was thoroughly embarrassed when he tried to 'put some sense in his skull' and discovered his student has far too much time to think and far too much common sense.

He still flickers his attention at her from time to time. She is a change of scenery in a field of candies and he appreciates the sobriety of her attire next to the neon-colored products they sort.

She looks foreign. Asian, but foreign. Filipina, probably. She looks old enough to be a mother, but Issei has never had particularly good eyes for age. In his defense, she looks kind of ageless. She could be in her mid 40's or in her mid 20's. A strange tiredness pinches her brows and slows her every moment. She is efficient in her work, yes, but… there is something, Issei doesn't know what, that unnerves him about her.

Perhaps the fact that, at her age, she is stuck doing what he does.

Issei never glances too long at her. A voice inside his ear whispers that it's not nice to stare while another snorts and asks if he is scared of his future. After all, the voice goads, he is simply unraveling what awaits him. One day, he will bear her not-quite formed wrinkles and hung his shoulders as low as hers.

The door opens. Issei focuses on the items at his feet immediately. The boss is there. Time to work.

The boy pushes a box of chocolate farther on the shelf in front of him. He isn't busy or running late, but he needs to appear to be working. Slackers lose their job quick enough here.

A cold gust whips his cheek as the storage's door is slammed shut.

The boss passes him without a single remark. He marches towards his co-worker.

"What is this?"

The only boy in the room hunches his shoulders and makes himself as small as possible. He hides in plain sight, forehead against cool steel. He knows that tone. The boss is not happy.

Issei resolutely looks at his boxes. So many left to open and so many stuff to place somewhere. He should work. Close his ears. Blind his eyes. Shut his heart. Simple things for his simple brain.

He doesn't hear the insults.

He doesn't hear the smack.

He doesn't hear the haunting silence of a victim who knows better than to complain.

He hears nothing.

Hours later, he is let out of the stuffy storage by his smiling boss.

The man, like any other Friday, looks around nervously before handing him a wad of bills. "There you go, Ise."

The boy feels the bills as he stuffs them in his pocket. He pauses and looks down. There are two more bills and the number on them is not small. A solemn man in an old western suit stares at him through age and rumpled paper money.

"What is this?" Issei cringes at his own choice of words.

The boss smiles good-naturally, obvious to his young helper's inner turmoil. "A small bonus. You work very well for such a small guy."

Issei thanks him. Internally, the rotten part of his brain wonders if it is a bribe to shut his mouth. He inwardly mocks his own thought. A boss being a boss is neither noteworthy nor scandalous. If he were to talk, he would only worsen everything for everybody involved.

The boss is just honestly happy with him. Issei doesn't know what to think of that, so he doesn't stew on it.

"See you on Monday, Ise."

"Yes, sir." Issei bows.

When his boss is out of sight, Issei does not escape his workplace. Instead, he sneaks back in the backroom. His unfortunate co-worker is still in there. She is out of sight, but he knows she is simply hidden. He can hear her rummage through a box in the depth of the room. Her coat hangs on a shelf.

The door that leads to the outside is slightly ajar. He fights the urge to nudge it close.

He glances one last time at the door then stuffs his 'bonus' in the inner pocket of her coat. Extra pocket money is hard to come by for him; it must be the same for her. It will not heal her bruise or balm her soul, but it is better than nothing. Better than silence.

Issei leaves, fists stuffed in his pockets.

His stomach rumbles, pangs of pain tensing his insatiable organ in a plea for nutrients and attention. Time to get food.

The teen skips out through the backdoor. He can't pass by the front door; black market workers are not supposed to be seen or heard. Only their work shall be presented to the world. And the merit of it will go better somebody else's reputation.

He is okay with that. His bank account would be oh so much more pitiful without that job. Life's better when you can pay the bills. Who really cares where the money comes from? He ain't breaking any major laws with his odd-jobs. He ain't selling his ass. He rents his small strength and muscled shoulders. That's it.

The one who would get in trouble for it all would be his boss. And the other workers. Issei is just underage. The others are real illegal workers. In a sense, his boss trusts him very much. He trusts him to not tell the truth. That, or he knows how much his youngest employee needs the money.

Issei chases such heavy thoughts with a small jog through his boss's garden. The faster he will be out, the better it will be for his nose. Garbage and old cardboard boxes cover the feeble grass, corrupting everything he sniffs.

The humidity, a remnant of the end of summer, sticks to everything like a lead weight. Nobody feels like really working. Elders squat on the threshold of their house with a fan, melon seeds and some nice refreshments by their feet. Dogs and cats are napping in the shade. People are dragging themselves around and crawling towards the cool places. There, of course, they eat cold dishes.

Only Koreans would eat piping hot soup during summer.

Under the grey, humid sky, Issei could develop a certain fondness for his workplace. He almost has it in him to pray for his fellow students, working in classes that have no AC. Almost. Sucks for them.

He wanders from one shade to another until his stomach smells good food. As much as he would like to will his feet away from the scent, his hunger is stronger. For a good reason, at that. The old couple living on the corner of the main street sells Takoyaki that are simply out of this world. What kind of drug does the cook put in them to make them so delish? Issei doesn't know. It doesn't stop him from buying or begging for a small golden ball of fat and octopi every other day.

As usual, he goes to stand nonchalantly near the costumers' taken stools.

The stall is as busy as ever. The old cook, behind his small counter, sweats as he turns the delicate balls with a sure hand. To avoid any human liquids from getting in them pockets of happiness, he stands a bit awkwardly, arching his aching back.

His costumers hover between talking and watching the master performs. Some have clipped chats with the cook. Children are playing around them, running everywhere with their red, red, red gundams. Red like silky hair, crimson like reptilian scales and burgundy like death itself.

Issei looks away.

The cook's wife waltzes between the stools with practiced agility, pouring beer and serving her trademark mizu yokan. Its taste is slightly different every day. Sometimes, she stuffs it with sweet chestnut or fruits. Sometimes it is plain, and yet… everybody yearns for it more than they do their imaginary lover. She claims she has no special recipe. If she really has no special ingredient and doesn't drug her confections, Issei is ready to say she has magical powers.

The customers cheer for her when she gets the bubbly liquid out from behind the stall. She, as bubbly, if not more, asks about their dog's health and the weather in their parents' hometown.

Issei's pretty sure she knows everything there is to know about all of her costumers. He rubs his empty stomach and puts on his best 'I'm-hungry-please-feed-me' face when she faces him. It involves a lot of jutting his lips out and pitiful, tearful eyes.

She rolls her eyes and beckons him closer. He is happy to oblige.

"Little Ise, you should have just approached my husband." The lecture is over in an instant. She gives him two of the trays in her hand. "Table 5 and 6. On your way, young man."

Issei mocks a salute for his captain. The next second, he is jumping over stretched out legs and happily serving amazing looking mizu yokan to content and slightly drunk costumers. Just glancing at it, he knows it is as smooth as a small round rock eroded by the sea. It looks cool and refreshing and his mouth is definitely watering. The cherry stuffed mizu yokan is serenading his stomach as much as it is his eyes.

"Little Ise!" Her voice calls him back to earth. Issei dutifully thanks the customers who have finished their meal and greets the ones that have just sat down. He will eat one. Later.

He hops his way to the stall. The wife loads his arms with plates. The cook glances at him. Issei flees before he gets another lecture, one that would be harsher and longer.

After one hour, his arms are finally remembering he has spent the day putting heavy loads on the highest shelves his boss could construct. His stomach stopped rumbling. It just aches from time to time. Like always.

The wife is drinking tea and chatting with her costumers now. She doesn't even order Issei around anymore, simply letting him serve the clients while she rests her legs.

As the evening's life starts its quick ascension toward a busy night, their part-timer shows up. He glances at Issei and frowns. The younger teen nods up at him and backs down. He adds a light smile as an after-thought. He isn't here to steal jobs or provoke a man with more muscles than he does.

'Little Ise', as he is dubbed, sneaks his way to the stall and deposits the money he ransacked on his way in the cash register. His work is officially done. He will be able to get his second meal of the day.

"Youngsters these days only know how to be obedient when they can get food out of it." The cook grumbles as he twists golden balls of goodness. Issei says nothing. The cook's lectures are always shorter when he shuts up and nods obediently a few times there and here. Behind him, his wife is putting takoyakis and mizu yokan in a bag. It falls in Issei's hands.

"Go home." She pats his shoulder gently.

Issei thanks her like he always does. He knows his words will never be able to convey how much of a good person she is.

He is on the run a second later. It is getting late. His mother must be waiting.

Before getting home, Issei goes to the river that calmly passes through their town. He searches for his quiet spot. The one they found together, when he was so small and the other seemed like an unyielding and unbreakable man.

He looks around, out of habit. It is too late for anybody to be there. Only he and pensioners like to sit there, watching the too calm river wash away flowers and leaves. It', too calm for students and too remote for working adults.

He is neither, so it's perfect for him. He sets his bag of food down and splashes away his memories of the place. He rinses his hands in the somewhat clean water. He can't smell like alcoholic grease and sweet sweat when he gets home.

His schoolbag is where he left it. Under dense shrubs that proliferate wildly beside his river. In spring, they sport pink flowers. Issei doesn't know their name, but his mother likes their scent. She loved it when he had pruned a branch covered with blooming flowers and buds to decorate her bedroom.

Where is it now?

Issei squats down. He soaks his hands in the water, watching the current sweeps small leaves away. What did he do with the branch when all the flowers wilted? The garbage. He put it in the garbage. But he remembers pressing one of the flowers, the most beautiful of them all in her eyes. It looked crooked in his.

It still must be in one of the books in his bedroom. He will search for it and give it to her tomorrow.

The boy dries his hands against his pants. Time to go, his mother is waiting. He can't be idle all day.

He runs.

The small door of their tiny apartment opens crankily. Nothing a bit of oil can't resolve, he muses.

The smell that wafts to his nose tells him he can be himself. She never cooks when she is not okay.

"Mom! I'm home!" Issei shouts, reaching for the inside of his bag where their takoyakis are waiting to be eaten.

She looks up from her book with a good smile. Her red tuque is lovely. She looks so strong, pale and fragile against the black leather of their couch, but still a paragon of strength in front of whatever life throws at her. His throat dries and he hopes she will talk. He can't.

"You're late today." She accuses over her book. Its title catches his eyes. Japanese trees and how to take care of them. Just her kind of nerdy books.

The spell on his tongue is broken. He is quick to join his hands together to pray for mercy. "Sorry, my club's activities lasted longer than expected."

He glances at her expression and knows he isn't in too much trouble. He wiggles his hand out of his bag, treasure finally visible. "But our club's president treated us to some delish takoyakis! I kept some for you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Takoyaki? When I cooked a delicious meal for you?"

Issei glances at the table and yes, as he smelled it and hoped, she cooked for him. A full course dinner with rice, soup, fish and all the things he can't quite cook like her (he burns the ingredients most often than not, to his great shame. They cost money. He literally burns money and ends up eating black charred things not fit for consumption. Good job, Issei.).

He sits down after she orders him to. She flutters around the table, poking the things he took home with the interest of a ruffled mother. She mutters darkly about fat and grease and how it's bad for his body. He allows himself this moment to relax, to stop thinking.

His mother is there, for now.

Schedule is on my profile.

Reviews are welcome. (AKA I'll do a backflip (and most certainly destroy my back) for reviews.)

9/9/2018