Chapter Text
The house you both live in was paid off by his father.
“It's an offering,” his brother had said over coffee when discussing the details, manila folder packed with various files in his lap. Contracts. Bank statements. The details of a mortgage, maybe—too large for any of them to afford comfortably, let alone at all. Not looking at either of them. “Or a peace treaty. I think he wants to apologize.” His brother runs his fingers through his hair and you realize you’ve seen him acting the exact same way when poring over the data he brings home from work.
Your cramped apartment was not love, but there was some solace in finding a companion. In leading similar lives while in entirely different professions.
He's the type to scoff, to look bored and fill his voice with disdain when speaking; all blunt and bite, no sharp selves. But he's quiet this time, and you don't know if you want to turn to look at him and see his expression. There are too many possibilities of what it could be, too many options his hands could choose. It scrapes your insides, tinkers around, like a parasite.
So, you clear your throat, and ask, “Apologize? What for?” Trying not to let your annoyance seep through the curl of your lip.
“To put it bluntly,” his brother—Reiji—sighs, “for being a deadbeat and arranging this in the first place. Something like that. I don't know the semantics.”
“This,” you whisper. You don't want them to hear you. Maybe they didn't. The words Reiji slipped from his tongue reveal the truth: this is a shaky foundation, akin to a dare, and none of them had a choice.
But. Still. It'd be nice to dream, wouldn't it?
“This,” he finally interrupts, short and simple. His voice betrays a deep fire stoked in his belly. “This, because he has done so much for this family. For me.” You watch his fists shake and bleed white resting atop his slacks, under the table.
Reiji, to his credit, doesn’t try to reassure him by justifying their father’s actions, nor does he make an attempt to placate him by saying it’ll be okay, because forcing your son to make a decision lest other people get hurt is just white-collared brute force.
No one ever told Shinji that people would end up getting hurt anyway. All he could do was minimize it. Extended his grieving hand to you, and let the bloody vows slip past his fingers onto yours with the diamond ring neither of you chose.
You rest your hand on his. His head doesn’t turn and his neck doesn’t break at the sight of your support like in the dreamy movies, but his eyes bore holes into your hand and you can feel him relax under your palm. Finally, he says, “He can pay off the house. Do all of that. But I don’t want to see him again. I don’t care if you do. I don’t want to.”
Reiji smiles and the bags under his eyes are only pronounced. “That’s fine. That’s okay.”