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It was a dumb idea.
Saburo had no right to be rummaging around in Jiro’s room. He knew this, but even so, his curiosity had become craving; and would have easily turned into impulsivity if he wasn’t disciplined by nature. Both of his brothers were out on some job requests, and he was expecting to be home alone for the better part of the day— this was his only opportunity in sight.
He opened one of the drawers to Jiro’s dresser, and felt silly for having had any sort of expectation above the dust on the floor: there wasn’t a single piece of clothing inside that was folded. He could have shuffled things around, hidden things in other drawers, even stolen something, and he guessed that Jiro wouldn’t notice for at least a month.
With that in mind, he picked up a blue sweatshirt from the top of the pile.
For a moment, he simply held it in his hands, gently rubbing his thumbs across the soft material. Jiro’s sweatshirt… it felt nicer than he thought. He wasn’t sure what it was that he expected, but it was pleasantly full in his hands as it curved into the shape of his fingers.
It didn’t take long for a less-than-pleasant thought to cross his mind, though: he might be touching Jiro’s worn, unwashed shirt, drenched in days-old sweat and other types of filth he didn't even want to imagine. He wouldn’t put it past him to throw his dirty clothes back into his dresser like the disgusting idiot he was…
After making a quick prayer in his mind and anticipating the worst, Saburo hesitantly lifted the sweatshirt towards his face. He sighed in relief when the only thing he could smell was the fabric itself, and the faint scent of…something else. It wasn’t a bad scent by any means— in fact, it was comfortably familiar; something he recognized from being around Jiro for so long. It triggered a strange feeling in his chest.
He went back to squeezing the fabric in his hands, and his mind wandered to the reason why he was here in the first place. As he dwelled on it, he couldn’t help but suddenly shudder in disgust. Who the hell would sneak into their older brother’s room just to see what it felt like to wear his clothes? The notion was just about as gross to him as Jiro was, maybe even more gross if one could fathom it, and for a moment Saburo couldn’t believe he had stooped to that level of shamefulness.
On top of that, sniffing the shirt— no matter his justification for it— was something that could only be done by a textbook pervert.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, desperately trying to relax his tense body and slow his rising heartbeat.
You wouldn’t have to steal Jiro’s sweatshirt if he just did the laundry yesterday like he was supposed to. So it’s his fault.
It was a pathetic lie. Saburo knew exactly where his own similar shirts were in his own wardrobe, but holding onto that thought as his justification was the only thing keeping him feeling sane.
With a deeply resigned sigh, he walked in front of the mirror beside the dresser. He let the sweatshirt fall to the floor, and then began to take off his own shirt, whispering that excuse to himself all the while.
It’s his fault. This is all Jiro’s fault.
He picked up the sweatshirt again and stared at the reflection in the mirror, not entirely sure who he was looking at. A sick feeling came over him once more, but he pushed it down with reason, as he always did: it’s a perfectly normal thing for family members to wear each other’s clothes, isn’t it?
But, even if that were the case, why did he feel so dirty?
He thought back to something Jiro had said to him once: You think waaay too much. A simple statement, but for the first time in his life, he thought that maybe Jiro was right. He wanted, desperately, for Jiro to be right. Just this once.
As his mind continued to race, Saburo lifted the sweatshirt above his head and pulled it over his body. When he saw himself in the mirror again, his face was quickly overcome with heat. The shirt was too big for him, like he had imagined, but that made it feel even more cozy against his itching skin.
For a while, he just stood there, his eyes glued to his own reflection. He thought it was with simple fascination at first, but he noticed a growing feeling of warmth in his chest the longer he looked. Something about his image made him feel exhilarated, yet at the same time he was washed in the comfort and familiarity that the sweatshirt granted him. He felt safe; at home.
As he was taking some time to reflect on this strange set of conflicting feelings, he was suddenly stopped short by low thudding noises out in the hall. They were evenly spaced and consistent, growing louder and louder, reverberating throughout the house like footsteps…
And then, the bedroom door opened.
Out of nowhere, Jiro appeared in the hall, his hand gripping the bedroom doorknob, his entire body swiftly frozen in shock. Saburo gasped in horror and balled his fists around his sleeves, his throat tightening as he stared back at his brother with wide eyes.
“Saburo?!” Jiro’s exasperation was instantly apparent, but it dissipated within seconds when he noticed what his younger brother was wearing. “What..are you doing?” His brain was clearly struggling to keep up with what his eyes were processing.
If it were a normal situation, he would have dragged Saburo out of the room in a heartbeat; but now, he didn’t have a hint of anger left in him— only shock and confusion.
Saburo remained silent, not having anything good to say for himself. He wanted to bolt out of the room, the embarrassment from getting caught quickly becoming too much to bear, but his feet were inexplicably glued to the floor. All he could do was stand there in shame. Before he knew it, tears had begun to well up in his eyes, clouding his vision until he couldn’t even see Jiro’s face anymore.
“Woah, hey, you’re crying,” Jiro stammered awkwardly.
“I’m not…crying,” Saburo muttered, wiping his reddened cheeks with his sleeves to dry the tears that had already fallen. He cursed the depravity that got him in this situation in the first place, not daring to look Jiro in the eye.
“...Um, you used to wear my clothes when you were little,” Jiro mumbled, eyes fixed in a random direction and color faintly visible on his cheeks, “so it’s kinda the same thing, I think…yeah.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than he was talking to Saburo.
If wearing his brother’s hand-me-downs was the same as secretly trying on his clothes to fulfill some sort of weird fantasy, Saburo supposed there was something wrong with him from the very beginning. He opened his mouth to speak, but ended up quietly humming and looking down at his feet. He wasn’t going to argue with him now. As dumb as Jiro was, even he seemed to realize that something odd was going on.
Jiro looked back at Saburo, studying him a bit longer, his face becoming more deeply flushed. Finally, he broke out into a shy yet proud smile. “It looks good on you,” he grinned. “I mean, it’s way too big. But in a good way, I guess.”
Then, suddenly, he remembered something that Ichiro would sometimes do when he complimented Saburo; and without giving it a second thought, he reached out and gave him a pat on the head.
Quick to raise his defenses again, Saburo swatted at Jiro’s arm. “Get your gross hands off me.”
“What the hell? I thought you liked that,” Jiro scoffed.
Only when Ichi-nii does it, Saburo wanted to shout back— but that would have been a lie. As embarrassed as he was to admit it, he couldn’t deny that Jiro’s attention felt good at times. Really good.
“Only sometimes,” he finally whispered. Jiro sulked in response, and there was a long moment of silence before Saburo spoke again. “Promise not to tell Ichi-nii about this.”
“Ah, sure, no problem,” Jiro said quietly, scratching the back of his head. “Hell, I mean, you can even wear that until he gets home if you want. He doesn’t have to know.” It took him a moment to realize what exactly he had suggested, and it made him go completely red. He backed away towards the door, awkwardly grasping at it and scratching himself in random spots.
“I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. But if you want…'cause like, y’know…it’s comfortable…um, I’m gonna get a snack. You want a snack?”
“...Sure.”
“Alright. Cool.” Jiro glanced at him once more, and then scurried away, leaving the door open behind him.
Saburo stared out into the hallway for a moment, his mind racing, trying to make sense of the peculiar exchange. Jiro wasn’t exactly the calm and collected type, so he never quite expected him to act in a composed manner; but in that moment, his flustered expression and way of speaking made his heart race.
After a moment of consideration, he followed his brother downstairs, guided by a desire to chase that curiously intoxicating feeling.