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The job Saburo had taken that evening had gone without a hitch. It had been one of his easier requests— a simple delivery— and he would have nothing to complain about if it didn’t feel like his fingers were about to fall off.
He had obviously checked the weather forecast that morning, but the temperatures he was walking in were nowhere near matching his expectations. He supposed it was normal for the reporters to get things wrong sometimes, but couldn’t they have messed it up on a different day…?
The box Saburo had been delivering was fairly large in size; big enough to require two hands to carry, and forcing him to keep his fingers exposed to the freezing cold. At least it was done and over with now, and he could finally go home and get warm.
Not long into his walk, though, he noticed a few little white speckles in the air.
“You’ve got to be kidding…” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, grateful that they were fairly deep, but regretting wearing the thin material that barely helped his already frozen skin.
He figured that he just had to suck it up and push through. He wasn’t far from home—it would be a short walk, or so he told himself.
As he turned the next corner on the road, he suddenly started to wish that the walk would have been even shorter— not because of the bad weather, which he almost forgot about at that very moment, but because he spotted a familiar figure leaving one of the buildings on the road.
“Oh, Saburo?”
Great. Of course it was him.
Appearing as swiftly as the flurry of snow, Jiro casually slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and began to approach his younger brother. “You headin’ home?” He gestured down the road with his head.
Saburo didn’t have the energy to be particularly snotty, or overly sarcastic, or teasing in any way at all. A simple utterance of his brother’s name was all that left his throat: Jiro.
“...Yeah. I just finished my delivery.”
Jiro yawned. “Me too. I’m gonna crash as soon as we get there. All the work today’s got me exhausted.”
Saburo said nothing in return. Instead, he kept walking, now joined by his brother at his side. Jiro didn’t seem to notice the silence, or he just didn’t care, not even taking a moment to glance at Saburo. He was used to this sort of silent treatment. Saburo didn’t mean to do it, though— at least not this time. He was just cold. And tired.
It really should not have been a long walk at all, but the awkward silence made it feel like it was lasting forever. Luckily, Jiro was never one to stay quiet for long.
“Fuck, I’m freezing,” he breathed through clenched teeth, bringing his hands to his mouth.
Saburo scoffed. “That’s ‘cause you never wear a real coat.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Then stop complaining.”
Jiro glared at his brother. “How was I supposed to know it was gonna fuckin’ snow?”
There was a beat of silence. “If you checked the weather forecast,” Saburo said quietly, fully aware of how well that ended up serving him.
“Nii-chan showed me before I left, and it didn’t say snow,” Jiro refuted.
Saburo had nothing to say to that. Their big brother’s words weren't something he could easily lie about and get away with, anyway. He opted to just drop it, accepting the loss and focusing ahead on the whiteness building up on the sidewalk.
As the two carried on, neither felt any more comfortable in the harshening weather. Frustrated that his pockets weren’t doing much for him, Saburo began to rub his hands together. That didn’t do much either. He groaned a bit and held them to his lips, breathing on them harshly, shuddering at the warm yet fleeting feeling on his skin.
That was what it took for Jiro to finally notice his strife, so it seemed. The older brother glanced over and almost stopped in his tracks when he saw Saburo’s pale fingers and completely flushed face.
“Woah, your face is like, super red,” he observed out loud.
Sudden embarrassment made Saburo flinch. “Shut up,” he grumbled, not lowering his hands from his face.
Clearly not one to pick up on cues, and without so much as a beat of hesitation or even a hint of shame, Jiro extended a hand out. “Here, put your hand in my pocket.”
“What? No.”
“Hey, I’m just tryin' to be a good older brother here.”
Saburo could barely comprehend what he was hearing. If they weren’t in public, he probably would have screamed, choked on the air, and vomited onto the floor, all at the same time. Instead, he stared at Jiro in disbelief and disgust, his mouth dumbly agape.
“Yeah, well I’m not five, Jiro,” he finally scoffed, having barely collected himself.
Jiro shrugged. “Who cares? Nobody’s out here to make fun of you anyway.”
Only someone as stupid as Jiro could say such things so casually and fail to realize the outlandishness of his own words. As if Saburo would want to touch his gross, sweaty hand in his gross, sweaty pocket.
And yet, the dull pain of the cold was causing him to battle with himself. He pressed his lips together and sighed slowly, deeply. He didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t deny that at this point, his fingers were starting to lack feeling. This would be in his best interest, he told himself. Besides, thinking that it was weird was making it weird.
“It probably wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway.”
“Yeah, alright, whatever then.”
Saburo took a deep breath. After a moment’s hesitation, he took Jiro’s hand.
“Jesus fuck, you are freezing,” Jiro yelped, nearly breaking their hands apart; but he quickly wrapped his fingers around Saburo’s, almost instinctively trying to warm them up.
Saburo flinched at his grip, already wanting to pull away, but he resisted. He had expected Jiro’s hand to be moist and sticky or something, but it was quite the opposite— pleasantly warm and comfortable against his, even if a bit rough and calloused.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had held Jiro’s hand like this. He could recall a few times where they would walk home together after school this way, many long years ago. The vague memories gave him a heavy, nostalgic feeling in his chest.
“Hey, that kinda hurts,” Jiro muttered suddenly, snapping Saburo out of his thoughts and making him terribly aware of how tightly he was squeezing his fingers. Mortified, he squeaked and nearly yanked his hand away.
As they rounded the next corner, Saburo could see their home not far in the distance. His mind wandered back to the old days once again— the days where he and Jiro would sprint down this road to see who would make it home first, and he would always lose with a smile on his face. The days where bullies would catch him on the street and try to rough him around, and Jiro would always be there to protect him from harm…
…Similar to what he was doing now, with Saburo’s hand safely cradled in his own.
His heart began to pound. He wanted to keep holding onto Jiro’s hand, to his warmth, to the lingering bond that had been worn down and hanging on a thread between them like a stressed rope.
No matter how humiliating it was, he wouldn’t let go. No matter how much this made him feel like a child, he didn’t want to let go.
…
…He didn’t want to let go, and so he yanked his hand away and started to run.
He could hear Jiro’s confused babbling behind him, becoming muted in the wind that passed his ears.
“Last one home does all the laundry!”