Ruby Red Threads

#13.1 Ren

"You're sick. Where are your parents?" it persists.

"Out," I mumble, suddenly remembering their two-day business trip. I sag from relief and let my eyes close, leaning into the cool touch. Good. Now they won't have to deal with me being sick. Father would be pissed if he knew, even though I try so hard not to be a pain in the ass to him. They might call a fucking nurse again. Fuck...

I grab the hand resting on my forehead and start to peel it away. "Don't tell them."

I catch sight of our school uniform's pants then, and I forget what I was going to say. My eyes slowly trail upwards, taking in a fuzzy blue sweater, a flawlessly knotted tie, and then a slightly gaping mouth and flushed cheeks before they lock on simmering honey brown eyes. "You," I say, confused, and drop his hand.

"You shouldn't be standing," he says urgently. "I'm going to come in." It's Senpai's robot brother. Except his ragged breathing and the concerned furrow of his brows make him look a lot less robot-like. "Sorry for intruding," he says, sounding all formal, striding past me and into the house before I can even think to protest. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and blink at him before slamming the door shut and following him into the kitchen in a daze.

I find him kneeling before one of the cabinets in the lower level, eyebrows screwed together. "There's nothing here," he murmurs, gazing up at me questioningly. "Do you keep your food elsewhere? Your refrigerator seems to be empty too. Is there a storeroom behind your house? Or..." Huh. He's blabbering a lot more than usual today.

"No," I mumble.

"No? You don't keep any supplies at home?" he asks uncertainly.

I nod, my head falling forward.

"Ren." He stands up. "Why?"

"Fired the cook," I mutter. "Don't need 'er."

"You...what?" His voice is quieter now. "Do your parents know?"

I shake my head. They never noticed that the cook stopped coming. They have all their meals at work. Once they hire someone to look after me, they think I'm not their problem anymore. They would hire someone to wipe my ass if it came down to it. But I don't need them to do this crap for me anyway. I can arrange my own fucking meals. I don't...need...them. I sway a little on my feet.

"I...I see." As I watch, the light in his eyes shrinks away, the breathless flush gone from his face, taking with it any sign that he rushed over here, all expression retreating to leave behind the cold husk that I'm used to seeing. My gut boils with irritation, causing the heat in my body to spike. So fucking hot.

I silently glare at him as he deposits a grocery bag on the dining table we've never used. "I stopped by the convenience store, just in case. If it's alright with you, I'll make you some rice porridge." His eyes meet mine, but he quickly turns away. "You should eat something. Would it be okay if I used your kitchen?"

I grunt and place a hand on the table to steady myself, then stare at him. "You cook," I say flatly.

"Yes," he answers primly, making arrangements for the water to boil, his back to me.

I laugh bitterly to myself. I bet he's never had to pocket the pay his parents regularly leave out for the cook they think still shows up and use it to buy food to fill his stomach instead, because it feels slightly less pathetic than relying completely on someone they brought in merely as an afterthought to look after a son they no longer need. I've been handed over to these so-called "professionals" my whole life—a babysitter, a home tutor, a nurse—all because they don't want me.

And I've been a fucking crybaby about it.

This guy is probably self-sufficient enough to look after not only himself but others too. He's always doing everything by himself, isn't he? He doesn't need a damn thing from anyone else—no cooks, cleaners, or drivers. I guess he's not like them at all.

"You should go upstairs," he says, with a blank look in his eyes. "Take some rest."

And yet he makes a face like that. It's not even a face. It's no face. It's not human.

I let go of the table and sway dangerously on my feet again. It suddenly feels like I'm balancing a brick on the top of my head, and I close my eyes, hoping that it will bring some respite from the headache. But I'm moving forward before I realise it, and my legs have no idea where to go next, so I abruptly lose my footing. The idiot quickly catches me around the waist, pulling me against him. "Careful," he whispers.

I squint through the pain in my temples and look into his eyes that seem to be softened by worry, the sight sending a crush of confusion into my chest. "I'm sorry about this. But please let me take you upstairs," he says, purposefully looping my arm around his neck as he steadies his grip on my waist. I think about shoving him away, my insides prickling in annoyance—who does this fucker think he is? But before I'm able to do anything at all, I find that my head has already dropped onto something solid—his shoulder—and my eyes are quickly falling shut. Dammit.

I give up, giving him all of my weight, and the irritation quickly dissolves into something dark and painful. What is this? I can't even stand on my own anymore. I decided a long time ago that if I was going to keep living in this house, I wouldn't let myself take another thing from the people I'm forced to call my parents. I don't need them, I thought. I don't need anyone. Bullshit. I can't do anything on my own. Not one fucking thing. How am I supposed to live with myself now?

What's worse is that I don't... I don't really want to carry myself at all. I like this. Leaning on him. It's warm. I'm not strong enough to push him away.

So. Pathetic.

I don't remember going up the stairs, but I look up when we stop walking. Beside me, the idiot's throat bobs before he opens his mouth. "Is this your room?" I nod into his shoulder. He pushes down the handle, making the door creak loudly in response, and all at once, the blood rushes to my head, bringing with it a sense of clarity I've been missing all morning. I jerk away from him, dread seeping into my stomach as I throw myself in his way to try to keep him from going inside. But it's too late.

"Fuck—" He's frozen in the doorway, fingers fisted around the handle as he looks past my shoulder, straight into my room. He's seen it. The wall. My frustration wall

He doesn't say anything; just fixes me with a searching look. Shame pools in my stomach, and I avert my eyes to the floor. I hear him let go of the door then, and slowly walk into the room, and I whip my head back up. "Hey—" I start, my heartbeat quickening with uncertainty as I watch him step over the mess of rumpled pages, scattered books, unwashed clothes, and tattered protein bars to stop before the wall, carefully splaying his fingers onto its surface.

The wall is a concrete reminder of what a mess I was before I met Kurumi-senpai. Of the days I spent alone in this room, with a black permanent marker as the only outlet for my frustration. I would press the nip of the marker into its white surface and let the ink flow, moving the pen around in circles over and over until there was nothing left but a dark patch with barely any white to show in between, moving on and starting from a different point the next time I needed to let off some steam.

The result is a white wall ruined by frantic scribblings that resemble a multitude of pitch-black clouds spaced unevenly throughout its surface. I've spent my whole life trying to free myself of my parents—and maybe trying to free them of me—and this is all I have to show for it. It's a fucking travesty. And now he's seen it.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

A/N :

This chapter turned out a lot longer than I liked so I decided to split it into two parts because I didn't want to compromise on quality.

Happy reading :)