Chapter 2: Tsumiki's Shower
The sound of the shower was a low, constant roar in the thin-walled apartment. Toji stood in the hallway, a towel slung over his shoulder, listening. The pipes groaned. He’d meant to fix them. He never did.
He pushed the bathroom door open without knocking. The air was thick with steam, smelling of Tsumiki’s cheap strawberry shampoo and something deeper, saltier. Her pink robe was a damp puddle on the cracked linoleum floor. He toed it aside.
The shower curtain was a translucent blue, streaked with mildew. A shadow moved behind it—the soft, rounded shape of her. He could hear her humming, a tuneless little thing that cut off when his hand closed on the wet plastic.
He pulled it back. The metal rings screeched.
Tsumiki gasped, her hands flying up instinctively to cover herself, then halting, falling limp at her sides. Water streamed over her face, her neck, down the full slope of her breasts. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat. She stood perfectly still, her eyes wide, droplets clinging to her lashes.
“Mr. Toji,” she breathed. The title was a habit, a formality that felt absurd here.
He didn’t speak. He stepped one foot over the rim of the tub, then the other, his socks and jeans instantly soaking through, heavy with water. The shower spray hit his back, plastering his worn t-shirt to his skin. He crowded her against the cold, tile wall.
She flinched at the chill on her back. He saw the goosebumps rise on her arms. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping water from her lip, then dropped his hand to her breast. His palm covered it completely, his rough fingers squeezing the soft, heavy weight. She let out a shaky moan, her head tilting back against the tile with a soft thud. Her eyes were closed.
He bent his head, his mouth finding the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to feel her jolt. His other hand slid down her slick side, over the curve of her hip. She was trembling. Or maybe it was him. The water was starting to run cold.
Her hands came up, tangling in the wet cotton of his shirt. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was holding on, her fingers twisting the fabric. He shifted his grip on her breast, pinching her nipple between his fingers, rolling it. A sharp, choked sound escaped her throat.
“You’re getting your clothes all wet,” she whispered, as if that was the notable transgression here.
He grunted against her skin, a sound that was almost a laugh. “They’ll dry.”
He kissed her then, messily, his tongue pushing into her mouth. She tasted like toothpaste and steam. She kissed him back, her movements hesitant, pliant. She always was. It was like kissing something that had already surrendered. He preferred Megumi’s cold, resistant stillness. But this had its own appeal. This total, willing acceptance. It felt like love, the only kind he knew how to recognize.
A fist hammered on the bathroom door. Once. Twice. A staccato bang that cut through the water’s roar.
“Don’t take too long, I need to piss.”
Megumi’s voice was flat, bored, immediately dissolving the steam’s intimate haze. It was just a fact. A bodily function. It made everything in the shower feel small and stupid.
Toji lifted his head. Tsumiki’s eyes flew open, a flash of panic in them. She tried to shrink away, but he held her firm, his hand still possessively on her breast. He kept his eyes locked on her face.
“We’ll be a minute,” he called back, his voice rougher than he intended.
“You’ve been in there for twenty. My bladder’s not a democracy,” Megumi shot back. He heard the doorknob rattle, but he’d slid the lock. A minor victory.
Tsumiki was staring at him, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants that hitched every time his thumb moved. “She’s waiting,” she murmured.
“Let her wait.”
He kissed her again, but the spell was broken. He could feel her attention splintering, listening for her sister on the other side of the door. He finally let his hands drop. He stepped back out of the tub, water cascading from his clothes onto the floor, pooling around his soggy socks.
Tsumiki didn’t move. She just watched him, her arms crossing over her chest now, covering herself. The water beat down on her, colder by the second.
Toji grabbed his towel from the hook, not bothering to wring out his shirt. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Megumi was leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway, arms crossed. She looked him up and down, his dripping clothes, his wet hair. Her expression didn’t change. She pushed past him into the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the hall.
“Disgusting,” she said, not specifying what was. The mess on the floor, the humidity, him.
She didn’t even look at Tsumiki, still naked in the shower. She just went to the toilet, her movements practical. Toji stood in the doorway, watching. Megumi yanked the shower curtain shut with a violent rattle, enclosing Tsumiki in the blue plastic haze.
“Privacy exists, you know,” Megumi said, her voice muffled slightly as she sat down.
“Since when do you care?” Toji replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“I don’t. But the fly from the kitchen is in here now. It’s buzzing around. It’s annoying.”
He heard the shower turn off. A moment of dripping silence. Then the curtain ripped back again. Tsumiki emerged, wrapped in a thin bath towel, her hair dripping. She kept her eyes down, hurrying past Toji into the hall. She smelled of strawberries and shame.
Megumi finished, flushed, and went to the sink. She caught Toji’s eye in the fogged mirror as she washed her hands. Her reflection was blurred, but her gaze was clear and sharp as a shard of glass.
“You’re tracking water everywhere,” she said. “Clean it up. And we still need groceries. You promised.”
She turned off the tap, shook her hands dry in the air, and walked out, leaving him standing in the wreck of the humid room. He looked at the puddles on the floor, the wet footprints, the discarded towel. From down the hall, he heard the low murmur of voices. Tsumiki’s, soft and questioning. Megumi’s, a short, definitive answer.
He wiped a hand over his face, squeezing water from his beard. He’d have to change before the store. The mundane thought anchored him. This was just how it was. The fighting, the touching, the meals, the errands. It was all the same thing. It was all his.
He left the bathroom light on, the fan whirring uselessly against the damp, and went to find dry clothes. The fly buzzed once, loud, against the bare bulb, before falling silent.