Chapter 7: The Afternoon Trap
The bedroom air was thick with the smell of him—cigarettes, cheap aftershave, the sharp salt of sweat. The familiar creak of the mattress was a steady, grinding rhythm beneath them. Megumi stared at the water stain on the ceiling, her body moving with a practiced, disinterested compliance. Her shorts were tangled around one ankle, the elastic band digging into her skin.
“You’re so mean,” Toji grunted into her neck, his breath hot and damp.
“And you love it,” she recited, the words automatic and hollow. Her hips lifted to meet his thrusts, a mechanical response worn smooth from repetition. Her fingers found a loose thread on the sheet and twisted it tight around her fingertip until the tip turned white.
The door clicked open.
Tsumiki stood framed in the dim hallway light, one hand still on the knob. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly parted. She was holding a glass of water. The ice cubes inside it clicked softly together.
Megumi turned her head on the pillow. She didn’t stop moving with their father. “Join us or leave, Miki.”
Her voice was a flat, low line. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a test.
Toji didn’t pause, didn’t even look. He just kept moving, one large hand splayed on Megumi’s hip, his thumb rubbing circles into the bone. His focus was complete, animal. Tsumiki watched the motion, the damp patch on the sheet, the way Megumi’s bare leg hooked over Toji’s back. The glass trembled in her hand.
Then she set it down on the dresser. The click was too loud.
She moved toward the bed like she was walking through deep water. The old floorboards groaned under her weight. When she reached the edge, she hesitated, her gaze flicking from Megumi’s impassive face to the straining muscles in Toji’s back.
“C’mere,” Megumi said, softer now. She lifted a hand, her fingers curling.
Tsumiki climbed onto the mattress. It dipped severely under her, jostling them. Toji made a low, approving sound. Tsumiki’s movements were clumsy, unsure. She positioned herself behind him, her knees sinking into the worn depression on his side of the bed. For a moment, she just hovered, her warmth near his skin.
Then she leaned in and pressed her mouth to the side of his neck, just below his ear. It was less a kiss and more a placement of lips against salt-damp skin. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
Megumi watched her over Toji’s shoulder. A change came over her face, a slow thawing of the icy indifference. Her eyes, which had been dull and fixed on the ceiling, sharpened. They traced the line of Tsumiki’s bowed head, the nervous flutter of her eyelids.
“Touch her,” Megumi said to Toji, her command a rasp in the rhythmic quiet.
He didn’t question it. One of his hands, the one not anchoring Megumi, snaked back. It found Tsumiki’s thigh, her cotton pajama shorts, and slid underneath. His big, rough palm cupped her, his fingers digging in with a familiarity that made Tsumiki gasp against his neck.
Megumi’s own hand moved then. She reached across the landscape of Toji’s back, past the shifting scars and tense muscle, and found her sister’s hand where it was clenched on the sheet. She pried the fingers loose and laced their hands together, squeezing hard. Her grip was punishing, possessive.
“See?” Megumi whispered, though only Tsumiki could hear her over the noise of the bed and Toji’s breathing. “Like this. Only like this.”
Tsumiki opened her eyes. They were swimming, glossy with tears that didn’t fall. She looked at their joined hands, then at Megumi’s face. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
The dynamic shifted. It was subtle, but the room felt it. Toji was the engine, the brute force, but the current that crackled in the air now ran between the two girls on the bed. Megumi’s boredom was gone, replaced by a fierce, focused intensity. She guided Tsumiki with her eyes, with the pressure of her hand. When Tsumiki’s kisses on Toji’s neck became more confident, Megumi’s lips curved. When Tsumiki’s hand tentatively came around to rest on Toji’s stomach, Megumi bit her own lip.
It was over quickly after that. Toji’s rhythm fractured into hard, final thrusts. He shuddered, his weight collapsing onto Megumi, who took it without a sound, her gaze still locked on her sister.
The silence afterwards was broken only by ragged breathing. The smell was stronger now, intimate and sour.
Toji rolled off with a grunt, lying on his back between them. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. “Get me an ashtray,” he said to no one in particular.
Tsumiki flinched, started to move.
“You get it,” Megumi said to Toji, her voice cold again. She was already pulling her shirt down, adjusting her shorts. The moment of heat was gone, sealed away. “We’re not your maids.”
He barked a laugh, but he swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded naked to the dresser, grabbing a dirty dish. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating the satisfied, lazy smirk on his face.
Megumi sat up. She looked at Tsumiki, who was lying very still, staring at the ceiling just as Megumi had done minutes before. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen.
Without a word, Megumi leaned over Toji, who was now blowing smoke at the water stain, and grabbed Tsumiki’s wrist. She pulled her up, off the bed.
“C’mon,” Megumi said, her tone leaving no argument.
She led Tsumiki out of the room, past Toji, who didn’t bother looking up. The hallway was dark and cool. The door to their shared room clicked shut behind them, a fragile barrier.
In the dark, Megumi didn’t turn on the light. She pushed Tsumiki back against the door, her hands coming up to cradle her face. Her thumbs wiped at the tracks of moisture that had finally escaped from Tsumiki’s eyes.
“You said yes,” Megumi murmured, her forehead touching Tsumiki’s.
“In the kitchen,” Tsumiki breathed. “I did.”
“You have to mean it. Every time.” Megumi’s voice was low, urgent. “He doesn’t get you. I get you. You’re mine to give, not his to take. You understand the difference?”
Tsumiki’s hands came up, clinging to Megumi’s wrists. She was still trembling. “It feels the same.”
“It’s not.” Megumi’s kiss was different now—softer, but no less claiming. It was a brand, a promise, a correction. When she pulled back, her eyes glinted in the sliver of streetlight coming through the blinds. “It’s not the same at all. Now go shower. You smell like him.”
She stepped away, the warmth vanishing, leaving Tsumiki cold against the door. Megumi walked to her own bed and lay down, turning her back. The conversation was over.
Tsumiki stood there for a long minute, listening to the muffled sound of the TV turning on in Toji’s room, the faint strains of a fight replay. Then she moved, gathering her things, the ghost of Megumi’s grip still tight around her wrist, the whisper in the dark the only thing that felt real.