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Mitsuru had agreed to move in with him once they left Greenwood - had, in fact, treated the matter as if it were a foregone conclusion and Shinobu like a dope for ever doubting the outcome - and Shinobu considered it only fair that his nerves settle at last. Even in the face of adversity and uncertainty, Shinobu had always had the knack of seeing his road clear.
But his nerves were no longer a match for Mitsuru's snoring.
For almost three years they had shared Room 211, and in that time Shinobu had maintained an impenetrable shield of defence against Mitsuru's nightly bombardment. Mitsuru was not infamous as the worst member of the Ryokuto Academy Brass Band for nothing: take his trombone away and the acoustical situation only worsened. Shinobu's finely honed ability to reach nirvana each night despite Mitsuru's disturbance of the dorm peace was the wonder of Greenwood's second floor, and Shinobu's neighbours regarded his perceived insouciance with awe.
Even Mitsuru's family viewed Shinobu's facility for withstanding Mitsuru's snoring with respectful stupefaction; his visits to the Ikeda home were punctuated with concerned enquiries after his well-being (both physical and mental), violent rufflings of his hair and offers of industrial grade earplugs. "Everyone always complained about the racket, every class trip, but it actually never really bothered me," Shou had confided to Shinobu once. Shou's eyes had followed his brother's every move with a sort of hopeless hunger. "I guess I was sort of hoping the snoring might get him thrown out of the dorm and sent home again, but no such luck."
Secure in his hold on Mitsuru, Shinobu hadn't had the heart to tell Shou that Greenwood just wasn't that kind of place.
*
The truth was, Shinobu had always found Mitsuru's snoring rather companionable. Certainly it took a degree of conscious aural control to tune out the worst of it - a skill that many Greenwood residents would undoubtedly have paid much to learn - and Shinobu had at times considered the possibility of holding master-classes for some reasonable sum per head. But education (even the profitable variety) was the purview of persons more public-spirited than Shinobu, and he found his heart warmed sufficiently by the thought of his neighbours' ongoing sleep deficit. It was the sort of edge Shinobu had been raised to exploit, and he very much enjoyed being head of the class.
Meanwhile, even the loneliest hour of the night was eased by the (to Shinobu's ears) sweet subaudible drone from the top bunk.
*
Shinobu wasn't sure what happened, how he lost his anti-snoring jutsu. He and Mitsuru got Hasukawa's hapless romance sorted out - no thanks to Mitsuru's miserable luck with women - and the dorm would be in safe enough hands once they left, as would the student council. Their own shining future at Todai was squared away. Even the underwear bandit had been caught without undue damage to Greenwood's otherwise clean (if eccentric) reputation. Everything seemed to be slipping into place: a testament to Shinobu's organisational prowess.
Except Mitsuru's snoring was keeping Shinobu awake all night.
Maybe it was the idea of moving out of Greenwood. They'd be sharing an apartment, but not a bedroom. After three years together, maybe Shinobu wanted to share a bedroom with Mitsuru.
Maybe he wanted to share a bed.
And maybe that still, small and eminently selfish voice inside Shinobu was trying to tell him that this was a mad plan. By forcing him to acknowledge the literal pandemonium that Mitsuru brought to his otherwise ordered life, perhaps Shinobu might be dragged to his senses before school ended.
Before it was too late.
Shinobu wasn't stupid. He could recognize his own over-identification with Hasukawa's dorama. There was much to admire about Hasukawa's dogged, blood-nosed perseverance in pursuit of love, and while Hasukawa's brand of honesty was less brutal than Shinobu's, it was far braver. The kid had guts.
Shinobu preferred more circuitous methods. Unfortunately, his usually devious brain didn't support extended hours and overtime.
*
Their 132 yen holiday was the start of it. The two of them united as one against poverty and villainy, and then Mitsuru agreed to move in with him. And Shinobu ceased to sleep.
No, rewind. It started earlier in Golden Week, when mail call brought a letter from Shinobu's mother. She was a dutiful, once-a-week, two page correspondent of infinite reserve and exquisite handwriting; she'd taken calligraphy lessons before her marriage at her fiance's pointed prompting.
This letter was different; eleven and a half pages of excited, tear-stained, almost indecipherable scrawl, it arrived just a single day after her customary weekly letter of polite nothings. His brother Akira had returned home on Greenery Day.
Shinobu was unsurprised by this development; he had, in fact, actively promoted it. What was unexpected was the rush of unalloyed tenderness he felt as he held his mother's words in his hands, words she had not held back. There was no mention of her attending the Dorm Festival but he wondered, for the first time, whether she might have come had he asked her.
Mitsuru has done this to me, he thought.
*
Mitsuru was not to blame. His nightly routine was unaltered. Every night after roll call and lights out, he retired to the top bunk with a copy of Playview and a box of tissues. There he spent an average of 2 minutes in routine masturbatory activity before falling into a cacophonous coma from which he could not be disturbed (apart from occasional spectral visitations or the more common garden variety dorm emergency) until sunrise, when masturbation recommenced for up to 43 minutes, after which his stomach started growling for breakfast.
Surprisingly, orgasm was the quietest part of the entire process.
Of necessity, Shinobu had learnt to deal with Mitsuru's racket by the end of their first week as first years. His shields had been equalled by none.
And now those shields had crumbled in the shadow of looming freedom.
"Oi, what's up with your tie?" said Mitsuru, looking askance at Shinobu after the sixth broken night.
Shinobu regarded his own reflection in their shared mirror with bafflement.
"You're not going to class looking like that, are you?" asked Mitsuru. He poked his head over Shinobu's shoulder so that their faces filled the mirror; Mitsuru's breath smelled like miso soup. "What a shambles. The delinquent look doesn't suit you, you know. You'll shock those poor worshipful minions of yours. What'll Fuse-kun say, huh?"
Shinobu blinked slowly. He couldn't parse anything Mitsuru said.
"Man, you're completely out of it, aren't you? Here, lemme-" Mitsuru flipped Shinobu's collar up and unpicked the snarl Shinobu had made of his tie, tugging the broad end down and then weaving it about the narrow end until he'd formed a neat half-Windsor. At the press of arms about him, the gentle tug of hands at his throat, Shinobu's chest tightened. When he was still very small, Akira would do this for him before formal family functions.
"Your hair's a mess too," said Mitsuru. He brushed his fingers through Shinobu's bangs, grooming him like a snow monkey; Akira used to do that too. Hunting for fleas he'd call it, as if any reasonably prudent flea would have dared set foot upon the Tezuka estate, much less the Tezuka person. "Nope, even I can't salvage this. Let's hope the middle school girls aren't out and about today. I'd hate to see them disillusioned."
They wouldn't be, Shinobu thought, as he compared their reflections. It was Mitsuru the girls all came to see, and right now Mitsuru was gleaming gold beside Shinobu's tired grey.
"Are you ready?" Mitsuru asked, cocking his head towards the door with a smile.
Shinobu honestly didn't know.
*
Ready or not, it was the seventh night, and something had to give.
Shinobu took Mitsuru's beer away. He fed him a glass of warm milk. He borrowed a humidifier from the dorm lady and filled their room with so much eucalyptus steam that Mitsuru's hair curled and his skin glistened; it reminded Shinobu of the Peacock Prince shoot, and again he thought of Akira and wondered what the hell he'd done, how he'd come to this pass. He took Mitsuru's manga away, turned off the television, and sent him to bed without his Playview, which made Mitsuru pout but did not (judging by their bunk's familiar fidgets) preclude masturbation.
At 1.46am Shinobu finally threw off his comforter, parted the curtains, hoisted himself up to the top bunk and shoved Mitsuru onto his side for a few minutes' relief. By 1.53am Mitsuru was supine once more, so Shinobu climbed up and pushed him over again. If Mitsuru only slept on the bottom bunk, Shinobu would be able to take great pleasure in kicking him, but hurling a hallway slipper up top provided only limited satisfaction.
At 2.14am Shinobu gave up on bedrest and sat on the sill instead, propping the window open to the night air while he chain-smoked and considered his options. Rational thought was near impossible; in the soft whistle after Mitsuru's every shuddering rasp he recited pi silently to seven decimal places until the next snore, when he would lose his place again, and his mind. It had been just one week since he'd had his mother's letter, and so many, many millennia, and he had smoked his way through two cartons of cigarettes and was seriously considering jumping.
It couldn't go on.
*
By 3.44am Shinobu knew Mitsuru would have to die.
He stubbed out a last cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and rose to his feet. Mitsuru's snoring had reached the burbling, unpredictable stage, when the decibels dropped below the level of pain but made up the difference in contributions to chaos theory. Shinobu picked up his pillow, stepped up on the edge of his bed, gazed at Mitsuru's lovely, moonlit face for the last time, and then covered it in soft down.
The snoring paused for an inquisitive and rather muffled urmf, and Mitsuru's arms cycled like a pup's in the air, knocking Shinobu's own hands aside. Before Shinobu could renew his weary assassination attempt, Mitsuru's clutching hands found the pillow and hugged it even closer. He rolled to the side with the pillow tucked beneath his chin, smiling and sighing and nuzzling as he breathed in Shinobu's scent, and Shinobu waited in the quiet and offered up a prayer.
Then he returned to his bed, without his pillow, where he slept until Mitsuru shook him awake. They'd missed breakfast.
*
"Did you try to smother me in the night?" asked Mitsuru, as they walked to class.
"Would I do something like that?" Shinobu handed Mitsuru some stale anpan left over from the Dorm Festival.
"Duh," said Mitsuru, rolling his eyes. But he ate the bun anyhow.
*
That afternoon, Mitsuru headed over to Suminohana Girl's School (permission slip in hand) for the date with which he'd bribed Igarashi's classmate almost four months back.
Shinobu went to the bank.
*
Hasukawa's lovebird status had not mellowed his attitude towards absenteeism, but Mitsuru returned to Greenwood well in time for roll call.
"How was the date?" asked Shinobu, when Mitsuru got back from the bath.
"Huh?" Mitsuru scrubbed at his ears with a towel; he looked softened and absurd in his hallway slippers and underwear. "Oh! Yeah, it was okay, I guess. I took her out for cake and then walked her home. Actually, I spent most of the evening at home."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." Mitsuru hung his towel over their clothing rack, spending an inordinate amount of time straightening the corners. "Y'know, I think Shou might be coming around at last, about taking over the temple. Dad says Grandpa's been working on him. Or with him, I should say. You know what I mean."
"I know."
Mitsuru fiddled at the (mostly pilfered) muddle of stuff on his own desk, and then looked at Shinobu's tidy study area. "Hey, you didn't get a letter from your mother this week?"
"No," said Shinobu. He put his textbook down and leaned back in his chair. "I suppose she forgot."
"She never forgets," said Mitsuru, his mouth sagging open. "I guess she's still excited about having your brother back home, huh?"
"Back in the family bosom," said Shinobu, and despite seven mostly sleepless nights, he could still smile, just a little. "Let's hope he's up for it."
"Let's hope you know what you're doing," said Mitsuru. His eyes were curious, but then he laughed and shook his head. "What am I saying? Of course you do."
"Let's hope," Shinobu repeated quietly, and Mitsuru, who was yawning and stretching catlike to the ceiling, didn't appear to notice. Shinobu swivelled in his chair and watched as Mitsuru climbed the ladder to the top bunk. The desk lamp cast indistinct shadows over Mitsuru's skin, but Shinobu could count off all the familiar old scars and marks. There were no new additions to be seen, no scratches or hickies; there never were, but Shinobu was always pleased to have visual confirmation.
"Oi, can I trust you with this tonight?" called Mitsuru, brandishing Shinobu's pillow, and Shinobu dragged his eyes from their contemplation of Mitsuru's untouched neck. Mitsuru sniggered. "Hell, maybe not, considering the way you're eyeing off my throat. It's a good thing I remembered to hide your screwdriver, the mood you're in. Am I likely to see daylight again?"
"It depends," Shinobu replied, narrowing his eyes.
Mitsuru threw the pillow at him with a grin. "I'll risk it. I've got faith in you."
"Thank you," said Shinobu, catching the pillow, and their mingled scent. He breathed it in deeply, and then tossed the pillow onto the bottom bunk; neither were needed, he knew.
"You're welcome," Mitsuru sang out, as he lay down and rifled amongst his messy bedclothes. "Huh, where's the Playview? Did you nick it again?"
"Stumble down seven times, get up eight," said Shinobu to himself. He flicked off the light and rose to his feet.
"Ye-es, and wise judgement comes when on the toilet," said Mitsuru, hanging his head over the side and raising an eyebrow; he looked faintly demonic in the moonlight, and not lovely at all. "We're quoting old proverbs why?"
"You do trust me?" Shinobu asked. He placed his hands upon the ladder.
"Of course," said Mitsuru. Shinobu heard the unspoken you dope and climbed.
*
There was something undignified yet fun about the top bunk, which was probably why Shinobu had always taken the bottom.
"Shove over," he ordered, hauling himself over the side.
Mitsuru stared at him. "Um. What?"
"You just said you trust me. So shove over."
Mitsuru blinked. Then he budged closer to the wall, the wafer-thin barrier behind which inhabitants of Room 212 had suffered for almost three excruciating years.
That ends tonight, Shinobu thought. He crawled alongside Mitsuru and slithered beneath the covers, cautious of the narrow mattress and the bunk's edge. Mitsuru looked similarly wary as he stared up at Shinobu; his eyes were enormous and his throat bobbed, and his voice was very small when he whispered, "Shinobu?"
Shinobu traced a line across Mitsuru's cheek; the wound left by Nagisa was gone, but Shinobu could still see it. Mitsuru's face felt hot and a little damp, and Shinobu knew he was blushing. Shinobu smiled. "I've been giving the future a great deal of careful consideration, and I've decided I'll be going into private enterprise."
"You- you will?"
"Yes. Very private," Shinobu assured him. Mitsuru's eyelashes tickled against his fingertips, making him lose his train of thought, but he soon found it again. "You'll be joining me."
Mitsuru gave a soft, nervous chuff of laughter. "Do I get a say in this?"
"No," Shinobu said firmly. His road was clear; he knew what he had to do, and he was ready. "No, you get to be quiet for a change. Here, roll over and face the wall."
"Yes, sir," said Mitsuru, giving him a mock salute. He wriggled onto his side, awkward in the confined space, and Shinobu tucked his left arm beneath Mitsuru's head and pressed his nose into Mitsuru's hair.
"It's been forcibly brought to my attention in the past week that there are really only two guaranteed ways of shutting you up for even the shortest space of time: rolling you over and/or making you come," said Shinobu. He was close enough to feel the shaky exhale of Mitsuru's breath, to make Mitsuru's curls shift with his every word. "In the interests of a harmonious future - and a decent night's sleep - I believe it would be advantageous to pursue these activities together in conjunction with one another."
"I- you- "
"Precisely." Shinobu reached for the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a crisp 10,000 yen banknote, which he pressed into Mitsuru's hand.
Mitsuru stilled between his arms. "Is this- ?"
"Yes."
"Is this a pick-up?"
Shinobu sighed in exasperation and wrapped his fingers about Mitsuru's, making the money crinkle. "It's a proposal."
*
"You are such a freak."
*
"Your mother suggested I sew a tennis ball down the back of your underpants," said Shinobu. He pushed Mitsuru's briefs down and shoved his own sweats out of the way, and then he eased his aching cock between Mitsuru's thighs, where life was hot and chafing and altogether wonderful. "This would appear to be a viable alternative."
"Do you have to mention my mother right now?" Mitsuru's palms were pressed white against the wall, and he was pushing, pushing back against Shinobu. "W-when did you speak to my mother, ah, anyhow?"
"This afternoon," Shinobu said. He lapped at the soft skin behind Mitsuru's ear. "I called about your snoring. Then I asked for your hand."
"She never said a word to me!" Mitsuru's cheek rubbed like compulsion where it rested against Shinobu's skin.
"She just wants you to be happy. And I'll make you happy," Shinobu said. He crooked his arm to clench his fingers in Mitsuru's hair, forcing Mitsuru to stillness, and then he wrapped a hand across Mitsuru's panting mouth. "Now lick it. Lick it all over. You're going to fuck my hand."
"I don't like it on my side," Mitsuru whined, but he licked at Shinobu's palm eagerly enough.
"You'll like it." Shinobu took Mitsuru's cock in his wet hand and humped into his arsecrack, squeezing Mitsuru's foreskin back and forth and searching for the precise pulse of creaking, tell-tale timbers that signified Mitsuru's elevation. "I've been listening to you jerk off for almost three years. I know exactly when and why you shake this bunk bed all over and I know how you have to bite your lip so hard when you come that you bleed. I can hear it and I can smell it. You do it quickly at night when you know I'm awake, and you take your time in the morning when you think I'm asleep. I know. I know you. You might as well know me."
And Mitsuru soon came in utter silence, just as Shinobu knew he would, except that this time Shinobu had him pinned to the mattress, to the wall, and he caught Mitsuru's mess and made plenty of his own, and when Mitsuru's lip bled Shinobu kissed it better, even though there'd be no mark (there was never a mark on Mitsuru's face), and when Mitsuru fell asleep and tried to roll onto his back and snore his way into the record books, Shinobu kept him cradled on his side, hushed and loved and wanted.
*
Hasukawa scowled at them at breakfast the next morning, Fred blushed and stammered, Shun lectured them about showing more restraint while they were still in school, and Noyama cooed "I'm with you!" (Really, that particular catchphrase was growing rather old.) But all agreed that the dorm had spent a surprisingly quiet night overall, and Shinobu examined Mitsuru's happy expression and felt reasonably confident that he might expect many, many more.