the little things i force myself to do

“Don’t ya have work today, ED?”

Seeing the door to Samejima’s room left ajar, Arisugawa kicks it open. He doesn’t care if the sudden noise wakes Samejima; if the guy’s not already up at 12 in the afternoon, that’s on him.

There’s no response even after he peeks his head in.

Generally, Arisugawa tries to avoid entering ED’s room if he can help it, since the stench of Samejima is overwhelming—all concentrated in the master bedroom. (House owner’s rights, apparently! Life is truly unfair.)

That said, even without frequent visits he still knows what it looks like.

Pink walls. A few medals awarded by the government for his service for civilization, blah blah. The shelves are covered from end to end in random objects that Arisugawa would find more typical in the bedroom of a little boy. Not exactly toys, but cheap things you might win at a festival, like kamen rider masks, assorted sculptures, and even a zoetrope.

What’s different today is the messy bed. Blankets askew, pillows hanging halfway off the end. Samejima is the kind of clean freak who washes his hands with peroxide. One of these things is not like the other.

“Yooo, ED? Wake the fuck up?”

For a second, he’s not sure if the man’s in there at all amongst the lumps of pillows and blankets, but after another few seconds, something moves. It’s either Samejima or a raccoon that climbed in the window to track down the scent of cow heart.

“…Will you please… stop talking,” the bed gremlin mutters.

“No. Hey, hey, don’t ignore me! You got the day off or somethin’?”

Arisugawa slams the door shut behind him and struts toward the bed, ready to tear the covers off. Samejima must be able to sense it, because he pulls the blankets down just enough to glare at Arisugawa with thin eyes.

“I’m not going to deal with you today. Leave.”

“Yeah, when have I ever listened to you?”

He laughs harshly and grabs the blankets. Samejima’s grip tightens, fingers curling in the folds of his canopy. A tug-of-rope fight ensues for much longer than is necessary between two grown men.

Samejima only stops when he hears the slightest tearing noise, because he’s not going to let Arisugawa ruin the household items he bought with his own money.

“Stop.”

“Get up! I know you have a hard time doin’ that, but really, you should be able to handle this much.”

Arisugawa snaps his fingers in Samejima’s face and clicks his tongue as he backs away toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Ain’t you the one who told me to leave?”

Arisugawa raises an eyebrow, grinning with all the mocking joy of a bully who’s taken candy from a baby.

“…Don’t leave,” Samejima says.

What?

The whole room smells like Samejima, painted in peroxide and parsley and perfume, and as those words fill the air, Arisugawa is overwhelmed in a way he’d rather not show.

He goes silent the same way a pair of glasses goes opaque under the light of the moon.

Samejima can’t live with that kind of silence, so he sits up in bed, looking like a mess. Arisugawa is reminded of himself, regrettably. He was like that the first few days after Mamiya disappeared. When the fervor of searching for the only woman he’s ever lived died down, nothing was left.

What was the point of leaving the house if Mamiya wasn’t going to be there when he stepped outside?

“You look like shit,” Arisugawa says quietly. “And for you, that’s sayin’ something.”

He does look like shit.

Samejima’s hair is unbrushed, greasy, sticking to his face in some places and reaching for the ceiling in other places. It’s getting shaggy, too, the ends of his dark hair tickling at his neck. When was the last time he got a haircut? The bags under his eyes make him look undead.

“Did you even call in for work? Christ, and you call yourself an adult.”

Says the man who’s unemployed, Arisugawa quips to himself. He’d never say it out loud, but he’s not ignorant of his own folly.

Samejima stares at him like he’s seen a ghost. Arisugawa represses the urge to look over his shoulder and check, knowing there’s only one ghost in the world he’ll ever care to see.

There’s a shift in Samejima’s body language, going from shoddy, slumped over drowsiness to something more alert. He rolls out one shoulder, then the other, and leaves them pushed back to their full, absurd width. It’s more fitting for a police officer’s character.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you sound worried about me,” says the bed gremlin.

Okay, now that’s crossing the line. Arisugawa snorts and crosses his arms, then shakes his head like an asshole.

“You’re as good at reading people as ever. What’s next, you gonna wonder if Ni’igaki’s actually not a total bitch? Ya think Touma’s gonna come home from school wearin’ a crop top?”

“I’m sure he would look dashing in it. Are you jealous that you’ll never have the youthful, handsome looks of a boy his age? God forbid a man try new things.”

He’s smiling—it’s not a pleasant smile, more combative, but whatever. Arisugawa’s gotten a little used to seeing this guy’s ugly mug.

It isn’t until the dread is gone from Samejima’s face that Arisugawa realizes it was there in the first place. He wonders what changed, and then dismisses the first thought that comes to mind. No way in hell.

“Get the hell outta here. I don’t want the smell of your corpse rottin’ up the place.”

You’re not allowed to go after Mamiya without us.

“With pleasure.”

I suppose not.

And Samejima gets out of bed.