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Locker of misery

The Tapestry of a Thousand Blushes

The morning sun over Tomobiki High School was far too bright for Shūtarō Mendō. He sat at his desk, his forehead resting against the cool wood, radiating an aura of such profound misery that even the usually boisterous Class 2-4 gave him a wide berth. His pristine white uniform felt like a leaden shroud. He could still taste the lavender and dirt of Ryōko’s "sedative" tea on the back of his tongue, a bitter reminder of the twelve-hour marathon of subconscious humiliation he had just endured.

"Mendō-kun? Are you feeling ill?" Shinobu Miyake asked, leaning over his desk with a look of genuine concern. "You’ve been staring at that knot in the wood for twenty minutes without blinking."

Shūtarō slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and his usually perfectly coiffed hair had a single, rebellious strand sticking up like a lightning rod for misfortune. "I am merely... contemplating the fleeting nature of dignity, Shinobu-san. It is a fragile thing, easily shattered by the whims of fate and the treachery of siblings."

"He’s just cranky because he didn't get his beauty sleep," Ataru Moroboshi chimed in, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He looked remarkably refreshed, a fact that made Shūtarō’s blood boil. "Though, I gotta say, Mendō, you were making some really weird noises in the park yesterday. Sounded like a cat getting its tail stepped on."

Shūtarō’s hand flew to his face, shielding his expression. "I was... I was snoring! A common side effect of extreme exhaustion!"

"If you say so," Ataru shrugged, already turning his attention to a group of girls passing by in the hallway. "Anyway, whatever was in that tea made me dream I was being chased by a giant, man-eating bra. It was terrifying and yet... strangely educational."

Shūtarō didn't respond. He couldn't. His brain was busy replaying the final moments of his own dream—the one where tuxedo-clad Ataru had dipped him into a low, dramatic tango pose while whispering, "Your family crest really is quite charming, Shūtarō."

The memory was so vivid that Shūtarō felt a sudden, familiar heat rushing to his face. He stood up so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor. "I must go to the infirmary! I believe I am suffering from a tropical fever!"

He fled the room, ignoring Lum’s curious "Darling, did you break Mendō-kobou?" and Ataru’s indifferent "He was already broken, Lum. I just think the glue is finally giving out."

Shūtarō didn't make it to the infirmary. He found himself ducking into the gymnasium, seeking the solace of wide-open spaces where no lockers could haunt him. However, fate was a cruel mistress in Tomobiki. The gym was currently occupied by Ryūnosuke Fujinami, who was mid-sparring session with a wooden pole, and her father, who was screaming about the "spirit of the sea" from the sidelines.

"Out of my way, Mendō!" Ryūnosuke barked, swinging the pole in a wide arc that nearly took Shūtarō’s head off. "I’m in the middle of training! If you want to mope, go do it in the equipment shed!"

"The equipment shed?" Shūtarō recoiled as if she had suggested he jump into a volcano. "Never! I shall never enter a small, windowless structure again!"

"What’s crawled up your sleeve and died?" Ryūnosuke asked, lowering her pole and wiping sweat from her brow. She looked him up and down, her sharp eyes taking in his disheveled state. "You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder. And why are you blushing? It’s ten in the morning."

"I am not blushing! It is the heat of the gymnasium!" Shūtarō insisted, though the sight of Ryūnosuke—strong, feminine despite her attire, and decidedly *not* Ataru Moroboshi—briefly calmed his racing heart. "Ryūnosuke-kun, tell me... do you ever have dreams that make you want to erase your own existence?"

Ryūnosuke blinked, her expression softening slightly. "Every time I dream my dad actually buys me a bra and it turns out to be made of sandpaper. Why?"

"It’s nothing," Shūtarō sighed, leaning against the wall. "I am simply struggling with a... psychological anomaly."

"It’s called being a Mendō," Ryūnosuke’s father cackled, appearing out of nowhere and poking Shūtarō in the ribs. "Too much money and not enough backbone! Now get out of here before I make you spar with Ryūnosuke! She needs a punching bag that doesn't talk back!"

Shūtarō beat a hasty retreat, but as he exited the gym, he ran straight into the one person he was most desperate to avoid.

"Brother! There you are!" Ryōko was standing by the equipment room door, flanked by her Kuroko. She was holding a small, silver bell, which she rang with a cheerful *ting*. "I’ve been looking for you. I have a surprise!"

"Ryōko, no," Shūtarō groaned, backing away. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. I am going to find a desert island. I am going to live among the cacti where there is nothing but sand and sky."

"But Shūtarō, it’s a gift of reconciliation!" Ryōko pouted, her eyes wide and innocent. "After the tea yesterday, I realized I may have been a bit... excessive. So, I’ve commissioned a special therapy session for you. Look!"

She stepped aside to reveal a large, beautifully decorated palanquin. It was draped in fine silks and bore the Mendō crest.

"A palanquin?" Shūtarō asked, his suspicion warring with his exhaustion. "You want me to take a nap in a palanquin?"

"It’s a 'Sensory Deprivation Chamber' designed by our family’s top scientists," Ryōko explained, ushering him toward it. "It’s completely light-proof and sound-proof. It will allow your mind to reset. No dreams, no distractions. Just perfect, aristocratic silence."

Shūtarō looked at the palanquin. It was small, yes, but it was luxurious. It wasn't a locker. It wasn't a chest. It was a vehicle of his own status. "And there are no... sedatives involved?"

"On my honor as a Mendō," Ryōko promised, crossing her heart.

Desperate for even ten minutes of peace, Shūtarō climbed inside. The interior was lined with velvet. It was soft, cool, and smelled of sandalwood. As the door clicked shut, he felt a wave of relief. The darkness was familiar, but here, it was controlled. He was the master of this space.

"This is better," he whispered to himself, stretching out as much as the small floor allowed. "Finally, a moment of—"

The palanquin lurched. Shūtarō heard the rhythmic grunts of the Kuroko as they lifted the poles.

"Wait, where are we going?" Shūtarō called out.

"To a place of ultimate healing!" Ryōko’s voice drifted in from outside, sounding suspiciously faint.

The palanquin swayed for several minutes. Shūtarō began to relax. The motion was soothing, like being rocked in a cradle. He closed his eyes, determined to think of nothing but the Mendō stock portfolio.

Suddenly, the palanquin stopped with a heavy thud. The door was yanked open, and a body was unceremoniously shoved inside.

"Ow! Hey! Watch the hair!"

Shūtarō’s heart stopped. He didn't need light to recognize that voice. "Moroboshi?"

"Mendō? What are you doing in here?" Ataru asked, rubbing his elbow as he scrambled to find a spot on the velvet floor. "Ryōko said she was giving me a private ride to a secret 'paradise' she’d built for me."

"She told me this was a sensory deprivation chamber!" Shūtarō shrieked, scrambling to the far corner. "Ryōko! Open this door! This is a violation of the Geneva Convention!"

The door slammed shut and the iron bolt slid home.

"Enjoy your 'Double Healing Session'!" Ryōko’s voice echoed from outside. "I’ve also added a special heating element to the floor to simulate the warmth of a summer meadow. Have fun, boys!"

Within seconds, the floor beneath them began to glow with a soft, orange light. The temperature in the tiny, velvet-lined box began to rise rapidly.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," Ataru groaned, pulling at his collar. "It’s the locker all over again! Only this time it’s fancy and smells like a funeral home!"

"Don't. Touch. Me," Shūtarō hissed, his voice trembling. He was pressed against the back wall, his knees drawn up to his chin. The darkness, the heat, and the proximity were already triggering the descent. His brain, primed by three days of vivid dreams and Ryōko’s tea, began to blur the lines between reality and the tuxedo-clad nightmare.

"I’m not trying to touch you! There’s no room!" Ataru snapped. He tried to shift his legs, but the palanquin was even narrower than the locker. His shin brushed against Shūtarō’s. "Man, it’s getting really hot in here. Ryōko’s 'summer meadow' feels more like a toaster oven."

Shūtarō squeezed his eyes shut. *It isn't real. The dream isn't real. He is a peasant. He is a lecher. He is... he is currently breathing on my hand.*

"Hey, Mendō," Ataru said, his voice dropping an octave as the heat made him sluggish. "You’re doing that shaking thing again. Seriously, you’re gonna give yourself a stroke. Just breathe, okay?"

Ataru reached out in the dark, his hand landing squarely on Shūtarō’s thigh to steady himself as the palanquin began to move again, swaying violently as the Kuroko began to trot.

Shūtarō let out a choked, strangled gasp. The touch was exactly like the dream. The warmth of Ataru’s palm through the fabric of his trousers sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic—and something far more terrifying—straight to Shūtarō’s core.

"Take your hand off me!" Shūtarō managed to wheeze, though he didn't move to push it away. His muscles felt like water.

"I’m just trying not to fall over! These guys are running!" Ataru protested. He shifted, trying to get a better grip on the floor, and ended up sliding forward. Because of the tilt of the palanquin, he was forced directly into Shūtarō’s lap.

"Moroboshi! Get off!"

"I can't! Gravity is a thing, Mendō!"

They were wedged together now, a chaotic pile of limbs in a heated silk box. The scent of the sandalwood was being replaced by the salty, sharp scent of sweat. Shūtarō could feel the heat of Ataru’s chest through his own blazer. Every jolt of the palanquin caused their bodies to grind together.

Shūtarō felt his mind fracturing. The humiliation was so complete, so total, that his brain simply gave up on resistance. He felt the traitorous heat spreading through his lower body, a biological response that felt like a death sentence.

"Man," Ataru mumbled, his face pressed against Shūtarō’s neck. "You’re really burning up. You sure you don't have that tropical fever for real?"

"Shut... up..." Shūtarō whispered. He reached out, his fingers digging into Ataru’s shoulders. He told himself he was trying to push him away, but his grip was tight, anchoring Ataru against him.

"And hey," Ataru added, his voice vibrating against Shūtarō’s skin. "Is it just me, or did Ryōko give us that tea again before we got in here? I feel... really sleepy. And kind of... tingly?"

Shūtarō’s eyes widened. "She... she wouldn't..."

"I think she did," Ataru yawned, his weight becoming a dead, warm pressure against Shūtarō. "I’m just gonna... take a nap. Wake me up when we get to the... the palace..."

Ataru’s breathing leveled out into the deep, rhythmic cadence of sleep. He was completely out, his head resting heavily on Shūtarō’s shoulder, his arms draped loosely around Shūtarō’s waist.

Shūtarō sat in the dark, heated palanquin, frozen in a state of absolute, crystalline horror. He was trapped. He was being used as a mattress by his arch-nemesis. And, most damningly of all, he realized with a soul-crushing clarity that he wasn't trying to escape.

"I am a Mendō," he whispered into the darkness, a single tear of pure shame rolling down his cheek. "I am a Mendō... and I am going to have to kill everyone who ever knew me."

Outside, Ryōko followed the palanquin on her ox-cart, holding a small remote control that adjusted the internal temperature. She turned to her head Kuroko with a look of supreme satisfaction.

"You see?" she said, snapping a photo of the palanquin’s closed door. "Nothing brings people together quite like shared trauma and a very high electricity bill for the heating coils."

Suddenly, a streak of blue lightning split the sky. Lum descended, her eyes glowing with a terrifying intensity.

"RYŌKO! WHERE IS DARLING? I SAW THE KUROKO KIDNAP HIM!"

"Oh, Lum-san!" Ryōko chirped, pointing at the swaying palanquin. "He’s in there. He’s undergoing a very intensive bonding ritual with my brother. I wouldn't interrupt them if I were you; the scientists say sudden shocks can be very... damaging to the psyche."

"A bonding ritual?!" Lum’s horns sparked. "With Mendō?! DARLING, ARE YOU TWO PLAYING GAMES WITHOUT ME?!"

She dove toward the palanquin, but Ryōko’s Kuroko quickly raised a series of insulated mirrors, reflecting her own lightning back at her.

"Now, now, Lum-san. Let’s not be hasty," Ryōko giggled. "They’ll be out in an hour. Or whenever the battery on the floor heater runs out."

Inside the palanquin, Shūtarō heard the thunder and the shouting, but it felt miles away. He was lost in a hazy, heated delirium. Ataru shifted in his sleep, his hand moving slightly, and Shūtarō let out a soft, broken sound that was neither a scream nor a protest.

He closed his eyes, finally surrendering to the darkness. If he was going to be a traitor to his bloodline, he might as well do it in a velvet-lined box.

"Tomorrow," Shūtarō whispered, "I buy the desert island. But for today... I think I’ll just... stay here."

And as the palanquin swayed through the streets of Tomobiki, the heir to the Mendō empire finally stopped fighting the dream, and started wondering if Tuxedo-Ataru would be waiting for him on the other side of sleep.