Locker of misery
The Velvet Shackles of Room 404
The morning assembly at Tomobiki High was usually a cacophony of flying desks and electric discharges, but today, Onsen-Mark stood before Class 2-4 with a look of terrifying, manic glee. He clutched a stack of laminated itineraries like they were holy relics.
"Listen up, you delinquents!" the teacher roared, his suit-mark (♨) practically glowing with sweat. "Due to a generous—and frankly suspicious—donation from the Mendō Zaibatsu, this class is embarking on a three-day 'Spiritual Harmony and Team-Building Retreat' at the Hidden Mist Onsen Resort. And to ensure you actually learn something about cooperation, roommates have been pre-selected by a randomized computer algorithm!"
Shūtarō Mendō, standing at the front of the class with his arms crossed and his dignity barely held together by a thread, felt a cold pit form in his stomach. He looked toward the back of the room, where Ryōko was waving at him from the doorway, a video camera already in her hand.
"A randomized algorithm?" Shūtarō whispered, his eyes narrowing. "Ryōko, what have you done?"
"Now, the pairings!" Onsen-Mark announced, ignoring the groans of the students. "Fujinami and Miyake! Lum and... well, Lum is staying in the girls' wing, much to Moroboshi’s despair. And finally, for the sake of ending the longest-running rivalry in school history... Moroboshi and Mendō!"
The silence that followed was so heavy it felt tangible. Ataru Moroboshi, who had been busy trying to peek into Shinobu’s bag, froze. Shūtarō, meanwhile, turned a shade of white that matched his uniform.
"No," Shūtarō gasped, his voice barely audible. "Not for three days. Not in a room. Not with... him."
"ALRIGHT! PACK YOUR BAGS! THE BUS LEAVES IN TEN MINUTES!" Onsen-Mark screamed, punctuating his command by accidentally tripping over a desk.
The bus ride was a blur of misery for Shūtarō. He sat as far away from Ataru as possible, but the "randomized" seating chart had placed them in the very back, where the engine heat mimicked the sweltering palanquin from the day before. Every time the bus hit a pothole, Ataru’s shoulder would jolt against his, sending a spark of panicked memory through Shūtarō’s nervous system.
By the time they reached the Hidden Mist Resort—a sprawling, ancient wooden complex tucked into a steep mountainside—Shūtarō was a vibrating wreck of aristocratic nerves.
"Here are your keys," the innkeeper said, bowing low. "Room 404. It is our most... intimate suite. Very traditional."
Shūtarō snatched the key and marched toward the elevators, Ataru trailing behind him with a look of bored indifference.
"Cheer up, Mendō," Ataru said, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood. "At least there aren't any lockers here. It’s a big room. I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours, and I’ll spend the rest of the time trying to sneak into the women’s bath. It’s a win-win."
Shūtarō didn't answer. He unlocked the door to Room 404 and stepped inside, only to stop so suddenly that Ataru walked straight into his back.
The room was beautiful, lined with expensive tatami and smelling of fresh cedar. But in the center of the room, there was no sprawling expanse of floor space. Instead, there was a single, massive, plush western-style bed. It was draped in crimson silk and occupied nearly two-thirds of the floor.
"One bed?" Shūtarō’s voice cracked. "There is only... one bed?"
Ataru pushed past him, whistling. "Man, Ryōko really went all out. This thing is huge! It’s like a playground!" He flopped onto the mattress, bouncing once. "Soft, too. Way better than the floor at home."
"Get off!" Shūtarō screamed, his face flushing a deep, violent red. "You are not sleeping on that! You are sleeping in the closet! Or the hallway! Or the koi pond!"
"Forget it!" Ataru barked, rolling onto his back and spreading his arms. "I’m the one who had to endure your 'phobia tremors' for three days. Consider this my compensation! If you don't like it, go sleep in the bath!"
Shūtarō looked at the bed. It was the dream. It was the physical manifestation of every nightmare he’d had since the locker. The silk, the proximity, the heat... it was all right there. He felt the familiar, traitorous warmth beginning to stir in his gut, a physiological reflex that made him want to scream.
"Fine!" Shūtarō hissed, turning away to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. "I shall go to the hot springs. I shall soak until my skin is wrinkled and my thoughts are purified! Do not be here when I return!"
"Whatever, princess," Ataru muttered, already closing his eyes.
The hot springs were located at the edge of a cliff, the steam rising into the cool mountain air. Shūtarō submerged himself in the scalding water, letting the heat numb his senses. He stared at the moon, trying to recite the genealogy of the Mendō family to drown out the image of Ataru sprawled on red silk.
"Focus, Shūtarō," he whispered, his head resting against a smooth rock. "You are a man of steel. You are an island. You are—"
"Hey, Mendō! Move over! You’re hogging the best view!"
Shūtarō’s eyes snapped open. Ataru had appeared at the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but a small towel and a grin. Before Shūtarō could protest, the other boy leaped into the water, creating a massive splash that soaked Shūtarō’s face.
"You! What are you doing here?" Shūtarō sputtered, wiping water from his eyes. "This is the men’s bath! I mean... I know it’s the men’s bath, but go to the other side!"
"The other side is full of the Stormtroopers and Onsen-Mark," Ataru said, wading through the water until he was sitting just a few feet away. "They’re all talking about grades and Lum. I need a break."
The water was clear, and the moonlight was bright. Shūtarō looked away, but he couldn't help but notice the way the steam clung to Ataru’s skin. Without the baggy school uniform, Ataru looked... different. Less like a cartoonish nuisance and more like a person. A lean, surprisingly fit person.
"Stop looking at me," Shūtarō barked, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears.
"I’m not looking at you! You’re the one staring!" Ataru retorted. He sighed, leaning back against the edge of the pool. "Man, this water is great. It really takes the edge off, doesn't it?"
Shūtarō didn't answer. He was too busy trying to regulate his breathing. The hot water was already raising his body temperature, and the sight of Ataru so close, so exposed, was making his heart do things that were strictly prohibited by the Mendō charter.
"Mendō," Ataru said after a long silence. His voice was unusually quiet. "You’ve been acting really weird lately. I mean, weirder than the usual 'I’m-rich-and-better-than-you' stuff. Are you actually okay? You’re sweating like crazy and you haven't tried to sword-fight me in hours."
"I am... I am fine," Shūtarō managed to say. "I am merely... reflecting."
"Well, reflect on this," Ataru said, shifting closer. He reached out, his hand cutting through the water to poke Shūtarō’s shoulder. "If you’re gonna be my roommate, you gotta relax. You’re making me nervous with all that brooding. It’s like being in a room with a ticking bomb."
The touch, even through the water, felt like a brand. Shūtarō flinched, his back hitting the stone wall. "Don't touch me! I told you, I am in a delicate state!"
"Fine, fine! Geez!" Ataru held up his hands in surrender. "I’m going back to the room. The girls' wing is right next door to the hallway, and I think I saw a loose floorboard earlier."
Ataru climbed out of the bath, the water glistening on his back as he wrapped his towel around his waist. Shūtarō watched him go, his throat dry despite the humidity. He stayed in the water until his fingertips were shriveled, praying for the cold mountain air to kill the fire in his blood.
When Shūtarō finally returned to Room 404, the lights were dimmed. Ataru was already in the bed, buried under the heavy silk duvet. He was snoring softly, the sound muffled by the expensive pillows.
Shūtarō stood at the edge of the bed, his heart pounding. There was no other furniture. No couch. No spare futon. Ryōko had ensured that the only place for him was on that red silk, next to the boy who haunted his every waking and sleeping thought.
"I am a Mendō," he whispered, a mantra of desperation. "I am a Mendō."
He climbed into the bed, moving with the agonizing slowness of someone navigating a minefield. He stayed on the absolute edge, his back to Ataru, his body rigid as a board.
The bed was too soft. It tilted slightly under their combined weight, causing Shūtarō to slide toward the center. He pushed back, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress.
An hour passed. Shūtarō’s eyes were wide, staring at the dark wall. He was exhausted, but sleep felt like an enemy. If he slept, the dreams would come. And if the dreams came while the real Ataru was only inches away...
"Mmn... Lum... stop zapping me..." Ataru mumbled in his sleep.
He rolled over. In the darkness, Shūtarō felt the shift in the mattress. Then, he felt a warm, heavy weight draping over his waist. Ataru had flung an arm across him, his hand landing squarely on Shūtarō’s stomach.
Shūtarō’s entire world narrowed down to that point of contact. He could feel the heat of Ataru’s palm through his thin cotton yukata. He could feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Ataru’s chest against his back.
"Moroboshi," Shūtarō hissed, his voice trembling. "Move your arm. Moroboshi!"
Ataru didn't move. Instead, he nuzzled closer, his forehead resting against Shūtarō’s shoulder blade. He let out a long, contented sigh.
Shūtarō’s resolve shattered. The proximity, the scent of the hot springs clinging to them both, and the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of the past few days finally took their toll. He didn't push the arm away. He didn't scream. He simply lay there, his heart racing, his face burning in the dark.
*It’s just because it’s warm,* Shūtarō lied to himself, his eyes finally beginning to flutter shut. *It’s just... human contact. A biological necessity. It has nothing to do with him.*
But as he drifted off, his hand moved instinctively, his fingers brushing against Ataru’s forearm. He didn't pull away.
---
The next morning, the sun streamed through the window, illuminating Room 404 in a golden glow.
Shūtarō woke up first. He realized, with a jolt of pure electricity, that he was no longer on the edge of the bed. He was in the center, curled on his side, with Ataru’s head resting on his chest and their legs hopelessly tangled together under the red silk.
He stared down at Ataru’s sleeping face. Without the arrogance and the lecherous energy, Ataru looked almost... peaceful.
"Oh, heavens," Shūtarō whispered, the weight of his own betrayal crashing down on him. "I really am going to have to fly into the sun."
Suddenly, the door to the room burst open.
"GOOD MORNING, DARLING! TIME FOR—"
Lum froze in the doorway. Behind her, Shinobu, Ryūnosuke, and half the Class 2-4 Stormtroopers stood with their mouths hanging open. And at the very back, Ryōko Mendō raised her camera, the flash clicking in the morning light.
"My, my," Ryōko chirped, her voice dripping with sadistic delight. "It seems the team-building exercise was a resounding success. Brother, you look so... comfortable."
Ataru blearily opened one eye. He looked up at Shūtarō, then at the crowd in the doorway, then back at Shūtarō.
"Morning, Mendō," Ataru yawned, stretching like a cat and making no effort to move. "You’re a lot softer than a locker. We should do this more often."
The explosion of blue electricity that followed was visible from the next town over.
As the smoke cleared and the charred remains of the red silk bed smoldered, Shūtarō Mendō stood in the middle of the room, his uniform in tatters, his face a mask of soot and absolute, world-ending shame.
He looked at Ataru, who was currently being chased around the room by a weeping Lum. He looked at his sister, who was already printing out the photos on a portable device.
"I want it noted," Shūtarō said, his voice trembling with the last remnants of his sanity, "that I am still planning to buy that desert island. And I am bringing enough concrete to fill every locker in Japan."
"Don't be silly, Shūtarō," Ryōko said, handing him a high-gloss photo of him and Ataru tangled in the red silk. "You’d miss the company far too much."
Shūtarō looked at the photo. He looked at the way his own hand was resting on Ataru’s arm. He didn't scream. He didn't draw his sword. He simply closed his eyes and let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Three days," Shūtarō whispered to the empty air. "There are still two days left."
And deep down, in a place he would never, ever admit to anyone, he realized he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted them to end.