The scent of damp cardboard and crushed vanilla beans clung to Fuyuta's hoodie as he leaned against the peeling doorframe, watching his mother wrestle a cracked leather suitcase into Tsugino's dim hallway. Outside, sleet hissed against the pavement of Saint Petersburg, echoing the cold tension thickening the air. Tsugino stood rigid beside her stepfather, who reeked of cheap vodka and false cheeriness. Her metallic-silver hair was pulled back tightly, emphasizing the translucent pallor of her skin and the distant frost in her gray eyes.
"Marvelous, isn't it?" Fuyuta's mother chirped, her painted-on smile straining as she adjusted her silk scarf. Fuyuta's own grin stretched wider, mouth slightly agape, charcoal-black eyes fixed on Tsugino's trembling hands. He noted the way her knuckles whitened around the strap of her worn canvas bag, the subtle hitch in her breath when her stepfather clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder. *Mine*, the word hummed in his skull like a trapped wasp. Tsugino's gaze flickered past him—toward the staircase, toward escape—and Fuyuta's fingers twitched, phantom blood pooling beneath his bitten lip. Her stepfather chuckled, oblivious, gesturing at the cramped living room cluttered with unpacked lampshades and his discarded Go board. "Plenty of space for everyone!" he slurred. Tsugino didn't blink. Rain lashed the windowpane, a drumbeat for the silence.
Fuyuta's mother nudged him forward. "Be useful, Fuyuta." His zombie-like gait carried him past Tsugino, close enough to catch the woody-cold perfume on her neck and underneath it, the faint, sweet-peach whisper of her skin. He paused, head tilting, inhaling deeply. Tsugino stiffened, her posture flawless but coiled like wire. *She smells like fear*, he thought, smile unwavering. His stepfather's drunken ramble about cheap rent and shared utilities dissolved into static. All Fuyuta heard was the brittle snap of Tsugino's resolve—and the delicious crackle of a new beginning. He bent to lift a box marked "KITCHEN," his hoodie sleeve brushing her arm. She flinched. He exhaled softly, vanilla-scented breath fanning her cheek. Outside, a streetlamp flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows across their faces.
The sleet's hiss against the windowpanes became the soundtrack to their uneasy choreography. Boxes yielded grudgingly, lamps found corners, and the Go board remained a stark, discarded island on the stained rug. Fuyuta moved with unsettling efficiency, his zombie-lurch masking a predator's precision, every placement deliberate—Tsugino's vanity mirror angled just so to reflect the hallway, her shampoo bottle nudged to the front edge of the bathroom shelf. When the cramped guest room, destined for Fuyuta, yawned emptily, he paused beside Tsugino at the doorframe of her own sanctuary. Her room smelled faintly of dried ink and that elusive peach undertone. He tilted his head, his dead-black eyes locking onto hers. "Could stay here," he murmured, the words flat, lacking inflection, yet charged like static. His listless black hair brushed his pale temple as he gestured vaguely at the twin bed crammed against the wall. "Save space." Tsugino's gray eyes narrowed; his constant, open-mouthed grin felt less like amusement and more like a rictus. Skepticism coiled cold in her stomach—his lean frame, the scars peeking from under his sleeve, the *smell* of vanilla clinging unnaturally close. Before she could voice her discomfort, his mother bustled in, clutching a moth-eaten quilt. "Oh, poor Fuyuta," she trilled, patting Tsugino's arm with fingers that felt brittle and cold. "Since... everything happened... he gets such terrible night frights. Wanders. Better not alone, ne?" The explanation, wrapped in maternal concern, deflated Tsugino's immediate protest. The vulnerability seemed improbable draped over his dangerous stillness, but the plea sounded genuine enough. Reluctantly, she nodded, the tension easing fractionally. "Okay... separate rooms." Fuyuta's grin didn't waver, but something flickered in the depths of his indifferent gaze—a sharp, fleeting satisfaction quickly swallowed by the void. He turned his lanky frame away, retreating to his designated cell-like room. Tsugino closed her door softly, leaning against the cool wood. *He's weird*, she thought, the understatement vast and chilling, her fingers unconsciously tracing the small tattoo behind her ear. The way he inhaled her scent, like tasting air. The scars. The vacant smile masking... what? Outside, the streetlamp finally died, plunging the skeletal shadows into absolute darkness.
The silence stretched taut, broken only by wind scraping branches against the building. Tsugino stared at the ceiling's shadow patterns, insomnia twisting her stomach into knots. *Uncomfortable*. The word felt laughably small for the prickling dread crawling under her skin. Pulling on a worn satin robe, she padded toward the bathroom.
A shape materialized from the deeper gloom of the hallway – Fuyuta, a spectre in black sleep pants, leaning heavily against the peeling wallpaper. He flinched violently, his dead-black eyes widening briefly before settling back into dull indifference, though his lips remained stretched in that unnerving, open smile.
"You startled me," Tsugino breathed, clutching her robe tighter. His vanilla scent, cloying in the confined space, mixed with something metallic.
He tilted his head, a slow, reptilian motion. "Couldn't... sleep?" The question floated flatly, devoid of inflection.
"Uncomfortable," she admitted, voice clipped. The newness, the proximity, *him*. She gestured vaguely down the hall. "You?"
Fuyuta's gaze drifted past her, fixing on the bathroom door. "Strange place." He shifted his weight, a faint tremble running through his slender frame. "Dark." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Afraid... of the dark. Bathroom... no light." He hugged his arms across his chest, the motion revealing pale scratches on his bicepe. For a fleeting second, his smile seemed brittle, almost childlike. "Can't... adapt yet."
Tsugino's pragmatic streak warred with suspicion. His fear seemed genuine, pathetic even, clashing violently with the predatory stillness he usually projected. Yet, the way his eyes darted into the shadows behind her held a raw, unsettling intensity. Indecision froze her.
"Perhaps... a candle?" she offered cautiously, her own fear a cold knot in her throat.
The harsh beam of Tsugino's phone flashlight carved a stark tunnel through the hallway gloom. Fuyuta lingered close behind, the cold scent of vanilla sharpening against the damp air as his footsteps—unnervingly silent for someone so tall—ghosted hers. "Power's... unreliable here," she explained, her voice tight, practical, trying to anchor the absurdity. "Flickers out often."
He hummed, a low, toneless vibration. "Dark," he whispered again, his breath grazing the nape of her neck. Too close. Tsugino stiffened but kept walking, the beam trembling slightly in her grip. His fingers brushed her elbow, feather-light but deliberate. "You're… warm," he murmured, the words flat yet charged. Tsugino ignored it, pushing the bathroom door open. The flashlight swept over chipped tiles; Fuyuta flinched dramatically, pressing himself against her side. "Shadows… move," he breathed into her hair, his dead eyes wide yet utterly vacant. She gritted her teeth. *He's clinging*. Like a lost child, she told herself. But beneath the vanilla, she caught the metallic tang of anticipation—raw and hungry. His thoughts weren't on the dark. They were mapping the pulse in her wrist, the curve of her spine under thin satin, the terrified rabbit-quick breaths she tried to suppress. The beam landed on the sink. Fuyuta's smile widened, teeth gleaming in the stark light. "Safer… now," he sighed, fingertips tracing the cold porcelain, but his gaze never left her reflection in the mirror.
Tsugino waited outside the damp-smelling bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around herself as the muted sounds of water running echoed through the door. When Fuyuta emerged, he drifted silently past her, sliding into the darkness of the hallway like spilled ink. His proximity was unnerving—cold vanilla breath ghosting the curve of her neck, his slender frame hovering inches behind her all the way back to her room. She shut the door quickly, leaning against it until she heard his own door click shut down the hall. Sleep, when it came, was thin and fractured.
Dawn bled gray through the sleet-streaked windows. Tsugino moved like an automaton: brewing bitter coffee, scrubbing last night's grime off the cheap laminate countertops, frying eggs that spat grease onto her worn satin robe. The clatter of forks announced the others. Her stepfather descended first, miraculously sober, his bloodshot eyes almost clear. Fuyuta's mother followed, draped in a silk robe that gaped at the collar, her painted smile already fixed in place.
"*Ah, Tsugino-chan!*" Her stepfather's voice was unnervingly bright as he slid into a chair, patting Fuyuta's shoulder too hard as the boy slunk in, zombie-limp and grinning vacantly. "Such a diligent girl. Cooking, cleaning… like a proper little wife already!"
His wife laughed, a tinkling sound like breaking glass. She speared an egg with surgical precision. "Mmm, but our Fuyuta needs tending too, darling. Look how pale he is. Tsugino, be *kind*, won't you?" Her eyes flickered—sharp, insistent—toward Fuyuta, who stared at Tsugino's hands gripping the spatula. "*Closer*. It's so… practical. Two birds, one stone."
Stepfather winked, nudging Fuyuta's ribs. "Share the warmth, eh? Your mother means *economically*. Less rent, less… loneliness." His chuckle deepened, wet and dark. "And really, what's better than keeping threats *inside* the walls?"
Fuyuta's smile stretched wider, dead eyes fixed on Tsugino's knuckles whitening around the spatula handle. Outside, sleet hissed against the glass—a relentless whisper.
Tsugino swallowed the last bitter dregs of her coffee, the eggs sitting like cold stones in her stomach. Her stepfather's oily chuckle and Fuyuta's unnerving, vacant stare pressed against her skin. Without a word, she rinsed her plate under icy water, the rough sponge scrubbing harder than necessary. At precisely 8:00 AM, she snatched her worn canvas delivery bag and slammed the door shut on the stifling kitchen air, stepping out into the sleet-gray morning. The tires of her rust-speckled Lada hissed on wet pavement as she navigated Saint Petersburg's bleary streets, tossing rolled newspapers onto doorsteps with sharp, efficient flicks. Her knuckles ached from the cold grip on the wheel. By noon, exhaustion gnawed at her bones. Instead of returning to the suffocating apartment, she pulled up outside 'Kofeynya Solntse', a small, warmly lit coffee shop tucked between crumbling facades – a refuge whispered about by Yoshida, her colleague from the grocery store. Shivering, she pushed the door open, a bell jingling overhead. The cozy scent of roasted beans and steamed milk washed over her, a momentary balm. Then, her gaze snagged on the figure hunched over a corner table, stirring a black coffee with methodical precision. Black hoodie, listless long hair, a faint vanilla scent cutting through the warm air. Fuyuta. He looked up slowly, that unnerving open-mouthed smile freezing her in place. "*Tsugino*," he murmured, the word flat as slate. "*Du gehörst... mir.*"
The bell above the coffee shop door still trembled as Tsugino froze, the damp chill of Saint Petersburg clinging to her coat. Fuyuta pushed back his chair with a deliberate scrape against the tile floor, that unnerving open-mouthed grin fixed on her. Beside him sat Yoshida, his grocery-store colleague – kind eyes widening in recognition. Before Tsugino could retreat, Fuyuta gestured languidly with his left hand. "*Mein... Yoshida,*" he murmured, the German accent thick on his tongue, "*das ist meine Stiefschwester. Meine Tsugino.*" He lingered on the possessive "*meine*" like a serpent tasting venom, the word curling coldly in the warm coffee-scented air. Tsugino felt her spine stiffen. A flat "hello" escaped her lips.
Yoshida offered a hesitant smile. "Ah... nice to meet you properly, Tsugino-san." Fuyuta slid a mug across the table towards her – black coffee, steam curling upwards. "*Trink.*" His command was soft, flat. Tsugino sank into the nearest chair, wrapping her chilled hands around the warmth. She lifted the cup, desperate for its bitter heat to thaw the dread pooling in her stomach. As she sipped, she glanced sideways.
Fuyuta wasn't looking at Yoshida. He was watching *her*. His dead, charcoal-black eyes held hers over the rim of her mug. That constant, vacant smile hadn't moved, yet something shifted beneath it – an eerie intensity, a fanatic's focus. It wasn't friendly. It wasn't familial. It was the look of someone dissecting a beloved butterfly pinned to a board, adoring the stillness *he* imposed. Her fingers tightened on the porcelain. *What does this crazy guy mean?* The thought screamed silently in her head as his smile deepened a fraction, the corners of his lips twitching faintly upwards. Vanilla and something sharper rode his breath across the table. Yoshida shifted uncomfortably beside him.