Let's Talk Cartoons.

---

The whistling of the kettle had been going for too long to ignore. Wincing at the way the shrill noise increased as he opened the door, Yukio hurried out from his bedroom into the kitchen where Rin was standing still in front of the stove. The flames beneath the kettle soared. Rin made no move to turn them off. Just stood quiet and glassy-eyed at the metal exterior.

Distantly, Yukio thought to himself that this noise was exactly why he had wanted an electric kettle. But Rin was admant that an electric kettle was an inferior creation and made the water taste wrong. He flipped the burner—first the wrong way, then the right way. The fire spluttered briefly before dissipating. It took a few seconds longer before the kettle's high squeal settled.

Tired, Yukio rubbed the bridge of his nose. Away from the sharp light of his desk lamp, his eyes relaxed, weary. The kitchen was illuminated by a single light in the living room. With the fire out, Rin's face was barely visible, his body tilted away from the light.

"Rin?"

He didn't move. Unendingly he stared forward, as though willing the fire to turn back on with only his mind. But, of course, if that was something Rin wanted, he would've done it. His control over his pyrokinetic abilities had been honed well since he was a teenager, perfected—through ways Yukio chose not to imagine—during the war and his brief (but still too long for either of them) kingly reign.

So his foggy gaze had to be for another reason.

Yukio put his hand on Rin's shoulder. With the tentative touch, Rin slowly came back to life. First, he inhaled deeply, like a little boy resurfacing from far below the waves. Then he raised and turned his head. His eyes tracked from the top of Yukio's head down to his collarbones, across to each shoulder then back to his face.

It was not the first time Rin had done this so Yukio knew well to hold still and wait for Rin to come back from wherever he'd lost himself. It had been there, in their childhood, albeit far less frequent than it was now. But since, well, everything it was becoming a much more common occurrence than it ever had been. When they were children, Rin's odd spaciness seemed to level out year by year until it was practically non-existent by the time they started middle school.

In hindsight, the bouts of absent-mindedness were probably being replaced by his increased periods of cluelessness and general confusion—though given Rin's grades they'd all attributed this to him not being the smartest person in the room. Shiro had even admonished both him and Yukio as Rin's sudden befuddlement at the most random things and times lead to him relying more and more on Yukio for context and assistance.

He'd caught Rin handing over a bunch of notes he'd scribbled down through the day in case he forgot and had been briefly pleased until Rin, thoughtlessly and against Yukio's quiet demand, told him the notes weren't for himself, but rather for Yukio. So Yukio could keep track of everything for Rin. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in Rin. There were lots of things Rin remembered and kept track of. Recipes, grocery lists, household chores, how many times Shiro had smoked since swearing he'd quit.

But commitments, school assignments, his own class schedule—they fell through his mind like sand through a sieve. Yukio didn't want him to fall behind. Things were hard enough for him as it was. And it wasn't like Yukio had been fully planning on chasing Rin on these things. He just wanted to provide a reminder every once in a while. Especially when Rin would come to him, confused and angry with himself for not remembering something.

Still Shiro had been adamant that Rin needed to pick up his own slack, that Yukio had enough going on (which, yes, he did, but Rin had so little going on that it would've been easy to just... sort his pieces into Yukio's already teetering Jenga puzzle of responsibility). So Yukio begrudgingly agreed to stop and then chided Rin for fessing up so quickly. He was a terrible liar, yes, but normally he at least tried.

Rin had just blinked owlishly and then, with furrowed brows, mumbled, "I forgot..."

"Yes," Yukio had grouched hotly. "I know. That's why I was trying to help."

Then he'd marched off to furiously get back to his studies.

Now he just held still and waited for Rin to explain. It took a while to find his voice. Sometimes his words came quick. Other times, like now, they evaded him. His lips twitched rapidly, as though he were trying to keep the words in until they could form a coherent sentence.

Eventually, he mumbled a simple, "Sorry," and looked away.

Yukio's hand slid off Rin's shoulder. Instead, he picked up the kettle and poured out the steaming water into the mugs already selected and placed on the counter, a tea bag of choice in each.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, because it was much easier to ask when he wasn't looking at the other person, and especially when they weren't looking at him. "You've been out of it a lot lately."

The kettle clanked against the burner grates. He made sure to keep it turned so the spout was away from the center of the stove. He tweaked it with tight minute shifts until Rin finally answered.

"Do you ever feel like you're not you?"

Yukio paused. His heart beat staccato for a few short seconds as a chill cut fast into his center. It seeped through his stomach, through his veins, through his skin. When he exhaled, he was bemused by the lack of frost in his breath.

The cold faded, as it always did, as it always would, he reminded himself, and when it did, he turned to face his brother.

Not being himself was never the problem. The problem was never being fully sure of himself. How could you not be someone when you weren't anybody to begin with? He could fill in all the gaps of his being with the help of other people, but those things never provided much stability and the worser parts ("weakling", "pathetic", "Rin's crybaby brother") always felt much louder than any positive bits anyone could give him.

But rather than get into any of that, Yukio simply said, "What do you mean?"

Rin's slow blink reminded him of Kuro, sleepy and trying to convince Yukio to come take a nap with him. Unlike Kuro, Rin didn't particularly seem sleepy. Just... tired. Weary. Like he'd been holding the weight of the world on his shoulders and hadn't yet realized it wasn't there anymore.

"Sometimes..." Rin shuffled awkwardly in place. Yukio made himself a little bigger, a little wider. An invitation Rin easily took as he slotted himself closer to Yukio. They didn't touch, not even as Yukio passed him his cat-themed mug. Just both leaned against the counter and breathed in the steam. He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I think I'm me. And then... I realize I wasn't."

The sentence made little sense, but that was true for a lot of things Rin said. Sometimes it wasn't even that what he was saying didn't make sense, it was just that it didn't make sense in contest with something else Rin had said. "I love meat!" could be roared up and down the hallways for months and months until it was just as loudly replaced with two brief but just as obstinate days of "I love fish!" Insisting he hated a movie but wanting to watch it again the next day only to complain when someone put it on.

With Rin's words, Yukio was pulled back to those early days of childhood. When some kid would pull his hair or steal his glasses and he'd wonder how long it would take his other brother to come flying with his fists and teeth and seemingly unending rage. He wasn't the biggest fan of the other Rin, but it was nice to be cared for in such a way. His Rin would always come back soon after, the nice one who fretted frantically whenever Yukio had a fever and got mad whenever someone tried to take over caring for Yukio when he was ill.

It was the difference in anger that really sold Rin being two different brothers for Yukio back then. One version was loud and obnoxious and more indignant than violent. The other version just wanted to destroy things as much as he wanted to protect Yukio.

Yukio was tugged from his musing when Rin's bright blue eyes caught his and stayed there. The single bulb from the lamp, lit low through the shade, illuminated half of his face. Beads of tears threatened to drip from his eyes. A quiet agony slithered on the undertone of his voice.

"I think there's something wrong with me."

Phantom pains racketed through the scar tissue that permeated much of his side. A howl erupted, Rin's voice, swollen with hate and fear and anguish, though Yukio knew it was only in his head. Dying, or, at the very least, brushing so close he could feel the cool breath of Death against his skin, was a thing of the past. His body was neatly healed and Lucifer was gone.

Rin would never scream like that again.

Yukio thought of his two brothers held firm together in one body, one heart, one soul, and wondered if they'd both screamed when Death almost took him. If the unearthly howl that had ripped from Rin's throat back then was the sound of two voices bleeding into one.

Rin was Rin, he reminded himself. Rin was always Rin. Even when he was inconsistent and forgetful and didn't make any sense.

"Sometimes I think I'm a cat."

Like right then.

Yukio snorted into his mug. "Kuro's cuter."

Rin didn't laugh, but his lip twitched like he wanted to. Yukio watched his face as Rin stared at him. He didn't make eye contact the way Rin was (Rin was always too much with it, in his opinion) but he remapped all the parts of Rin's face he already knew and would always know.

It was hard to tell if there was a difference. If Rin was in some way different. The obvious sign was the lack of emoting. Rin was always expressive, always moving his face, his body, his hands. Even despondent or quieted, Rin still fidgeted or hummed or something. He was forever the white noise in Yukio's background.

Now he's whole body was still as he stared, solemn, with wide blue eyes. Again, with Rin's most recent statement rolling through his head, Yukio was reminded of Kuro. And through Kuro he was reminded of the stray cat that roamed the neighbor growing up. It was a tabby, highly affectionate. It was not a fan of Rin, though that was likely because Rin was too loud for his own good, but Yukio could always score a few pets and the occassional lap cuddle while he read a book outside to get out of the walls of the monastery for a bit.

They were not terribly creative children so they just called it Cat. Cat eventually stopped visiting, either from being taken inside permanently by someone else or having passed away for one reason or another. Until that point though, Cat was always out and about during the warm days and would stroll up to the steps of the monastery like clockwork, where Yukio would sit down, stroke its fur for a bit, and then read his book.

Sometimes Rin would lean against him, body warm and heavy, sweet syrup dripping from his popscicle onto his arm, and listen while Yukio read aloud to him and Cat. Sometimes Rin would pick up Yukio's hand and put it on his head and hold it there until Yukio pet him like he did with Cat while he read.

Sometimes Rin would just do that. Get uncharacteristically quiet for a bit, put Yukio's hand on his head, and wait for Yukio to card his fingers through his hair. Sometimes he'd pretend to purr, rolling his tongue against the top of mouth until they'd dissolved into giggles.

He hadn't done it in a long time. Yukio had forgotten he'd ever done it at all.

"You used to be one," he said. "When we were little." Rin blinks. "You'd make me pet you while I read. And you'd pretend to purr..."

"Oh, yeah," Rin said faintly, in the same tone of voice he used when he was "remembering" something someone reminded him of that he had no memory of at all.

Yukio tested the heat of his tea with half a sip. "Do you really remember or are you just pretending?"

Rin... frowned. Or pouted. His brows furrowed and relaxed in odd bursts like he didn't quite remember how his face worked. "I remember!" he insisted. "There was... this cat, or something. And." His eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "I remember... I wanted. I wanted to be the cat too. So people would like me..."

Yukio didn't know that.

"I wanted... to cuddle," Rin went on. Each word was enuciated slowly. "With you. But you kept saying it was too hot... and then you'd pet the cat..." His brows furrowed again. Then smoothed out, but the dip at the edges of his lips remained.

"The cat took up a lot less surface area than you did," Yukio said.

Rin's face didn't move much in expression but his eyes were glaring when he opened them. He huffed. Then darted a lingering glance at Yukio's hand wrapped firmly around his mug.

Yukio took pity on him and raised his other hand above Rin's head. Rin tilted his face up to it then lowered his head and waited patiently for Yukio's hand to make its landing in his hair.

Touch was strange. Rin was a little easier, but Rin was always so tactile and always needed to be bandaged up so it wasn't foreign. Still, Yukio hadn't done this in a long time. To Rin or to anyone. Possibly he'd only ever done it with Rin in the first place. So the first initial runs of his fingers through Rin's smooth black locks felt awkward against his palm. Nonetheless, he continued on.

Rin's eyes fell closed. His shoulders relaxed and his breaths became a hair more audible. After a few seconds, the r's of feigned purring rolled through the air. Amused, Yukio hid his quiet smile behind his mug.

The seconds passed into minutes. When his skin could no longer bear it, he scratched the nape of Rin's neck a couple times before he let his hand fall away. Rin's fake purr came to an abrupt stop. In the silence, they watched each other, Rin's eyes held tight on Yukio's, Yukio's eyes held somewhere just behind Rin's ear.

"Still a cat?" he asked.

Rin stared at him. "I don't know." The admission sounded almost painful to say. An unhappy rasp from the deep recesses of Rin's uncertainties. "Sometimes I feel like a cat and sometimes I'm normal. It's always just... me." He teetered on the heels of his feet. "Until it's not."

"Who is it when it's not?"

"I don't know..." Exhaustion cracked through his voice. "I'm just me. And then I realize I wasn't me. And I don't know who the other one was but I... I know it wasn't me because... I'm me?"

Yukio didn't miss the hitch, the statement turned question, the way Rin sounded like he wanted to cry or scream or both. Yukio slid one arm around Rin's shoulders and pulled him in close. He didn't pet Rin's hair but patted him gently.

"You're Rin," he said. "You are my brother."

"Okay," Rin said in the meekest voice Yukio had ever heard from him. Then, "I wanna lay down." Yukio began to detach when Rin gripped his shirt and tugged him back. "Together."

I wanted... to cuddle. With you.

Yukio chewed on his thoughts, his initial resistance held back behind his teeth, and nodded. "Okay. But I need... breathing room."

Rin was tactile, always had been, and would have spent the brunt of their childhood physically attached to Yukio's side, if he could have. Yukio just always chalked it up to his overprotective streak, something that grated on him as they got older even as Rin started to provide him space without Yukio needing to holler about it each time. Was this why? Some quiet cat-like bid for attention? Slow-blinking from the steps of the monastery waiting for a hand to descend upon his warm gray fur and nothing more? Was it both? A desire for affection he felt held back from and a need to be physically present in the event of danger? Did they separate, different moods on different occassions, or tangle together, burrowing and wrapped around one another like a bundle of wires left on their own for far too long.

An agreement mumbled into the crook of his neck, Rin's breath damp. Yukio grimaced but didn't complain just yet as he steered Rin out of their small kitchen and into their smaller bedroom. It was still bigger than their room at the monastery, a slight improvement on thier dorm at True Cross.

Kuro was curled up where Yukio had left him on his desk, though his body was far less scrunched up without the sound of the kettle whistling through the air. He spared neither of them a passing glance, comfortably sleeping on Yukio's papers.

Yukio eyed the twin-size mattress as he approached Rin's bed. They weren't small by any measure. Still, he picked up a book, released Rin and crawled onto the bed. After years of finding himself unceremoniously knocked to the floor by Rin's flailing limps, he smartly tucked himself against the wall and opened his book. Smoothly, he tucked the bookmark into one of the back pages.

Rin, as graceful as a fish out of water, crawled into the bed, shifting awkwardly around until he was curled up comfortably beside but not touching Yukio. He stared at Yukio for a moment, then his eyes closed. Yukio found the sentence he had stopped on and, voice clear, started reading.

Rin was Rin.