MIKI (BL novel)

The morning light in the Pearson household never felt warm; it was merely a spotlight for the dust motes dancing over expensive, untouched furniture. At the center of the breakfast nook sat Miki, his knees pulled up to his chest on the velvet chair, his oversized lemon-yellow sweater swallowing his frame. ​He was meticulously separating his peas from his carrots, humming a nursery rhyme under his breath. ​"Miki, use your fork like a civilized human being," Aunt Martha snapped, not looking up from her tablet. "You’re twenty-three, not three." ​Miki’s humming faltered. He didn’t look up. Instead, he deliberately picked up a pea with his thumb and forefinger and flicked it. It bounced off the polished mahogany table. ​"I don't like the green ones," Miki whispered, his voice pitching into that high, nasal whine of a disgruntled second-grader. "They taste like dirt. I want the stars. Give me the star-shaped crackers." ​"We don't have the crackers, Miki. Eat your breakfast or go to your room," Uncle Silas grumbled from behind the financial Times. He didn't even glance at his nephew. To the Pearsons, Miki was a faulty piece of inheritance—a broken clock that they were forced to keep on the mantelpiece because of a messy will. ​Miki’s face scrunched. His lower lip trembled, and then, with a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, the ceramic bowl clattered across the table, spilling a mosaic of orange and green over the white linen. ​"I want the stars!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. He kicked his legs against the chair, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoing through the sterile room. ​Martha finally looked up, her eyes cold and weary. "God, he’s doing it again. He’s just doing it for the attention, Silas. Ignore him. He’ll stop when he realizes nobody is watching his little performance." ​They treated his trauma like a hobby. They didn't see the frantic, wide-eyed terror behind the "tantrum"—the way his hands shook even as he threw things. They just saw a man-child who refused to grow up. ​The front door chattered open. A heavy, rhythmic footfall sounded in the hallway. ​Miki froze. The kicking stopped instantly. The air seemed to get sucked out of his lungs, his eyes darting toward the archway. ​"Ah, thank goodness," Martha sighed, a look of immense relief washing over her face. "Arthur is here. He’s the only one who can actually manage you, Miki." ​Arthur stepped into the room. He was a man of broad shoulders and an even broader, practiced smile—the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. He looked like a savior, dressed in a sensible knit cardigan, carrying a small bag of "treats." ​"Morning, everyone," Arthur’s voice was a low, soothing baritone. "And how is my big boy doing today? I heard some shouting from the porch." ​Arthur walked toward the table, his hand reaching out—a slow, predatory movement disguised as a gesture of affection. He aimed for the top of Miki’s messy dark hair. ​The reaction was visceral. Miki didn't just move; he recoiled. He scrambled backward, his chair screeching against the hardwood, nearly toppling over. He pressed his back against the corner of the sideboard, his hands tucked deep into his yellow sleeves, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. ​"Stay back," Miki hissed, the "child" persona flickering for a second to reveal a raw, jagged edge of panic. "Don't... don't touch." ​"Oh, don't be difficult, Miki," Martha tutted, turning back to her screen. "Arthur went across town to get those star crackers you were just screaming for. Don't be ungrateful." ​Arthur chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. He took another step closer, cornering the boy in the small space between the wall and the heavy furniture. "It’s alright, Mrs. Pearson. He’s just having one of his 'moods.' We’ll go upstairs and have some quiet time, won't we, Miki?" ​Arthur reached out again, his fingers brushing the fabric of Miki’s shoulder. Miki flinched so hard his glasses nearly slid off his face. He looked like a trapped bird, chest heaving, staring at the man’s hand as if it were a branding iron. ​"I want to go to the park," Miki whispered, his voice small and desperate, looking everywhere but at Arthur. "Please. The park. With people." ​"Not today, little bird," Arthur whispered, his hand tightening just slightly on Miki’s arm, pulling him toward the stairs. "You’ve been naughty. We need to go upstairs and learn some manners." ​Behind them, the Pearsons continued their breakfast in blissful, intentional ignorance, while Miki was led away, his bright yellow sweater disappearing into the shadows of the hallway. ...