Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"And you…" Takemichi whispers, his breath catching in his throat, each word a monumental effort. His gaze, as I glances over, though dimming, holds a flicker of unwavering resolve, a light that refuses to be extinguished. "And everyone…" He paused, struggling against the weight of his failing body, his voice barely a breath. "...will smile…".

“Takemichi…?” The voice coming out of my lips, breathless, as if every letter refuses to recognise the reality.

“TAKEMICHI!” The shout coming out of my throat, foreign, as if each syllable denies the warmth that’s pooling between my palms and fingers.

“OI!!!” The roar coming out from my heart, guttural, as if my whole finally accepts the grim, unfortunate truth.

Tears rolling off finally, I stared at the blond hair of him. On my laps, motionless, Takemichi offers something silent. Is it forgiveness? Is it friendship? Is it adoration? Is it love? I don’t know, but that’s not something I can reciprocate… He’s dy- No… It can’t be…

“I was… Was just trying to keep this from happening…” The muscles on my face hurts, struggling to connect each word into a sentence.

“The only reason I’ve been pushing you away… Is so this wouldn’t happen…” Speaking to him, I hope my voice reaches him, somewhere, sometime.

He is here… I’m sure of it… 

“Okay?” I asks Takemichi, the question more of a self-assurance.

“If you die… Everything is meaningless…” I whisper to Takemichi, begging my voice, my thoughts can be answered.

“Right?” I asks Takemichi once again, lowering myself close to the back of his head, finding familiarity amongst the blood-stained strands of blond hair. 

“I beg you… Wake up for me…?” I squeezes his pair of hands held tightly by my own, the temperature caused by my anxiety. The sweat, mine; the voice, alien.

“AAAAAHHHHH!” Mikey yelps as he jolt off the mattress. In cold sweat, it took him a few moments to try recognise where he’s at.

Eyeing his surroundings, he can roughly see the four walls of the room, proportions wonky. It’s dark outside, the curtains on the window covering what little the skyline of Kanto offers in terms of luminescence.

'It’s a dream… Just a dream…' Mikey breathes in. And then out. 'This dream feels so real… It’s like an omen… Let’s hope it won’t go down like this tonight… The fight with 2nd Generation Toman…'

Getting off the bed, his steps lighter than usual, Mikey hold his arm out to feel the light switch, only to feel the texture of woven bamboo. 'Huh? Am I touching the wardrobe? This isn’t what the marble walls feels like…' On autopilot, Mikey treads slowly as he tries to find the light switch, hearing the occasional noise of ruffling downstairs. 'Did I wake up Koko? Or is it the Haitanis coming back late… I’ll just give them a beating tomorrow if that's the case…'

His fingertip grazes the bottom of the light switch after god-knows how long, and when he looked up, there it was. 'God why is the light switch this high!? And what is this pla-'

Hearing the rapid approach of slippers from the corridor outside, two pairs to be exact, he mentally prepares himself for a knock. 'Probably Koko and Sanzu… Those two… I'll just make up some excuse about how it’s just a nightmare… Tomorrow’s problem I guess…'

The door unlocks, to Mikey's surprise, and the light shines from the now-opened entrance, catching him off-guard like a deer in headlights. In all its glory, a voice so unfamiliar yet homely calls.

“Manjirou? You good?” Adjusting his vision, leaning on the doorframe, Shinichirou stands in his plain attire, appearing just awake.

"Heard you screamin’ from your bedroom-”, Shinichirou comes in unbothered, turns on the lights, and there it is. It’s the old bedroom in the Dojo, in Shibuya. Old motorbike posters haphazardly stuck on the wall by tape, the desk untidy, covered in scraps of paper and stationary. It was then, Emma stuck her head from behind Shinichirou, her face confused but concerned. “Mikey! Don’t scream in the middle of the night! It’s already past 11!”

“Shin…? And Emma…?” Eyes widened, Mikey dashed out, straight into Shinichirou, him nearly falling over by the sheer momentum of his charging body. Patting his head, Shinichirou's palm ruffles his hair, offering reassurances, not sure what even is going on.

“A-am I d-dreaming…!? I-... Shin…!” Crying into his shirt, Mikey soon felt the gentle rubbing by another pair of arms around his back.

“Mikey…” Emma rubs circles through the thick pink hoodie, while he remains motionless, still sobbing.

“Manjirou. It’s just a nightmare… Just a nightmare…” Shinichirou pats his hair once more before putting Mikey back to bed. “Tomorrow, you needa wake up early for school, so rest!” Shinichirou then enunciated cheerfully, escorting Emma out of the room before shutting the lights and door.

There, Mikey close his eyes, yet his mind runs in overdrive… 'Tomorrow…? School…!?'

'D-Did I time leap!?'

Chapter Text

Sleep was a luxury, gang businesses often occupying Mikey’s mind along with the rest of Kanto Manji’s executives’ antics. Yet, tonight’s sleeplessness is not unpleasant. Rather, racing in his mind, questions replaced the usual gang-related problems.

‘Shin and Emma… They’re both here… Alive… That also means Keisuke… And Kazutora… And Sanzu… Everyone…’ Another breath in, a puff out. A slap on his face. ‘Right, I’m not dreaming…’

Holding both his hands up to his cheeks, for the second time tonight, Mikey starts to cry.

‘It’s just like Wakasa said. This time-leaping business…’ Shuffling off the confines of his blanket, looking for the calendar, it shows ‘September 10th, 1998’.

‘I time-leaped… It means I can change all the bad events that’ve happened so far…’ The long-extinct feeling of both overwhelming joy and relief channels from deep within his heart, but this is when-

‘TAKEMICHI-’

Driving himself wide awake once more, in his tiny body, Mikey opens his bedroom’s door with a bang, rushes downstairs in a flash, darting for the storage room where his Babu should be parked, ignoring his brother’s call. As he reaches the front door, a hand grabs him by the collar, and lifts him up.

Growling at whoever’s impeding his attempt at reaching Takemichi, Mikey’s face to face with Shinichirou.

“Manjirou!” Shinichirou mouths in silence as to not the sleeping Emma and Grandpa Mansaku. Mikey tries to raise his voice and reply, but before he can, Shinichirou’s other hand covers his mouth, him proceeding to manhandle Mikey to his storage room.

Turning on the lights, Mikey sits in silence in the middle of the room.

‘For goodness sake what’s wrong this time…’ Shinichirou mentally prepares himself only to find his brother unusually quiet, motionless, and calm? Approaching slowly, Mikey speaks up first.

“Shin… C-can you drive me out somewhere…? In the dream, that dream… I… Nevermind, I just want to check out on my f-friend.” The sentence definitely comes out wrong from Mikey’s mouth, from both brothers’ perspective. His voice, not the usual one with brawn and bravado behind, one more reserved and unsure of himself, which honestly startled Shinichirou, if not scared.

Gauging what exactly his brother is about, Shinichirou responded. “I’m sure they’re all fine. Keisuke have his mother to keep him in check, and Haruchiyo have Takeo-”

“Not them! Ah- I mean… Shin, I know they’re fine. I want to check on another friend.” Mellow in his intonations, the thought that Shinichirou does not know of Takemichi’s existence undoubtedly upsets Mikey. “H-his name’s Takemit-michi… H-Hanagaki Takemichi…”

As if to prove the version of him some moments ago wrong, Mikey’s usual brattiness and cheerfulness returned. “I’m sure you’ll like him when you meet him, Shin! So take me to him!”

“Ugh~” Shinichirou gives himself a dramatic facepalm, before continuing. “Manjirou it’s about 3 in the morning! Your friend is sleeping… You can visit him tomorrow when you’re more awake. I’m sure he won’t be hap-”

“NO! He’d have me anytime! J-Just like I’d have him anytime!” Mikey interrupted, and to Shinichirou’s surprise, he sounded uncertain, worried even. Perhaps to reassure himself further, Mikey goes on. “O-one time, I went over at like, 4 with my bike, and he answered my door in just 5 minutes… So I’m sure he’s fine… Yeah he’d be fine with me c-going…”

Resigning himself, both as a result of the sheer shock of ‘Mikey acting like a toddler for once’ and of the mild case of confusion he’d suffered tonight, Shinichirou acquiesced. “Fine fine… I can take you to see Takemichi-kun, but promise me if he isn’t awake, you’d return home with me, alright?” The response he received is a lit-up pair of eyes from his brother, promises that he will return, and a gitty monster-child that’s already dragging him out of the room.

From what Manjirou tells him, the place of this mysterious Takemichi-kun is about 20 minutes away from the Dojo. ‘Perhaps I can get him to spill the beans about where he met this new friend of his… Should I interrogate him, or lure him with dorayaki…?’

About a few streets and corners after leaving the Dojo as quietly as he possibly can be, Shinichirou mustered the courage and asked, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “So about this Takemichi-kun-” He feels his brother’s arm tighten slightly at the mention, but continues nonetheless. “Where did you meet him huh, Manjirou? I don’t remember you hanging out with anyone besides Keisuke and Haruchiyo.”

Silence lingered between the two. ‘Maybe he didn’t hear my question?’

“Manj-”

“It’s a long story, but… I met him when you’re gone, Shin-nii. Just one day, when I was walking by a park, I met him. He’s beaten up, but he refuses to stay beat up, and I helped him.” Shinichirou pondered whether to interrupt, but his brother stopped him in his tracks.

“Shin-nii, he’s like you, but better… Better to me at least…”

“HUH!?!? W-Whadaya mean better!?” Shinichirou puts on the brakes and parks it by the road, quickly turning to his brother, a visible vein about to pop on his forehead.

“You better explain yourself before I turn this bike around-”

“Even if I use all my words, I still can't describe it in a way that you could truly picture it in your mind. Just believe me, Shin-nii… I wish that you could see it for yourself…”

With Manjirou staring him in the eyes, under the luminance of the streetlight they're parked under, Shinichirou can almost see a reflection of a deep blue sheen in his brother’s pair of obsidian eyes, all his own childish anger leaving him everytime he blinked after his brother’s words.

Unable to produce a coherent response, he could only sighed as Manjirou hurried him to go back on the road.

Turning the last corner, with Shinichirou parking the bike a block away, Mikey dragged his brother towards the house he has so familiarised himself with. Waltzing past the unlocked front gate, he turns to see his brother standing outside, not following him as they’ve previously agreed.

“Shin! It’s here, come in!” Mikey shouts, only to be met with a hush sign by his brother, and a hand gesture telling him to come back out. Annoyed at his brother’s action, Mikey marches back out, sees his brother’s gaze linger on the nameplate, before himself turning.

[浜柿 – Hamakaki]

Instead of the [花垣 – Hanagaki] he’ve seen time and time again.

Mikey runs out back to where the bike is parked. He frantically looked around, but everything was in their place. Except, his house.

Hearing puffs of air, he turns to Shinichirou, just catching up after his sprint.

“M-Manjirou... You sure he’s Hanagaki Takemichi-kun, not Hamakaki Takemichi-kun…?”

"Wha- Takemitchy...?"

Shinichirou turned pale because he saw me so pale with fear, and that made me even more anxious.

Chapter Text

The ride home is eerie, or a bolt out of the blue, depending on who’s asking. Shinichirou, in all his memory, has never seen Manjirou this quiet on a bike ride. He remembers him mumbling and drooling on his back about dorayaki when sleeping mid-riding once, and now he’s as if became mute, even motionless. Leaning gently to the side as the motorcycle turns a corner, his brother’s body feels rigid and brittle like ice.

Clutching his hands like a vice grip, his mind goes through plenty of thoughts, all revolving around Takemichi. The scenes, where his blade pierces Takemichi, where his palms clutches the blood-stained hilt, where on his lap lies Takemichi motionless. ‘D-Did I kill Takemichi back then, and he…’ He tries to close his eyes, but all he can conjure up is Takemichi’s face, roughed up and slowly going cold, as his tears dripped one by one on the skin. He wants to tell himself he’s dreaming, or he’s dead, but as the cold winds strike him, he’s reminded otherwise. Shinichirou’s warmth is something… It’s not comforting like he’s used to, nor is it reassuring. Feeling the slight twitch of the back, as he leans for each corner, in his mind, it’s all a reminder that the trip they’ve just undertaken achieved nought.

Physically lifted and then planted on the concrete by his brother, Mikey’s each step feels uncertain. His grip shifted from his own onto his brother’s palm, and Shinicirou can feel it’s full of sweat. Putting the motorcycle where it belonged just an hour ago, the dojo echoed with solely the sound of the two. It appears, to the relief of Shinichirou, neither gramps nor Emma was awakened by their little excursion. He wishes to ask his brother about the whole ordeal, but based on the utter distraught behind that pair of obsidian eyes, maybe it’s best left till tomorrow.

“M-Manjirou. I’m sure you’re tired. G-Go back to your room and sleep. If you have trouble sleeping, come find me in the shed”. Shinichirou tries to lighten the mood with a playful pat on his brother’s head, but the nod offered in turn suggests the mood remains.

In bed, Mikey stares at his ceiling, imagining himself feverish.

His mind filled to the brim with his recollections of Takemichi… The nameplate outside Takemichi’s house feels alien… Seeing Takemichi’s usual bright smile towards him, seeing his gaze back on Takemichi’s glint…Feeling Takemichi’s radiance as he’s surrounded by Chifuyu and Takashi wearing their Toman uniforms, himself sitting atop a box munching on a taiyaki…

Closing his eyes, Mikey began to cry most piteously, not only in his imagination, but cried with his eyes, bathing them in real tears.

Truth be told, Shinichirou didn’t sleep the entire night. In his shed, surrounded by the night’s memory, he questions himself on much of existence.

Manjirou was not… Manjirou…

That’s all he can conjure up as a plausible explanation, and perhaps tomorrow would be the time for questions.

All that welcomed him when he hears knocks on the door tomorrow, however, again contradicts all things that happened yesterday.

As usual, Emma comes to him, next to him Manjirou with his usual deadpan expression. Following the pair back for breakfast, the environment seems like an average Friday. The usual banter, the usual glare from gramps to Manjirou, the usual Manjirou being a little shit. Placing his attention between the food and his brother, he can physically feel his own hyperfixation on his brother today.

Leading his brother to the door, Haruchiyo and Keisuke walking down the road to meet Manjirou before heading to school together, Shinichirou brings up yesterday, only to be shrugged off, a casual “it’s nothing” from his brother.

The three kids leave his sight after turning the corner around the dojo. Shinichirou thought back to what his brother said last night…

“O-one time, I went over at like, 4 with my bike, and he answered my door in just 5 minutes… So I’m sure he’s fine… Yeah he’d be fine with me c-going…”

4…? With his bike...? Was he dreaming of an imaginary friend, or did he steal my bi- There’s no way, he might be a gremlin, but he’s only 10…

Seeing Keisuke and Haruchiyo, the former with his crimson eyes and vampire-like fangs, the latter without the diamond-shaped scar on the corners of his mouth, Mikey felt two pangs in his heart. It’s been forever since he’s seen the two… Bloody Halloween is… Everytime he thinks of the day, he shivers at the sight of Keisuke plunging the knife into his own stomach. And Haruchiyo… Haruchiyo’s gone when I split that face… Sanzu was who I faces for the past years… And now, after more than a decade, the two, his earliest friends, in their flesh, untainted by the criminal that’s me back then… Or is it in the future?

Mikey chuckles… ‘Jeez, is this why Takemitchy cries every time he comes back through time, or when he speaks of events of the past.’

His eyes slowly starts to rim with hints of tears, only to be snapped out by Keisuke’s call.

“Mikey~!”

Keisuke waves his hand in front of Mikey’s face, noticing the empty gaze. Haruchiyo to the opposite side remains silent.

“Keisuke. Wait no I mean, B-Baji… and H-Haruchiyo…”, Mikey starts as the two turns to face him, “Both of you, are my best of friends… Anything b-bad I did to either of you… I-I’m sorry…”

After moments of silence, Baji and Haruchiyo look at him as if he’s not the Mikey they know.

“Oi~! Mikey did you hit your head? Or did you take the wrong medicine?” Baji hollers.

“Maybe he has a fever? Mikey, if you are sick, you should stay home…” Haruchiyo replies on behalf of Mikey.

Mikey smacks Baji in his head.

“I’m not sick, and no I did not hit my head. I’m just, sorry?” Mikey looks at the two sincerely. Maybe he’s convincing himself, but apologising to the two of them just feels, right?

Baji looks at his friend like he's an alien. Haruchiyo looks at his friend also like he's an alien, just less so.

Feeling the now-familiar feeling of a sudden jolt, Takemichi opens his eyes.

Lying in his bed, he yawns and looks around. It’s his childhood home in Kamakura. Slowly rolling off the bed, he sits up idling, only to feel the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. Unable to react properly, the memory of the events at the train station floods his mind, the dykes holding his tears now breached. Clenching his pillow, he remembers Mikey’s words as he lost consciousness. Did he die?

“If you die… Everything is meaningless…”. He looks over to the calendar, showing ‘September 10th 1999’. Mikey-kun should be with Shinichirou-kun now huh… I hope he’s happy being united with his brother…

Only then, he jumps.

Hold-on, I time-leaped? B-But Naoto is not there… Mikey-kun was grasping my hands… Did I trigger the time-leap on my own…? Like what happened with the train...?

Looking to the calendar once more, Takemichi sighs. I’m at Kamakura right now… That means it’s still a few years before I move to Tokyo…

Now that I’m here in the past, maybe I can save them without getting anyone involved! Mikey-kun… He’s with his brother, and he’s not the Mikey-kun I know…

Takemichi wants to feel relieved and happy, happy for Mikey. All he did was cry more intensely. Mikey-kun always says I’m like his brother… Or I always remind him of his brother… He told me to scold him like his brother would…  He’s with his brother now… Then, does it mean…?

Even if they meet now, Mikey-kun would not take an interest in him? “Mikey does not interact with people he’s not interested with” Draken’s words echo in his mind…

Takemichi worms back into his bed, he weeping at the thought of not having the first encounter with Mikey. From his grieving heart, tears spill onto the pillow he clenches. 

Having wept their fill, they can no more. Takemichi dozed off, all his energy drained.

Chapter Text

‘Takemichi, Takemichi, Takemichi’. The name was a constant drumbeat in his head, a relentless thrumming beneath the surface of every thought. Opening his eyes for the third time that morning, Mikey stared once more at the dull white ceiling. The room was a familiar canvas of quiet emptiness, and yet it felt like a cage. On his mind, like yesterday and the day before, was him. He wonders where Takemichi could be.

‘I never asked Takemitchy about his past… Maybe he’s not in Tokyo? I heard he and Kakucho were childhood friends… There’s no way he’s ‘not here’... I’ve checked all around, and things are as I remembered… Keisuke with his mom; Haruchiyo with Takeomi; and of course, my mother is in the hospital’. He’d checked everywhere, retraced old steps, revisited familiar settings. The world was intact, but for Mikey, a crucial piece of it was missing.

He closed his eyes again, ignoring the sunlight that sliced through the curtains, casting golden squares on the floor.

‘Right, my mom. It’s been so long… She is sick, and I know she’ll be gone soon. But…' The thought of her felt like a hollowed stone in his chest. She was sick, and he knew she would be gone soon. He wanted to feel more, to grieve more, but there was a numbness that had settled over him. When he tried to recall memories of her, all he could conjure was the image of her passing, and of him crying by her bedside when he was a child. It was just a single snapshot in a past that felt increasingly hazy.

He’s aware how strange this is, but in his mind, it is all Takemichi...

Rolling his head to the side, he watched the light snow gathering on the window ledge. The sight is a tranquil contrast to the turmoil in his mind. Just off on the table, amidst a clutter of scattered stationery, sat a small ema plaque. It was a simple object, a charm he’d brought back from Sensō-ji last New Year’s Day. Retrieving it had become his morning routine, a quiet and almost meditative act. He ran his thumb over its smooth surface, tracing the lines of the intricate rabbit engraved in greens and browns.

He remembers walking to the Sensō-ji shrine with his gramps, Shinichirou, and Emma to celebrate the New Year. The cold, crisp air was filled with the scents of street food and the low murmur of the crowd. Grabbing 4 ema plaques, he earned a playful warning from Shinichirou: "Don't be greedy". He didn't care, of course. He is Mikey. Like the one he later brought home, all 4 plaques are engraved with a carved rabbit in greens and browns.

On the first plaque, on the advice of Shinichirou, I wrote:

[無病息災 – Mubyō-sokusai

身体健全 – Shintai-kenzen]

‘For good health and for a healthy body… Short and concise…’

Shinichirou leaned over, a warm smile on his face, ruffling Mikey's hair as he admired the neat, precise characters. "Four-character idioms? Did you learn that in school?" he teased. Mikey just grunted in response, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

After taking a moment to collect myself, on the second plaque, after Shinichirou went over to help Emma with hers, I wrote:

[友人一同の無事を祈る – Yūjin Ichidō no Buji o Inoru]

‘I pray for the well-being of all my friends.'

'Keisuke, Haruchiyo, Kazutora… Everyone…’ I thought about their younger faces… ‘I’ll protect them all…’ Within the quiet space of his mind, he found himself snickering, the soundless laugh an echo of Takemichi's mannerisms, a ghost of a personality that still felt so incredibly present, despite not meeting him for months now.

The third and fourth plaques were different. These were for himself. On these 2 plaques, I wrote:

[再会と復縁を願います – Saikai to Fukuen o Negaimasu

心に秘めた想いが再び繋がりますように – Kokoro ni Himeta Omoi ga Futatabi Tsunagarimasu you ni

もう一度互いを信じ – Mou Ichido Otagai o Shinji]

‘I wish for a reunion and to get back together. May the feelings hidden in our hearts connect once again. May we once more believe in each other’.

As he was still writing, he felt his gramps' presence nearby. He tried to quickly hide the plaques, out of embarrassment, out of shyness, he didn't know. Offering a look of understanding after glancing at the words, he didn't pry, he just continued on, joining Emma and Shinichirou, leaving Mikey with his private prayers.

I hung 3 of the plaques before leaving the shrine, hoping kami and the spirits could help me with these wishes… 

Before going down for breakfast, Takemichi stood in front of the mirror, attempting to tame his wild bed hair. His mother is already calling from the kitchen, the scent of miso soup and grilled fish wafting slowly up the stairs. This is likely the last time he'd eat breakfast with her before she headed off for work abroad for the rest of the year. He wanted to look somewhat presentable, to make this moment feel special. However, after a few minutes of fruitless effort, he gave up, deciding a casual tousle is the best he could manage.

As he headed out of his room, his gaze fell upon his desk. Behind an unfinished puzzle sat a single green ema plaque, its surface decorated with two rabbits.

He'd gone to Tsurugaoka Hachimangū with his mother. While she went off to pray in the main shrine building, Takemichi wandered off on his own, drawn to the rows of hung-up ema plaques swaying gently in the breeze. He decided to buy two for himself. Finding an open spot at one of the dedicated writing tables, he climbed onto an extended step meant for children, and picked up a large, inky brush. He held it for a moment, then he wrote:

[貴方と過ごした、あの温かい時間が忘れられません – Anata to Sugoshita, Ano Atatakai Jikan ga Wasureraremasen

もう一度、同じ道を歩きたい – Mō Ichido, Onaji Michi o Arukitai]

‘I can't forget the warm time I spent with you. I want to walk the same path again, just once more’.

He didn’t have to think hard about what he wanted to write. The words came to him with a familiar ache, a feeling he'd carried with him for what felt like an eternity. He had chosen two plaques for this exact reason: One to leave behind, and one to keep close.

He carefully hung 1 of the plaques by the shrine entrance, letting it join the countless others with their private prayers and hopes. After hanging it, he met back up with his mother. They didn't speak about his detour; she just smiled and they began their walk home. Now, it stood on his desk, guarding the feeling that had never truly left him.

Chapter Text

Waving his mother off, the same forced, bright smile plastered on his face as she embarked on her business trip. She was gone, again, just like she always was in the past he remembered. The click of the door lock was disproportionately loud in the small hallway, a sharp, metallic sound that signaled the abrupt return to his usual solitude. Takemichi let the artificial brightness fall from his face, his smile dropping like a dropped coin onto the polished wood floor. The silence that followed was familiar, heavy, and immediate.

"Just like she always did," Takemichi muttered silently, the words flat and tasteless in the air. He glanced down at the envelope of money his mother had left as an allowance, a crisp, thick rectangle resting on the coffee table, acting as her stand-in within this void of a household. 'A minor miracle I manage to bear being home alone for a majority of the year, isn’t it?’ he thought, running a fingertip along the sofa's rough fabric. His mother was never home except for the few weeks before the end of June and September, as a ghost that briefly materialised before dissolving again.

‘Ehh, at least she’s here for my birthday’.

Dwelling on the subject a bit longer as he relaxed on the sofa, Takemichi's mind drifted back to late August, to Mikey’s birthday. He had desperately tried to mail a birthday card to him anonymously, only to be stopped by the reality that he, in fact, doesn’t know his address at all, despite knowing how to get there personally like the back of his mind. His fruitless endeavour resulted only in him making some mochi with red bean paste filling for himself in place of taiyaki, how utterly depressing...

He replayed all the small secret rituals he performed, desperate to inject bits of colour back into his lonely life, even if he isn't, he can’t, he won't physically be here. But perhaps, he truly is delusional, clinging to a ghost of his own imaginations now that Mikey finally had Shinichirou-kun, in his stead.

He slipped on a pair of sneakers, tied those laces with a hurried jerk, and grabbed a light jacket. The air outside was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the sea typical of Kamakura. He cycled fifteen minutes to the station, his rickety bicycle protesting with every turn of the pedal. It was an arduous journey, and the longer he biked, the longer he missed his Babu... Oh, how much he missed the sensation of leaning into a turn on the back of Mikey’s identical bike, feeling the cold wind hitting his face, the warmth radiating from the body in front of him. He missed the freedom, and the soft assurance of being completely safe, tucked behind that reckless but Invincible Mikey. He locked the bike once at the station, and hurried toward the ticket gate, the journey to the nearest bustling arcade requiring a short hop on the train toward Shibuya.

The train journey itself was slightly jarring, the rumble of the tracks always reminding him of the violent and kinetic start of his mission at Shinjuku Station, the exact spot where he had been pushed into this messy yet wonderful reliving of his youth. He stood by the window, watching the landscape fly by, searching the ordinary scenery for any sign of the extraordinary life he had lost now that he lives in such a tranquil environment.

Cold apartment, cold hallway, cold grin, this is what Kazutora faced every morning. The calendar read September 15th, sometimes marked by indifference, today marked by his mother’s absence, as predictable as the clock's tick. Dressed in the unforgiving, confining collar of his school uniform, the fabric buttoned up his neck felt less like fabric and more like a wire slowly tightening, stealing his breath. ‘Was this choking sensation coming from the rigidity of the uniform’, he wondered, fingers flexing against his throat, ‘or the silent, suffocating presence of this empty house itself…’. He knew the truth, his was a cold family embodied by the untouched, chilling weight of the lunch box abandoned on the living room table.

Tomorrow, September 16th, was his birthday, something he was certain his mother had long since shelved as a forgotten obligation. He would still remind her, though, perhaps a way to convince himself that there might be a possibility she’ll be back home before the end of the day. Shifting his thoughts away from his hollow domestic life, he cycled through the familiar faces of his friend group. ‘Junpeke... Maybe I’ll find him and others tomorrow to celebrate with me, so today is all by myself’. The thought’s immediately followed by a decisive action.

‘Perhaps the cheap lights of the arcade are a good place to go to waste time, to drown out the silence before tomorrow’s certain disappointment.’

He grabbed a handful of coins before finally leaving the apartment for the arcade machines he’d be playing. The simple walk down to the arcade was never ‘simple’, but a walk full of bad memories. Every few steps, snapshots of his past resurfaces, like the many times his mother had ignored special occasions with her usual indifference, or the times his father had berated him with his tight, condescending voice for "misbehaviours" that were only troublesome in his father's eyes. Kazutora always felt like an anomaly under that roof, a thing that was inherently wrong just for being here, a constant screw-up needing to be fixed, an eyesore best left ignored.

The storm of negative thoughts, the cold spectre that’s his parents, the looming shadow of the forgotten birthday, it was all abruptly and physically interrupted. Rounding a  corner near the train underpass, Kazutora collided hard. It wasn't the hard surface of a wall, but a surprisingly soft lump of mass that offered brief resistance before scattering with a clatter. Every feeling he carried instantly evaporated, replaced by a simple surprise. He stumbled back a step, hands instinctively rising, just as the metallic rain of coins, dozens of them, falling like discarded pieces of light, cascaded around his feet. Looking down, he saw the cause of the commotion, a small, black-haired figure hunched by the concrete, frantically scrambling to gather the scattered coins. It was a kid, no older than a middle schooler, squatting amidst the shiny debris, their face hidden by a fringe of dark hair.

Ignoring the person that bumped into him, Takemichi remains focused on the urgency of the moment. The sound of the coins had stopped ringing, replaced by the grating scrape of metal against the asphalt as he tries to gather the small fortune he'd need for his afternoon distraction. He didn’t care who it was or what they looked like; he just needed his coins back. His fingers darted across the ground, chasing the shining discs that had rolled frustratingly out of reach.

Suddenly, another hand entered his field of vision. It was pale, thin, and clad in the cuff of a familiar school uniform, though not the kind he himself wore. Takemichi looked up sharply, meeting the sight of someone kneeling beside him, helping him. The stranger was close, focused entirely on the metallic debris, their brow furrowed in concentration, the movement strangely gentle despite the hurried situation.

Looking over, Kazutora engages the smile he's acclimated at home, the icy smile he offers to strangers, the standard gesture for greeting, though what he see on the other side seems to not reciprocate.

Takemichi's breath hitched, 'K-Kazutora-kun?’. He didn't immediately recognise the familiar face kneeling beside him, but the striking pair of golden eyes, paired by the small dark mole beneath, pushed him out of his momentary stupor. Seeing Kazutora in the flesh, here, now, is a jolt of the wholly unexpected.

Kazutora broke the silence first. "Here are your coins", he offered, his voice cold and drab, him familiar with, as the textbook tone for his parents’ actions. He presented the handful of salvaged yen coins.

Still trapped in the shock of recognition, Takemichi extended his hand mechanically, his movement feeling disconnected from his brain. The sudden contact of the warmed-up brass against his palm was the first real sensation to snap him back to the present moment. Out of his stupor, he remembered the necessary social cue, throwing out a "T-thank you!" that was far too loud, shattering the quiet focus they had briefly shared.

Wincing at the sharp jab to his ears, with his blank smile, Kazutora stood silently, while Takemichi cordially reciprocated. Before long, with the two in some sort of a staring competition, Takemichi let out a small, nervous chuckle that was more of a brittle attempt to fill the heavy silence than genuine amusement. It sounded thin, like cracking ice. The cold, practiced grin on Kazutora's face didn't budge, holding all the emotion of a polished stone.

Takemichi quickly cleared his throat, pushing the coins deep into his pocket, eager to feel the solid weight of the distraction. “U-umm, are you… heading to the station? Sorry if I bumped into you…” He started, trying to find the right words to converse with this familiar stranger. Kazutora replied plainly, “No I’m just going to the arcade, before bum-”, before he can continue further, Takemichi enthusiastically grabs Kazutora's hands, a bright smile on his face, “Let’s go to the arcade together! I’m also on my way there! To the arcade around the corner?”

What could Kazutora even reply with, but a hesitant nod. His leg unchained by his own buckles, the two in quick steps ushered into the arcade shop.

"This is it!" Takemichi declared, his voice cutting through the outside air with a burst of enthusiasm. He rubbed his thumb aggressively against the stack of coins hidden deep in his pocket. "This… The one?" Kazutora replied, the query sounding less like genuine curiosity, more like a dry reflex. A change in the environment occurred the moment they crossed the threshold, stepping out of the train underpass's grey shadow and into the arcade proper. The air here was immediately dense and warm, thick with the humid heat and scent generated by the electronics. Kazutora felt the strange sensation of his core temperature slowly rising, an internal thaw beginning. The perpetual coldness seemed to have receded at the edges. A pulse of music thudded beneath his feet, synchronising with the ceaseless, chaotic symphony of flashing lights and digitised explosions that filled every corner of the shop.

Swept up in the enthusiasm, Kazutora found himself moving along, like a body following an overwhelming force of nature, dragged from one brightly lit booth to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos, a genuine warmth bubbled up, and he found himself laughing along the way. ‘Whenever I’m having a good time, I always wish time would just stop here’, he thought, the feeling unfamiliar but undoubtedly precious. ‘This guy’s relentless energy...'.

Takemichi, even amidst the flashing lights and cacophony of the games, couldn't help but notice the subtle shifts in Kazutora.

The initial stiffness had slowly begun to dissipate. ‘The simple act of fooling around seemed to melt his persistent anxiety', Takemichi mused.

The moment’s heavy with a feeling Takemichi couldn't quite place though, a regret? Despite knowing the complicated situation that’s their futures, he was staring at a blank slate when it came to Kazutora's past. He had never truly known what made him the Kazutora he knows, realising now how little he had pressed for details, and how stubbornly Kazutora was when it comes to his own history, only hearing bits from Mikey or Baji.

The two left the arcade spent, their pockets empty, their energy all drained. Looking at Takemichi with a natural grin, something Kazutora’s certain he picked up from this random kid he met outside the arcade by a random train underpass, the all-important question finally was asked.

“W-What’s your name?”, and of course, both found themselves asking at the same time, causing another bout of uncontrolled laughter.

“It’s Takemichi-/Hanemiya Kazutora-”, leaving their mouths exactly at the same time, inner joy radiates out once more.

Given the time, Takemichi's focus broke from their shared moment of laughter, instead pulling him back to the necessary routine. He glanced at his flip phone, the digital numbers emphasising how each second is passing. "Oh, man," he sighed, the sudden seriousness flattening his recent high. "I really gotta catch the train back to Kamakura now, or I'll miss the last one back home..." He started to move toward the exit, the noise of the arcade suddenly feeling too loud again.

Kazutora's smile immediately vanished, replaced by a subdued, but almost desperate look. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunching slightly, and his gaze dropped to the sticky floor tile. "Wait," he murmured, the word barely audible above a racing game's engine noise. When Takemichi paused, Kazutora lifted his eyes, the gold slightly clouded with genuine reluctance.

"I... I don't want to go home yet." The phrase was a low whisper. His eyes darted nervously between Takemichi's face and the floor. "Could I... just go along with you? Maybe just see the station?"

Takemichi's brow furrowed, instantly dropping the easy mood for caution. "I can't afford to miss this train, Kazutora-kun, or I'll be stuck in Shibuya by myself!  Kamakura is really far, and I can’t get back in the middle of the night on foot." He tried to inject logic, pointing vaguely toward the station entrance.

Kazutora just shook his head slowly, stubbornly  settling across his features. He didn't offer a reason, just the silent, heavy weight of “I am not going back either”. Then, with a sudden, impulsive energy that mirrored their earlier collision, he straightened up. "I'll ride with you," he stated, his voice gaining a reckless sort of sudden conviction. "Let's go. I need to see Kamakura."

Takemichi blinked, completely taken aback by the swift, illogical turn. Before he could voice another protest, Kazutora was already striding toward the ticket gate, radiating a fierce yet joyful defiance against some unseen constraint, kind of like Mikey when he’s acting like a gremlin with Draken.

Takemichi found himself scrambling to follow, a wide, slightly panicked grin returning to his face. And just like that, the two, who had met only hours ago under a concrete overpass, were bound for the far side of Tokyo, Kazutora now riding alongside him back to his home at Kamakura.

Chapter Text

The train to Kamakura is almost empty, only a handful of corporate workers slicing silently through the night along with them. The silence between Takemichi and Kazutora was different now, not the charged, uncomfortable silence of strangers, but because of a worn-in understanding between the two.

It felt less like a gap, more like a shared space, something Kazutora hardly found accustomed to. They sat next to each other, the rhythmic thump of the tracks beneath them giving some sort of a backdrop. Kazutora leaned his head against the cold glass, watching the lights of the city blur and thin out into pinpricks, silver slithers dashing across the blackened window. The rigidity he carried was loosening, and he’s conscious of it.

The strange, internal coolth that had started in the arcade now felt like a genuine quietude. This, he realised, is perhaps liberation. He wasn't running to anything, but running away from the suffocation of his cold apartment, together with disdain that comes from it. Takemichi is an impulsive but bright comet, which has provided the trajectory he’s now following.

"You really live all the way out here?" He asked finally, his voice a low mumble, matching the late hour. Takemichi nodded, watching his reflection hover over the passing darkness. "Kamakura. Pretty quiet, right? I only come to Shibuya for the arcades." He paused, looking at Kazutora's profile, illuminated by the passing platform lights. "You sure you don't mind the ride back? It's going to be really, really late..."

Kazutora shrugged, an involuntary smile touching his lips. "It's better than home, plus…" he hesitated, then offered an admission to his newfound companion, "You're... easy to talk to... Even when we're not talking..."

‘Easy to talk to...’ The phrase certainly hits Takemichi, reminding him of all the sparse conversations he'd had with the Kazutora of the future, the one influenced by all the tragedies, the one consumed by a chilling darkness. This Kazutora, here, now, is still intact, saved from the worst of his demons, for now.

This time, he is alone in unfamiliar territories, in a time earlier than he ever was, without the anchor of his timeline, and without Chifuyu, his partner to share the secrets with. He is an unauthorised entry into the past, the one he always was, and maybe it’s right for him to embrace this future the way it should be, pioneer the unexplored, and see if he can get revenge on adversities.

As the train neared the coast, the air grew noticeably colder, and the scent of salt began to filter into the carriage. Takemichi points out to the shoreline, "See? That's the ocean, not Tokyo Bay, we're close."

The train brakes hissed eventually as it reaches the platform, a long sigh bringing them to a stop. The two stepped onto the platform, the last few passengers hurrying away, leaving the space cavernous and dead silent. The air was a punch of sea-salt and chilly, starkly different from the warm electronic blanket of the Shibuya. 

Kazutora pulled his thin school jumper tighter around himself, his eyes wide as he took in the quiet, residential feel. There were no neon signs, no shouts, only the distant, steady rhythm of the tide, feeling like a different world entirely.

"It's... really quiet…" he murmured, the cold stripping the dryness from his voice, leaving it slightly raw. He followed Takemichi, who was already unlocking his rusty bicycle. "Yeah. My mother's away on a trip, so..." Takemichi trailed off, swinging a leg over the bike. "Hop on. It's about a ten-minute ride." Kazutora didn't hesitate. He swung his own leg over the thin, uncomfortable luggage rack.

His arms instinctively went around Takemichi’s waist, and that certainly wakes something inside Kazutora. He pressed his face into the back of Takemichi's blazer, the scent of stale air mixed with something rather domestic, the smell of soft detergent. ‘I don't have to go back. Not yet. Don't want to.’ The thought was a fervent repeat inside his mind.

The warmth radiating from Takemichi’s back felt like the only steady thing he had encountered all day, the fireplace against the cold, hollow dread of his own home. This was just a shared space like he was on the train, it was a haven carved out of stolen time. The shift is immediate, the quickening of attachment. It wasn't the way he felt for his ‘friends’ or his ‘friend group’, nothing transactional. This was quieter. Takemichi hadn't tried to fix him, hadn't looked at him with pity, nor had he even recognise the state he’s in. Frankly, Takemichi hadn’t done anything. He had just laughed with him, and now, Takemichi was simply taking him along. 

Maybe that’s what he needed.

As they rode past silent houses shielded by high hedges, the wind whipped past them. Kazutora tightened his grip, maybe because of the sudden turns by each corner, maybe the fear of being dislodged, of being abandoned, taking hold. Takemichi felt the tightening grip, and recognised the clingy energy as if Kazutora’s being the Takemichi just this morning. 

He was supposed to be keeping his distance, keep away from altering what was, in essence, other’s business, to prevent any chance for the butterfly effect to take hold, but here he was. Deep down, he knows he’s inadvertently becoming the anchoring point for some wanderlust like how Mikey’s to him. Even when all are saved now that he’s in the past where none of the tragedy has occurred, he remains adamant to keep saving, just like the crybaby hero he is. 

The two reached the front gate, the nameplate obscured by the dark. Takemichi gently slowed the bike, resting his sneakers on the asphalt. "Here we are…" Takemichi whispered, the sound low enough not to wake the neighbours. Kazutora slowly, reluctantly, loosened his grip. He slid off the bike rack, his legs stiff, his gaze immediately going to the front door.

He felt exposed, alone again, and the coolth that had protected him on the train was already starting to freeze over. "So…" Kazutora said, the word catching in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say goodbye, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. He doesn't want to impose on Takemichi, yet he want to impose as much as he can. "What now…?"

Takemichi looked at him, and plainly invited his old acquaintance in. “You said you wanna go along, so come along~”. Kazutora blinked. The open invitation hit him, again, like a force of nature. He wasn't used to simple kindness, only complicated façades of affection or conditional offering of camaraderie. This was neither. It was just an open door offered from someone he met by chance.

He shuffled past Takemichi, the awkwardness quickly overridden by the need to remain within the bubble of warmth. Inside the house, the air was muted, carrying the faint scent of what Kazutora can only assume, yesterday's dinner, plus the clean fabric of a home that was temporarily empty. It wasn't the suffocating emptiness of his own apartment, but a benign stillness. It felt safe, homely, and completely undeserved. Takemichi flipped on a hallway light, dropping his pouch by the stairs.

"You can put your bag down," Takemichi said, gesturing vaguely toward the corner. "My bed’s a bit too small, so I’ll just crash on the couch. You can have the bed! It's too late for you to try to find a train back to Shibuya now anyway…"

Kazutora finally spoke, his voice barely a rasp. "No, seriously. I can just... stay right here for a few hours. The floor is fine. I don't need you changing things for me..." He shifted his weight, avoiding Takemichi's eye. 

Takemichi moved towards the kitchen, but paused, looking back at the boy who was visibly trying to shrink into the shadows. "You look like you're about to start shivering, Kazutora-kun. Look, the couch is still way better than the floor, and I don't mind the couch. Come on, sit down. I'll grab a blanket, and do you need some clothes to change into?"

The descent into the private dark was aborted. The course of solitude had, without warning, been changed.

Mikey was a man on a mission, to a destiny he barely believed in.

It was a favour, a promise made only to the crybaby hero who insisted that everyone, even the most fractured, like himself, deserves a second chance at existence. He stood by his bicycle, the wind whipping his hair, the noise of the city a distant hum, the memory clear.

Baji, wide-eyed and grinning, detailing the previous night's adventure. “Mikey, you won’t believe it. I met this guy at the arcade. Kazutora. His friends totally ditched him, used him like a wallet. But he’s cool. Super intense, but real. I talked to him for a bit after, and on his birthday, we even burned a car together at one of those sketchy parking lots-”

The original him would have let the memory fade, since he knew he’d be keeping his brother home, at the dojo. But the current Mikey, the Mikey who had been dragged back, pulled and saved by Takemichi, had a different mandate. Takemichi’s unwavering conviction, his absolute refusal to leave anyone behind, maybe it had become Mikey’s new way of thinking.

‘Redemption for Kazutora was not the objective... This is for Takemitchy’, Mikey told himself. He needed Kazutora to be stable, visible and saved, only so the fragile future Takemichi had made whole could finally hold together. He kicked the stand up, and with a slow peddle together with Baji, headed not toward his home, but toward the Shibuya arcade Baji had mentioned.

“It’s not often you find me to go with you to the arcade, Mikey! What changed?” Baji threw out the question, but the journey he's on is fixed. He was doing this one thing for the sake of the person who had saved him.

Lying on Takemichi’s bed, Kazutora stared up at the bland white ceiling, having cleaned himself at Takemichi’s insistence. The sheets smelled faintly of sunlight, a completely alien scent to him compared to the stale dust of his own apartment. The pillow beneath his head felt impossibly soft, and he hadn't realised he was missing experiences like this. Here, in this quiet room, he felt safe for the first time in memory, yet the safety felt dangerous, can easily be deprived of.

His mind spun again and again around one axis: Takemichi. He had simply barged into his life today under an overpass, armed only with laughter and acceptance as if they’ve known each other for years, and Kazutora already started hoping he would never get enough of him in his life. Takemichi was probably a year or two younger, yet he exuded a steady pull, drawing him closer and closer. Unspeakably close. Kazutora wrestled with how to categorise this fierce new attachment. Was Takemichi an acquaintance, a friend, a companion, or did his desperation yearn for something more, a bond that’s less likely to break? He was uncertain, the terminology too flimsy for this recent shift in his world.

He turned his head to the side, his gaze finding the open doorway. The distant, soothing rhythm of running water from the shower is comfortable. Takemichi had left him alone, offering silence and space, and Kazutora now traces the edge of the blanket, letting the mundane detail ground him.

‘This is real. He is letting me stay.’ Kazutora reminds himself, and he closed his eyes as he waits for Takemichi, allowing the simple warmth to seep into the hollow dread he usually carries.

Amidst the time Kazutora spent inside his mind, the sound of running water stopped, and Takemichi emerged refreshed. He was wearing an old, oversized t-shirt and loose shorts, his hair damp and slicked back, giving him a softer look than the one Kazutora had met earlier in the day.

Takemichi paused in the doorway, towel drying his hair, and gave Kazutora a slight, tired smile. "I owe you some better clothes, huh? Sorry, I don't really have anything your size… Ehe…"

As Takemichi approached the bed to grab his blanket and pillow from the closet wall, Kazutora scooted over, pressing himself against the far edge of the mattress, leaving a clear, empty space beside him.

"You can take it," Kazutora murmured as he pats the space next to him, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the empty spot he was offering.

Takemichi paused, a puzzled expression crossing his face as he looked from the space on the bed to Kazutora’s face. "The bed? No, I told you, I’m taking the couch. You can't fit two people here comfortably, and you need to sleep more than I do." He clutched his bedding close. "Seriously, I'm fine."

Kazutora didn't move, but the hope in his eyes he felt was physical, fragile, but insistent. He looked up, finally meeting Takemichi’s eyes, and he didn't need to speak a command or beg. The exhaustion and the quiet desperation in his gaze conveyed the message clearly: ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me to the silence.’

Takemichi saw the subtle shift in his expression, the quick flash that flitted across his face, deeper than just tiredness. ‘Kazutora-kun wasn't offering space, he was asking for proximity… For the warmth to ward off the returning cold dread. He couldn't be alone right now…’

Takemichi sighed, but his expression softened. He dropped the blanket and pillow on the floor, abandoning the plan for the couch.

"Fine, you win~" Takemichi conceded, shrugging off his resistance. He carefully sat on the edge of the bed and then, with a small adjustment, sliding under the same cover.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. They lay side by side for a moment, staring up at the white ceiling, separated by a narrow gulf of blanket. Then, Kazutora turned inward, facing Takemichi. He followed suit, their faces now inches apart, bathed in the soft ambient light from the moon hanging up on the night.

"Thanks, Takemichi~", Kazutora whispered, his breath warm against the cool air. The simple words felt heavier than any apology or confession.

"It's nothing," Takemichi replied, his voice equally soft. He didn't ask what is wrong or why Kazutora sounds so frail. He just held the gaze, offering the presence the other boy seems to need. "Just sleep..."

Kazutora blinked slowly, letting Takemichi’s words wash over him, but he couldn't quite end yet. One final piece of information slipped out. “Hey, Takemichi…” His voice cracked slightly. “It’s actually my birthday today. Like, right now, since it’s past midnight…”

Takemichi froze. His eyes widened slightly in the dim light, while Kazutora averted his gaze elsewhere. He leaned forward, ignoring the narrow space between them.

“Really?” Takemichi whispered, his tone shifting from a gentle comfort to muted astonishment, as well as concern, just a little. “You… didn’t say anything all day...” Kazutora offered a weak, half-shrug. “It doesn’t usually matter. I didn’t want to be annoying.”

The loneliness that Kazutora was fighting is clearer now than ever. He lifted a hand and gently, almost tentatively, hold Kazutora’s hands underneath the blanket. “No, it matters,” Takemichi insisted, his own dark eyes earnest and steady.

“Happy birthday, Kazutora-kun. I… I’m really glad you told me about it.”

Kazutora didn't reply immediately. He simply stared at Takemichi’s grin, a grin directed towards him, absorbing the simple words. Someone was genuinely glad, glad he is here on this significant, yet usually most desolate, of days. Kazutora's blank stare shattered. He couldn't hold his muscles, and his lips began to tremble, followed by a soft burst of tears and quiet sniffling.

Takemichi watched, his own expression remaining soft and steady. He squeezed Kazutora’s hands beneath the blanket, and then gently pulled him closer. Kazutora immediately yielded, tucked into a hug, arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Okay. Now you really need to sleep,” Takemichi murmured against his hair. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.” Kazutora hummed a low sound of acknowledgement, pressing his face into Takemichi’s chest. The rhythmic, steady thump of the other boy’s heart became the last sound he registered as he finally, deeply, drifted off to sleep.

Mikey followed Baji into the chaotic heart of the arcades at Shibuya, the air thick with flashing neon and the clatter of prize claws. He immediately felt out of place.

He drifted toward the motorcycle driving simulator, a poor substitute for his own Babu, but appropriate to cover for his attempt of surveillance. For an hour, he played, trying to blend in, his eyes constantly scanning the faces and the fringes of the crowd. He was looking for Kazutora, but there is no sign of him at all.

Mikey was leaning against the cold, graffitied wall outside the arcade, the noise from inside a low, irritating thrum. His mind was a battlefield of paranoia. ‘What if Kazutora’s not here tonight? Did me bringing Baji myself cause some sort of changes that made Kazutora not come to the arcade? There’s no way…’ He ran a hand through his hair, the wind making his jacket flap. ‘Takemichi said everyone was safe now, but what if Kazutora needs the push? If he doesn't meet Baji, what happens next? This whole future is balanced on a razor's edge…’ The weight of being the final protector of Takemichi’s timeline is crushing him.

His spiral was broken suddenly by a sharp, playful smack on the back of his head.

"Oi, Mikey! What are you doing out here, brooding?" Baji's voice was loud and energetic, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation consuming Mikey. He grinned, holding a plastic coin cup. "You look like you just lost 500 yen."

Mikey rubbed the back of his neck, his irritation immediate but fleeting. "Keisuke… I wasn't brooding, I was just... thinking. And, I'm waiting for… someone."

"Huh? I thought you came to the arcade to play with me!?" Baji tilted his head, chewing on his lip. "This person sounds like an all-nighter, that's for sure."

Mikey's eyes narrowed. "I don't know when he usually shows up, honestly."

Baji's jaw dropped. He now looked genuinely bothered. "So you bring me all the way here just to meet some stranger you know nothing of!? Mikey, you bastard!" Baji shouted, which earned a sharp punch to the stomach from Mikey.

Baji doubled over, coughing and clutching his gut. "H-He's probably al-already on a train home," he managed, trying to recover. "Try again tomorrow, maybe?"

Mikey let out a slow, controlled breath, pushing down the surge of frustration. Baji was right. This whole search had been ill-conceived, based on half-information and his own frantic need. He looked back at the glowing arcade sign.

"Fine," Mikey relented, letting the tension fall from his shoulders. "Let's go. But we're coming back eventually."

"Yeah, yeah… Whatever you want, Mikey~" Baji slung an arm around Mikey's neck, pulling him away from the wall and toward the main street. Mikey allowed himself to be dragged, the mission postponed but not abandoned.

Chapter Text

The transition from sleep is slow, with a steady, rhythmic vibration that thumps against his ear. Waking up to the sound of snoring, Kazutora finds his head resting on a moving pillow. It is certainly a weird sensation, but the pillow beneath him gently rising and falling in a slow tide sure is calming. The sound of heartbeats, muffled but insistent through the fabric of a thin t-shirt, brought him to an immediate alert as the reality of his surroundings flooded back. Eyes blasting open in shock, he looks up to see Takemichi’s sleeping face, illuminated by the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.

Takemichi is the friend he made yesterday through a series of happenstances, and perhaps, he’s his first actual friend. Not the kind defined by terms and conditions, but something that is rather simple. It is the very ease of it that felt almost terrifyingly alien, that a stranger could walk into the wreck that is his life and, within hours, become the only person he actually wanted to wake up next to. He feels like a scavenger who had stumbled upon something pristine, and he’s already beginning to crave with a selfish intensity.

Rolling away from the rhythm of Takemichi's chest, Kazutora fixes his gaze on the ceiling above. He offers gratitude to whatever fate or deity that nudged him toward the arcades last night. The alternative, that being never having crossed paths with Takemichi, is something he doesn't even want to contemplate. He’s already resolved to remain tethered to Takemichi for as long as he’s allowed, even should the novelty that’s him eventually wear thin for his friend.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Kazutora overlooks Takemichi. He watches the way Takemichi’s eyelids twitch in a dream. It feels too intimate, too cinematic to be real, as if being characters in a script, waiting for the writer to break the spell–

Kazutora extends a finger, sinking it into the soft give of Takemichi’s cheek. He pulls back, then pokes again, watching the skin dimple and spring back. Then once more, pressing a little firmer this time, checking whether the yielding texture is a product of his own hesitant touch, or simply the natural softness of the Takemichi before him.

“S-Stop it~ K-Kazutora-kun…”, Takemichi mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as his eyes flutter open. He is met with the sight of Kazutora hovering over him, fingers still poised mid-air and face flushed a pink hue, clearly scrambling for an excuse for the pokings that he hasn't quite found yet.

Instead of giving into the impulse to tease his new friend for the awkward situation he’s caught redhanded, Takemichi simply laughs, the sound vibrating through the mattress. He pushes himself upright, the bed groaning under the shift in weight, and indulges in a series of stretches that make his joints pop.

“Good Morning, Birthday Boy~” Takemichi says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and offering a lopsided grin. The warmth of the greeting settles in both the room and Kazutora, but it’s quickly followed by the callous touch of reality. “After breakfast, we should probably get you back to Shibuya. I’m sure there’s someone out there wondering where you’ve disappeared to, and I’d rather not be the reason you get in trouble.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. For a moment, he looks back at Kazutora, his expression unreadable but kind. “Come on. Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

Kazutora cannot remember much after getting out of bed. The subsequent hour, the breakfast they had together, the quiet ride back to the station, the final wave from Takemichi on the platform. All of it exists in his memory as a series of overexposed snapshots, his eyes acting as the malfunctioning lens. His mind is a gallery of his friend’s images: the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the slope of his shoulders in the morning light, even the  side-eyes directed at him over a bowl of rice. He knows, without the shadow of doubt, that he’s becoming far too infatuated for his own good.

The train back to Shibuya is significantly more crowded than the one that brought him to Kamakura, but Kazutora feels more isolated than ever. He sits in a daze, his forehead pressed against the vibrating glass of the partition next to him, watching the coastal scenery bleed back into the gray skyline of the city. He can still feel the faint, phantom pressure of Takemichi’s hand on his shoulder from when they said goodbye, a soft touch that feels like a branding. He isn't running away anymore, but as the train pulls into the heart of the city, he realises he’s left the only part of him that felt alive back on that quiet platform, standing next to a squeaky bicycle.

Things are not going well.

That thought plagues Mikey’s mind the moment he wakes, yesterday spent fruitlessly following Baji around an arcade, and waiting for a boy who never showed, even though he’s supposed to. His objective remains unchanged: to sever Kazutora from the orbit of his hangers-on, and, more importantly, to shield his brother from the looming shadow of an assault just days before his birthday. He misses his Babu so very dearly, but if it means it’s surprise reveal is the price for Shinichirou's life, Mikey will pay it without hesitation. 

Speaking of gifts, Shinichirou has been acting weird for about more than a month now.

It started when he brought home that model Concorde for me and a teddy bear for Emma. It was the anniversary of the day our dad passed away, and Shin just handed them over, saying he was buying them "on behalf of dad". It was a strange thing to say, even for him. Shin was definitely off, like he was trying too hard to fill a gap that usually stayed quiet, or something on that line.

I finished the model plane all by myself, sticking every last decal on without even asking for Shin's help, and now I was zooming around the living room with it. Shin was just sitting there on the couch, and at first, he was playing along, dodging my "fly-bys" and trying to mimic the Concorde’s flight with his hands and feet while I jumped around him.

"Hup! Move, move, move!”, I shout, charging straight at him. Usually, Shin would just duck or catch me, but this time he just stops. He’s staring at nothing, mouth hanging open like he’s seeing a ghost. I didn’t stop my momentum in time, and my feet ram right into his face. Shin topples over to one side, looking completely dazed. He isn't even mad as he pulls himself back up, he just looks lost. That's when Takeomi chimes in.

“Everything alright over there? You got jumped on…”, Takeomi mentions, before turning over to give me a scolding. “You usually would’ve avoided that…”, I said quietly to Shin, my eyes narrowed in doubt. But then, things got even weirder.

Shin’s eyes started welling up with tears. I just stood there in shock. Shin doesn’t cry over stuff like this. EVER!

“You idiot! Mikey, apologise to him!”, Takeomi shouted, but I was already trying to figure out how to calm Shin down.

“Gah! Don’t cry, Shin-nii! Wha- Did it hurt that much?”, before I could say anything else, Shinichirou suddenly pulled me into a tight hug, tears streaming down his face. I know how this is supposed to go. I'm not supposed to get mad when Senju eventually wrecks this plane. I can still see Haruchiyo’s scars in the back of my head every time I think about it. But even if I know what's coming, I still want to enjoy this gift while it's actually in one piece. So why is Shin acting like this is some kind of tragedy already? Why is he being so weird…

That’s when it clicked.

I remember Haruchiyo and Waka telling me about Shin’s time leaps. They didn't explain to me all the details, but they said he came back to a time before I messed up Haru’s face. Is that what's happening now? Did Shinichirou leap too? B-But it doesn't make sense. He gave those powers to Takemichi... and we're supposed to be in a time before any of that even started.

The mounting pile of contradictions finally hit a breaking point. Mikey’s mind reached its limit, the endless theories and overlapping timelines offering nothing but a headache. He knew he couldn’t find the answers by just sitting there and guessing. He needed the truth, and there was only one person who could give it to him. A direct confrontation with Shinichirou is no longer just an option,  it is the only way forward…

The roar of the CB250T Babu swallowed everything else. Sitting behind Shinichirou, Mikey keeps his hands tucked into the pockets of his brother’s jacket, his chest pressing against his brother’s back. Usually, he’d be leaning into the turns, shouting something stupid over the wind, or trying to goad Shinichirou into going faster. But tonight, he is silent.

The city lights blurred past them in streaks of neon and amber. The vibration of the engine hummed through the frame and up into Mikey’s bones, a familiar rhythm that usually made him feel safe. Today, it just felt like a countdown. He watched the back of Shin’s leather jacket, the way his brother’s shoulders seemed a bit more tense than usual, despite the relaxed way he handled the bike. He thought back to the day they had driven through Shibuya together, looking for Takemichi’s whereabouts.

Maybe today would be another shared experience where they’d uncover a secret so terrifying it would scare the skin complexions right out of their bodies.

Shinichirou navigated the streets with grace, unaware of the storm brewing just inches behind him. He looked like the same old Shin, the legendary leader of Black Dragon, the guy who could never win a fight but could win over an entire city. But Mikey knew better now. He saw the cracks in the façade, the moments when Shin’s eyes drifted toward the calendar with a look of pure dread, or the way he’d hugged Emma just a little too tight before bed.

They reached a quiet stretch of road near the outskirts of the district, where the traffic thinned and the only sound was the mechanical growl of the Babu. Mikey shifted his weight, his eyes fixing on the back of Shin’s helmet.

"Hey, Shin-nii…”, Mikey said, his voice barely audible over the wind, yet sharp enough to carry.

Shinichirou didn't respond at first, focused on a turn, but as the bike leveled out, he tilted his head slightly.

"Yeah, Manjirou?", Mikey didn't wait for them to stop. He didn't wait for a ‘better time’ that might never come.

"Why were you crying after I jumped on you that day? And don't give me that 'it hurts' crap. We both know that's a lie."

He felt Shinichirou stiffen. The bike wobbled, just a fraction of an inch, before Shin corrected it. The silence that followed wasn't the comfortable kind they usually shared. It was heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of two different lifetimes colliding on the back of a motorcycle.

“W-Well… You did kick me in the face, a-and… it’s rare to see you happy with a gift! Yeah that’s it…”, Shinichirou stammered, his voice jumping an octave as he desperately tries to force a lighthearted tone. Mikey could feel the tapping of Shin’s fingers against the handlebars. His brother is practically vibrating with a restless energy, his posture so stiff it was as if he’s trying to  shield himself from the question. The flimsy excuse hung in the air, pathetic and transparent, a clear sign that Shin is scrambling to keep a lid on the truth.

“Shin-nii. Stop the bike.”, That’s all Mikey said, and Shin slowly put the motorcycle into a stop by the road.

As the kickstand clicked into place and the engine's roar died into a ringing silence, they both dismounted. Pulling off their helmets, Mikey didn't let his gaze wander for even a second, his eyes locked onto his brother with a piercing intensity. Shinichirou could feel the weight of that stare as he fumbled with his gear, realising the time for stalling had finally run out. Then, Mikey broke the silence.

“Shin-nii. A-Am I dead in the timeline you came from?”, Mikey asks, hoping a face of confusion would appear on his brother’s face.

The question hits Shinichirou hard. The lighthearted, stuttering mask he had been wearing shattered instantly, leaving behind a raw, hollowed-out expression that made Mikey's heart sink. There was no confusion, no defensive laugh, and no "What are you talking about, Manjirou?"

Instead, Shin’s face drained of colour, his eyes widening as they glazed over with a haunting, far-away look. His mouth thinned into a trembling line, and for a terrifying second, Mikey saw the ghost of a grief so profound it seemed to age Shinichirou ten years in a heartbeat. The dread that radiated off him is visible, confirming everything Mikey feared without a single word being spoken. The truth written in the way his hands began to shake uncontrollably, unable to meet Mikey’s eyes.

“How…”, Shin’s voice is a ghost of itself, cracked and barely audible. He finally looked up, and the agony in his eyes’ so sharp Mikey almost flinched. “How do you know about that? You’re not supposed to… It was all supposed to stay back there.”

“So it’s true.”, Mikey felt a strange numbness spreading through his chest. He didn’t feel the victory of being right. He only felt the cold realisation that his brother had carried the weight of his corpse across time. “The way you look at me sometimes… like you’re waiting for me to disappear. Or the way you cried over that model plane because you thought it was the last thing you’d ever give me.”

Shinichirou slumped against the seat of the Babu, his head dropping into his hands. “It was a vegetative state first, Manjirou. Years of it. I did things… Terrible things… Just to get a chance to save you. And then I did save you, but the cost… the cost was everything else.”

He let out a jagged, wet breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “Why… Why are you even here, Manjirou…? At this time? How could you possibly know?”

“Because I’m not the only one who died, Shin...”, Mikey whispered, his voice cracking as the memories he’d tried to suppress came flooding back. “In the timeline I came from, it was you who was gone. Just a day before my birthday, Keisuke and Kazutora broke into your shop... They wanted to steal this Babu for me. You were there that night, and Kazutora... he didn't see you. A bolt cutter to the back of the head. I spent my whole life mourning a brother who died because of a stupid gift…”

Shin's eyes snapped wide, his breath hitching as he tried to reconcile Mikey's words with his own fractured memories. “Wait… Wait a minute… That doesn’t explain how you time leaped… I don’t remember the part at the shop, but… I gave my powers to a kid fighting against some bullies on the streets… There is no way that explains why you’re here…” He trailed off, the cogs turning as a look of dawning horror washed over him. He gripped his hair, a frantic revelation finally taking root. “D-Don’t tell me… That Takemichi-kun you want to find…”

“Yes… That’s him, a-and…”, Mikey’s voice began to wobble, a high-pitched edge creeping in as the memories of the freight yard surged back, all vivid, bloody, and devastating. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was seared onto the backs of his eyelids. “My dark impulses… I couldn't stop them, Shin-nii. I stabbed him. I stabbed him right in the stomach… I can still feel the resistance of the blade, I can still see it coming out the other side of his body.”

A sob finally broke through, hitching in his chest. “But even then… Even with the blood everywhere, he didn't fight back. He just stepped forward and hugged me. He held me so tight while he was dying… He said he’d carry the impulses on his back so I wouldn't have to anymore. He promised to save me, and then he was just… gone when I woke up here in this timeline... I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, or if he’s even the same person in this world.”

Mikey collapsed against Shinichirou’s shoulder, his strength finally failing him. His brother didn't hesitate, pulling him into a protective hug, his own tears falling into Mikey’s hair as the full weight of their double-tragedy finally settled over the quiet road.

“I-I’m sorry… Manjirou… I’m sorry…” Shin’s voice broke, a strangled sound of pure agony. He clutched his brother as if he’s trying to merge their shattered souls back together. “I thought if I came back, I could make everything right. I thought… I never imagined that my choice to save you would lead to this... I didn't know any of this would happen, M-Manjirou… I just wanted you to live...”

Takemichi feels refreshed, and morning’s events sure are amusing.

Waking to the sensation of Kazutora poking his cheeks, he doesn’t quite know how to react, trapped in that hazy space between dreams and reality. Watching the other boy hover over him with such hesitant yet childlike curiosity, he feels a strange tug in his chest. It reminds him so vividly of Mikey, not the "Invincible Mikey" who stood atop the hierarchy of Toman with an iron will, but the one who existed in the quiet gaps between the chaos. The one who was clingy and full of whimsy, always in need to be tied to someone else hip to hip, specifically, Takemichi himself. In Kazutora’s wide, flushing face, Takemichi sees that same image, and it makes the heavy burden of his memories feel just a little bit lighter.

Mikey is safe, and for the first time in what feels like a dozen lifetimes, he is together with his brother, sharing the same air in a world that hasn't yet been torn apart by grief. And for Kazutora… he’s become a friend. It is a turn of events that Takemichi hadn't planned for, certainly not expected, but welcomed with a relief.

The Kazutora that Takemichi is familiar with, the one consumed by a manic, misplaced hatred, the one whose hands were stained with Shinichirou's blood and his own sanity, simply does not exist here. Looking at the boy sat on the edge of the bed, Takemichi realises he is witnessing a miracle he didn't even know to ask for. For just half a day, he has known this version of Kazutora, and he finds himself not pushing against the pull of this new bond.

Takemichi finds himself contemplating the terrifying beauty of making new relations in this rewritten world. He had come back with a mission, a mind geared toward prevention and survival, but he hadn't prepared for the sheer charm of the people he is supposed to be saving. He watches Kazutora’s clumsy, endearing attempts at interaction and realises that his heart is no longer just for mission.

It’s beginning to sprout new, fragile roots. There is something adorable about the way Kazutora looks at him with such unfiltered longing, in contrast to the hollow eyes he remembers.

It is daunting to let someone in, particularly when you are intimately acquainted with the ghosts they are destined to become. Yet, as Takemichi watched his friend scramble for an awkward excuse, the tips of his ears flushing a deep crimson, he felt a quiet resolve take hold. He would not allow the tragedies of a dead world to poison the life standing right in front of him.

Later, after he has already sent Kazutora off and the house has fallen into a thick silence, Takemichi stands alone in the kitchen. He slowly peels an orange, the citrus scent sharp in the air for a mind currently adrift in a sea of memories. As the rind falls away in spirals, he recounts the quiet moments of the morning. The shared breakfast, the hesitant conversation, the final wave at the station as he watched Kazutora disappear onto the Shibuya-bound train.

For now, it’s enough to simply exist in the aftermath of that morning light, holding onto the memory of a boy who is allowed to be nothing more than human.

Chapter Text

In the gloom of the shed beside the dojo, Shinichirou and Mikey sit in a silence that feels consuming. They have returned from their ride, but the world around them remains distant, their souls still out on that quiet roadside, chained by the weight of the recent revelation.

Mikey is the first to break the heavy stillness. "Shin... Tell me everything you remember. From the start. Because something here... it just doesn't add up." His voice is uncharacteristically low, demanding a truth they both know will be heavy and, perhaps, painful.

Without a single word of protest nor a lingering excuse, Shinichirou lets his floodgates open. He spills the secrets he has been hoarding: The original timeline where his brother existed only as an empty shell in a vegetative state, his years of soul-crushing despair, and the blood on his own hands from a man he killed in an impulse that ended with him seizing the power of time. Hearing him describe the states Baji and Haruchiyo were in, Mikey breathes a sigh of relief, though it is only a small reprieve, comforted by the fact that those fates now belonged to a future that had been erased.

As Shinichirou recounts his final leap, the cold wind on the bridge and the impact of the water as he sought for an end, he keeps his eyes downcast, waiting for Mikey to recoil. But the reaction never came. Mikey listens with a focus so intense, so unbothered, absorbing the details of his brother’s descent. He doesn't even flinch at the mention of the murder nor the suicide attempt. Instead, he seems to take the news with an eerie calm. To Mikey, the darkness in Shin’s story is finally matching the one he had carried in his own heart.

Giving his brother no chance to collect himself, Mikey shifts his weight, his eyes narrowing as he picks apart the narrative. “Shin… You said you came back right after you jumped into the river. If that’s true, how can you remember Kazutora’s attack at the shop? You shouldn't even know who he is yet. In your ‘original’ timeline, you never mentioned Keisuke having these friends. You died before meeting them.”

He leans forward, the shadows of the shed making his expression look even more predatory. “So tell me, Shin-nii. How did you know now that you gave your powers to Takemichi? You didn't just jump and wake up here. There's a piece missing. There’s a reason why your memories include a murder that happened in my past, not yours.”

Shinichirou struggles to process his brother’s interrogation, now that the veil has been lifted, knowing his brother as also a time-leaper. He looks at the boy sitting across from him, the same face he used to wipe tears from, the same hair he used to ruffle, and finds he no longer knows who he is looking at. Is this still the cute baby brother he adores, the one he sacrificed his soul to save? Or is he facing a haunted man trapped in a child's body, an equal who has seen just as much blood as he has? The cognitive dissonance is paralysing, leaving Shinichirou unable to even find the words to defend his own fractured memories.

Watching the tremors in his brother’s hands, Mikey felt an ache that settled over his chest. He felt the bitter, familiar taste of grief. He loves Shinichirou, perhaps more than anyone else in this or any other world, and seeing him reduced to this shell-shocked silence felt like a stab at his own soul. He wanted nothing more than to drop the clinical tone, to pull his brother back into a big hug, and to simply lose himself in the warmth of a future where they both survived. 

Yet, his own fixation betrays him. The hunger for the truth wouldn't let him rest, forcing him to dig into the wounds he had already opened. He hates himself for putting Shinichirou in this position, for turning the shed into an interrogation room, but the logic didn't align, and in this life, Mikey refused to be blindsided again.

He just wanted to get it over with, to solve the puzzle, to secure the lives of every friend he’d already lost once, and to finally find his way back to the only person who could tether his new life together, like the way he'd written in his ema plaque.

“You see, M-Manjirou… I remember those, but also not? It’s like... very vivid dreams. Or visions? I don’t know,”, Shinichirou stammered, his eyes darting around the shed as if looking for the missing pieces of his own mind. “I know those events happened. I can see the shop. I can see the bike. I can see the blood on the floor... b-but I haven't experienced them. I know for sure I haven't lived them.”

He scrunches his fist up, his fingers digging into his palms. “It’s like my head is a storage room, and someone’s just dumped a bunch of books into it. I have memories of the leap, the jump, the cold water, and then waking up here, but there are also these... echoes? Ever since I got back, it’s like my brain is trying to sync up something I shouldn't know. I see faces I never met, and that’s how I know about this Kazutora you mentioned. I know about my death at the shop too... but only as a nightmare. It’s making me sick, Manjirou. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I feel like I’m losing my grip on the 'now' because the 'then' is screaming so loud.”

“They aren't just dreams, Manjirou. They’re... experiences. I feel like I’ve been descending through layers I wasn't meant to see…”, Shinichirou mumbled, his voice trembling. “At first, I saw the limbo of that hospital room once more, where you were neither alive nor dead, just a hollow vessel. I thought I had climbed out when I made that leap into the river, but instead, I just fell deeper.”

“I saw a derelict version of my shop. And there, I see myself, but it’s a version of me that’s dead, collapsed on the floor. It’s shrouded in a chilling mist, and I’m walking through it like a ghost. I feel the shadow of a boy behind me, and even though I can’t see his face, I know there’s a looming black spectre over him...”

Shinichirou’s breath hitched, his eyes wide and losing focus. “That’s all I can tell you for now, Manjirou. It’s too much... it’s all just overlapping happenings. I’m scared that if I keep digging, I’ll lose sight of it entirely. J-Just... give me a moment to breathe...”

For Mikey, the only thing that made sense is that nothing made sense anymore. It is like two different timelines had glitched into each other, mixing up the events until you couldn't tell what was a real memory and what was just a vision from a life that never happened. They hadn't just crossed, they had completely melted together.

For Mikey, he’s now certain that nothing’s certain anymore…

”To think that we are of the same age...” I’m walking down the sidewalk, the rhythmic tap-tap of my shoes hitting the pavement echoing against the sidewalls. The sky is a gentle, clear blue, the afternoon light clinging to my school uniform as I stroll. To my right, that’s where the voice comes from, familiar and a little bit too knowing.

“To be honest, I was kind of surprised.” I gazed over, shifting my head slightly, only to find my vision partially obscured. I blink, the world on my right side is still a blur of shadow. Right, the bandage. Is there an eyepatch or something of the sort on my right eye? I can feel the slight pressure of it against my skin.

“Hey, like you’ve just said, we’re the same age, so you can speak casually to me.” My mouth opened and the words just came out automatically.

I stop walking for a split second, the sun catching his messy mop of blonde hair and a pair of soft blue eyes, a colour that seems to glow even in the bright daylight.

“Really?” he asks.

“Of course, aibou,” I reply.

The word rolls off my tongue with such a casual ease, as if it had been waiting there for years. I keep moving, adjusting the strap of my bag as I continue, “So, about that... what do you think, aibou?”

“Uh… well…” The blonde-haired boy trails off, looking a bit flabbergasted. “You’ve been saying ‘aibou aibou’ for a minute now. What do you even mean by that? We literally just met.” ‘Met not too long ago?’ I think to myself. ‘I don’t think so’. Mentally, that is the only answer that makes any sense to me.

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking of a whole bunch of ways to call you,” I say, rubbing my fingers against my chin as the memories, or whatever they are, flicker behind my eyes.

“'Pātonā' reminds me of a romantic relationship~” I mused aloud, stealing a glance at him. ‘That’s not a bad choice…’ I found my gaze lingering just a fraction too long on the soft curve of his cheeks.

“'Aikata'... but we aren’t some comedy duo on television.” I shook my head in disapproval, thanking myself for being sensible. My relationship with him would probably be ruined before it even started if I picked something that didn't fit.

“Because we have this bond, I thought about using 'kyoudai'... but you see, that just doesn't feel right.” I trailed off, imagining the two of us walking around looking like some stereotypical gangsters. Hell no.

“Then, I finally figured it out! Aibou! Two people who put their best effort toward the same goal. It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Feeling triumphant, I grinned at him. He paused, looking genuinely thoughtful as he began to ponder the title.

“Hmmm...” He tilted his head, the sunlight catching in his blonde hair like threads of gold as he weighed the word.

“No need to think! After all, both of us are going to accomplish big things.” I said as I pointed my finger towards him, my expression brimming with a confidence I didn't even have to fake.

“Well, I guess you’re right about that…” He offered a small, shy shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“See? That’s why…” I reached out, hooking my free arm over his shoulder and giving it a firm, encouraging pat. “You should call me aibou too. Right, aibou?” I finished the sentence with a wide, infectious grin.

He looked at me for a moment, the quiet hum of the afternoon surrounding us, and finally, he reciprocated with a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

“Yeah.” He said matter-of-factly, his voice steadying. “Chifuyu-”

Chifuyu jolts open from his sleep, his breath hitching in the sudden silence of his room. He finds himself remembering vivid details of the dream, though ‘dream’ felt like a lie. It was too material, and the details too mundane. He could still feel the phantom presence of the umbrella on his shoulder and the cool breeze of the wind that shouldn't exist in the middle of the night.

His hand flies to his right eye, his fingers brushing against smooth skin where he had just felt the rough texture of a bandage. He stares at his palm in the moonlight, half-expecting to see it stained with the blue of a clear sky or the gray of wet pavement.

The nickname ‘aibou’ sits on the tip of his tongue, heavy and bittersweet. He doesn't know why, but his chest itches with uncertainty. The conversation they just had, the casual banter about nicknames, the "aibou aibou", it plays back in his mind with a clarity.

He sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and tries to steady his racing heart. He has no idea who this blue-eyed teenager is, the one he calls his aibou with such ease, but he knows for a certainty that their paths are destined to cross, whether it’s in a dream scene, or in the material world.

Takemichi has been wandering around Tateishi for several weeks now, his mind fixated on a singular mission that left little room for rest. Every street corner, every vending machine, and every residential gate felt like a puzzle piece he was trying to force into place. The air in this part of Tokyo felt different, thick with a looming dread he isn’t quite part of yet, but one he is desperate to rewrite.

He remembered the way Inupi’s voice had cracked when he spoke about the fire, the way his eyes would go distant whenever the subject came up. Putting the puzzle together based on Koko’s cryptic information about that night, Takemichi had become obsessed. He isn’t just determined to save Inupi, he is determined to save Akane, too. The thought of that house engulfed in flames, and the two lives that would be changed by it, felt like a ticking bomb in the back of his skull.

After days of tireless scouting, blending into the background of the neighbourhood, he had finally located the Inui household. It is a modest home, appearing deceptively peaceful in the afternoon light. From a distance, he had even caught glimpses of them, a younger version of Inupi and Koko talking as they walked home.

Seeing Inupi without the scar on his face is such a punch to the gut. He looked so young, not burdened by the weight of the Black Dragons or the debt he felt he owed to Koko. And Koko... he is still just a kid, his eyes bright with a sharp intelligence that hadn't yet been twisted by a misguided need for money. Takemichi watched them from the shadows of an alleyway, his heart hammering. He knew the tragedy is coming, but he don’t know when, so this time, he isn’t going to let the fire take everything from them.

Takemichi briefly entertained the idea of bringing Kazutora along under some false pretense. A second set of hands could be vital during the rescue, and Kazutora’s ability is undeniable. But the thought died as quickly as it had formed. He couldn't endanger his friend's life for a mission he didn't even know existed. If something went wrong… If the fire claimed more than just a house? He would never be able to forgive himself for dragging Kazutora into the heat…

About to go home for the day, seeing the two returning home as usual, that’s when he smell the smoke blowing in the wind.

Turning over, Takemichi see a pillar of smoke obscured by the dusk rising between the roof tiles. Outside, he noticed Koko’s shocked expression, and rushed in after him.

“Someone got out!” Koko heard the frantic holler of a bystander above the roar of the blaze. He stumbled away from the searing heat of the house, his vision blurred by tears and ash. Through the black smoke, he emerged, hunched over and staggering under the weight of someone carried across his back. A wet towel is draped carefully over the person’s head behind his back, shielding them from the furnace within.

His clothes singed and face masked by soot, Koko stumbled onto the sidewalk and lowered his burden gently against the wall. “Akane-san... The ambulance is coming! Just hang on!” he wheezed, his voice raw and broken.

When he pulled the towel back, he let out a choked sob of pure, jagged relief. Akane is unconscious, her face blackened by ash, but the faint, steady rise and fall of her chest told him she is alive. “Akane-san! You’re okay... You’re going to be okay!” Koko muttered, his hands shaking as he touched her soot-covered cheek.

Just as the weight of the scare began to lift, Koko noticed a stranger staggering out the burning home. His head snapped toward the house, only to see the mysterious person coming out of the orange maw of the doorway Koko had himself broken down moments ago. Shielding another figure with his own body, the stranger collapsed onto the road the moment he cleared the threshold, his chest heaving with rattling breaths. Koko’s heart stopped. ‘Inupi’.

Inupi wobbled as he sat up, his emerald-coloured eyes wide with a terror that was slowly being replaced by shock. He looked down at the boy on the ground, the stranger who had just saved him. “T-Thank you...” He whispered, his voice cracking as he found himself tearing up from the scare. “M-My sister... s-she’s still...”

“I-Inupi! You’re safe!” Koko rushed over, grabbing his friend’s shoulder. As Inupi turned, following Koko’s frantic pointing, he saw his sister resting off to the sidewall, tended to by the first responders. Only then did the frantic drumming in his chest begin to slow. They are both alive. And the boy who had saved him, a complete stranger they had never seen before today, lay exhausted on the pavement, his eyes closed against the smoke.

Mikey lay sprawled across the tatami mats of the living room, his stomach letting out a low, mournful growl that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

"Emmaaaaaa… Shiiinnnnn…" he drawled, his voice a long, dramatic whine that traveled all the way into the kitchen. "Is it done yet? I'm actually dying. My soul is leaving my body."

Emma’s voice drifted back, sharp and unimpressed. "The rice just started steaming, Mikey. Unless you want to eat raw grains and crunchy carrots, you’re going to have to wait another ten minutes." "Ten minutes?!" Mikey rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin up on his hands. "That's basically an eternity. I could grow a beard in ten minutes. Shin-nii would be an old man by then."

Emma appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression one of practiced exasperation. "Shin-nii is already an old man to you. And if you keep complaining, I’m giving your portion to grandpa." Mikey pouted, his eyes widening in a mock-wounded expression. "You wouldn't. Not to your favourite brother. Not when I'm this close to starvation."

"You ate a whole bag of dorayaki two hours ago," Emma pointed out, hands on her hips. "You aren't starving. You’re just bored and impatient."

"I'm both!" Mikey sat up, his blonde hair messier than usual. "And I'm serious, Emma. The smell is teasing me. It’s a form of torture. If I pass out, make sure they put 'Died waiting for pork fillets' on my grave."

Emma rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small, affectionate smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Just set the table, you drama queen. If the plates are ready, maybe the food will feel sorry for you and cook faster."

"On it!" Mikey scrambled to his feet with sudden energy, the 'starvation' forgotten as he dashed toward the cupboard.

Mikey in fact, didn’t set the table. Instead, he’s lying on the couch, turning on the tv by the corner of his home. It’s the news, and it seems there was a fire down in Tateishi.

“...Breaking news this evening,” the anchor’s voice cut through the static, sounding unusually grave. “A severe residential fire broke out in the Tateishi district just after sunset. Firefighters were dispatched immediately to the Inui residence, where the blaze quickly consumed the two-storey structure.”

Mikey stopped clicking the remote, his eyes narrowing as blurry helicopter footage of a glowing orange house filled the screen.

“Local witnesses report a harrowing scene. According to preliminary reports, two siblings trapped inside were rescued by a pair of bystanders, reportedly middle school students, who entered the burning building before emergency services arrived. Both victims, a teenage girl and her younger brother, were treated for smoke inhalation at the scene and are expected to make a full recovery...”

The remote slipped from Mikey's hand, clattering onto the floorboards. He scrambled up, his knees nearly giving out as he lunged toward the television, his face inches from the glass.

"Shin!" Mikey's voice cracked, a jagged sound that tore through the quiet of the house. "Shin! Get in here! Now!" Shinichirou came rushing in from the kitchen, still holding a dish towel, his face pale with concern. "Manjirou? What's wrong? Did something happen?" "Look!" Mikey pointed a trembling finger at the screen. "T-That..." Mikey breathed, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, overwhelming heat. "Shin-nii, it's him! T-That has to be Takemitchy!"

Shinichirou froze, his eyes scanning the screen with a subdued intensity. "Inui residence... You think he went there? But how would he know, Manjirou? Why would he be in Tateishi?" "I-In the timeline I’m from, there’s a guy… Inupi… Inui Seishu… He got scar from a fire at his home!" Mikey turned to his brother, his expression a frantic mix of terror and awe. "But look at the report! They said someone rescued two residents of the house! Who else would do that?! Who else is that reckless and stupid and..."

Mikey's voice trailed off as he choked back a sob, his hands gripping the edges of the TV stand so hard his knuckles turned white. "It's him. He's really here! He's actually in this time too, Shin-nii!"

Chapter Text

Inupi wakes to the drone of fluorescent lights. His vision is a blur, the lines of the ceiling refusing to resolve. It takes several blinks for his senses to catch up with the smell of antiseptic, the stiffness of the sheets, and the air of the ward. He tries to move, but a pulse behind his temples holds him to the mattress. He feels the weight of his own body. The fire, the heat, the orange light, all of it recedes into a memory behind a veil of exhaustion.

As the scene replays, he remembers the stranger. He remembers the boy's breathing and the rattling sound of his chest. That’s when the sound of shoes on the linoleum and a sharp intake of breath alerts him.

“Inupi! You’re awake!” Koko’s face appears over him, eyes bloodshot. A smudge of soot still clings to his hairline, something the nurses must have missed when they tended to him.

“Koko...” Inupi’s voice is a dry rasp. He coughed, the sound echoing in the room. “Akane... is she...”

“She’s okay, Inupi. She’s in the next ward,” Koko says quickly, his hands hovering over the bed. "She's breathing fine on her own. The doctors say she got lucky, with only a few burns on her arm, but nothing that won't fully heal. She’s still sleeping, but she’s stable. You both would be fine.”

Koko lets out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob, sinking into the plastic chair. He wipes his eyes with the back of a soot-stained hand. “You idiot. You almost didn’t make it out. If it wasn't for that guy, I don't think you would have survived.”

“That guy…” Inupi whispers, his eyes searching the room as if the stranger might still be there. “Who is he? Did he say anything? Why was he even there?”

“I don’t know. He just... he ran in after me. He saved you, Inupi. He really did.” Koko pauses, his gaze shifting toward the bed directly to their right. “Actually, you can ask him yourself when he wakes up. He’s right over there.”

In the adjacent bed, Takemichi lies motionless, a clean white bandage wrapped firmly around his forehead. He looks remarkably small under the hospital blankets, his breathing deep and rhythmic.

“The doctors say it’s just a concussion,” Koko explains, his voice dropping to a low hum. “He hit his head when a piece of the ceiling gave way. They want to keep him for observation for at least twenty-four hours to make sure there’s no swelling. Since your vitals are looking good, they’re planning to release all of you at the same time, probably the day after tomorrow. Protocol, you know?” He stands up, adjusting his jacket. “I should let you rest. The nurses are getting strict about visiting hours. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Koko vanishes into the shadowed hallway, leaving Inupi alone with his thoughts.

Left in the silence of the night ward, Inupi finds sleep impossible. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the flickering shadow of orange sparks. He carefully disentangled himself from the blanket and moves toward the adjacent bed, his footsteps nearly silent on the linoleum.

He looks so unassuming. There is nothing about the boy's appearance that screams 'hero', just a mop of fluffy black hair and a face that seems almost too soft for the grit he has shown. Inupi reaches out, his hand hovering just inches above the boy’s bandaged forehead.

The confusion in his mind is a tangled knot. ‘Why? Why would someone he had never met risk an agonising death for him?’ This isn't just help, but a plunge into a raging furnace. There is a surge of gratitude so great it makes his eyes sting. Every breath he takes now feels borrowed, a gift from the boy currently bounded by a hospital gown. If not for this stranger, his life would end tonight as a lump of charcoal, or worse, a pile of ash buried by the ruble. He stares at the rise and fall of Takemichi’s chest, tracing the impossibility of the moment. The boy had reached into the jaws of a disaster for no reward, turning his certain end into a second chance he doesn't know what to do with now.

In the stillness, a quiet sound breaks the silence. “H-Hello?”

Inupi flinches, his hand jerking back as if scorched by the heat he just escaped. His heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs, the sound loud in the quiet ward. Takemichi’s eyes are open now, though they remain squinted and cloudy from the heavy haze of sleep. He shifts his head slightly on the pillow, the movement stiff.

“I-Is there something wrong on my face?” Takemichi speaks in a soft mumble, his voice thick and sluggish. He blinks slowly, trying to focus on the figure looming in the dark. “You’ve been staring for a while… I thought I was dreaming…”

Inupi freezes, the air catching in his throat. He feels exposed, a thief caught in the act.

“I… I didn’t mean to wake you,” he finally manages to whisper, the words barely carrying across the small gap between them. He looks down at his own bandaged hands, then back at the boy who ran into hell for him. “I just… I realised I didn't even know your name. I didn’t get a chance to say it before everything went dark...”

Takemichi blinks slowly, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re fine. You’re Inui-kun, right?”

“Inui Seishu, yes…” Inupi affirms, his voice trembling. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Don't worry about it, Inui-kun. I’m just happy I made it in time.”

“Call me Seishu… Both me and my sister are Inui… and there’s no need for honourifics…” Inupi sheepishly replies. Takemichi seems taken aback, but tries the name out, his voice a bit wobbly: “Oh… okay then... Seishu.”

“And you?” Seishu asks. “Koko mentioned you just ran in… like you knew what was going to happen. Who are you?”

Takemichi feels a cold sweat prickle. He can’t exactly explain the time-leaping. “I’m Hanagaki Takemichi,” he says, offering his name as if it is a shield. “I just… I happened to be nearby. I’m a bit of a crybaby, honestly, so I don’t know where that courage comes from…”

Seishu looks at him, and he really looks at him. He sees the sincerity in those blue eyes, though he doesn't believe the 'happened to be nearby' part for a second.

“Hanagaki Takemichi,” Seishu repeats, committing the name to memory like a sacred text. “I won’t forget what you did for me, Michi.”

Takemichi lets out a soft, huffed breath that might be a laugh if he weren't so exhausted. "Michi... nobody's ever called me that... It sounds... nice. A bit strange, but nice."

"It's because you're strange," Seishu says, his voice losing some of its tremor. He sits on the edge of the plastic chair Koko left behind, leaning closer into the pool of dim light surrounding Takemichi's bed. "Normal people run away from fires. They don't charge into them for people they don't even know… Why did you do it?"

Takemichi's gaze drifts to the ceiling. The fluorescent hum fills the silence for a long moment. "I don't really have a good answer, Seishu. I just knew that if I didn't move back then and there, I'd regret it for the rest of my life. I couldn't let it happen. Not again."

The 'again' hangs in the air, heavy and unexplained. Seishu narrows his eyes, sensing a history in the boy that contradicts his youthful face. "You talk like someone who's seen a lot of people getting hurt."

"Maybe," Takemichi whispers, his eyes sliding shut again. "But this time, I made it. That's all that matters."

Seishu watches him until his breathing evens out into sleep. He doesn't move back to his own bed for a long time. He stays in the chair, a silent guardian over the boy who had become his entire world in the span of a single heartbeat.

In the quiet of the ward, Seishu’s mind keeps circling back to those blue eyes. He has spent his life next to Koko, but this is a different experience all together. This is not a debt nor a favour. Instead, this feels rather sacred. Every time he looks at Takemichi, he sees the fire that should have consumed him, and the boy who simply decided it wouldn't.

Admiration isn't a strong enough word. It is more like a sinkhole. Seishu finds himself memorised by the way Takemichi’s hair curls, the way his voice sounds when it’s soft with sleep, and the sheer, baffling kindness that seems to radiate from him. He has never seen someone so soft act so invincible. He decides, right then, that his life no longer belongs to himself or even to his family’s name. It belongs to, or at least, is shared with the boy in the bed next to him. If Takemichi could reach through the flames for a stranger, Seishu would reach through anything for him.

The casual intimacy of the nickname makes Takemichi’s pulse stutter, a heat blooming in his chest that has nothing to do with the fire. He has crossed timelines and plenty of deaths to fix a shattered world, but looking into Seishu’s earnest gaze now, he realises he has done something far more dangerous than changing fate. He has kindled a devotion so absolute it borders on the divine, the reverence something formally belonging to Shinichirou that he isn’t ready to take as his own…

The transformation from the sterile white of the hospital to the world outside is jarring, the settling dusk acting as the backdrop. When the group finally steps through the sliding glass doors, the crisp afternoon air feels like a shock against their skin. The discharge process had been a blur of rustling paperwork and hushed consultations. The doctors had confirmed the fire was merciful in its aftermath. Akane would bear a localised burn on her arm, and Seishu walked away with little more than a faint, reddened patch along his waist. In this new life, no jagged scar would ever mar his face.

Koko walks a few paces ahead, his shoulders tense, his expression a complicated knot of bewilderment and simmering irritation. He had expected gratitude, perhaps even a life-long bond, but what he sees now is something he can't quite comprehend. Seishu is practically attached to Takemichi, his arm hooked tightly through the other boy's as if letting go would cause the world to tilt back into chaos. It is a level of intimacy that feels entirely too overwhelming for a stranger they had met only forty-eight hours prior.

"Time for dinner, maybe?" Koko breaks the silence, his tone clipped as he glances over his shoulder. "I'm starving, and if I have to look at another hospital tray, I'm going to lose my mind."

Takemichi offers a bright, slightly sheepish grin. "Oh, definitely! Hospital food tastes like cardboard with a side of sadness. I could eat anything as long as it isn't steamed to death."

Koko's eyes flick to Seishu, who hasn't moved an inch away from Takemichi’s side. The blonde’s hand is still curled around Takemichi’s sleeve, a possessive grip that Seishu doesn't even seem to realise he’m maintaining.

"What would you like, then, Takemichi?" Koko asks, narrowing his eyes. There’s a challenge in his voice, a demand for the stranger to acknowledge the situation he’s stepping into. "Since you’re the hero of the day, you get the first pick. But keep it realistic..."

Takemichi hums, tapping his chin as he looks around the street. "Hmmm... I don't really know. Everything looks good right now." He tilts his head toward his shadow, his smile softening. "Seishu, what do you suggest? You probably know the good spots around here better than I do."

The use of the given name, and the nickname 'Michi' that had been whispered in the ward makes Koko’s jaw tighten. Seishu doesn't hesitate, his voice dropping into that dreamy register that Koko never heard uttered out from his mouth.

"I'll have whatever you want, Michi," Seishu says softly, his voice like honey whilst his emerald eyes locks onto Takemichi's face. "It doesn't matter to me. As long as you're the one choosing, I'm sure it will be perfect."

Koko let out an audible "Urk", his face twisting in mock disgust, though a genuine streak of hurt flashes beneath the bravado. He feels like a third wheel in a friendship he built from the ground up, watching the friend he values most hand over his entire will to a boy who appeared out of the smoke.

As they settle into a booth at a family restaurant, Takemichi pokes at his ice water. "Since you guys can't go back home right now... why don't you come to Kamakura? My house isn't huge, but there's plenty of space. My mom is out of town, so it's quiet."

Seishu’s head snaps up. "Kamakura? Your home, Michi?"

Koko opens his mouth to protest, a staunch refusal already on the tip of his tongue, but he catches sight of Seishu’s face. It is a look of pure unadulterated longing, and said sheer intensity silences Koko more effectively than any argument could.

Akane, sitting across from them, adjusts the light bandage on her arm. She watches her brother and Takemichi with a knowing expression. "I think that’s a wonderful idea, Takemichi-kun," she says, her voice still a bit thin from the smoke. "Our parents are going to be busy with the insurance and the temporary housing in Yokohama, and I’ll be staying with them to help out. Seishu... he needs a break from all of this. He needs to be somewhere where the air doesn't smell like charcoal."

She reaches across the table, briefly touching Seishu’s hand. "Go to Kamakura, Seishu. I’ll keep in touch with you. And Takemichi-kun," she looks at the dark-haired boy with deep sincerity, "thank you for looking after him. I can see how much he trusts you already. It’s almost like you’ve known each other forever, isn't it?"

Koko realises the battle is lost. If he wants to keep Seishu by his side, he needs to go to Kamakura, now or never.

"Fine," Koko grumbles. "But I'm paying for the train tickets. And if the food in Kamakura isn't better than this, I'm never letting you hear the end of it."

Hanemiya Kazutora is convinced of one thing, that Takemichi is a gift. A birthday present delivered straight from the gods into his hollowed-out life.

For the last two days, his little place in Kamakura has been locked tight. Every hour that passed without a word from Takemichi felt like a weight pressing against Kazutora's chest. He had convinced himself, in those dark hours, that the "gift" had been revoked, that the universe had realised its mistake and snatched Takemichi away. Kazutora is a frayed wire by the third day, pacing the sidewalk with a erratic energy that verges on mania. His skin feels too tight, his thoughts a chaotic loop of ‘where is he, where is he, where is he’. He had finally found something that didn't hurt to hold onto, and the fear of losing it has left him raw.

When he finally sees a familiar mop of black hair in the distance, his world stops. For a moment, his peripheral vision blurs into white, leaving only the centre focused on the boy who makes the noise in his head go quiet. The initial flood of relief is so great it almost brings him to his knees. His breath hitches, a jagged sob of “he came back" catching in his throat, and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs with a joy that feels like it could break them.

But as the figure draws closer, the white at the edges of his vision clears, and the reality of the scene sharpens. The relief is instantaneously poisoned. Takemichi isn't alone. Takemichi isn't coming back to just him. It is quickly replaced by a burning surge that tastes like copper.

Takemichi is bringing intruders into their space… Takemichi isn’t alone…

A sunflower blonde boy is hooked onto Takemichi’s arm with a look of absolute admiration? No that is a look of adoration, a look Kazutora recognises because he sees it in the mirror every morning. Surely… Surely it can’t be...

Kazutora’s eyes fixate on the way the blonde’s fingers dig into Takemichi's jacket, and he feels the urge to tear them away. ‘This is supposed to be my place. My person.’

Behind them, another boy shoots lethal glares at the pair. Kazutora catches the look and, for a fleeting second, feels a ripple of relief. At least one of these interlopers seems just as miserable as he is. Seeing the black-haired boy stalking behind them, radiating a clear, sharp disdain for the physical closeness between Takemichi and the blonde, makes Kazutora feel slightly less alone in his simmering rage. It’s a bitter comfort, to see that the "miracle" hasn't quite extended its warmth to everyone.

Sitting on the couch later, Takemichi feels less like a host, more like a human wishbone. To his left, Kazutora is practically fused to his side. His fingers are constantly brushing against Takemichi’s arm with an anxious and incessant tethering. To his right, Seishu matches him beat for beat, his emerald gaze heavy with a stubborn claim that refuses to acknowledge Kazutora's existence.

Koko retreats to a single armchair in the corner, acting as a silent observer to a drama he never auditioned for. In just a single afternoon, a boy named Hanagaki Takemichi has walked in and set the entire thing he had with Seishu ablaze. Koko watches the silent war of glares over Takemichi’s head and lets out a dry, humourless breath.

"Inupi, you guys are acting pathetic," Koko mutters, his voice cutting through the heavy tension like a knife, though he doesn't look up from his hands. "It’s a sofa, not a throne. If you lean any closer, Hanagaki’s going to suffocate."

“I’m not suffocating,” Takemichi squeaks, his face turning a vibrant shade of pink as he tries to subtly shimmy for air. “It’s fine, Koko-kun! Really!”

“Stay still, Michi,” Seishu says, his voice like velvet, though his eyes remain fixed on Kazutora with cold hostility. “You shouldn’t strain your head. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“He can rest just fine without you acting like a human weighted blanket,” Kazutora snaps, his grip on Takemichi’s other arm tightening. He leans in closer, his bell earring jingling with the movement. “Take-no… Michi doesn’t need a stranger hovering over him. Right, Michi?”

“I... I mean...” Takemichi stammers, looking between the two intense gazes. “Maybe just a little space?”

Seishu ignores him, shifting closer instead. “I’m not a stranger. I’m the person he saved. That makes us connected. What are you to him? A neighbour?”

Kazutora’s eyes darken. “I’m the person he chose to stay with. I’m the one who's here first!”

Koko leans his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes to shut out the sight of his best friend looking at someone else with a kind of dulia he had never seen. He is a genius with numbers and a prodigy at reading people, yet he somehow find himself as a secondary character in a miracle he helped facilitate.

The roar of the CB250T cut through the afternoon silence of the residential district. Shinichirou barely had the kickstand down before Mikey is off the back, his boots hitting the pavement with a frantic thud. He didn't wait, nor did he look back. He’s a blur of blonde hair and desperation, his heart echoing the same frenzied beat that had driven him across the city since the news report.

"Manjirou! Wait up!" Shinichirou shouted, his own voice somewhat tight with a mix of exhaustion and hope, but his brother’s already halfway down the block.

Mikey's lungs burned, a contrast to the cold void he had felt for weeks. He remembered this street. In the timeline that haunted his dreams, this is where the journey began. He could almost see the ghost of an older, crying Takemitchy stumbling around these corners. He is so close. The fire, the "reckless bystander" the news mentioned, it had to be him. It is the only thing that made sense in a world that had been cruelly empty since the reset.

They reached the gate together, breathless. Mikey’s hands gripped the cold iron bars, his eyes darting immediately to the wooden nameplate. For a heartbeat, the world felt like it was standing still, suspended in a vacuum of agonising anticipation.

The name etched there is still [Hamakaki].

"Hamakaki..." Mikey whispered, his voice cracking. He looked up at the house. The grass on the yard is long and unkempt, the grass choking out the flowerbeds. The windows are dark, reflecting only the gray sky. It feels like losing Takemichi all over again, a repeat of the moment he woke up in this "perfect" world and realised the person who made it worth living is still missing. He’s so close, yet so far…

Shinichirou placed a heavy, grounding hand on Mikey's shoulder. "Manjirou... maybe you got the address wrong. Or maybe..."

"No," Mikey cut him off, his gaze hardening even as his eyes shimmered. "The fire. That reckless idiot... It has to be him, Shin... I know it has to be him."

He is standing on the threshold of a miracle, yet the door remained locked. He could imagine the warmth of the fire Takemichi had just walked through, could almost smell the smoke on the breeze, yet the boy himself remained a phantom.

He is so close he could feel it, but Takemichi has yet to be found, leaving nothing behind but the impossible lives he had saved and a trail of miracles that Mikey is always just a second too late to catch.

Squatting by the gate, Mikey pulled his knees to his chest, the cold of the stone wall seeping into his back. He stared at the dirt between his feet, wondering if he is simply chasing ghosts, a delusional boy yearning for a saviour who might not even remember his name in this life. "Hey, Shin-nii," he murmured, his voice sounding small against the hum of the city. "When do I get to see him? When is it finally my turn?" He looked up at the dark sky, half-hoping for an answer and half-terrified of one. Any concrete date, any "not yet" felt like a weight he wasn't strong enough to carry.

Silence is a burden, but a definite 'no’ would be his end.

Koko had left soon after dinner. Despite his sharp protests and the visible ache of leaving Seishu behind, the reality of his own life remained inescapable. He still had a family waiting for him, and a house that hadn't been reduced to cinders. He had hovered at the door for ten minutes, adjusting his collar and shooting lethal glares at Takemichi, before finally relenting. Takemichi had laughed at the familiar grumblings Koko gave when he snapped out a parting, "See you later, Hanagaki”, a habit the boy seemed unable to shake, even across the different timelines.

With Koko gone, the living room feels larger and significantly more quiet, though the air remains thick with the tension between the two boys still blended into Takemichi's sides. The TV hums in the background, a low drone of evening news that nobody is actually watching.

“So…” Takemichi starts, his voice trailing off as he feels the two intense gazes converging on him. He shifts uncomfortably, the silence between Kazutora and Seishu feeling like a physical pressure against his chest. “Kazutora… Are you going to leave tonight? You probably won’t, right? Since the last train is the one Koko’s taking...”

Kazutora doesn't even blink, his hand tightening slightly on Takemichi’s sleeve. “Yeah, I’m staying tonight. And the night after that. And the one after that, if I have to.” He turns his head slowly, shooting a jagged, defensive glare toward Seishu. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

He points a harsh finger toward Seishu, his expression twisted with a possessiveness that verges on desperation. “He’s a stray, Michi. You don’t know what he wants. I’m the one who actually belongs here.”

Seishu doesn't flinch. He meets Kazutora’s heat with a cold, glassy stare that makes the room feel several degrees colder. “I want exactly what you want, Hanemiya. To ensure he’s safe. The only difference is, I’m the one who owes him my life. That’s a bond you’ll never understand.”

Takemichi lets out a soft, helpless sigh, looking between the two of them. It’s like being caught between a forest fire and a glacier, and he’s starting to realise that the peace he sought in this timeline is going to be a very complicated thing to maintain. Takemichi doesn't need a horoscope nor a microscope to see the trouble he's in.

With the two boys practically grafted to his sides, Takemichi eventually abandons all hope of reaching the privacy of his own bed. The mere suggestion of moving to his room had triggered a high-stakes standoff. Kazutora’s grip had tightened into a mistake-like pressure, while Seishu’s eyes had narrowed with a lethal resolve that suggested he wouldn't let Takemichi out of his sight for even a second.

Resigned to his fate, Takemichi begins to clear the centre of the living room floor. He drags out the heavy, oversized tatami mats from the closet, laying them out in a single, wide expanse. He had briefly considered setting up three separate mats, giving everyone their own designated space. However, one look at the way Kazutora is already hovering at the edge of the first mat, his shadow overlapping Takemichi’s, told him it would be a fruitless effort. They would only migrate toward him in the night anyway, driven by their respective brands of attachment.

He lays out the thick futon, smoothing them over the straw mats with a lingering defeat. As they finally settle down, Takemichi finds himself sandwiched in the middle of the wide mattress. To his left, Kazutora curls into a tight, protective ball, his forehead resting against Takemichi’s shoulder as if checking for a heartbeat. To his right, Seishu lies perfectly still, his back straight and his presence a cool and unwavering hold, his hand resting just inches from Takemichi’s own.

Takemichi stares up at the ceiling, listening to the synchronized rhythm of their breathing. The darkness of the room feels heavy, pressing against his chest. He can feel the gentle warmth radiating off Kazutora together with the steady cool presence of Seishu. It’s too much. It’s entirely too much for one person to handle.

“Hey,” Takemichi whispers, his voice cracking the silence. He doesn't move, afraid that even a slight shift will trigger another round of territorial posturing. “You guys... you can’t keep doing this.”

He feels Kazutora stiffen against his shoulder. Seishu doesn’t move, but his breathing hitches, a tiny tell in the dark.

“Doing what?” Kazutora mumbles, his voice muffled by Takemichi’s shirt. He sounds small, stripped of the bravado he used against Seishu earlier.

“Acting like I’m going to vanish if you look away for a second,” Takemichi says, his gaze fixed on a faint patch of moonlight on the ceiling. “I’m grateful that you care, I really am. But it’s like... you’re both trying to claim a piece of me that isn’t for sale. Seishu, you don't owe me your entire existence just because of the fire. And Kazutora... I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to fight everyone who walks through the door.”

Seishu’s voice comes from the right, low and startlingly clear. “It’s not about a debt, Michi. Not anymore. When you ran into that house, you didn’t just save my body. You became a reason for me to believe in something, you know… In you... How am I supposed to just... walk away from that?”

“And I’m not fighting everyone,” Kazutora adds, his fingers curling tighter into Takemichi’s sleeve. “I’m just... I’ve never had something good that’s mine that didn’t get broken or taken away. You’re the only person who looked at me and didn’t see a problem to be solved. I can’t let that get taken too.”

Takemichi feels a lump form in his throat. He had come back to fix their futures, to give them lives where they weren't haunted by blood and grief. But in doing so, he had accidentally made himself the center of their worlds. He had replaced their tragedies with a singular, overwhelming obsession: himself.

“I’m just a guy,” Takemichi says softly, a sad smile touching his lips in the dark. “I’m clumsy, I cry too much, and I’m definitely not a god. You guys... you need to find something in yourselves to hold onto. Not just me.”

Silence follows, thick and contemplative. Neither boy lets go. It’s no longer the sharp, jagged edge of a fight, but instead the heavy humidity of a confession. Takemichi feels the way Kazutora’s hand trembles against his arm and the way Seishu’s fingers have gone intertwined with his own. They aren't just clinging to a hero. They are clinging to the only person who makes them feel like they aren't ghosts.

“If you both want to stay,” Takemichi says, his voice taking on a rare edge of authority, “then you have to stop the fighting. I can’t be the rope in a tug-of-war. If you can’t stand to be in the same room without glaring, then neither of you stays. Do you understand?”

A silence immediately follows. He can feel them both processing the statement. Kazutora is the first to speak, his voice trembling but defiant. “I won’t leave. If I have to... if I have to put up with him to be near you, I’ll do it.” Seishu’s respond soon after. “If your wish is for peace in this house, then there will be peace. I will tolerate hi-.”

“It’s not ‘tolerating’,” Takemichi corrects gently. “It’s sharing. Can you do that? Can you share? Please?”

He feels Kazutora’s head move against his shoulder, a small, begrudging nod. On his other side, Seishu’s fingers twitch against his palm before settling into a firm, accepting grip.

“Fine,” Kazutora mutters, though his eyes are still closed tight. “We’ll share.”

“For you, Michi,” Seishu echoes.

Takemichi lets out a long shaky breath, finally closing his own eyes. He had spent so many lifetimes running, screaming, and fighting to be heard. Now, he is surrounded by a profound silence it feels like a physical embrace. He feels the heat of their feelings, the feeling of Kazutora’s frantic adoration and Seishu’s devastating admiration.

He realises, sort of, that he can't fix them by pushing them away. He can only fix them by letting them in.

“Okay,” Takemichi whispers, his hands moving, one to rest on Kazutora’s head, the other to lace his fingers properly with Seishu’s. “I hear you. Both of you. I’m not going to tell you to stop feeling like this anymore.”

Kazutora’s breath hitches. Seishu’s grip tightens.

In the dark, Takemichi’s thoughts drift. This ‘new relationship’... it isn't like anything he’s ever known. It isn't the singular bond he had with Hina. It’s a messy, overlapping web of two boys (for now, Takemichi feels himself shudder at the thought of more…) who have decided that he is the only glue strong enough to hold them together. It’s terrifying in a way. He is their hero, their miracle, and now probably one’s home. But as he listens to their breathing finally even out into sleep, the weight doesn't feel like a burden. It feels like a promise. For the first time, he isn't just saving them for the future. He’s saving them for now.

He drifts off with that thought, that maybe, in this timeline, the hero doesn't have to be alone.

In the morning light that eventually filters through the curtains, the scene is one of unexpected, domestic softness. The three of them are a tangled knot of limbs and blankets, the fierce competition of the previous night replaced by a sleepy, comfortable haze. Kazutora has somehow migrated so that his head is pillowed on Takemichi’s chest, his expression finally smoothed of its jagged edges. Seishu is curled close to Takemichi’s side, his chin hooked over the boy's shoulder, his breathing deep and peaceful.

Takemichi wakes up first, blinking against the gentle sunlight. He feels the weight of them, heavy, warm, and present. He doesn't move, afraid to break the equilibrium they’ve found. For the first time in any timeline, he doesn't feel like a hero on a mission or a boy on the run. He feels like a centre. He feels like he's finally found a place where he can just be.

He carefully reaches out, stroking Kazutora’s messy hair with one hand and brushing a loose strand from Seishu’s forehead with the other. The two boys stir in their sleep, unconsciously leaning into his touch, murmuring soft, unintelligible sounds of contentment.

"It’s okay…" Takemichi whispers to the quiet room, a genuine, happy smile finally spreading across his face. "We’re okay..."

And as Kamakura begins to wake up around them, the hero and his shadows remain in their bubble, finally sharing the light that had once threatened to burn them all, but now only serves to keep them warm.

Chapter Text

The sun had climbed higher over Kamakura, its light filtering through the curtains in pale, dusty slats, but the quiet inside the room remains. Outside, the city is slowly waking up with the distant hum of a morning bus. And Takemichi, too, is waking up.

He had not open his eyes immediately. Instead, he lays there, staring at the underside of his eyelids where the gold of the morning seeped through. He felt the weight of arms wrapped around his body, a tangled heat that fixed him to the futon. Slowly, he started to sync his pulse to the steady breathing of the boys beside him, letting his mind drift back into the perception of his surroundings.

The haze of sleep began to thin towards awareness, and that’s when the specifics of their closeness became clear. Beneath the hem of his cardigan, right up to the dip of his navel, he could feel the light pressure of a finger. Above it, a broad palm rested heavily over his stomach, rising and falling as Takemichi hitched his breathe. On the other side, as he instinctively move to rub the sleep from his eyes, his knuckles brushed against a familiar weight that draped across his chest, the protrusion that’s of a wrist resting there, possessive even in slumber. It is messy, but surprisingly not suffocating sort of comfort for Takemichi, though he finds himself pinned between their bodies, draped in pajamas.

Shock isn't quite the right word for the way his heart stutters against his ribs, it’s something more disorienting than eye-opening. He isn't a stranger to this kind of skinship, but this is the first time fate has pulled him in with these two. The novelty of it tastes like honey in the back of his throat, thick, sweet, and slightly cloying. It’s a sort of sweetness that makes him want to swallow back a sob or a laugh, though he isn't sure which.

The realisation that he doesn't find this weird, that his body has already accepted the rhythm of their breathing as its own, leaves him pleasantly disturbed. It's as if a part of him, tired of the constant running and the lonely leaps through time, has finally decided to settle into the present, even if this heat is from a collision he never saw coming.

Then, after what feels like hours suspended in that amber-thick peace, Takemichi’s logic finally clicks into place, the gears in his head grinding like a rusted timepiece.

The warmth isn't just ambient, it’s deliberate. The weight isn't just gravity, it’s them.

He is in a love-in, an actual, honest-to-god love-in between two people who, in any other life, might have been the ones to break him.

‘Gosh…’, his mind stutters, the realisation flushing hot and prickling across his skin. He’ve spent so long trying to save their lives that he never paused to wonder what he’d do once he actually had to live them.

Every time he tries to shift his weight, to perhaps slide just a little toward the edge of the futon, the grip on him only seems to tighten. Kazutora mumbles something low and incoherent into the corner of his shoulder, a puff of warm air that sends a fresh wave of embarrassment straight to Takemichi's extremities. On his other side, Seishu’s hand, still splayed across his stomach, flexes slightly, fingers curling as if to keep him down even in sleep.

He feels like a bird trapped in its cage, but the cage is made of soft cotton and the steady hum of two hearts. His face is burning, a vivid red hue that he’s sure would be visible from space like a beacon. It’s too much for him. The domesticity of it, the intimacy of seeing their sleep-muddled faces so close to his own. He tries to take a deep gulp of air, only to find himself inhaling the scent of the shared soap and the lingering salt of the ocean breeze from the day before.

It’s blissful. It’s peaceful. It’s the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to him thus far.

He manages to wiggle a knee upward, trying to create enough leverage to slip out from under the heavy arms draped over his waist and chest, but his pajama pants snag against the fabric of the futon. The resulting rustle feels all-deafening in the quiet room.

Takemichi freezes, his breath catching in his throat, eyes darting between the two sleeping forms. ‘Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up’, he prays inside his head, even as a small, traitorous part of him wonders if it would be so bad to just stay here, pinned down and warm.

In the back of his mind, buried under layers of different timelines together with the mounting hysteria of his blush, a certain memory resurfaced all of a sudden. It’s a memory of Chifuyu’s apartment, specifically the uncountable amounts of manga that his partner would lend him with a knowing smirk.

He remembers a particular term Chifuyu had laughed about, one involving a protagonist surrounded by a dizzying collection of admirers, crushes and even suitors: a ‘Harem’.

Back then, Takemichi had just shook his head, too busy worrying about preventing deaths to care about fictional tropes.

He wouldn't say he’s in one now. He isn't the type of person who can confidently confirm something so absurd, so... main character like that. But as he feels Kazutora’s nose brush against his neck and hears the soft click of Seishu’s jaw settling closer to his ear, the two creeping surprisingly closer and closer, he can’t deny the evidence. Between the possessive weight of Kazutora and the quiet, fierce gravity of Seishu, it’s getting more and more like the very thing he’d once laughed off as impossible.

‘Gosh…’, he thinks once more, his heart doing a frantic little dance, what on earth has he gotten himself into this time?

“You two are awake already… Stop pretending...”

Takemichi’s voice is soft, little more than a breathless whisper that barely carries in the quiet room, but the effect is instantaneous. He’s staring straight ahead at the sunlight on the wall, but he can feel the shift, in the way that the steady breathing of a moment ago falters just a fraction too early.

Beneath the crook of his neck, where their heads are nestled with a terrifying degree of synchronised possessiveness, he catches the telltale twitch of a brow. Kazutora’s eyelashes flutter against his skin, a ticklish, butterfly-wing sensation that makes Takemichi want to squirm out loud, and he feels the hand on his stomach, Seishu’s hand, tense its clasp for a fleeting second before going lax again. They’re still keeping their eyes shut, still trying to cling to the charade of sleep, but the ruse is falling apart under the weight of his callout.

“I mean it,” Takemichi mutters, his face flaming as he realises they’ve likely been conscious of every pathetic wiggle he’ve made for the last five minutes. “I can feel you both breathing. It’s... it’s embarrassing, so just open your eyes.”

After Takemichi’s statement, a silence follows, the kind where everyone is waiting for someone else to break first. Then, Kazutora lets out a long, exaggeratedly pained groan, burying his face deeper into the pillow beneath Takemichi’s head.

“You’re so mean, Michi,” Kazutora’s voice comes out muffled, thick with the staged disappointment of a caught child. “We were having such a nice dream. Why’d you have to go and ruin it by being so observant?”

On the other side, Seishu doesn’t move his hand, but he does let his eyes slide open, just a sliver at first, cool and sharp against the morning light. He looks remarkably unbothered for someone who was just caught faking sleep, though there’s a slight, traitorous heat high on his cheekbones.

“It was Kazutora’s idea,” Seishu says calmly, throwing his opposite under the metaphorical bus, voice low that Takemichi feels in his own chest. “He said if we stayed still long enough, you’d eventually stop panicking and fall back asleep.”

“I’m not panicking!” Takemichi squeaks, though the way his pulse is currently hammering against Seishu’s palm suggests otherwise.

“You are vibrating.” Kazutora counters, lifting his head to peer at Takemichi with a lopsided, sleepy grin. His hair is a mess of black, splayed out over the futon like a halo of chaos. “Like a little phone on silent mode. Bzz-bzz-bzz. It was actually kind of cute, seeing how hard you're trying to be sneaky.”

“I just wanted to get up!” Takemichi tries to pull his hands up to cover his face, but he’ve still effectively pinned. “You guys are the worst. How long were you even awake?”

“Long enough to hear you start thinking,” Kazutora teases, his eyes crinkling as he leans in, his nose brushing against Takemichi’s burning cheek. “You get this specific look when your brain starts doing loops. Is your face always this hot in the morning, or are we just that special?”

Seishu lets out a breath that might have been a laugh if he is a more expressive man. His thumb begins that slow stroking again, right over Takemichi’s navel. “He’s practically glowing, Kazutora. I think we’ve overstimulated him.”

“No kidding,” Kazutora hums, his voice dropping an octave as he watches the way Takemichi’s eyes dart around, looking for any escape that isn't guarded by one of them. “Look at him. He looks like he’s about to burst into bubbles. Are you okay, Michi? Or do we need to hold onto you even tighter so you don't float away?”

“Don't you dare!” Takemichi cries out, though it sounds more like a plea than a threat. “Just let me go! I have to... I need to go make breakfast! Or literally anything that isn't being teased by you two!”

“Breakfast can wait,” Seishu murmurs, his gaze settling on Takemichi with a quiet, terrifyingly sincere intensity.

“Yeah, Michi,” Kazutora adds, his grin turning more predatory, though it’s softened by the lingering lethargy of sleep. “It’s just us. And you haven't even said good morning yet.”

Takemichi feels his brain short-circuiting. The proximity, the combination of their gazes, and the sheer overwhelming influx of the moment are too much to handle head-on. He tries to pivot, in great need for a lifeline, his eyes wide as he looks between the two of them.

“I-I just... I’m surprised you two are getting along so well,” Takemichi stammers, reaching for a topic that feels safer, even if it’s just as loaded. “I mean, I knew things are better, but you’re practically... well, you’re working together. Since when did you two get so close? It’s almost scary.”

Kazutora lets out a low, humming laugh, the sound vibrating against Takemichi’s shoulder. He doesn’t quite pull away. If anything, he uses the moment to settle even deeper into the futon, his arm a solid, unyielding band around Takemichi’s waist. He exchanges a brief, knowing look with Seishu over the top of Takemichi’s head.

“Scary?” Kazutora repeats, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “We’re just following your instructions, Michi. Don’t you remember what you told us?”

Takemichi blinks, confused. “What I told you?”

Seishu is the one who answers, his voice steady and devoid of its usual sharp edge. He leans in just a fraction closer, his breath ghosting over Takemichi’s forehead. “You told us that it’s better to share.”

“And you are correct,” Seishu continues, his thumb finally stopping its motion to rest firmly against Takemichi’s skin. “Sharing is much more efficient, especially when it is you.”

“I’m not…!” Takemichi protests but he trails off, doesn’t know what he’s protesting exactly, his face reaching a new, impossible shade of scarlet.

“A pleasant one? That’s where you are wrong,” Kazutora corrects, his grin widening as he watches Takemichi’s resolve crumble. “We both sort of ‘realised’, if we fought over you, we’d both just end up miserable. But if we cooperate... Well, then we get to stay like this. And honestly, Michi, you’re the one who taught us that the best things in life are the ones we don't have to keep all to ourselves.”

Takemichi groans, his head thumping back against the pillow as he register he’ve been hoisted by his own petard. His own advice about unity and emotional honesty has been weaponised against him in the most affectionate way possible.

“I really need to stop giving people advice.” Takemichi sighed, his heart full and his pride utterly shattered.

“Too late,” Seishu murmurs, and this time, the smile on his face is unmistakable. “We learn from the best~”

Aside from the puzzle that was ‘finding Kazutora at the arcade where Keisuke met him’, Mikey’s mission to save his friends has been progressing smoothly. He has already re-established contact with Draken and Mitsuya, threading himself back into their lives. It is a strange and hollow feeling, mimicking the boy he used to be, wearing the skin of his childhood self while his mind remains in the wreckage of his future. He performs the role of the Invincible Mikey with a familiar and practised ease, fitting into the memory of his own past as if it’s a costume that had grown slightly too small.

He spends his days navigating the familiar streets of Tokyo, the sights and sounds triggering echoes of timelines he’ve tried to bury. He is a ghost haunting his own life now, careful not to let the weight of his knowledge crack the porcelain mask. The mission is everything; the goal is the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the grey space of his own regrets. He tells himself it’s going fine, that the pieces are falling into place just as they should, even if the silence in his head when he’s alone is louder than it ever was before.

However, as if the centre piece to this puzzle is missing, his failure to find Takemichi still leaves a gaping hole in the life he’s putting together. It’s supposed to be an illogical ache, a phantom limb syndrome of the soul. In any of the timeline, at this specific age, Mikey shouldn’t even know the name Hanagaki Takemichi. Logically, the boy has no impact on his childhood, no seat at the dinner table at the Dojo, no memory in the shared history of Toman’s soon-to-be founding. He is a stranger Mikey only met years from now, in a dusty and empty lot for a street fight that shouldn't happen for a long time.

Yet, the vacancy is so material. Mikey finds himself scanning crowds for a puff of messy truffle hair that hasn't been dyed yet, listening for a voice that hasn't yet learned how to cry. It’s a quiet, gnawing hunger while he has gathered his old friends like scattered beads on a string, the string itself is missing. Takemichi is not part of his past, but he is the entire foundation of his sanity in the future. Without him here, the peace Mikey has engineered feels wobbly, a house built on shifting sand.

He is saving everyone, but without the one person who saved him, Mikey feels nothing like a saviour or hero. He’s simply standing alone among the relics of people who don't know they were ever lost.

Perhaps that’s what is causing his sudden dip in energy lately. Roaming the streets with Draken, Mitsuya, Pah, and the rest of the lot, Mikey has spent most of his time cruising aimlessly on his Street Hawk. He finds himself looping through Shibuya, ‘occasionally’ passing the street where Takemichi’s home is supposed to be everyday, searching for a sign of life that shouldn't matter to him.

After another morning of fruitless searching, the restlessness in his chest reached a boiling point. Mikey dispatched his trusted aide, Ken-chin, to go fetch dorayaki. Handing him enough money for a dozen, an act he’d picked up from Koko’s habits in the future where money’s the only language spoken, he effectively cleared the room. Draken and Mitsuya both left the Sano Dojo, though they did so begrudgingly, leaving Mikey to sink back into the heavy, hollow silence of his own thoughts.

The roar of their engines provided the only soundtrack for the ride down to Harajuku. Draken led the way, his tall frame cutting a familiar silhouette against the morning traffic, while Mitsuya followed closely on his heels. The air was crisp, biting at their faces, but neither of them seemed to mind.

They pulled up near the shopping district, the chrome of their bikes gleaming under the sun. As they kicked down the stands, Draken reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick wad of cash Mikey had shoved into his hand earlier. He stared at it for a long second, his brow furrowed.

"He's being weird again, isn't he?" Mitsuya asked, pulling his helmet off and shaking out his hair. He leaned against his bike, watching Draken count the bills.

"Beyond weird," Draken grunted, stuffing the money back into his jacket. "He didn't even blink when he handed this over. Just told me to get a dozen and 'don't hurry back.' Since when does Mikey care about the change? He usually just raids my wallet."

Mitsuya hummed, his expression thoughtful. "It’s not just the money. It’s the way he’s looking at us lately. Like he’s trying to memorise where our moles are or something. And that arcade thing with Baji? I don’t even know what he’s mad about when he got back... Something about ‘not finding someone’…"

"He's acting like he's bored, but he's also acting like he's... I don't know, fixated? or haunted?" Draken admitted, his voice dropping as they began to walk toward the shop. "He's in that thing again, Mitsuya. The thing where he smiles but his eyes are just... flat. Empty."

"He's looking for someone," Mitsuya said, his voice certain. "Every time we're out, he's scanning the sidewalks. I saw him loop through that one block three times yesterday. There's nothing there but houses and a convenience store."

Draken sighed, the sound heavy with the responsibility of being the 'heart' to Mikey’s 'head.' "If he's looking for someone, why doesn't he just tell us? We're his friends. We could find anyone in this city in an hour."

"Maybe he doesn't want us to find them," Mitsuya suggested quietly. "Maybe he thinks he's the only one who's supposed to."

They reached the dorayaki stand, the sweet scent of red bean filling the air. For a moment, the tension eased as they placed the order, but as they waited, Draken’s gaze drifted back toward the direction of the Dojo.

"I don't like it," Draken muttered. "He's getting too quiet. And when Mikey gets quiet, something bad usually happens, or just get destroyed."

"Let's just get him his sugar," Mitsuya said, patting Draken’s shoulder. "Maybe a dozen dorayaki will bring back the brat we actually know. If he keeps acting like an alien with sense, I'm going to start getting worried."

Draken gave a sharp, appreciative nod. "Yeah. Let's get the snacks and get back. If he’s still staring at the wall when we return, I’m dragging him out for a real fight."

The two took their place in the queue at the popular dorayaki shop. It is a typical Harajuku crowd, a few adults with children in tow, looking to buy a handful of treats before they returns home. But just ahead of them, two teenagers stood close together, their heads bowed in an easy and intimate conversation that felt strangely out of place in the bustle of the street. One had a mop of unruly, soft-looking black curls, the other wore a distinctive bell earring that chimed softly with every tilt of his head.

“…I just noticed, when did you get that bell as an earring?” the one with the fluffy hair asked, his voice bright and with curiosity as he reached out to give the metal a playful flick.

“Oh, this…?” The boy with the earring tilted his head, the sound of the chime clear and sweet. He leaned in closer to his friend, his voice dropping into a tone that was thick and smooth, almost like warm caramel. “I got it off an old friend. He’s a thing of the past now, Michi… Especially now that I have you to keep me busy.”

Draken and Mitsuya stood just a few feet back, the conversation washing over them. They both felt an odd sense of intrusion, watching the two in front interact with tenderness, an unabashedly "lovey-dovey" display that left the two feeling unexpectedly out of their element.

“I should get an earring too, Mitsuya,” Draken spoke up, his own voice breaking the spell of their eavesdropping as he turned to his friend. “Maybe it’d make me look less like I’m about to punch a hole in the wall.”

Mitsuya let out a soft snort, his eyes lingering on the two boys ahead for a split second longer before focusing on Draken. “Maybe, maybe. Those short studs? Or maybe a pair of silver rings. Those look nice on tall guys. Though with your tattoo, people might think you’re actually a yakuza in training.”

Draken grinned, the dark mood from earlier lifting just a fraction. But even as they joked about jewelry, his mind kept snagging on the name the fluffy-haired boy had been called. ‘Michi’. It sounded like a name Mikey would have fixated on, clunky, traditional, and yet oddly soft.

That was when Draken noticed the one called ‘Michi’ glancing back over his shoulder. The boy’s eyes. wide, blue, and strangely expressive, locked onto his own for a fraction of a second. In that heartbeat, the boy’s entire face transformed. It wasn't just surprise, it was the look of someone staring directly at a ghost. The colour drained from his cheeks, leaving him pale as his breath hitched audibly.

As soon as this ‘Michi’ spotted Draken's inquisitive gaze however, he seemed to recover in an instance. He practically tripped over his own words, his voice jumping an octave as he blurted out, “A-A pair of rings! Silver ones! They would look really good with... with you! And your ponytail, it’d match perfectly! It’s a great look!”

The sheer randomness of the compliment, directed at a complete stranger, made Draken blink. He raised a hand to the back of his neck, feeling a rare moment of genuine confusion. “Uh... thanks? I guess?”

“Yeah, I know, right?” Mitsuya chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips as he nudged Draken. He looked at the frantic boy with an amused, knowing glint. “Told you the ponytail is the key, Ken-chin. Even the random shopper in Harajuku agree.”

‘Michi’ offered a shaky, terrified smile, but before they could say another word, he grabbed the boy with the bell earring by the sleeve and began steering him away into the crowd. “We have to go! Great talk! B-Bye!”

Draken watched them disappear into the sea of shoppers, his brow furrowed. “That kid... he looked like he was about to faint. Do I really look that scary today?”

“Nah,” Mitsuya laughed, picking up their order from the counter. “I think he just has good taste. Come on, let’s go buy these dorayaki and return to Mikey before he starts eating the furniture. These two leaving give us a chance to get more for the gremlin at home…”

What had started as a mundane morning in Kamakura had turned head over heels in a single heartbeat. The adrenaline still hums through Takemichi’s veins, his fingertips tingle as he dragged Kazutora frantically through the Harajuku crowd.

He had spent the last few months cocooned in the quiet salt-air peace of Kamakura, a place that felt permanently detached from the chaos of his future memories, but that peace is with an expiration date.

His mother’s job transfer is official now, and the move closer to the heart of Tokyo is inevitable. While leaving the coast behind is certainly regrettable, Takemichi couldn't suppress the anticipation in his chest. Tokyo was where the story truly began. It was the stage for every tragedy he had to prevent, and every friendship he is desperate to protect. He is looking forward to the move in a few months, even if the prospect of being so close to the epicentre of Toman felt like walking into a storm.

“Hey, slow down, Michi!” Kazutora laughed, though he didn't resist the pull on his sleeve. He is looking at Takemichi with that same mix of amusement and curiosity he’d worn since they left the dorayaki shop. “You’re acting like we are escaping a crime scene. They are just two guys getting snacks.”

“You don't understand,” Takemichi hissed, finally slowing his pace as they reached a relatively quiet side street. He leaned against a brick wall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Those weren't just ‘two guys.’ Those were... those were Draken and Mitsuya.”

The names felt heavy on his tongue, and those names shouldn't be intersecting with his current reality just yet. He had brought Kazutora along to check out Harajuku on a whim, an unplanned hangout to clear their heads. Seishu had returned to Akane and Koko just a few days prior, and the memory of their parting still sat uncomfortably in Takemichi's mind.

He could see the look on Seishu’s face as they separated even now, one that makes Takemichi's heart ache. And then there was Koko. Kokonoi Hajime had spent the entire duration of the visit sending glares so hostile Takemichi felt like he’ve been shot at. He’d need to find a way to get closer to Koko in the coming months, to prove he isn’t a threat to their relationship...

At least one thing had changed for the better. During those few days in Kamakura, Koko had finally stopped addressing him with the formal ‘Hanagaki.’ Hearing his first name, 'Takemichi' slip from Koko’s lips had felt like a small, hard-won victory. It’s a bridge built, a sign that the walls would be coming down soon.

“Draken and Mitsuya?” Kazutora repeated, tilting his head so the bell chimed again. He leaned against the wall next to Takemichi, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the information. “You’re speaking as if I know who they are…”

Kazutora trailed off, his expression shifting away from the playful curiosity. He looked at Takemichi, really looked at him, searching for the crack in the façade. “You… know them, don’t you? You know them the same way you knew about me... You have the same look you looked at me when we first met by the arcade…”

Takemichi looked away, unable to meet that penetrating stare from his yellow eyes. How could he explain that he had seen Draken die in his arms? That he had seen Mitsuya’s funeral in timelines where everything else was burning?

Kazutora stayed silent for a long moment, the only sound between them the distant rumble of the Tokyo traffic. He reached out, his fingers catching a lock of Takemichi's messy dark hair and tugging it gently.

“You’re a terrible liar, Michi,” Kazutora murmured, his voice lacking its usual edge of mockery. “I know you’re trying to make up some reason, but if you’re not ready to say it, I won’t push. Just know that if those two ever try to take you away, they’re going to have to go through me first.”

Takemichi felt a lump form in his throat. This Kazutora, this version is a fiercer protector than he could have ever hoped for. Perhaps a half-truth could suffice? “Kamakura won’t last forever. My mom... we’re moving back here soon. To Shibuya.”

The admission felt like a surrender.

“Then we’ll just have to make Shibuya ours,” Kazutora countered easily, a smirk returning to his face. “Besides, Me, Seishu and Koko are already here. It’ll be like a reunion every day. Imagine the look on Koko’s face when he has to see you at the convenience store every morning.”

Takemichi couldn’t help it, he let out a weak, watery laugh. “He’d probably try to buy the store just to ban me from seeing Seishu.”

“Exactly,” Kazutora grinned. He pulled Takemichi away from the wall, steering him back toward the main road. “Come on. No more running into ghosts today. Let’s find something to eat that isn't dorayaki. I’ve had enough sugar to last me a lifetime at your home.”

As they walked, Takemichi cast one last glance back toward the street where Draken and Mitsuya had been. He knew the peace of the last few months is coming to a close. Mikey would be out there, and if he meets a Mikey that doesn’t know of him, he might just breakdown and cry on the spot.

But as he felt Kazutora’s hand rest heavily on his shoulder, Takemichi is reminded of a promise he made to himself, to live in a way that made these moments, the laughter, the shared sleeps, the petty arguments, permanent.

“Hey, Kazutora?” Takemichi called out as they merged back into the crowd.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For... you know. Everything.”

Kazutora didn't look back, but the chime of his bell is cheerful as he waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t get sappy on me, Michi. I thought you don’t like it when I get all sappy with Seishu.”

Back at the Sano Dojo, Mikey lies in his usual spot, his back against the floor, legs splayed out in a posture that screamed boredom. Beside him, Baji is aggressively failing to win his game of checkers with Haruchiyo. Every time Haruchiyo made a move, Baji lets out a guttural noise of frustration, his teeth bared. Haruchiyo didn't even look up, his eyes focused just as a smug appears off the corner of his mouth, him enjoying the slaughter.

"I swear you're cheating," Baji hissed, slamming a piece down on the squares. "There's no way you saw that coming!"

Haruchiyo didn't respond with words, he just reached out with two fingers and flicked Baji's pieces off the board entirely.

"And that’s game! Checkmate!" Mikey drawled from the floor, not even opening his eyes.

"It's not even chess, Mikey!" Baji yelled, throwing his remaining piece into the corner. "It's some weird logic game Haru made up where I lose every time!"

Mikey’s stomach gave an audible, cavernous growl, cutting through Baji's tantrum. He let out a theatrical groan, his head thumping against the polished wood.

"They're taking too long… Too loooong…" Mikey complained, his voice echoing in the empty training hall. "How long does it take to buy sugar and bean paste?"

"Shut up, Mikey," Baji muttered, finally giving up on the slate and reaching up to fix his hair. He gathered the long black strands, but his fingers were still shaky from the adrenaline of the game. He struggled, getting the elastic tangled until his hair looked like it had survived a hurricane. "You're the one who gave them enough money to buy the whole shop. They're probably waiting for a fresh batch."

From the main house, the sounds of domesticity drifted in. Shinichirou had finally closed his new bike shop for the evening, and the clatter of pans and the hum of a radio suggested he is helping Emma prepare dinner. Today, that just made the sugar draught in Mikey’s head feel even more painful.

The sliding door to the dojo suddenly rattled and flew open. Mikey perked up instantly, his eyes locked as he saw the silhouettes of his dispatched friends. Mitsuya walked in first, swinging a white paper bag with ease, while Draken trailed behind, his expression remarkably less grumpy than when he had left.

“Hmm… I’m now convinced a pair of rings would go better than studs,” Draken said, his voice carrying a note of genuine contemplation that made Mikey blink.

“Hear, hear~” Mitsuya replied with a smirk. He didn't even stop walking as he tossed the heavy bag toward Mikey. Mikey caught it with one hand, the warmth of the fresh dorayaki seeping through the paper.

“Speaking of…” Mitsuya paused, turning back toward Draken as they approached the center of the mats. They seemed to have forgotten the others were even there for a second, caught in a loop of their own conversation.

“Mikey,” Mitsuya said, finally looking down at the blonde boy who was already tearing into the first pastry. “Do you think Ken should get a pair of silver rings or a stud? We just met a kid with really good taste who was very adamant about the rings.”

Mikey paused, a piece of dorayaki hanging from his mouth. His eyes darted to Draken, then back to Mitsuya. Something about the way they said 'a kid with really good taste' sent a strange, cold prickle down his spine.

"A kid?" Mikey asked, his voice muffled. "Who?"

Draken shrugged, reaching up to touch his ponytail. "Just some random brat in Harajuku. He looked like he’d seen a ghost when he saw me, but then he started rambling about how silver rings would match my hair perfectly. Scared the life out of his friend, though. The one with the bell earring."

The dorayaki in Mikey's hand felt like lead. A bell earring. Messy hair. A kid who looks like he's seen a ghost.

"Did he tell you his name?" Mikey asked. No, he inquired, his voice dropping the playful tone entirely.

Mitsuya shook, oblivious to the sudden shift in Mikey's aura. "No he didn’t? His friend called him 'Michi' though. Clunky name, right? But he seemed to know what he was talking about when it came to style."

Mikey didn't answer. He just looked down at the bag of dorayaki, his appetite vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. 'Michi'.

His heart, which had been beating in a dull, automated rhythm for weeks, suddenly surged. ‘Michi…’ It is too specific. Too close to the name that had been haunting his dreams.

Mikey’s fingers tightened around the dorayaki, crushing the soft cake until the red bean paste oozed between his knuckles. He couldn’t even notice. All he could see is the missed opportunity, the yawning gap of an hour that had kept him from the one person who could make this timeline feel real. He’d spent days, weeks, months looping through Shibuya, chasing a ghost, and the moment he sent his friends on a trivial errand, they stumbled right into him.

He should have known that Harajuku’s chaos could exactly be where Takemichi can be swept up, but then again, who’s he to predict? The irony of the situation is just a bitter pill. He’d tried to clear his head through food, and in doing so, he’d handed his destiny to Draken and Mitsuya, who didn't even know what they’d found.

"Mikey? You okay?" Draken asked, his brow furrowing as he noticed the crushed pastry in Mikey's hand. "You're getting red bean all over the mats."

Mikey stood up, his movements sudden and jerky. He didn't look at his friends. He couldn't. If he looked at them, he might scream at the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all. He had the power to leap through time, to rewrite history, but he couldn't even manage to be on the right street corner at the right time.

"I'm going for a ride," Mikey said, his voice flat and dangerously quiet.

"But the dorayaki–" Mitsuya started, but Mikey was already halfway to the door.

He didn't want the sugar anymore. He just want the wind to beat his regrets away.

’Perhaps fortune really doesn’t favour the bold…’

He doesn’t even want to think about anything at all.

Chapter Text

Being Mikey’s sidekick is exhausting.

That is the thought that plagued Draken’s mind for the last few days. Ever since the ‘Earring Incident’ several days back, he has been racking his brain, trying to decipher the cryptic mystery that is Mikey.

That day, when Mikey finally returned from his sudden excursion, he had looked... wronged. There was an edge to his gaze, a flicker of anger that burned brightly, yet it didn't seem directed at anyone in particular. It's a frustration aimed at the world itself.

Since then, Mikey had spent his days incubating in his bed like a brooding hen, venturing out less and less.

While a sedentary Mikey is usually a relief for him, their friends’ and the neighbourhood's peace, the tension of concern radiating from the Sano household made Draken restless. Everytime he comes over to check on him and Emma, it feels like there's a storm brewing, one that he isn’t prepared for.

This uncertainty had now led to their current situation, the first impromptu Toman meeting held without their leader. Draken, Mitsuya, Baji, Pah, and Haruchiyo sat in a tense circle inside the Sano Dojo. Even Shinichirou and Emma are lingering nearby, their expressions clouded with worry for their brother, whose sudden withdrawal had left them all searching for answers.

“So… Are we finally deciding to drop the ‘Tokyo Manjirou Gang’?” Baji throws out the question.

The words hung in the air, landing with an awkward thud that only served to exacerbate the silence of the dojo. Pah shifted uncomfortably on his knees, while Mitsuya sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Is that really the priority right now, Baji?" Mitsuya asked, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "The name is embarrassing, sure, but the guy who picked it won't even come out of his room to defend it."

"That's exactly why I'm bringing it up!" Baji barked, leaning forward. "Mikey’s acting too weird! If he’s out of it, then what are we even doing here? Why is he cooped up and ignoring us? Toman is supposed to be about us! All of us!"

Draken remained silent, his eyes fixed on the grains of the wooden flooring. He could feel Haruchiyo’s unblinking stare from across the circle. Though the younger boy hadn't uttered a single word, the white-knuckled grip he had on his own knees spoke volumes. He is just as on edge as the rest of them.

"You're right," Draken finally said, his voice sounding raspy and thin from the lack of sleep. "Mikey’s down, and we’re standing around guessing why. We just need to pull him back. He'll tell us what’s been eating at him eventually, but we can't let him rot in that room until then."

He stands and turned his gaze toward Mitsuya. "Mitsuya, you finished the uniform, right? Those black tokkōfuku. Let's bring them over. Maybe seeing what we've built will snap him out of it."

Draken then looked toward Baji, his expression hardening with a new sense of purpose. "You are coming with me. We're heading to Harajuku to track down that blue-eyed kid. I’ve got a feeling he’s the reason Mikey’s been acting like this, and if bringing that kid here is what it takes to get Mikey back on his feet, then that’s exactly what we’re going to do."

"Pah and Haruchiyo... keep an eye on things here." Draken stood up, dusting off his pants. "Try to talk some sense into him. Lure him out with dorayaki or taiyaki… I don't care what it takes, just get him out of that room before he disappears into himself again." He gave the two a meaningful thumbs-up before heading toward the door, Baji following in his wake, him shooting the others a final, sympathetic glance to his friend left with an impossible task.

The roar of engines soon replaced the quiet chaos of the dojo. Draken kicked his Zephyr into gear, the vibration putting him at ease as Baji’s GSX 250E flared to life beside him. They tore off into the streets, two streaks of metal and noise cutting through the afternoon air.

As they slowed at a red light, Baji pulled up alongside Draken, shouting over the idle rumble of their bikes.

“Draken, are you sure you’re not overthinking this? I mean, Mikey’s always been a bit of a creature, but this... it’s different.” Baji gripped his handlebars tighter, his knuckles white against the black rubber. “You remember, don't you? He’s been acting off for a while now, since like, a year ago. That time I’m heading to school with Haruchiyo, and he suddenly called me ‘Keisuke’ out of nowhere. No honourifics, no nothing. I still get shivers just thinking about the look in his eyes then.”

Draken kept his eyes forward, watching the signal light. He knew exactly what Baji meant. It isn’t just the name, but the way Mikey looked at them all sometimes, as if he’s mourning them while they are standing right in front of him.

"That's why we're finding that kid. If he's the one Mikey's been looking for, then he's the only one who can explain why our leader is turning into a stranger. That’s what my gut’s telling me…"

Haruchiyo walked through the Sano residence in quiet steps, the eeriness of the house pressing against his ears. Outside Mikey’s room, he found Pah sprawled out in the hallway, looking utterly spent.

Pah lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling with eyes that had long since glazed over. His soul appeared to have detached from his body entirely, floating somewhere far away from the closed sliding door that had remained unmoved for hours.

Seeing Haruchiyo’s approach, Pah didn't jump. He simply groaned in defeat, and slowly rolled onto his side. He pushed himself up with all the grace of a wounded bear, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his failure.

"I’m leaving this mess to you," Pah mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion as he avoided Haruchiyo's gaze. "I'm out of ideas. I've tried everything... snacks, threats, even fake crying. He won't even grunt back at me. It’s like talking to a wall that breathes."

Without waiting for a response, Pah trotted back toward the living room, leaving Haruchiyo alone in the stagnant air of the hallway.

Haruchiyo turned his attention to the door. Behind that thin layer of wood and paper sat his dearest friend, yet at this moment, he looked more fragile than ever. He took a deep breath, the scent of old wood and the faint, lingering smell of Mikey's favourite sweets filling his lungs.

Steeling his resolve, Haruchiyo reached for the doorknob. It turned with a quiet click, and he slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. The room is dark, the air heavy and still. On the bed, a small mound is buried beneath a disarray of blankets.

“Haru… Am I cursed?”

The question is just a mere whisper, cracking the air like glass. Haruchiyo didn't answer immediately, he couldn't, he doesn’t know how, or what to answer. Mikey shifted, the fabric of his blankets rustling as he continued, his voice thick with a raw, agonising yearning.

“I really, really missed him. And now... even Ken and Mitsuya ran into him. Right there, in the middle of the street.” A shaky breath escaped the mound of blankets. “I went out. I searched everywhere. I looked until my eyes burned... but all I found was disappointment. Why is he always just out of my reach?”

“M-Mikey…” Haruchiyo’s voice is small, concern lacing his tone making his words catch in his throat. He looked at the trembling shape on the bed, his heart aching at the sight of his formidable friend reduced to such a hollow state. “Ken and Keisuke. They are going to Harajuku. They’re looking for that person they met. The one... the one I assume you’re talking about?”

Haruchiyo paused, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He had been by Mikey’s side for as long as his memories reached back, never straying far. Yet, this intense longing, this soul-deep yearning of his, felt like something that had appeared out of nowhere.

“Who is this person to you, Mikey? Truly?” Haruchiyo’s voice grew softer, almost pleading as he walked closer to the bed. “I’ve been with you through everything... and I never knew you had met anyone else like this. Who could possibly leave a hole in you this big?”

“Even if I tell you, you wouldn’t understand. You’d just call me insane.” Mikey speaks with his voice muffled by the pillows, a hollow laugh bubbling up that didn’t reach his eyes. “When I told Shin, he... never mind. He probably only half-believed me anyway.”

That was a half-truth. Shin believed him, he experienced the same time leaping as he did. But Mikey knew he is oversharing when it is to Haruchiyo, pushing the boundaries of what we could safely reveal without overstepping what’s reasonable to share. He wanted to scream that he had lived a lifetime without them, that he had died in those same blue eyes, but the words felt like ash in his mouth.

“Can you at least try?” Haruchiyo offered. “If you don't tell me, then I'll just be watching you rot, and I don’t want that. Let me know what you see.”

Mikey goes still, and slowly, he peeled back the edge of the blanket, just enough for one dull, obsidian eye to peer out at Haruchiyo.

“He’s... he’s like the sun to me, Haru,” Mikey murmurs, his gaze distant as if he is looking at a memory projected onto the wall. “But not the kind that burns. He’s the light you find when you’re drowning in a deep, dark ocean. He has these eyes... blue, like the sky right before a storm breaks. They’re clear, yet they’ve seen every kind of tragedy in the world, and still chose to stay kind.”

He reached a hand out from under the blankets, fingers splayed as if trying to catch a sunbeam that wasn't there.

“He has messy, blonde hair that looks like it’s never seen a comb, and he’s always crying. He’s a total crybaby, Haru. So weak it’s pathetic. But his heart... it’s bigger than this entire city. When he smiles, the darkness just... it doesn't matter anymore. Everything feels quiet. Everything feels safe.”

Mikey pulled his hand back, clutching it to his chest.

“He’s the only person who ever looked at me and didn't see 'Mikey'. He just saw me. And right now, not being able to find him... it feels like the sun has extinguished, and I’m just waiting for the frost to set in.”

Haruchiyo stands frozen, looming over the bed as he absorbs the descriptions, his mind racing through things he hadn’t yet revealed to anyone, yet matches to his fragmented memories. A strange sensation crawls up his spine.

“Mikey…” Haruchiyo begins, his voice trembling, the sensation making his own blood run cold. “This guy... this ‘Michi’ that Ken mentioned. Is he called Takemitchy? Ta-Takemichi? And he has... he has this piss-yellow hair, gelled into a hideous regent style? And he’s always wearing this weird, mismatched combination of a gaudy t-shirt with cargo shorts?”

Haruchiyo’s voice trails off as he catches Mikey’s stare straight into his head, one so intense it feels like being pinned by a predator. He realises too late that he has said something he shouldn't have.

“H-How did you know…”

The shift in the room is instantaneous. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by lethal pressure.

“Why do you know Takemichi’s look? The way you describe him... that’s supposed to be him in high school.”

Mikey’s voice is no longer a whisper, but now a low, dangerous growl. Before Haruchiyo can even blink, Mikey has leaped off the bed, the blankets fluttering to the floor like discarded wings. He moves with a speed that defies logic, dashing straight into Haruchiyo and slamming him against the wall with a deafening bang.

Mikey’s hands grip Haruchiyo’s collar, his knuckles white, his face inches away. His eyes are no longer filled with longing. They are a deep, pitch-black void, devouring the light in the room.

“Explain, Haruchiyo…” Mikey enunciates every syllable. “How did you know?”

In the airless moments that followed, Haruchiyo struggled to find his breath. The fabric of his collar dug into his throat, but the pain is nothing compared to the ferocity of the gaze pinning him to the wall. He scrambled to find his voice, to weave the fragments of his fractured mind into something that could satisfy the demand for an answer.

“It was dreams… It’s a vivid sort of dream that I keep having,” Haruchiyo choked out, his eyes wide and pleading as he looked into Mikey's dark void. “It only started recently, but… this Takemichi guy keeps appearing in them. I was older in those dreams, and I was always wearing a mask of some sort, covering the lower half of my face. And there he was… a 'Takemitchy' that matches every word you just said. The features, the mannerism, the way he looked at people…”

He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper as the memories threatened to overwhelm him again.

“I don’t know what they are, Mikey… Every time I wake up, I only remember pieces. Sounds of shouting, the smell of rain, and that face. I didn't know he was real until Ken said that name today, and then things just… clicked now.”

Haruchiyo searched Mikey’s face for any sign of softening, his heart hammering against his ribs.

”Mikey… Are those visions? Is that... the future? Is that where you’ve been?”

Taking in the weight of Haruchiyo’s words, the tension in Mikey’s arms suddenly evaporated. He let go of Haruchiyo’s collar, his hands falling limp to his sides as he stepped back, the predatory focus in his eyes dissolving into a look of weary recognition. In another surprising moment of absolute honesty, he nodded.

“Yeah… That’s what I meant when I said you wouldn't believe me, you can't even believe in yourself...” Mikey confessed, his voice sounding small again in the vast silence of the room. “I was from the future. A future that actually happened, Haru. And Michi… he’s the one I’m missing more than anything. He was the one who made and kept it all together.”

As if the absurdity of the truth had finally broken the last of his defences, Mikey began to weep. It isn’t the loud, dramatic wailing he often saw from this Takemichi person in his dreams, the kind that demanded attention. Instead, it is a gentle, silent weep, tears welling up and slowly tracing paths down his cheeks, catching the faint light from the hallway.

“And now… Ken-chin and Takashi both met him,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer irony of it. “He probably has everyone with him already. Inui, Kokonoi, Kazutora… all the ones he fought so hard to protect. I was trying so hard to save the timeline he sacrificed everything to achieve, to make sure everyone got their happy ending, but look at me.”

He gestured vaguely at the dark room, his expression one of utter defeat.

“All I’ve managed is to fail miserably. I’m stuck here, rotting in the dark, while he’s out there somewhere, living a life I can’t even find my way back into. I’m supposed to be the one protecting them, Haru, but I’m the one who’s lost.”

Inui. Kokonoi. Kazutora. All are names that Haruchiyo isn’t aware of, but seeing Mikey like this, he’s certain he’m not lying. Mikey says them with a familiarity and ease, though particularly at the first name, ‘Inui’, his voice slightly hitched.

Mikey, their 'Invincible' leader, the one who carried the strength of a hundred men in his small frame, is falling apart over a memory. Or rather, a sun that had moved away from his orbit.

Slowly, Haruchiyo stepped forward, closing the distance Mikey had created. He didn't reach for a hug, that felt too intrusive for the wall Mikey had built, but he stood close enough to let his presence be felt.

"If he's out there," Haruchiyo said, his voice regaining its sharp, devoted edge, "then we find him. You say you're lost, but you're still here. If Ken and Mitsuya found him, it means the world is bringing him back to you."

He knelt down, bringing himself level with Mikey’s slumped shoulders.

"I don't care about the 'future' or names I don't know. I care about the Mikey I'm looking at right now. If this Takemichi is the sun, then we’ll be the one to help you find the dawn. We'll find him, Mikey. Even if we have to tear Tokyo apart piece by piece."

Mikey looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, a flicker of something. Hope, or perhaps just the shadow of a new goal, returning to his dark pupils. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, the dampness leaving a streak on his pale skin.

"Haruchiyo..." Mikey started, his voice steadying. "Don't tell the others. About the dreams. About... any of this. Not yet. They aren't ready to know what kind of world we're actually living in. Only Shinichirou knows, and…"

Haruchiyo dipped his head, a solemn promise etched into his expression. "Your secret is with me, Mikey. I won't say a word."

Outside, the distant, rising snarl of engines cut through the silence, signalling the return of their two friends. Mikey held his breath, listening to the rhythm of the approaching bikes.

If the rumble carried the weight of a trio, he would be forever grateful; if only a duo returned to the driveway, then he would simply have to wake up and try harder tomorrow.

The thunder of half a dozen engines tore through the afternoon haze as Mikey led the Tokyo Manji Gang into the beating heart of Shibuya. Baji, Draken, Mitsuya and Haruchiyo trailed close behind, their silhouettes cutting against the glare of the midday sun, while Pah brought up the rear, the Toman flag snapped violently in the wind.

The ride is Mikey’s idea, something he decided when he had finally emerged from the silence of his bedroom, Haruchiyo trailing behind him with a knowing expression. Thankfully, and to the relief of them all, Mikey dropped that look, the look that was like someone who had been mourning.

Waiting for them in the dojo was Mitsuya’s latest masterpiece. Spread across the tatami mats were a series of jet-black tokkoufuku, the fabric heavy and prestigious, embroidered with shimmering golden threads.

The sight of [東京卍會 – Tōkyō Manji-kai] sprawled across the back of the jackets is striking. Baji, never one for patience, let out a low whistle and snatched his away before Mitsuya could even give the word.

Baji threw the jacket over his shoulders, spinning around with a grin that was more teeth than joy, showing off the intricate calligraphy on his sleeves. On his right, the embroidery proclaimed [暴走卍愚連隊 – Bōsō Manji Gurentai], ‘Gang of Young Biker Delinquents’; on his left, it bore the mark of the [特攻隊 – Tokkō-tai], ‘Special Attack Squad’. It was the exact branding Mikey had envisioned in their first childhood, a vision Mikey had now insisted on preserving in this new timeline. With their numbers still small, they aren’t yet a fleet of divisions, just a core of close-knit friends.

“Thank god you dropped ‘Tokyo Manjirou Gang’. If I had to wear that, I might as well stab myself in the abdomen, and die right here in front of you!” Baji said in jest, though earning a glare from Mikey.

Draken, Mitsuya and Pah all followed, grabbing their own uniform. Draken’s left sleeve showed [連隊副総長 – Rentai Fuku-sōchō], ‘Vice President’. Mikey has told Mitsuya to not use the [初代 – Chōtai] ‘First Generation’ moniker when he first ordered. The phrase reminds him of the 2nd Generation Toman a bit too much…

With Haruchiyo taking the last uniform embroidered with special attack squad inscription, it’s left with Mikey’s own. Holding it up, on his left sleeve, it shows [宿世万劫蓮華 – Sukuse Mango Renge] instead.

Mikey takes a good look at it, the golden thread catching the stray beams of sunlight filtering through the dojo’s windows. The weight of the jacket in his hands feels different than before, now heavier, charged with a meaning only he truly understands.

Mitsuya is the first to chime in, leaning over to inspect his handiwork with a furrowed brow. “The Lotus… Blooming through… An eternal fate? Didn’t know you’re a poet at heart, Mikey. It took me several hours to even interpret that… I had to look through two different dictionaries to make sure the kanji worked… Your specification is… very specific…”

Baji snorts, throwing an arm around Mitsuya’s neck and nearly toppling him. “Nah~ ‘Sukuse Mango Renge’ means ‘our path is set by fate, that no amount of time or change in the world can break our gang’! Ride or Die, I like it! It sounds like something a legendary boss would wear!”

“Mikey’s trying to say ‘eternal bond, one through death and rebirth’,” Haruchiyo adds, his voice quiet. He catches Mikey’s eye for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He maybe the only one who knows the literal truth behind the rebirth. Mikey offers a small hum and appreciative nod.

‘You’re all wrong though…’ Mikey thinks to himself, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of the embroidery. ‘Destined through 10,000 kalpas, always and forever, love like the lotus flower, a love and purity that rises out of the mud... That's what I want it to mean...’

He thinks of Takemichi, his crybaby hero who waded through the filth and blood of countless failed timelines just to keep them all from sinking. He thinks of the purity that man maintained even when surrounded by the worst of his darkness.

'The lotus didn't just bloom. It survived the muck. And so would he.'

The group eventually reached the Shibuya Crossing, the bikes cutting a path through the afternoon traffic before coming to a rest in their roar. As the engines died down, the surrounding is filled by the ambient noise of the city, the pedestrians whispering, cameras clicking, and the distant rumble of traffic.

They made their way to the centre of the intersection, their black uniforms against the black asphalt. Baji, adjusting his collar with a smirk, turned to their leader.

"So, Mikey, what's the plan? We just gonna stand here and look pretty, or are we actually gonna do something?"

Mikey didn't answer immediately. He scanned the crowd, his gaze landing on a group of high schoolers trying to move past them. He stepped forward, his expression unreadable, and intercepted a nervous-looking guy, before handing him a digital camera.

"You," Mikey said, his voice low and commanding. "Take a picture of us."

The teenager stuttered, trying to decline, but Mikey’s hand is already on his shoulder, a grip that promised more than just a polite request. There is a brief scuffle, a warning shove that sent the boy's friends scurrying back, until the camera is raised with trembling hands.

The gang gathered around their leader, Draken and Baji flanking him by the corners of the flag. Pah-chin stepped back, unfurling the Toman flag and splaying it across the tarmac at Mikey’s feet, the golden Manji symbol stark.

"Make it look good," Mikey commanded, his gaze fixed on the lens.

They posed, and then there they are, with their first photo, a captured moment of the new beginning.

With his relocation from Kamakura finally confirmed by his parents, Takemichi found himself gravitating toward Tokyo with increasing frequency, partly to familiarise himself with the city once again. While the salty, nostalgic breeze of his beloved Kamakura would always be homely, the metropolitan hum of the city now calls to him, especially now that he had Seishu and Kazutora to keep him company.

Today, he found himself walking the manicured streets of Shōtō alongside Seishu and Koko, the latter having tagged along mostly at Seishu's insistence.

"You know, H- Takemichi, if you're moving here, you should aim for a place with a bit more... pedigree," Koko remarked, adjusting his expensive-looking sunglasses as he gestured vaguely at the sprawling estates lining the road. He certainly exerted the vibe of a Shōtō resident, effortlessly polished and radiating an aura of high-class complexion. "Honmachi is fine, I suppose. But it lacks the 'ROI' of a neighbourhood like this."

Takemichi looked up at one of the massive gated residences, a spark of wide-eyed wonder in his blue eyes. He had always dreamt of one day living in such an upscaled area, though in his current teenage body, the dream felt both closer and more impossibly grand than ever.

"I don't know, Koko..." Takemichi replied with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think I'm just happy to be in the same city as you guys. Besides, it’s my parent’s decision, and my own savings can’t cover 'pedigree' just yet."

Seishu, walking hand-in-hand with Takemichi let out a short huff of amusement. "Don't listen to him. Koko measures everything in yen. Honmachi is a good start. It's close to the action." Seishu’s gaze softened as he looked at Takemichi. "I'm glad you're coming around more. It gets... quiet, without you, or Kazutora... I’d like us to hang out properly once you're settled."

Koko rolled his eyes, but there is a flicker of something that wasn't strictly dry humour in his smirk. "He's right, unfortunately. All he talks about is you." He reached out, giving a slight poke to Takemichi’s shoulder. "Honmachi it is. I'll even help you find the best spots for cheap snacks, even if your 'allowance' isn't as tragic as I first thought."

Takemichi laughed. He could feel the shift in Koko, a reluctant but noticeable acceptance that goes beyond just being Seishu's friend.

As they began the slow walk down from the quiet, tree-lined hills of Shōtō toward the bustle of Shibuya, the group fell into a comfortable cadence. Takemichi, energised by the prospect of his new life in Tokyo, took the lead in planning their afternoon.

"Hey, since we're done here, we should go check out that one game centre near the Hachiko statue!" Takemichi suggested, his hands animatedly tracing a path in the air. "I heard they have the latest fighter cabinets. And after that... maybe those crepes? The ones with the strawberry cream filling?"

Seishu nodded, his expression relaxed. "If that's what you want to do, Michi. I've got no complaints."

"Of course you don't," Koko muttered, though he didn't actually protest. "But Takemichi, if we're going to the arcade, don't expect me to bail you out when you lose all your lunch money. And crepes? It’s better to simply consume air."

"It's not about the ‘value’ you always drone on about, Koko~ It's about the experience!" Takemichi laughed, nudging the taller raven. "Come on, Seishu, tell him he's being too stiff."

Seishu hummed in agreement, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "He's always like that. Just let it go, Michi. We're going to the arcade."

The further they descended, the more the tranquility of the residential area is swallowed by the rising tide of urban noise. But as they approached the major crossing, the typical city sounds are pierced by the roar of multiple familiar-sounding engines.

As they rounded the final corner, the three of them slowed to a halt. The sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians who had stopped in their tracks, murmuring and pointing toward the centre of the intersection.

"Check that out," Koko said, slowing his pace as he looked over the crowd. "A group of kids in uniforms, blocking the middle of the street for a photoshoot. They’ve got some guts."

Seishu stepped closer to Takemichi, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the black jackets and the flag on the ground. "They look organised," he observed. "Look at the way the others are positioned around the one in the middle. It’s not just a random hangout..."

Takemichi feels a cold prickle at the base of his neck at the mention of these organised kids in uniform. He couldn't see their faces clearly from this distance, but the silhouettes felt jarringly familiar? "It’s... a bit much, isn't it?" he whispered, his heart starting to beat a little faster. "Who would do that in the middle of Shibuya?"

"Delinquents who want the world to know they've arrived," Koko replied, crossing his arms. He watched the scene with a mix of boredom and professional curiosity. "The uniforms looks high-quality, though. Someone put a lot of effort in those. But enough about them, let’s find somewhere to eat before the police show up and ruin the vibe of our afternoon walk."

Seishu nodded, but his eyes lingered on the central figure in the crossing for a moment longer. "Let's go, Michi. No point in getting caught up in their drama."

Takemichi watched them turn away, but he stayed. He stayed a heartbeat longer than he should have, and in that fleeting moment of stillness, the perspective changed. The crowd seemed to thin for him to get a clear view, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum, until all he saw are the six of them.

There is Mikey, sitting cross-legged on the asphalt with that effortless grace. And around him stands figures of a past and future he knows all too well. Baji with his wild grin, Draken off to the other side like a tower, Mitsuya with his hands shoved down his pockets, Pah-chin squatting next to the black flag of Toman, and Sanzu hovering around like a shadow.

Seeing them all together, in the flesh, is a blow to his chest. It hurts, an ache that flared in his heart, a mixture of overwhelming joy, crushing isolation and immense longing. This is Toman. This was the place where he had belonged, the family he had bled for, the people he had died to save.

He wanted to cry out their names. He wanted to run into the centre of that crossing, grab Mikey by the shoulders, and tell him everything, about how much he’d missed them, how hard he’s fought to find this one peaceful afternoon. But he can’t. He is an interloper in their present, the only person in this entire universe that doesn’t belong.

To them, he is just another face in the crowd. A stranger. Mikey doesn’t know his name, Draken wouldn’t recognise his face, and Mitsuya had never sewn a stitch for him. He is now seeing the birth of his home, yet he is standing outside the gate, unknown by the very people who lived in his soul.

He bit his lip, his eyes stinging. ‘This is enough’, he told himself. It had to be enough just to see them happy and whole, creating their gang in the middle of Shibuya. He thought he was orbiting, loving the sun from afar, content to let the light keep him warm even if he is destined to remain distant. However, he now feels like a comet, meant to flyby once, and never again.

“Takemichi?” Seishu’s voice pulled him back, sounding concerned.

Takemichi wiped his eyes quickly, forcing a wobbly but genuine smile. “Sorry! I’m coming! I just... I got distracted by the flag. It’s a cool design, right? With the manji symbol in gold!”

He turned and ran to catch up with his current companions, the only ones he had right now, leaving the centre of the world behind him. Maybe one day he’d had the guts to meet them at the Sano Dojo…

Chapter Text

I’m like a person sitting in this peculiar railway station in time and space, watching the tracks split and merge into the distance like the messy and overlapping lives I keep trying to fix.

The iron rails called fate are cold and indifferent, akin to the paths I’ve treaded time and time over again, stretching toward horizons that shift every time I blink. There is a pulse to the universe that I alone seem to hear, one that’s beating and paced, the clicking of gears as another second passes, another choice is made, and another branch of reality withers away into nothingness.

I’ve got the ticket for a destination that doesn't exist no more, or maybe it's for one that hasn't been built yet, a mirage of a city waiting for me to lay the first stone, only for me to realise I’m building on the sands of time.

It feels like I’m on a perpetual cycle of tragedies, a string of momentary stops of fates where I’m the only one who remembers the morning after. Each timeline is a stage, and I am the lead actor in a play that restarts before the final curtain call.

I fell in love with the potential of a future, a fleeting glimpse of a world where everyone is smiling and the air doesn't taste like ash, and I gives everything I have to save it from burning down.

I pour the soul into the foundations, hoping this time it will hold...

But as soon as the fire is out and the smoke clears, I return to the present, only to embark on the next timeline before anyone even notices I was there, the kindlings of the previous disaster never actually extinguished, just hidden beneath a layer of fresh snow.

I carried the weight of a dozen different timelines, within each, memories of people who don't even know they are supposed to die. Everything is neatly planned by fate, yet here I am, intervening all because of decisions borne out of a whim, performed for lost causes and for me who can’t stop rewriting the ending.

They don't thank me, because you can't be grateful for a catastrophe you never experienced. To them, the tragedy never happened, the pain is never felt. I’m just the guy who happened to be there, drifting through their lives like someone who knows too much, forever haunting the margins I created but can never truly share.

I can understand, now, why they used to react the way they did. I remember the irritation in Draken’s eyes whenever I tried to play his self-appointed bodyguard. I remember the dismissive edge in Mikey’s voice whenever I whispered that Kisaki is a rot in Toman's foundations, or the way Baji looked right through my warnings of a bloody Halloween.

They didn't do anything wrong, and to them, I was just a frantic nobody tilting at windmills.

But what hollows me out the most, the part that truly isn't my business, is that I am always the one left grieving when the future refuses to be rewritten.

When Baji’s life slipped through my fingers in one timeline, I was the one who carried the weight of an apology to Chifuyu and Mikey, begging forgiveness for a failure they didn't even understand. When Kisaki’s malice finally found Emma, I was the one breaking down in tears, sobbing beside a Mikey who remained resolute.

I am the witness to every scream that was silenced, the mourner at every funeral that, in this world, never took place.

Maybe I’m just too emotional. Or maybe I’ve become too weak, worn thin by the friction between worlds. Maybe I’m just tired, tired of the same faces, the same endings, the same hollow 'victories'.

Right now, in this timeline where the air is still clear and none of the tragedies have taken root, I want to believe that fate might actually be kind. I want to tell myself that everyone will just live, and that I can finally learn to experience the present without constantly checking the horizon for smoke. But then I see a piece fall just the right way, or a smile that mirrors one from a grave, and the same thought whispers in the back of my mind: ‘What if it goes wrong?’

It’s that one question, the one I can never answer, that keeps me unsettled, forever waiting for the train to derail…

Or maybe I’m just greedy?

Maybe this entire mission is nothing more than a self-indulgent mission, a way to play god under the guise of a saviour. I say I want to see everyone happy, but perhaps that’s just the ultimate covetousness, my desire to bend the world into a shape that is comfortable for me to live in. I wish for their joy only so I can find my own peace, rewriting stories just to quiet the noise in my head. How silly I am, thinking I'm a hero when I'm really just malignant, a parasite of timelines who can't let any single person go…

The screeching iron of the station platform didn't fade. It simply softened into the morning chirping of birds outside his window. The imagery of a thousand futures dissolved into the familiar smell of sun-warmed cotton and old wood.

Takemichi came back to himself all at once.

One moment he was haunting a terminal of lost causes, and the next, he is lying flat on a mattress that feels far too soft to be real, him left reeling from the sensation.

He feels the dampness before his eyes even opened, a stinging saltiness that had already pooled around his socket and soaked deep into the fabric of the pillow. His chest is a tight, and his breathe coming in gasps, the kind that only happen when the body has been lamenting long before the consciousness could catch up.

He is sobbing, shaking, in a manner that made his ribs hurt. His fingers buried in the duvet, trying to catch a sleeve or a hand that had vanished decades ago.

He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling of his room, watching the dust dance off the cardboard boxes dotted across the room, him waiting for the ‘now’ to stop feeling like an illusion.

Again, he’s crying for people who are, at this very second, breathing and healthy. Again, he’s sorrowful for a world that had been scrubbed clean from everyone’s mind. Everyone but his own.

He looked pathetic, and to his sides, two pairs of eyes looks up at him, one’s gold like amber, one’s green like emerald.

“Michi…?”

Their voices are tentative, slightly cracked with sleep. Kazutora is already sitting up, his amber eyes wide and searching in the dim morning light. He didn't move to touch him yet like he usually does, his hands hovering over as if he’s afraid Takemichi might shatter if he applied any pressure.

On the other side, Seishu stirred, shifting with his lethargic grace that evaporated the moment he heard the hitch in Takemichi’s breath. He didn't ask what’s wrong, he’s never one for useless questions when the evidence is already written in the tracks on a face. Instead, he reached out, his cool palm resting itself against Takemichi’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Seishu murmured, his emerald eyes dark with a protective, almost territorial intensity. “Was it the fire again? Your nightmares?”

Kazutora flinched at the mention of the fire, his jaw tightening. He crawled closer, finally letting his fingers hook into the hem of Takemichi’s shirt. “It wasn't the fire. He was saying names. Names I’ve never heard.” He looked at Takemichi, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Who is ‘Baji’, Michi? You kept saying you are sorry... you kept saying you're sorry because you couldn't save him.”

Takemichi goes rigid, the air in his lungs freezing over. The train in his head whistled one last time, a warning of the secrets spilling out through the cracks of his exhaustion.

“It's just a dream,” Takemichi managed to choke out, the lie tasted like ash. “I... I don't know who that is...”

“You’re lying,” Seishu said flatly, his voice confrontational. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers slid down to take a hold of Takemichi’s chin, forcing him to hold that emerald-green gaze. “You’ve been sobbing for a while, Michi. You were apologising. Don't sit here and tell me it's just a dream when we’re over here, panicking whether to wake you up or not...”

“S-Seishu, let go, y-you’re scaring him!” Kazutora sort of hissed, his own hand snapping out to grab Seishu’s wrist. His gold eyes are frantic and unsure, torn between the impulse to shield Takemichi from Seishu’s interrogation and his own need to know who this 'Baji' was. Who could possibly occupy a space in Takemichi's heart that they hadn't found out yet? “Michi, hey... look at me. It’s okay. But you need to tell us. You were muttering names over and over again.”

“I’m not scaring him, I’m waking him up,” Seishu snapped. “Who is he? Is he the reason you never seem to actually be here with us when we’re hanging out? Answer me. I’m tired… We’re tired of being the only one who cares when you yourself don’t…”

Takemichi closed his eyes, the emerald and gold finally becoming too much to bear. A fresh sob wrecked his frame, all from the weight of their scrutiny.

“I-I just want to go home,” he whispered, his voice so thin it barely carried across the bed.

Seishu’s grip on his chin faltered slightly, but his gaze didn't soften. “You are home, Takemichi. You’re in your own bed.”

“N-no,” Takemichi laughed, a wet sound that had no humour in it. He turned his head away, staring at the wall where the morning sun is starting to burn through the curtains. “I... I keep d-drifting... I keep going back to a p-place that isn't here anymore. I'm always thinking about a home where everyone I l-love is just... waiting. Waiting in a world that you guys have all f-forgotten.”

He looks back at them, his eyes red-rimmed, reflecting a weariness that shouldn't belong.

The silence that followed is suffocating for all three. Seishu’s fingers dropped from Takemichi’S jaw, his thumb now tracing a path through the salt-stains, while Kazutora’s hand stayed on his own pair. Neither of them understood his words, they simply couldn't.

To them, the world is only this one, solid and linear. Yet, the agony their friends voice left them lost for words.

“We aren't going to forget you,” Kazutora whispered, his voice trembling as he finally leaned forward, resting his forehead against Takemichi’s shoulder. “Whatever home you're talking about... if it's not here, then we'll just build a new one. Right, Seishu?”

Seishu didn't answer immediately. He just stared into Takemichi’s eyes, searching for the person he wants to reach. Slowly, he released his hand off Takemichi’s face, only to slide his hand back into his hair, pulling him closer until he rests on his shoulder, in turn also pulling Kazutora closer. “We won't let you go back there,” Seishu promised.

Takemichi looked from the amber to the emerald, caught between two boys he had saved on a whim. They are blissfully unaware that in another life, they were meant to be marionettes to fate, and he had no intention of ever telling them. To them, he is their entire world. And to him, they are the only people who truly saw him in the way he had hoped others did.

Wiping the remaining moisture from his eyes, Takemichi found the strength to pull away from the comfort of their embrace-like cuddle. He sat upright, his movements stiff as he forced the fog of the ‘dream’ to recede. He takes a long, shaky breath, steadying his hands against the mattress as he looked at the two of them, seeing them simmering in the morning light.

“You two…” he began, his voice still cracked, but carrying a lightness to it. “I... I have something to tell you... To the both of you…”

The evening air is cooling as Mitsuya finished preparing dinner for his sisters, leaving a note on the table before slipping out the door. The hum of his Impulse beneath him as he cut through the streets of Tokyo toward the Sano Dojo.

What caused this excursion was his conversation with Mikey several days ago, just before their departure, off in a quiet corner of the Sano household’s living room.

Mikey had pulled him aside, away from the noise and the prying eyes of the others. There had been a strange quality yo Mikey’s posture, a stillness that felt more like a request than an order.

“T-Takashi, one more thing…” Mikey had said, his voice stooping to a level that barely reached the ears.

The request that followed had been specific.

“Help me make one more tokkōfuku,” Mikey had continued, looking past Mitsuya toward nothing in particular. “Around the same size as mine. Have the Toman writings and symbols on the back, the full set... but leave the sleeves blank. I want one finished soon. J-Just for safekeeping.”

Mitsuya hadn't asked who it was for. He knew better than to question that look in Mikey's eyes. ‘It has to be for that Michi guy he talked about…‘

As he pulled up to the dojo, he find Mikey already waiting by the front gates. The blonde isn’t sitting on the steps as he usually does. He is pacing a short line instead, his eyes scanning the road and the street corners with a sort of wariness. He looked left and right, his shoulders tensing at the sound of the Impulse's engine, only relaxing once he recognised the face riding it.

Mitsuya killed the engine, and then he hopped off, clutching the wrapped bundle under his arm.

"You're late," Mikey said, though there is no bite in it. He looked around again, his voice hushed. "Did anyone see you? Did you met anyone before coming? Ken-chin? Anyone?"

Mitsuya raised an eyebrow, adjusting the bundle. "No. I took the long way. Why all the secrecy, Mikey? It’s just a uniform."

Mikey steps closer, his gaze dropping to the package. "It’s not just a uniform. It's... something I'm keeping ready." He reached out, his fingers brushing the brown paper wrapping. "Did you do it? The way I asked?"

"Blank sleeves. Gold embroidery on the back. It's exactly like yours," Mitsuya confirmed, handing it over. "But Mikey... if you're giving this to that Michi guy, why not tell the others?"

Mikey stiffened, his hand jerking away from the package. For a fleeting second, the Mikey he knows looked exactly like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, posture frozen, and a surge of crimson creeping up from his collar to the tips of his ears.

“H-How did you... how did you know?” he stuttered, the usual cool authority in his voice replaced by a squeak.

Mitsuya chuckled softly, leaning back against his bike. “Mikey, you asked for one more uniform when we all already have one. And you’ve been acting like a nervous wreck every time someone mentions his name. It isn’t exactly hard to put together.”

“I’m n-not a wreck,” Mikey hissed, clutching the bundle to his chest with unnecessary force. He looked away, staring down the dark street. “It’s just... he’s different. I don’t want to mess it up. I’ll give this to him personally when I meet him eventually. B-But, if I give him this and he says no, then...” He trailed off, his grip tightening.

“Then he says no,” Mitsuya said gently. “But you know he won't, given the way you said how he is to you so far.”

Mikey let out a long, shaky breath, the blush finally beginning to recede. He didn't look back at Mitsuya, but his shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “Yeah. Maybe. Just... don't tell Ken-chin. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

"My lips are sealed," Mitsuya promised, his voice carrying a warmth that matched the cooling night air. He watched as his leader turned and disappeared into the lengthening shadows of the dojo, still clutching the wrapped bundle as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

There is a quiet sense of satisfaction in Mitsuya's chest, not just as a tailor, but as a friend. Seeing Mikey, usually so unshakeable and distant, treat a piece of handiwork with such carefulness is a rare sight. As Mitsuya climbed back onto his bike, he couldn't help but feel that he had stitched more than just a uniform into those seams.

“So…” Kazutora begins, he leaned back slightly, his amber eyes clouded with a layer of uncertainty. “You’re telling us that you... you came from the future? Or is it the past?”

“You’re a time traveller?” Seishu finished the thought, his voice missing its usual perceptiveness.

Takemichi swallows hard, his hands trembling where they gripped the duvet. He feels exposed, stripped of the only shield he had ever known. “Time traveller, time leaper, time jumper... it doesn't really matter what you call it. I’ve lived through years that haven't happened yet. I’ve seen things... horrible things.” He looked up at them, his gaze darting between amber and emerald, searching for a rejection that would be easier to handle than this silent contemplation. “It’s unbelievable, right? You probably think I’ve finally lost my mind...”

Seishu is the first to move, his hand sliding away from Takemichi’s forehead to rest on his own knee. “It is unbelievable, Michi. If anyone else said it, I’d walk out the door.” He paused, his emerald eyes focused on Takemichi’s increasingly souring face. “But it explains everything. It explains how you knew exactly when my house would burn. It explains the way you look at people too... Sort of…”

Kazutora, however, stayed silent for a moment longer. He looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the patterns on the bedsheets. When he finally spoke, it made Takemichi throb. “Michi… if you’re from a future where we already know each other... does that mean we are never actually ‘friends’? Did you only save us because you felt sorry for the versions of us that died?”

Takemichi lurched forward almost immediately, his fingers digging into the fabric of Kazutora’s sleeve. “No! Tora, listen to me… Every version of you I’ve ever met is you. I didn’t pull you back because I felt pity. In one of the later futures I was, we aren't just acquaintances. We’re partners... and you helped me a lot in saving M-Mikey…”

At the mention of that name, Kazutora’s fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, while beside him, Seishu’s expression hardened similarly, his eyes narrowing.

“Mikey... That guy...” Seishu repeated, the name sounding like a curse on his tongue. “He sounds like more trouble than he’s worth, Michi. If he’s the one who killed you twice... why do you even want to meet him?”

Kazutora leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low hum. “Is that it? We’re just the ‘partners’ you used to get to him? You’re risking everything for a guy who apparently couldn't care less about you in those other worlds.” He looked at Takemichi, a bitter, jealous curve to his lips. “You said we were brothers-in-arms. But it sounds like he’s the only one you’re actually caring.”

Takemichi can feel the room growing colder at that question, the doubt and resentment from both boys radiating in a way that made anything he'd say sound like a betrayal. He scrambled to his knees, ignoring the dizzying rush of blood to his head, and reached out to both of them. He grabbed both Seishu’s and Kazutora’s hands, pulling them toward him until they are forced to see the frantic sincerity in his eyes.

"Listen to me! Please," Takemichi begged, his voice cracking, threatening to cry again. "In the future you're talking about, Kazutora... you are the only one left supporting me... You are the only one who believed I could do this. You didn't help me because I used you, you helped me because you believed in me! Mikey was someone who helped you in that universe too… And Seishu... you too stayed by my side till the end, the last end at that freight station…"

He felt Seishu’s hand flinch in his grasp, and Kazutora’s posture faltered, their jealousy now blunted by the Takemichi’s confession.

"I'm not mourning Mikey," Takemichi whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against the junction of their shoulders. "I'm mourning the loss of all of you. I'm fighting for a world where none of those versions exist, because this version, the one where your home didn't burn, the one where you didn't hurt anyone because of a gift...” Takemichi said as he turned to Seishu and Kazutora. “This is the only world that matters to me now. You two are the reason I'm still sane enough to even try."

He felt a hand, Seishu’s, slowly close over his own, a grip that seemed to say ‘I'm not letting you go back to him’. Kazutora’s arms wrapped around Takemichi’s waist, pulling him in with a similar feeling to it.

"Fine," Kazutora mumbled into Takemichi’s neck, his voice muffled but thick with emotion. "But don't expect us to like him. If he's the reason you're always crying... then he's our enemy, future or not."

Seishu didn't say anything yet, but the way his emerald eyes stayed fixed, as if waiting for Mikey himself to challenge them, spoke volumes. They are protecting him now, protecting him now that they know of his memories, and from Mikey who held a piece of Takemichi's soul they hadn't yet touched.

However, instead of letting Takemichi off the hook, Seishu’s eyes focused once more, his hand sliding up to grip Takemichi’s shoulder with a firm pressure once again.

"You speak of this 'reunion' as if it’s anything good," Seishu began, his voice dropping into that calm register he used when he’s being most blunt. "But you aren't trying to find them, Michi. You’re chasing the shadows they cast across different timelines. You’ve built a pedestal around an empty chair, and while you’re busy worshipping the spectres of people who simply won't exist... You’re letting your own sanity wither away."

He leaned in closer, his breath flowing by Takemichi’s cheek, searching for any sign of the 'now' in Takemichi’s pupils.

"Every night you dreamt of names that belong to the past... Every day you look at us like we're illusions... I want you to find your wits again, Takemichi. I want you to find yourself that’s in this present time." Seishu’s voice softened just a fraction, a rare tremor suggesting vulnerability breaking through. "And I’m sure Kazutora wants the same. Stop looking for faces in the fog of a past that could never happen now. Look upward for once. If you truly adore what those people were, then stop reminiscing their pasts and start following what they have become in this world."

"Otherwise, you’ll just be haunting a graveyard of your own making." Takemichi felt the breath leave his lungs, his eyes widening as Seishu's words cut through his haze.

He hadn't expected this, hadn't even considered it.

To him, the past timelines are the bedrock of his identity, the source of every scar and every ounce of resolve he possessed. He had spent so long looking backward, memorising the shape of every tragedy, that he had forgotten to look at the people standing right in front of him.

He looked at Seishu, and saw the raw and present fear behind those emerald eyes, a plea to be seen as he is now, not as the broken person he had been in a future that is no longer coming.

He is haunting a graveyard like Seishu said. He is treating his friends like fragile exhibits, relics of a history they didn't share, instead of living, breathing people who had their own fears and dreams in this timeline. He had been so obsessed with saving them that he had stopped loving them as they are, choosing instead to love the versions of them he had lost.

"I..." Takemichi's voice was a mere ghost of a sound. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, hot and prickly. "I didn't realise... I thought I am doing the right thing..."

He looked up at the ceiling, the light of the morning finally feeling real, finally feeling like it belonged to a day he was actually meant to live in.

"You're right, Seishu," he whispered, a small, trembling smile finally touching his lips. "I've been so busy…”

The sentence died in his throat as the dam burst just as it’s refilled. Before he could stitch together a coherent response, or even a breath of defence, the tears came. Not the gasping sobs of his nightmare, but a heavy deluge that seemed to drain the very life from his face.

The shift left Kazutora and Seishu paralysed. They had been preparing for an argument, for a secret, even for more anger, but not for this total, quiet collapse.

They watched him, their own expressions caught in a suspension of disbelief. They couldn't tell if these are tears of relief, the weight of realising his own folly, or a deeper slide into a depression they can’t handle.

For the first time, the two who are so fixated to protect him found themselves utterly lost, staring at a friend who is finally home, but perhaps too broken to stay there.

But instead of pushing away into that silence, Takemichi lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around both of them with abruptly, pulling them off their balance and pushing all three of them back onto the mattress. He buried his face into the space between their shoulders, his body racking with fresh, violent tremors as he finally let out an unfiltered wail.

"I-I'm s-s-so sorry..." Takemichi choked out, the words tumbling out in a jagged, stuttering mess. "I'm s-sorry for... for treating y-you like y-you aren’t r-real! I've been s-so s-selfish... looking right t-through you both to find... too focused on p-people who aren't e-even here..."

He gripped them so tightly his fingers turned white, his voice rising in a pitch of genuine self-loathing.

"Y-You guys... I j-just kept... I d-don't deserve f-friends like you... I r-really d-don't. S-Seishu, K-Kazutora... p-please... I'm s-so s-sorry I am such a b-bad friend to y-you both. I d-don't k-know how to... to b-be better yet... but I w-want to s-stay here. I w-want to b-be with you two..."

The room echoed with the sound of his anguish now realised, someone finally choosing the living over the dead, even if he had to be broken apart to do it.

Seishu and Kazutora, pinned beneath his weight could only hold him back, their own eyes stinging as they realised Takemichi finally regain his wits, regained the ability to see.

Chapter Text

The van is a vibrating world of its own, a cramped metal box steadily putting distance between Takemichi and the coast. A stagnancy fills the interior, carrying the stale scent of foam and dust disturbed by the journey. Each time the tires caught a seam in the asphalt, a dull thud shuddered through the frame, vibrating deep in his throat.

Shifting toward the rear window, Takemichi watched Kamakura dissolve into the distance. For the last year or so, the ocean had served as his backyard, a comforting constant while his mind was a mess of overlapping timelines. Seeing that thin blue horizon finally vanish behind the grey concrete of the highway ramp made the move feel more permanent than any of the paperwork his parents had filed. He leaned back, letting the engine's low hum settle into his bones as the van merged into the morning traffic.

Inside the cabin, the smell of old upholstery mingled with the sweet and salty scent of the snacks Koko had brought along. Pulse of light and shadow flickered across the dashboard as they sped past sound barriers, the world outside turning into a blurred and monochromatic strobe.

The road ahead is certainly familiar. He had lived in Honmachi in every single timeline, always in the same house they are heading to now. It is a strange feeling, returning to a place that is technically his ‘old’ home, even though in this life, he had yet step foot in it.

"You're being quiet," Seishu murmured. He hadn't moved his head from Takemichi's shoulder, but his eyes are open now, watching the side of Takemichi's face with an unblinking focus.

"Just thinking about Honmachi," Takemichi said, his voice a little raspy from the dry air. "It's been a while."

"It'll be fine," Kazutora muttered from his other side, his voice jumbled with sleep. He didn't let go of Takemichi's sleeve, instead pulling it a little tighter until his head is flush with his shoulder.

"The garden is bigger than the one in Kamakura, right?" Seishu asked, shifting his weight. He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of Takemichi's palm before settling there. "We could help you fix it up. If you want."

"I don't think Takemichi wants to spend his first week pulling weeds, Seishu," Kazutora countered, opening one eye to shoot a lazy glare across Takemichi’s lap. "He needs to unpack his stuff. I’m helping with the bedroom first."

"Koko said the movers handle that," Seishu said calmly, though he didn't pull away.

Takemichi felt the small tug-of-war in the air, a familiar tension that had become his new normal over the past fortnights. "The garden sounds nice, actually. And the bedroom. I just... I want it to feel like a shared space. Not just mine."

Takemichi looked down at their joined hands, a flush of guilt rising to his cheeks. "Sorry. I realised that lately, every time I think of the house, I've been subconsciously adding you two into the rooms... I hope that’s okay."

Seishu squeezed his hand, a brief, firm pressure. "We should pick out some new furniture or something on that line," he suggested, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. "And don't apologise for that."

"If you didn't add us, we'd probably just show up and never leave anyway. Might as well make it official," Kazutora added, shifting his head to bump lightly against Takemichi's arm.

In the front seat, Koko turned around, propping his chin on his hand. He looked entirely too awake for a moving day, but his usual sharp, calculating gaze seemed softer when it landed on Takemichi. "Everything is ready, Takemichi. I made sure the house is aired out and the keys are waiting." He paused, a small, uncharacteristic quirk at the corner of his mouth that wasn't quite a smirk. "Since you are so insistent on us coming along... make sure you don't overwork yourself today. We’ll help you handle the chaos."

Takemichi looked at Koko, then back at the two boys practically glued to his sides. Between the extra allowance his parents had started sending and Koko’s help with the logistics, he actually had a bit of a safety net.

"Thanks, Koko…" Takemichi said.

"Don't mention it. Just make sure there's a place for us to sit when we get there," Koko replied with a smirk before turning back to the front.

It is exactly what Takemichi had asked for, a reprieve from the silence he had feared. He’d invited them to fill the gap between his past and this new start, and seeing them already carving out spaces for themselves in his future made the weight of the move easier to carry.

As the van continued its steady climb along the elevated highway, the sound barriers finally gave way to a sudden, sprawling vista. Takemichi looked at his reflection in the glass, but his gaze quickly drifted past it toward the busy harbour of Yokohama stretching out to the right. It is a view he hadn't encountered during his usual train rides from Kamakura to Tokyo, where the tracks are often tucked between the shadows of mountains.

Here, the world is open and industrial. Massive cargo ships sat heavy in the water, and the colourful metal rectangles of shipping containers stacked. He watched the movement of the gantry cranes in the distance, a sight that felt strangely detached from the quiet domesticity they are traveling toward.

Then, as a gap between two towering stacks of containers flashed by, a thought slipped through his mind, cutting through the haze of the move.

‘Kaku-chan and Izana!’

In the rush of surviving Kamakura and managing the two boys at his side, he had completely forgotten that Yokohama isn’t just another scenic landmark between the two cities of his life.

Yokohama is not just a stronghold, but a home to the people he sworn to save. Kakucho is there, one of the two dearest friends from his childhood before this leap. Beside him, would be Izana, the brother Mikey never really knew, whose history Takemichi had only begun to piece together through the spoken fragments of his friends' memories.

"Takemichi?" Seishu’s voice a mere breath against his ear, noticing the way his breathing had hitched. "What is it?"

Takemichi leaned in closer to both of them, his voice dropping to a low whisper so Koko wouldn't hear from the front. "We're in Yokohama. I forgot... Kaku-chan is here. And Izana."

Kazutora’s eyes sharpened, the sleepy haze vanishing instantly. "The ‘Tenjiku’ problem, huh…" he hissed back. "Michi, forget it. Not now. We’re moving to Honmachi to get away from the mess, not dive into a new one."

"I have to save them, Tora," Takemichi whispered, his eyes fixed on the crane silhouettes. "They’re alone out there. They don't know what's coming."

"You can't save everyone," Seishu added, his tone uncharacteristically stern. "Especially not them. Yokohama is a complete unknown, even if all three of us combined. Just... stay focused on Tokyo for now. Stay safe."

Takemichi turned his head, looking first at Seishu’s scarred face, then at Kazutora’s worried frown. "I already promised I’d change things. If I pass by them now and do nothing, I’m just waiting for the next tragedy to start. I’m not letting it happen."

Kazutora looked over Takemichi’s head at Seishu, his expression flat. "Look at him. He's got that look again."

"The 'I'm going to do something reckless and you can't stop me' look?" Seishu asked, his voice low but weary.

"That's the one," Kazutora muttered. "The same one that got us sitting in this van in the first place."

"I'm not being reckless," Takemichi tried to protest, though his whisper lacked any real bite. "I'm just... being thorough."

"Thoroughly annoying," Seishu corrected softly, though his hand remained firmly over Takemichi’s. "You know he’s not going to drop this, Tora. He’ll just sneak out in the middle of the night if we don't say yes."

Kazutora groaned, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Great. So now we're planning a trip to the harbour. I bet there's not even a good cafe nearby."

"You're a pain," Kazutora sighed, though he didn't pull away. He let his forehead rest against Takemichi's shoulder again. "Fine. But if you’re going after them, we’re coming with you. No solo missions."

Seishu let out a slow, defeated exhale. "He’s right. If you’re determined to be that stubborn, we’ll just have to make sure you don't get yourself killed doing it."

Takemichi felt a small, genuine spark of relief. "Thanks. I mean it."

The landscape shifted gradually as the highway descended, leading them into the underground tunnels around Kawasaki. The industrial patina of Yokohama eventually replaced by the dense architecture of Tokyo’s outskirts just as fast as they arrived. For another half an hour, Takemichi watched the shops and schools he vaguely remembered from a dozen different lives flicker past.

The van began to slow as they changed into the lane toward Tokyo. The sights thus far vanishing behind them, though the lingering weight of the task remained.

His hand drifted into his pocket, fingers brushing against the plastic casing of his flip phone. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a dim glow. He stared at the single number his mother had insisted he save before the move. Of all the friends he had in Tokyo as a kid, there's only one who he’s properly close with. They had grown up together in this timeline, in each other’s lives as long as he can remember, until Takemichi had spent the recent few years away in Kamakura.

‘He would love to hear from you,’ his mother’s voice echoed in his head.

Takemichi took a deep breath, his thumb hovering over the call button. He felt Seishu and Kazutora watching him, curious but quiet. He flipped the phone open with a sharp clack, dialed the number, and pressed it to his ear.

The dial tone rang once. Twice. On the third ring, the line clicked open.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was youthful, tinged with a slight rasp that sent a jolt of recognition through Takemichi’s chest.

“T-Takuya?” Takemichi’s voice blurted out. Even after years of childhood history in this life, hearing his childhood friend’s voice brings relieve and simple calm.

In the front seat, Koko remained quietly zoned out, largely uninterested in the hushed dialogue from the back. Over the last few weeks, his encounters with Takemichi had grown frequent enough that the initial prickle of displeasure had smoothed over into a neutral and comfortable tolerance, though he wouldn't dare to admit if the question's brought up to him.

The van left from the expressway and entered Shingawa, they are pulled to a gradual halt by a red light. Ahead of them, a pack of motorcycles occupied the intersection. The teenagers atop them wears a variety of helmets, clashing shades of gloss in different colours, but their attire is uniformed. A black boiler suit emblazoned with a large, golden manji symbol across the back.

At the very front of the formation sat a lone moped. The rider didn't look like a typical leader, his size comparatively smaller, but from the way the other bikes flanked him, Koko could tell he is the centre of the pack.

For a moment, Koko considered pointing out the group to the three in the back, perhaps to start some small talk, but a quick glance through the rearview mirror changed his mind. Takemichi looked occupied, and the other two hovering like gargoyles. He decided to stay silent.

A thought drifted through his mind as he watched the bikers rev their engines. He imagined a future where he, Seishu, Takemichi, and Kazutora might do the same, less of a gang and more of a group of friends, riding together on a mindless joyride through the city night.

‘I should probably start saving up for that,’ Koko thought to himself, a small smile touching his lips.

The air in S.S. Motors is thick with the scent of motor oil and metallic dust, a familiar perfume that defined Shinichirou’s life. He was hunched over the exposed engine of a CB250T, grease smearing his forehead as he wiped away a bead of sweat with the back of a gloved hand. Nearby, Mikey sat perched on a workbench, swinging his legs back and forth. His eyes are fixed on the practiced movements of his brother’s hands, though his mind seemed miles away.

The shop is quiet, save for the occasional clink of a wrench against a bolt and the soft, crackling burn of the cigarette dangling from the corner of Shinichirou's mouth.

All of a sudden, Mikey’s legs stopped swinging. He leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Shin… So, when are you gonna introduce me to Izana?”

The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Shinichirou’s hand slipped, the wrench clattering loudly against the shop floor as his entire body jerked in shock. He choked, a plume of grey smoke escaping his lungs as he almost ingested the burning cigarette. He erupted into a fit of coughing, stumbling back and clutching his chest while trying to spat the tobacco out.

“Wh-What?” Shinichirou finally wheezed, his eyes wide and panicked as he looked at his younger brother. “Where... how do you even know that name?”

Mikey didn't blink. He just stared at the messy array of parts on the floor, his voice flat and deceptively calm. "No shit Shin. I’m from the future, you idiot!” Mikey joked, breaking the silence with a sudden, sharp grin as he playfully punched Shinichirou’s shoulder.

“For fuck sakes…” Shinichirou muttered, wiping a streak of black grease across his forehead as he let out a long, ragged exhale. He slumped against the bike frame, his heart finally slowing down. “I always forget you’re like... from the future, and almost as old as me.”

Shinichirou reached down to retrieve his wrench, his movements slower now. “Don’t throw out something like that all of a sudden. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“You’re like twenty, Shin. Stop acting like gramps,” Mikey countered, hopping off the bench to stand beside the half-finished bike. He reached out, his thumb tracing the cold chrome of the handlebars.

“So?” Mikey continued, his head tilting back as he fixed Shinichirou with a challenging, expectant grin. “When do I get to see him?”

Shinichirou tried to ignore the jab, but his grip on the wrench tightened. “Uhh… I’ve been trying to find the right time... I'm also worried how he’ll react to the news…”

“Excuses,” Mikey teased, though his eyes are scanning Shinichirou’s face for any sign of a real lie. “You’re just worried I’ll like him more than you. Or maybe you’re worried he’ll realise I’m the one actually in charge of the family legacy.” He laughed, at odds with topic being discussed. “Just tell me where he is. I’ll go find him myself if I have to.”

Shinichirou looked at the mess on the floor, unable to meet Mikey's gaze. The idea of them meeting sent a cold shiver of dread down his spine. "I don't know, Manjirou. I really don't know if it's a good idea. Izana... If I bring you two together and it goes wrong, I might lose both of you." He sighed, the decision pressing down on him like a burden more than anything else. "Just give me time to think. This isn't something we can just rush into..."

Mikey didn't walk away this time. Instead, he hopped down from the workbench and walked a slow circle around the bike Shinichirou was working on. His gaze is fixated on the engine, then drifted to the corner of the shop where a tarp covered a second frame.

"Anyways, Shin," Mikey said, his tone shifting into something quieter, more observational. "This Babu... it’s your twin, right? Your CB250T."

Shinichirou nodded slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. "Yeah. Been restoring it for a while. There’s two of a kind."

"Two of a kind," Mikey repeated, a small smirk playing on his lips. "This the one you’re keeping for me, and with the one you’re riding now, that makes two." He stopped walking, standing directly across from his brother. "So there’s only two? One for the big brother, one for the little brother..."

Shinichirou felt the air in the shop grow heavy. He tried to laugh it off, focusing on a particularly stubborn grease stain. "Two is plenty for one family, Manjirou. It’s a lot of maintenance."

"Is that it?" Mikey’s eyes didn't leave Shinichirou’s face. "Because if Izana is our brother, that makes three of us. But you only ever planned for two Babus. It’s like you already decided there isn't a seat for him at the table."

Shinichirou went quiet again, his fingers tightening around the wrench as his eyes fell back to the engine. "I... I am planning on giving him mine," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I thought if I passed my own bike to him, it would mean more. Like I was giving him a piece of the family I’ve been holding onto for him." He let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle at his ‘plan’.

Mikey snorted, an irreverent sound that cut through the tension. He stepped closer, poking Shinichiro’s chest. "Don't be a sap, Shin. It’s simple." He grinned, eyes dancing with a sudden, mischievous clarity. "You should leave your Babu to me. And since you're gifting this twin to me... I'll give it to Takemitchy."

Shinichirou blinked, a streak of grease forgotten on his cheek as he stared at Mikey in disbelief. "Wait, what?"

"Keep up, Shin," Mikey waved a hand dismissively, his pace picking up as he circled the bike. "He’s part of my 'legacy' too. We need a three-bike formation. Think about it: Izana on one, me on the one I’ve already got, and Takemitchy on the one you’re sweating over right now after I gift it to him. It’s poetic. Or something."

Shinichirou let out a snort, leaning against the bike frame with a playful, mocking glint in his eyes as he finally found his voice. "Poetic? Wow, Manjirou. You're already treating the family legacy like it's open for whoever you find 'dear' this week, bumping your brother down the list before I've even introduced you." He chuckled, returning to his tools while keeping a side-long glance on Mikey’s defiant face. "It’s called expansion, Shin," Mikey countered, his jaw set as he kicked his legs with renewed energy. "You're being narrow-minded. Takemitchy is basically family anyway, he’s worth ten of my brothers. And I remember Izana riding a CBR400F in the future, so just buy him one of those and let us have the twins."

"Ten, huh?" Shinichirou chuckled, a low, knowing sound as he shook his head and returned to his tools. He picked up the wrench, though his focus remained fixed on his little brother’unusual intensity. "Better not let Izana hear that. He might get the wrong idea about his ranking in the Sano hierarchy." He paused, casting a sharp, side-long glance at Mikey. "Actually... you’re getting pretty worked up over this 'friend,' aren’t you? I’ve been wondering, but you’ve got that look in your eyes whenever you speak of him, Manjirou."

Now, it’s Mikey’s turn to freeze. He went rigid against the workbench, his gaze darting toward a smudge of oil stain on the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave in a failed attempt at nonchalance.

"Oh, I think you do," Shinichirou teased, stepping away from the bike to fully face him. "You’re preparing something for him, aren’t you… Is there something you’re not telling me? Does this Takemichi have some secret power over you? Or is he just... very, very special?"

A slow, hot flush began to creep up Mikey's neck, staining his cheeks a dusty rose. He looked away, focusing intensely on a stack of tires in the corner. "He's just Takemitchy. He’s annoying and he cries too much. He’s also adorable, and he looks cute when he’s worked up." Mikey doesn’t realise he’s rambling on.

Shinichirou watched Mikey with rapt interest, absorbing the way his brother’s tone shifted to something almost fond. The honesty in those words is rare for his brother, especially after the ‘adorable’ part, and Shinichirou felt a wave of genuine amusement wash over him.

"Adorable, huh?" Shinichirou repeated, leaning his hip against the workbench with a wicked grin. "Cute when he's worked up, huh? Wow, Manjirou. You're really laying it on thick. Does he know you think he's 'adorable', or are you saving that for when you present him with ‘his’ bike?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Maybe I should colour it pink too, you know, to match your face right now."

"Shut up, Shin!" Mikey snapped, his voice cracking slightly as the blush deepened. He hopped off the workbench, turning his back to hide his face. "I'm going to get a dorayaki. Don't touch the bike and make it weird!"

"Chop chop! And go home before dinner!" Shinichirou called after him, his laughter echoing in the shop. He let out a long, contented exhale, the earlier worry about Izana temporarily softened. He watched the back of Mikey's head as he hurried toward the exit, marvelling at the change in the room's atmosphere. His brother’s usually so ‘unaffectionate’, yet, always, at the mere mention of one Takemichi, it had him fuming and blushing in equal measure. Shinichirou leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he wondered just how much of a hold this 'Takemitchy' had on his brother.

If the kid could get his brother to redistribute family heirlooms and stutter like a schoolboy, he must be something truly extraordinary. Shinichirou couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity and a heavy dose of amusement, at the thought of finally meeting the person who had managed to crack his brother up this much.

The midday sun beat down from directly overhead, washing the Yokohama skyline in an unforgiving glare that turned the asphalt into a shimmering river of heat. They walked with the effortless, sprawling formation of teenagers who owned the sidewalk. In the lead, Takemichi walked with a steady, determined stride, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, him positioned squarely in the middle, while Seishu and Kazutora flanked him on his sides.

Seishu leaned in close to Takemichi, his voice a mere murmur that is lost to anyone more than a foot away. On Takemichi’s other side, Kazutora is nodding along, chiming in with hushed observations. To an outsider, the three looks coupled, and that’s what appeared to the two at the rear.

Several paces behind, the atmosphere is surprisingly different. Koko and Takuya are walking side-by-side, maintaining a pace that kept them within sight of the others but far enough back to have their own space. Takuya, initially intimidated by Koko’s personality had quickly found himself accustomed. They are speaking on a remarkably similar wavelength, Koko’s mind finding an unexpected match in Takuya’s timid nature.

Koko tilted his head toward the front, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he watched Seishu and Kazutora practically vibrating around Takemichi.

"Look at them," Koko jeered quietly, his voice dry as bone. "If they get any closer, they'll be sharing the same pair of shoes."

Takuya glanced ahead, watching the way Kazutora pulled at Takemichi's sleeve while Seishu muttered intently into his ear. He blinked, a bit of worry creasing his brow. "Is it... normal...? Is it always like that? I mean, since he moved, he hasn’t been talking about himself much, but seeing it him now in person is different."

Koko let out a bark-like laugh. "Normal? Please. There’s nothing normal about the way those two orbit him. That’s what you call a ‘ménage à trois’ at this point." He shot Takuya a sidelong, mischievous look. "Better get used to it."

Takuya let out a soft chuckle, despite the absurdity of it. "As long as he's happy... though it does look a bit crowded up there."

"Crowded is an understatement," Koko hummed, his eyes following the trio with a glint. "But hey, it keeps things interesting."

The five simply wandered through the city's quieter suburbs, their lack of destination lending the walk a deceptive calm until a distant yelp shattered the silence.

Kazutora is the first to stop, his head snapping toward a empty park. "Is there anything better to do than to gang up on someone?" he remarked.

Seishu is right behind him, his eyes narrowing as he caught the sound of laughter following the cry. "We should go break it up."

They didn't wait for Takemichi to agree. Kazutora and Seishu moved as one, having long since calibrated their instincts to Takemichi’s tendencies. Takemichi followed quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs, but the casual heroism of the moment evaporated the second he poked his head over the two’s shoulders, and notices who is on the ground.

At first, it was just the flash of silver-white hair, and Takemichi’s pace quickened. Then, the sight of swarthy skin against the sand had him breaking into a sprint. Finally, he saw the glint of deep purple eyes through the chaos of the scuffle, and without a word, Takemichi threw himself forward, his shoulder ramming into the bully who is just about to deliver a heavy kick.

Takemichi turned his focus to the boy on the ground, and for a heartbeat, his breath hitched. There he is. Izana looks soft, his features lacking the cruel edges of the man Takemichi remembered from the future. His silver-white hair is a tangled mess, and a slight, watery glint clung to the corners of his eyes, eyes that currently held more confusion than malice.

"Hey, are you okay?" Takemichi asked, his voice gentle as he reached out. He helped Izana up, feeling the slight tremor in the other boy's arm. Izana didn't pull away immediately, he just stared at Takemichi with a dazed, wide-eyed look, as if he couldn't quite process that someone had actually stepped in.

Takemichi had to take a mental double-take, blinking back the image of the ruthless leader of Tenjiku. Looking at this scene, he found it nearly impossible to believe that this is the same person who would one day command an army with a heart full of misguided feelings. But there is no time for contemplation. Sensing the bullies regrouping, Takemichi squeezed Izana's shoulder once in silent reassurance before turning back to the fray. With an exhale, he dove back into the chaos, kicking ass alongside Seishu and Kazutora.

The scuffle that followed is short. Between Kazutora’s and Seishu’s strikes, the bullies realised they are outclassed within seconds. They scrambled away, shouting hollow threats that were swallowed by the wind.

As the dust settled, the dazed confusion on Izana’s face finally began to evaporate. He scrambled to his feet, swiping a hand across his eyes to clear the moisture. The softness Takemichi had seen moments ago being rapidly walled off.

Izana took a step back, his gaze darting between Takemichi and the two breathing heavily beside him. He looked like a cornered animal, wild, paranoid, and ready to strike, the arrival of Takuya and Koko at the mouth of the alley only added to his tension.

"Who are you?" Izana spat, his voice low and jagged. He didn't look grateful; he looked offended. His purple eyes scanned the group, landing on Takemichi’s face at the end. "I didn't need your help. What do you want?"

Takemichi held his hands up in a placating gesture, careful not to crowd the smaller boy. "Nothing. We just... we saw you were in trouble." He offered a small, tentative smile, the kind that usually disarmed Mikey but only seemed to make Izana’s eyes narrow further. "My name's Takemichi. This is Seishu, Kazutora, Takuya, and Koko. We are just checking out the area."

Izana didn't soften. If anything, the mention of 'checking out the area' made him more alert. "New, huh?" Izana muttered, brushing sand off his pants with aggressive, jerky movements. He looked like he wanted to run, but his pride was holding him in place. He looked at Takemichi again, the only one who seemed genuinely, almost stupidly concerned. "You're too loud. And you look like you cry over spilled milk."

Kazutora let out a snort, but an elbow from Seishu kept him quiet.

"I'm going," Izana declared, moving toward the park exit. It is a clear signal from Izana to leave him alone, but his pace is just slow enough that Takemichi could easily keep up.

The group moved toward the street, the white-haired boy keeping a steady pace, his gait stiff as if every muscle are coiled for a fight he didn't want. Takemichi walked just half a step behind him, watching the way the boy’s fingers tapped against the strap of his bag.

The silence lasted until they reached the corner. Then, unexpectedly, the boy spoke. He didn't turn around, but his voice was clear, lacking some of the previous hostility.

"So, Takemichi," the boy said, rolling the name around as if testing its weight. "You came here from somewhere far away? You don't have the look of someone used to these streets."

Takemichi blinked, surprised by the sudden initiative. "Oh, yeah. Kamakura. It's much quieter there. Lots of ocean, not so much... punching."

The boy let out a faint, melodic huff that might have been a laugh. "Kamakura. Figures. You have that 'salt-breeze' air about you. Too soft for Yokohama." He tilted his head slightly, his silver-white hair catching the sun. "Why'd you come here? This city eats people like you for breakfast."

"I have friends here," Takemichi said, his voice soft but firm. "And I think... I think there's someone I'm supposed to meet."

The boy finally stopped in front of a weathered vending machine, its glass pane scratched and dull. He turned, leaning his back against the machine, his violet eyes boring into Takemichi's. He ignored the others, his focus entirely on the boy with the bruised cheek.

"Is that right?" the boy asked, his tone shifting into something almost curious. "And what makes you think this 'someone' wants to be met? Maybe they like being lost."

"Everyone wants to be found, eventually," Takemichi countered, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Even if they don't know it yet."

Izana stared at him for a long moment, appraising the stubborn sincerity on Takemichi's face. He didn't answer the sentiment. Instead, he reached out and tapped the glass of the vending machine with a demanding click.

"You talk a lot for someone who doesn't know anything," he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous silk. "If you want me to keep listening to your rambling, you’re going to have to pay the toll." He gestured toward a bright purple can behind the glass. "Grape soda. Buy it for me now, or this conversation ends here."

Takemichi reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of coins. He pushed the button, and with a heavy thud, the can dropped. He handed the cold can to the boy.

Izana took it, the condensation immediately slicking his palm. "You said you move to Honmachi," Izana started, his voice casual but his eyes searching. "That's a bit of a distance. Why bother coming all this way?"

Takemichi gestured to his bruise with a small grin. "I was looking for someone. I had a feeling they might be around here."

Izana's expression flickered, a momentary break in his mask that revealed a deep, jagged loneliness. "Big words for someone who just got his bell rung," Izana scoffed. He finished the soda and tossed the empty can toward a bin.

The group resumed walking, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the narrow walls of the alleyways. Takemichi watched Izana’s back, noticing the way he carried himself.

"You know," Takemichi said, breaking the silence again. "The person I'm looking for... I used to know them a long time ago. Or at least, it feels that way."

Izana didn't look back. "People from the past usually stay there for a reason. Dragging them into the present only makes things messy."

"Maybe," Takemichi admitted. "But some things are worth the mess. I heard they might be staying at a place nearby. An institution."

Izana stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, his violet eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of cold light. The casual indifference he’d been projecting vanished, replaced by a sort of tension.

"An institution?" Izana repeated. "There’s only one of those around here. And people don't just 'stumble' onto its residents."

Before Takemichi could respond, the sound of Seishu and Kazutora’s muffled conversation drifted forward. They are talking about the logistics of their search, and the name ‘Kaku-chan’ had been mentioned by Seishu. It rings in the air, and at the mention of it, Izana had whipped his head back.

“‘Kaku-chan?’” Izana asked, his voice dropping. “Is that the name of the person you’re trying to find?”

“More like... Kakucho,” Takemichi supplemented softly.

Izana’s grip on his bag strap tightened. He stared toward Takemichi, searching for any hint of a trick. “Kakucho…” he repeated. He took a half-step closer. “How do you know that name? Who are you, really?”

“I told you,” Takemichi said. “I’m Takemichi.”

Izana didn't respond immediately. He looked at Takuya, then at Seishu and Kazutora, before his gaze returned to the boy from Kamakura.

"He's at the orphanage. My orphanage," Izana said quietly.

A heavy silence followed. Then, the boy straightened his back, his eyes narrowing as he took in the whole group. "I'm Izana. And since you're so intent on being 'friends' with people who don't want you... I'll lead you there."

Kazutora’s breath hitched, and beside him, Seishu’s eyes widened, his gaze snapping from Takemichi’s back to the white-haired boy after the mention of that name. Izana. Mikey's estranged brother Takemichi had mentioned with such a mix of anticipation and dread. Neither interrupted, though their posture frozen with shock.

Izana didn't notice their internal panic. He is too bureau looking at Takemichi. "Don't get your hopes up, the orphanage is a dump."

He turned on his heel, but this time, he didn't walk away to leave them. He gestured for them to follow. "Come on. It’s a ten-minute walk. Try to keep up, Takemichi."

Takemichi’s heart leaped. He glanced back at Kazutora and Seishu, seeing the 'we need to talk' looks on their faces, but he just gave them a quick, excited nod.

"You're actually taking us there?" Takemichi asked, catching up to walk beside Izana.

"Only because I'm thirsty and I might want another soda later," Izana lied poorly, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "And because if you're a liar, I want to see your face when Kakucho tells me he's never seen you before."

As they walked, the landscape began to soften into the quiet area where the institution sat.

"Michi..." Kazutora whispered from behind, stepping up to Takemichi's other side, his voice laced with worry. "We really need to talk about how you just 'happen' to find an Izana in the middle of Yokohama."

"Later, Tora," Takemichi whispered back, a bright, determined smile on his face.

Seishu stayed back with Koko and Takuya, his eyes never leaving Izana's back. The mystery of Takemichi is deepening, but because of fate, the path led straight to the one person who he’s finding.

"We're here," Izana said, stopping in front of a low iron gate. He looked at Takemichi, a strange, challenging glint in his purple eyes. "Last chance to run away, Takemichi."

Takemichi didn't even hesitate. He reached for the gate. "I'm not going anywhere."

Izana disappeared inside without a second glance, his white hair a stark contrast against the grey concrete of the orphanage building as he went to fetch Kakucho.

As soon as the gate clicked shut, Koko stepped forward, crossing his arms and fixing Takemichi with an expectant look. "Care to explain what exactly is happening, Takemichi? Because from where I’m standing, we just followed a random kid we helped from a beating to an orphanage to find another person you supposedly know."

Takemichi rubbed the back of his neck, throwing an apologetic, sheepish gaze toward Koko and Takuya. "Oh, right... Sorry for not saying earlier. I didn't mean to keep it a secret, but I came to Yokohama specifically to find someone. I just didn't expect to do so this quickly."

Koko’s eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting toward the two who are standing closer to Takemichi than usual. "And I suppose Seishu and Kazutora already knew about this 'mission'?"

Takemichi gave a small, guilty nod. Koko let out a soft grunt, a mix of annoyance and resignation, while Takuya couldn't help but let out a harmless, light-hearted laugh.

"Well," Takuya said, shaking his head. "It wouldn't be a day out with Takemichi if there isn’t a surprise 'destined encounter' involved. I should have known better than to expect a normal walk."

The light-hearted banter had barely settled when the sound of running footsteps echoed from behind the gate. Takemichi turned just in time to see the door of the building swing open. A young boy with a distinct scar over his eye burst through, his expression a frantic mix of disbelief and sheer joy.

"Takemichi!" Kakucho’s voice broke as he threw himself across the yard.

He crashed into Takemichi, his momentum nearly knocking them both over, and wrapped his arms around him in a crushing hug. Takemichi let out a startled laugh, his own eyes stinging as he hugged the younger boy back, burying his face in Kakucho’s shoulder.

"Kaku-chan~" Takemichi whispered, his voice thick with relief. "I missed you."

Outside the gate, the atmosphere dropped in an instance. Kazutora’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he watched the affectionate display with jealousy. Beside him, Seishu’s posture also stiffened, his gaze turning icy as he observed the way Takemichi held onto the stranger.

Izana stepped back out, leaning against the fence and watching the reunion with a detached interest. He looked at the four teenagers standing in a wary semicircle.

“So,” Izana drawled, shifting his gaze toward Kazutora and Seishu. “Are you guys just his friends?” He pointed a chin toward the embracing duo, his purple eyes flickering with a knowing glint. “Because the way you’re looking at that kid... you feel more like family. Or something a lot more complicated.”

“He’s family,” Kazutora said, his voice flat.

“He is,” Seishu supplemented, tone cold.

Izana hummed, eyeing their protective stances. “You three don’t look related.”

“We aren’t,” Kazutora replied shortly. “But we’re family all the same.”

Izana’s brow furrowed, now a genuine flash of confusion breaking through his bored façade. “How can you be family if you aren’t related? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Family isn’t just about who you’re born to,” Seishu said, his gaze fixed on Izana. He saw the flicker of something sharp in the white-haired boy’s eyes, a rejection of a concept he hadn't yet been allowed to own. “It’s about who chooses to stay with. I have my sister, I also have Michi~”

Izana let out a mocking laugh that didn't reach his eyes. “Choosing to stay? That’s just a nice way of saying you’re afraid to be alone. People only ‘stay’ until they find something better. Or until they realise you’re a burden. Real family is blood. Everything else is just a temporary arrangement.”

“Then your arrangement must have been pretty shitty,” Kazutora retorted, stepping forward until he was right at the gate, his gold earring catching the fading light. “Because some people don’t look for exits. Some people build the house they never had… Before meeting him, I thought there’s no point in family.” Kazutora joked.

Izana’s expression went cold, his violet eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous intensity. “You talk big. Don’t lecture me on houses. I’ve lived in this ‘dump’ long enough to know that walls don’t make a home, and ‘choice’ is a luxury for people who aren't discarded.”

He turned his gaze back to Takemichi, who is still talking softly to Kakucho, obscured by the fence. “That guy would be the same,” Izana said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He thinks he can just walk in here and reclaim a piece of the past. But people change. The world hardens you. He’s going to find out that you can’t just ‘choose’ your way into someone’s life without getting burned.”

“Maybe,” Seishu said, his voice remarkably calm despite Izana’s hostility. “But he’s the one holding the match. And we’re the ones making sure the fire doesn't go out.”

Izana stared at them, a flicker of something crossing his mind. Is it envy? Curiosity? “You guys are delusional.” he pushed off the fence, turning back toward the building.

He didn't wait for a reply, leaving Kazutora and Seishu standing in the twilight, their hands instinctively grasped into fists at their sides.

Later, Izana found a moment to pull Takemichi away from the others, his expression tight with a mixture of skepticism and genuine confusion.

"What's your deal, Takemichi..." Izana questioned, his voice low as he glanced back at the gate. "What's your deal with the two out there?" He gestured toward Seishu and Kazutora. "They said you're family, but you three isn't. There's no bond between you three," Izana declared, his voice laced with poison.

Takemichi grew quiet for a moment, looking over at Kazutora, Seishu, Koko, and Takuya, who are all now gathered around Kakucho. A soft, knowing smile touched his lips as he turned back to the silver-haired boy.

"The bond of family is biological and instinctive..." Takemichi began, his voice steady. "While betraying a family member is a terrible, that tie is given to you. Meanwhile..." He paused, watching his friends laughing together. "Friendship, hospitality, and loyalty are borne out of reason and choice. You choose your friends..."

Izana remained silent, his violet eyes fixed on Takemichi, listening with a tentative attention he thought he didn’t have.

"These bonds are built on a conscious 'contract' of trust, rather than just blood... Breaking them is deliberate, and 'human'...?" Takemichi took a deep breath, meeting Izana's gaze directly. "Family is a 'natural' bond, but friendship are 'spiritual' and 'intellectual' bonds, Izana... I'll not betray them, because I trust them... And if you ask me, the spirit always outranks the flesh..."

“Just... make sure you aren't left in the dark about these kinds of secrets, Izana. Don't let your bonds be so fragile. It’s better to confront the truth and be disappointed than to feel betrayed and lose your ability to trust anyone at all,” Takemichi added, his voice heavy with a warning meant to keep Izana from shattering when the truth of his connection to Shinichirou and Mikey eventually surfaced.

Izana didn't snap. He didn't scoff. He simply stared at Takemichi, the lines of his face softening into something almost vacant. The poison in his voice had vanished, replaced by a hollow, ringing silence. He looked down at his hands, the same hands that had gripped a soda can Takemichi had bought him out of nothing more than a whim.

The idea felt heavy. If the spirit outranked the flesh, then the desperate importance he'd placed on finding a blood connection to Shinichirou is suddenly stripped of its weight. His world doesn’t shatter, it just stalled, the engine of his singular obsession stuttering for the first time, its cylinders as if filled with seawater.

"That's a very convenient way of looking at it," Izana said quietly. His voice is steady, but he wouldn't meet Takemichi's eyes anymore. "If you can just 'choose' to be someone's family... Someone’s brother… Then being alone is your own fault, isn't it?"

He didn't wait for Takemichi to answer the question, Izana just turned away, his shoulders straight, his posture perfect, yet he looked smaller than he had ten minutes ago.

"Take your 'spiritual' family and get out of here," Izana said, his back turned. "And Takemichi... don't come back unless you're bringing more soda."

It isn’t a dismissal, but it isn’t the rejection it had been before.

As Izana and Kakucho went back into the building, following a quick promise from Takemichi that he’d be visiting again soon, the group turned to start the walk back to the train station. The silence of the Yokohama evening settled over them, the weight of everything that had just transpired settling.

“What did you do, Takemichi?” Takuya asked, breaking the quiet. He was watching his friend closely, a look of wonder on his face. “Izana looks… different. After whatever it was you said to him.”

“You better not have done something that makes him fall for you, Michi,” Kazutora added. He spoke semi-jokingly, but there is also an edge of concern in his eyes as he stepped closer to Takemichi’s side, him worried that might be the case.

“I assure you, it’s nothing like that,” Takemichi replied with a light-hearted laugh, though his gaze remained thoughtful. He looked between the two boys walking on either side of him. “Instead, I have a question for you two. Why did you tell Izana we’re family? Any answers? Seishu? Kazutora?”

Kazutora went quiet, his eyes dropping to the pavement as they walked. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the casual sway of his gait slowing just a fraction. He eventually looked over at Takemichi, "You're the person we chose to stay for. So calling you family isn't a lie. It's just the truth we decided on."

Koko, walking a few paces behind with Takuya, let out a dry, mock-exasperated sigh and clapped his hands together loudly, the sharp sound echoing off the nearby walls. "Alright, that’s enough." He stepped up, physically wedging himself between Kazutora and Takemichi with a swift, practiced movement. "We have a train to catch, and I’ve already scouted a place near the station that serves actually decent food. Move it, before I decide to leave you all here to wallow in your feelings." He didn't look back to see if they are following, though the slight, hidden twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth suggested he isn’t nearly as annoyed as he sounded.

Inside their room at the orphanage, with the doors closed, Izana sat on the edge of his futon, staring at the empty ceiling. The moon had begun to rise, casting pale shadows across the room. Kakucho stood by the window, his expression still luminous with the shock of seeing Takemichi again.

“He’s the hero you talked about, huh?” Izana asked suddenly. His voice was flat, but it no longer carried the jagged edges of a threat. Instead, it sounded like a hollow bell, ringing with a new, confusing frequency.

Kakucho turned, nodding eagerly. “Yeah. He’s always been like that. Even when we were younger… he’d stand up to anyone, even if he was crying the whole time. He’s my hero, Izana.”

Izana hummed, a low vibration in his chest. “The spirit outranks the flesh,” he repeated under his breath. He looked at his hands, the hands that had received a cold gift from a stranger who owed him nothing. For years, Izana had been building a throne out of blood, believing that only a biological tie could justify his existence. But Takemichi had looked up at him with those blue eyes, unbothered by Izana's thorns, and offered a hand of "choice" instead.

“If he’s right…” Izana whispered. “Then Shinichirou didn’t have to find me to be my brother. He could have just… wanted to.”

A strange sensation is beginning to bloom in the centre of his chest, something warmer...

“Kakucho,” Izana said, his voice regaining its sharp edge, though it was now tempered by a fragile sort of wonder. “Tomorrow, you’re going to tell me everything about him. Every detail. I want to know exactly what kind of ‘spirit’ creates someone like that.”

Kakucho smiled, a grin. “Sure, Izana. I can do that.”

Izana lay back on his bed, closing his eyes. The engine of his obsession is still stuttering, but the seawater, that Kamakura brine with a name, is filling the cylinders. It is a strange, corrosive kind of peace. The machinery of his anger had halted, overwhelmed by the tide of a boy's simple certainty. As Izana surrendered to the feeling of this new enthralment in one Takemichi, he found that for the first time in a very long time, he isn’t afraid of the dark. He’d waited to see the light again.

The silence in the Sano household always felt heaviest in the garage. Shinichirou stood over his workbench, the air thick with the smell of oil and rubber, his fingers trembling slightly as he wiped a grease stain from a wrench he’d already cleaned three times. His usual easy-going confidence is nowhere to be found, replaced by a vibrating anxiousness that seemed to buzz in the air around him.

The planning had been exhaustive, the internal debate even more so. He had finally resolved to do it. Soon, he would be introducing his two brothers to one another.

Mikey sat on a stack of tires in the corner, his legs swinging, his expression unusually solemn. "Shin," he said, his voice cutting through the clatter of the wrench hitting the workbench. "You're going to tell him, right? Before we go?"

Shinichirou froze, his back to his younger brother. "Tell him what, Manjirou?"

"That we aren't blood related," Mikey said flatly. "You keep talking about him like he's our 'real' brother, but if he finds out later that you lied about the blood... he's going to hate us. He's going to think the whole thing was a trick."

Shinichirou finally turned, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. "It's not that simple, Manjirou. Izana... he's alone. His whole world is built on the idea that he finally found his real family. If I tell him now, before he even meets you, before he feels like he belongs with us... I'm afraid he'll break. I'm afraid he'll close the door and never let me back in."

"But it's a lie," Mikey insisted, jumping down from the tires. He walked over to Shinichirou, looking up with eyes that were far too old for his face. "If you want him to be your brother, you have to choose him for who he is, not for who you pretend he is. If you don't tell him, you're just being a coward."

Shinichirou flinched as if Mikey had slapped him. The word 'coward' stung because he knows Mikey is right. He is petrified. He is uncertain of how Izana would react to Mikey, the 'true' biological brother who lived the life Izana had been denied. He is worried Izana would see Mikey as a rival or, worse, as proof that Shinichirou’s love is just a pity project.

"I'm not being a coward," Shinichirou whispered, though his voice lacked conviction. "I'm being careful. Izana has nothing, Mikey. Literally nothing. I'm trying to give him a home, and you want me to start by tearing the foundation out?"

"A home built on a lie isn't a home, Shin. It's a cage," Mikey countered, his voice stern and fierce. He grabbed Shinichirou’s sleeve. "Tell him. Tell him we aren't related, but we want him anyway. If he’re really our brother, he’ll understand choice."

Shinichirou looked down at Mikey’s hand, then out toward the street that feels unending. The anxiety in his gut refusing to settle. He thought of Izana’s letters. How could he look that boy in the eye and tell him the one thing he treasured most is a mistake?

"I don't know if I can do it, Manjirou," Shinichirou admitted, his voice breaking. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to risk losing him."

"Then I'll tell him," Mikey said.

"No!" Shinichirou snapped, grabbing Mikey’s shoulders. "You won't. You stay quiet and let me handle it. Manjirou, just... let me see how he is first. Let me see if he's ready."

Mikey stared at him for a long beat, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. Finally, Mikey sighed and pulled away. "Fine. But if he finds out and everything blows up... don't say I didn't warn you."

As Mikey walked back toward the house, Shinichirou leaned against his bike, the cool metal doing nothing to soothe the fire of uncertainty in his mind. He was planning a collision between two worlds, and for the first time in his life, the famed Sano Shinichirou felt like he was walking straight into a disaster he couldn't stop.

The decision has been made. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon when Shinichirou finally kicked the kickstand of his bike up. He didn't look back at the shop, just gestured for Mikey to hop on the back.

They rode through the city, the wind whipping past them, cold and indifferent. Mikey held onto Shinichirou’s waist, his grip firm, his face buried against his brother’s back. He didn't say a word, but Shinichirou could feel his anxieties as well. They are both crossing a line today.

In Yokohama, the gates of the orphanage stood. Izana is already outside, leaning against the cold iron bars. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, his eyes fixed on the distant road. He’d been told of Shinichirou’s visit, and he has been waiting for the exact sound of that specific engine.

When the low rumble finally reached his ears, his heart gave a small, painful leap. He straightened up, his fingers tightening around the metal. The silhouette of the motorcycle appeared at the end of the block, growing larger and louder as it approached.

But as the bike slowed, Izana’s brow furrowed. There is a second figure sitting behind Shinichirou. A smaller figure, shrouded in the shadows of his brother's windbreaker. Izana squinted, his violet eyes narrowing. Shinichirou hadn't mentioned bringing anyone. He hadn't said there would be a guest.

The bike came to a halt a few yards away, the engine dying with a final, echoing sputter. Shinichirou pulled his helmet off, his hair a mess, a nervous smile already forming on his lips. "Izana!" he called out, his voice sounding thinner than usual.

Izana didn't move. He didn't wave. His gaze is locked on the boy climbing off the back of the bike. The boy is blonde, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the ground as he adjusted his shirt. His eyes, is like Shinichirou’s…

"Who's that, Shin?" Izana asked, his voice coming out sharp and cold. He could feel a sudden, icy knot forming in his stomach. The figure behind Shinichirou felt wrong, felt like a threat, felt like an intrusion. He wasn't sure who that was, but he knew, he’re sure that things are about to change forever.

Mikey's heart is hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He kept his head down, the tips of his fingers digging into his palms. He had talked a big game back at the garage, but now, standing in the shadow of his brother, under the piercing gaze of his estranged brother that he felt tiny. He felt like an interloper. Every instinct he had is screaming at him to turn around and run.

He looks just like me, Mikey thought, his breath hitching. But he doesn't look happy to see me.

Shinichirou, sensing the volatile atmosphere, stepped forward. He reached back and placed a hand on Mikey’s shoulder, a firm, grounding weight. He was the adult, the bridge between these two jagged pieces of a broken family, and he knew he had to hold the center or everything would collapse.

"Izana," Shinichirou said, his voice regaining some of its usual warmth, though the slight tremor remained. "This is Manjirou. My... my younger brother."

The word 'brother' hung in the air, thick and heavy. Izana’s eyes didn't leave Mikey. He didn't blink. The silence stretched until it was almost unbearable, the sound of the wind through the gate sounding like a low hiss.

"Manjirou," Izana repeated, the name sounding like a curse on his tongue. "You have another brother, Shin? You never said. You never wrote about a 'Manjirou'."

Shinichirou swallowed hard, his hand tightening on Mikey’s shoulder. "I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought... I thought it was time you two met. You're family, Izana. Both of you。"

Izana felt the familiar heat of rage begin to coil in his gut, ready to snap and lash out. Another surprise. Another secret kept in the dark. He wanted to scream at Shinichirou, to tell him to take his ‘real’ brother and get lost, to demand why he was only a ‘weekend’ brother while this blonde boy got the rest of Shinichirou’s life.

But then, the heat hit a wall.

“It’s better to confront the truth and be disappointed than to feel betrayed and lose your ability to trust...”

That Takemichi’s voice echoed in his mind, clear and calm as the sea. Izana’s fingers, which had been tightening into claws against the iron gate, suddenly went limp. He didn't explode. The fire didn't catch. Instead, it is as if someone had poured water into his veins.

The anger drained away, leaving only a vast, hollow disappointment that felt a hundred times heavier. He looked at Shinichirou, and for the first time, he didn't see a savior. He saw an adult who is afraid. He saw a man who had kept a secret because he didn't trust Izana to handle the truth.

"You're family," Izana repeated, but his voice was no longer sharp or cold. It is flat. Mellowed by a weary clarity. "You kept him a secret because you didn't think I was worth the 'intellectual bond' of honesty, didn't you, Shin?"

Shinichirou’s eyes widened. He had prepared for a tantrum, for screaming, even for a fight. He hadn't prepared for this clinical, quiet dissection of his own failure. "Izana, no, I just-"

"You didn't trust me," Izana interrupted, his violet eyes turning toward Mikey. The blonde boy flinched, expecting a blow, but Izana just looked at him with a strange, distant pity. "And you didn't trust him either. You let us both walk into this in the dark."

Izana let go of the bars and stepped back, but he didn't turn to run. He just stood there, looking smaller than his years. "I'm disappointed, Shin. I thought we were building something real. But you're still treating me like a kid who needs to be handled."

Mikey’s panic didn't subside, but it shifted. He saw the way Izana’s shoulders slumped, not from defeat, but from a loss of faith. It was worse than being yelled at. It was the feeling of a bridge crumbling before they even got to cross it.

"He's not a stranger, is he?" Izana asked, his voice barely a whisper. "He's the one you live with. The one who has your name. The 'flesh' part of your family."

Shinichirou stepped closer to the gate, his heart breaking at the lack of fire in Izana’s tone. The mellowed silence is terrifying. "He is, Izana. But that doesn't change what you are to me. Please, just talk to us."

Izana looked at the sky, then back at the two brothers. The memory of the grape soda, a gift given freely by someone who knew nothing of his bloodline surfacing once more.

"I won't get mad," Izana said, a bitter smile touching his lips. "That would be a waste of my energy. But I think you should go home, Shin. You need to decide if you want a brother, or if you just want a secret to keep for when you're bored of Yokohama..."

Izana turned his gaze toward the blonde boy who stood frozen in Shinichirou’s shadow. He doesn’t see a rival. He doesn’t see the person who had stolen his life. He simply saw a stranger, another boy being used in Shinichirou’s clumsy attempts to manufacture a perfect family.

"And you," Izana said, addressing Mikey for the first time. The venom was gone, replaced by a strange, analytical curiosity. "Sano Manjirou. I don't know you. You’re just some kid who rode here on a bike. I don't hate you. I didn’t experience enough with you to feel anything at all."

Mikey blinked, his heart slowing just a fraction. This wasn't the reaction he had braced himself for.

"If you really want to be my brother," Izana continued, looking Mikey dead in the eye, "it won't be because Shin says so. It’ll be because you decide to show up without him. I’m open to building something, eventually. But right now? You’re just a stranger."

He turned away then, his walk slow and deliberate. He didn't slam the gate. He just disappeared into the shadows of the orphanage, leaving Shinichirou and Mikey standing in the twilight, the silence of Izana’s disappointment ringing louder than any scream could have.

Mikey looked up, and his breath hitched in his throat. Beside him, Shinichirou had finally broken. The man who always had a smile and a cigarette ready, is crumbling.

Shinichirou didn't sob out loud, but the way his shoulders shook was more violent than any scream. He stared at the empty space where Izana had just been, his eyes wide and brimming with tears that spilled over and carved tracks through the grease on his face.

The sight of Shinichirou’s tears hit Mikey harder than Izana’s coldness ever could. It is the first time Mikey had see the fragility of his brother's strength. He reached out, his small hand hesitant before clutching the fabric of Shinichirou’s windbreaker.

"Shin..." Mikey whispered.

Shinichirou didn't look down. He just stood there. His brother had met a problem he couldn't solve with a smile, and the cost is the trust of the brother he’d tried so hard to safeguard.

Shinichirou's knees finally buckled, and he sank to the pavement right there outside the orphanage gate, squatting by the roadside. He covered his face with his hands, his breath coming in hitching gasps. The silence of the Yokohama suburbs feels like it is mocking him. He had spent time trying to be the glue for his family, and in one afternoon, he felt like he had become the hammer that smashed it apart.

"I ruined it," Shinichirou choked out, his voice muffled by his palms. "I thought if I just... if I just waited for the right time... but there is no right time for a lie."

Mikey knelt down beside him, his heart heavy. He had never seen Shin like this. Shin was the legend, the man who stood at the top of the world and laughed at the wind. To see him reduced to a shaking mess on a sidewalk felt like the sky was falling.

"Shin, don't," Mikey said softly, reaching out to pull Shinichirou's hands away from his face.

Shinichirou finally looked at him, and the grief in his eyes is staggering. His face was a mess of tears and grime, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at Mikey as if seeing him for the first time, searching the young boy's face for a forgiveness he didn't think he deserved.

"Manjirou," Shinichirou whispered, his voice cracking. "Am I... am I a bad brother?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the bike they had ridden in on. Shinichirou grabbed Mikey’s shoulders, his grip desperate. "I lied to him. I lied to you. I tried to prop up a façade because I'm too afraid to tell the truth..."

He squeezed Mikey's shoulders, his eyes searching Mikey's. "Tell me the truth, Manjirou. Am I a bad brother? Have I just been making things worse this whole time?"

Mikey didn't answer immediately. He looked at the gate where Izana had vanished, then back at the man who had raised him. He saw the fear, the regret, and the deep, aching love that had driven Shinichirou to make such a mess of things.

"You're an idiot, Shin," Mikey said, his voice quiet but firm. He reached up and wiped a tear from Shinichirou's cheek with his thumb. "You're a huge, clumsy idiot who thinks he can fix everything with smiles and secrets. But you're not a bad brother. You're just... an idiot. And you're trying too hard."

Mikey pulled Shinichirou into a clumsy hug. "You're the best brother I have. And Izana... he's right. You didn't put your trust in him. But that doesn't mean you're bad. It just means you have to stop being a coward, like I said."

Shinichirou let out a broken, wet laugh, leaning his forehead against Mikey's shoulder. He stayed like that for a long time, the two of them anchored to each other on the cold Yokohama street.

"I'm sorry," Shinichirou whispered into the dark。

"Don't be sorry," Mikey replied, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Just be better. Next time we come back... We bring the truth."

Shinichirou took a shaky breath, finally nodding. He stood up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He still looked exhausted, and the pain in his chest hadn't vanished, but the paralysing shaking had stopped. He looked at the orphanage one last time, not with the eyes of a saviour, but with the eyes of a brother who had a lot of work to do.

"Yeah," Shinichirou said, his voice regaining a tiny spark of its old strength. "Next time, we bring the truth."

In his room, Kakucho being out today, Izana splayed on the futon. He grabbed the pillow and plopped it over his head, the darkness beneath it a welcome relief from the moonlight. His mind was a chaotic landscape of overlapping voices and conflicting truths.

“If the spirit outranks the flesh...”

Takemichi’s words are just a low hum in the back of his head now, like the static on a radio that wouldn't quite tune in. It wasn't a grand revelation anymore, just a strange, heavy feeling that wouldn't leave his chest. He had been looking for a reason to belong, a receipt, one that’s biological, to prove he is worth someone's time. He had waited for Shinichirou to fix him, to hand him a life he should be 'entitled' to.

But Takemichi hadn't tried to fix anything. He’d just bought him a soda. He’d just stood there and let Izana be prickled and sharp without flinching. It is such a small thing, so quiet it almost didn't count, yet it made the idea of a 'blood bond' feel easily breakable.

Izana let out a long, shaky breath, the pillow muffling the sound. The disappointment in Shinichirou is still there, a cold, hard knot in his stomach, but there is this new tugging sensation whenever he thought of the boy from Kamakura. He didn't want to just be 'found' by, or be ‘recognised’ through someone else's effort. He had this weird, stubborn feeling that he wanted to be the kind of person who could be next to Takemichi, paralleled if possible. Not because they are related, but because he chose to be there.

He didn't need to be a part of some plan. He just wanted to find his own rhythm, something that didn't rely on Shinichirou’s secrets or Mikey’s shadow. It is a simpler kind of resolve, one that didn't need big words, just the quiet certainty that he is done waiting for someone to claim him. He would just be Izana, and for now, that is enough.

"Next time," Izana whispered into the pillow, "I’ll ask for the truth myself."

He stayed there in the dark, the seawater in his cylinders finally beginning to clear, leaving behind a cold, crystalline resolve. He didn't need a saviour. He needed family who wouldn't lie to him, a brother who trusts him. And for the first time, he know exactly where to look.

Chapter Text

Koko sits at the small kitchen table in Takemichi’s new Honmachi residence, the blue light of a laptop reflecting in his always-calculating eyes. In front of him is a draft schedule, one for a trip he had been planning. He clicks through train timetables and ryokan bookings in Hakone, his mind already drifting through the sights, the sulfurous plumes of Owakudani that would surely fascinate a mind like Takemichi's, the serene reflection of Torii gates on Lake Ashi giving them a tranquil background.

It is strange, he thinks, how his leisure time is increasingly occupied by domesticity. He finds himself noting the exact brand of laundry detergent Seishu prefers, the way Kazutora always forgets to put his shoes in the rack, and the specific, messy way Takemichi does his toast in the mornings.

He leans back, his fingers tapping a beat against the table. He is warming up to Takemichi, tenderly, almost against his better judgment. There is a satisfaction in ‘providing’ for this makeshift household, a sense of ‘home’ that money is finally buying for him.

However, beneath that semblance of warmth, a sliver of fear remains.

Koko fears Hanagaki Takemichi. Not because he’s a threat nor because he’s scary, but because Takemichi is a fickle variable that defies the only constant Koko believes in. The fact that everything has a price.

To Koko, money is a truth-teller. It reveals a person's greed, their needs, or their loyalty. You buy a person’s patience, their conscience, or their silence.

Yet, Takemichi doesn't care.

Whether it’s the latest limited-edition sneakers Koko ‘accidentally’ bought in the wrong size, or the newest handheld game console he pushes across the table under the guise of shared entertainment, Takemichi never bites. He just offers a sheepish, lopsided smile and slides the expensive gadgets back, claiming he's perfectly happy with what he already has. He has an apparently unlimited supply of good intentions that are, quite literally, priceless. He treats Koko’s offers as a tool for comfort rather than the core of his worth.

It is unsettling. If Koko can't place a value on him, he can't find the lever to keep him still. And if he can’t hold onto him, he can’t predict when Takemichi might simply walk away, leaving Koko alone with nothing but a pile of useless paper.

He looks at the ‘Confirm Booking’ button for the Hakone trip. He will spend the money. He will buy the best view and the finest food. He is hoping that even if he can't buy Takemichi's heart, he can at least make the other options look too cheap to go for.

Koko is so engrossed in the display of the ryokan’s suite, noting the private open-air bath and the multi-course kaiseki menu, that he doesn't hear the soft padding of footsteps on the wooden floor. He doesn't notice the faint scent of laundry soap drawing closer.

A shadow just falls across the keyboard.

Koko’s finger freezes over the trackpad. He feels the presence of another person standing directly behind him, leaning in to catch a glimpse of the screen. He hasn't been this unaware of his surroundings in years. Usually, his ears are tuned to every shift in the air, every creak of a floorboard that might signal an approaching body.

But here, in this house, his guard has begun to erode dangerously quick.

"That looks expensive, Koko," the familiar voice murmurs right next to his ear.

Koko jumps, his shoulders hitting the back of the chair as he instinctively tries to tilt the laptop screen away, his heart hammering an uneven rhythm against his ribs. He looks up to find Takemichi peering over his shoulder, those clear blue eyes wide with curiosity.

The instinct to lie, to claim he is checking test scores or some school material, flickers in Koko's mind for a fraction of a second, but it dies just as fast. He knows Takemichi. A lie here would not help with the gap Koko is trying to close. Instead, he lets out a slightly breathless exhale and forces himself to relax his grip on the mouse.

"It is expensive," Koko says, his voice returning to its usual smooth cadence, though his heart still thuds. He gestures toward the screen with a flick of his wrist. "But it's necessary. I’ve been looking into a trip. For the four of us."

Takemichi blinks, leaning in further. "A trip? Hakone?"

"We've been through a lot lately," Koko continues, turning slightly in his chair to face Takemichi. "The fire, even if it’s quite a while ago, and the move now to Honmachi, with the... whatever business you had in Yokohama. You're always busy, Takemichi. Always running around playing the neighbourhood hero, getting mixed up in other people's messes. You should be exhausted."

He pauses, watching Takemichi's expression soften from surprise to that quiet, dangerous guilt.

"I figured we could use a break. Somewhere to chill," Koko says, leaning back and trying to look nonchalant. "Inupi could use the fresh air, and Kazutora... well, it would be good for him to see something other than your face for once. I already checked the dates. We’re heading out in two weeks."

Koko waits for the lecture. He’s braced himself for Takemichi to tell him he’s spending too much or to suggest they just hang out at a local arcade instead. But Takemichi just leans over the table, eyes fixated on the pictures of the outdoor baths and the mountains. A slow, genuine grin spreads across his face.

"Hakone, huh?" Takemichi laughs, bumping his shoulder against Koko’s. "That sounds amazing, Koko. Everyone’s going to flip when they hear about the food."

At that, Koko feels a spark of achievement. For a moment, his usual stoicism drop just enough for a real smile, soft and unpracticed, to pull at the corners of his mouth as he looks up at Takemichi.

Takemichi freezes, his own grin faltering as he catches the rare expression. He stares at Koko with a stunned, wide-eyed look, clearly caught off guard by the thing that’s appearing on other boy's face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn't point out the shift, but his eyes linger on Koko’s face a second too long, as if he’s trying to memorise a version of Koko he hasn't seen before.

Koko quickly turns back to the screen, his fingers busy with the trackpad again to hide the sudden heat in his cheeks. "Don't get used to it. I’m only doing this so you don't collapse and leave me to deal with Inupi’s laundry alone."

Takemichi chuckles, a light, relieved sound, before giving Koko a final pat on the shoulder. "Right. I'll let you back to it then. I need to go finish that school reading before I forget everything." He turns and pads back toward the stairs, leaving Koko alone in the quiet kitchen.

Or so he thinks.

A few minutes pass, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the clicking of keys, until the floorboards creak again, heavier this time. Koko doesn't jump, but he doesn't look up either as two figures move into his periphery. Kazutora leans against the counter, arms crossed, while Seishu stands at the edge of the table, his gaze fixed on the bright screen.

"A trip?" Kazutora asks, his voice carrying that edge of skepticism. "Hakone? That's not exactly a cheap weekend at the arcade, Koko."

Seishu's eyes narrow slightly. "Michi told~ You're offering a lot lately. Sneakers, consoles... now this. You don't do anything for free, Koko. What’s the deal here? You're acting strange."

Koko lets out a long, slow sigh, leaning back in the chair and finally meeting their eyes. He sees the inquiry there, plus their protective wariness. For a second, he wants to give them a tactical answer about some made up reason.

But the image of Takemichi’s stunned face when he smiled still feels like a fresh burn on his mind.

"There's no deal," Koko says, his voice uncharacteristically flat. "At least, not one that makes sense on a balance sheet."

Kazutora raises an eyebrow. "Then why?"

Koko looks down at his hands, then back at the pictures of the mountain ryokan. "I'm used to figuring out what people want, giving it to them, and keeping them right where I can see them. But he doesn't want anything I can buy. He just keeps helping us for no reason. It's weird. It's really frustrating."

He pauses, a slight frown touching his lips. "It makes me feel like if I don't do something big, he might just float away one day. I’m not trying to buy him. I’m just trying to find a way to entice him to not leave."

Seishu looks over at Kazutora, and a smirk pulls at his lips. Then, unexpectedly, he starts to laugh, a huffing sound that quickly grows into a wheeze. Kazutora isn't far behind, a bark of laughter escaping him as he shakes his head, looking at Koko with something bordering on pity.

"What?" Koko snaps, his eyes darting between them, feeling his defensive hackles rise. "What's so funny?"

"You're infected too," Kazutora manages to say through his snickering, pointing a finger at Koko's chest. "Admit it, Koko. You’ve got the 'Takemichi disease' just like the rest of us. You're overthinking it because you can't believe someone is actually that nice."

Seishu nods, his eyes warm despite the teasing. "Welcome to the club. You spend all your time trying to figure out the trick, only to realise there isn't one. You're already gone, Koko. You're just the last one to realise it."

"I haven't 'fallen' for anything!" Koko snaps back, his voice pitching higher than he intended. He can feel the heat radiating from the tips of his ears. "I am making a sensible adjustment to the domestic environment. It’s a... a humidity issue! Yes, the air in this house is too dry, it's making everyone irritable, and the mountain air in Hakone is better f-for lung capacity!"

"Lung capacity?" Kazutora repeats, flatly, before bursting into another fit of giggles. "Koko, you're literally vibrating. Your leg won't stop shaking~"

"I am not vibrating!" Koko huffs, slamming the laptop shut with a definitive clack. He stands up so abruptly his chair screeches against the floor, but instead of heading for the safety of his own room, he marches straight toward the stairs. "I'm going to... check on Takemichi! To ensure he doesn't fall asleep on his books and ruin his study! And if either of you mentions 'infection' again, you're both sleeping on the floor in Hakone!"

"We're already in the suite, Koko! You already clicked confirm!" Kazutora calls out after him, his laughter bouncing off the walls.

Seishu just watches Koko’s retreating back as he stomps up the stairs toward Takemichi's room. A soft, genuine smile finally reaches his eyes. "He'll figure it out eventually," he murmurs. "Or he won't. But at least he's finally acting like a person instead of a calculator."

Koko reaches the landing, his heart still hammering a rhythm that has nothing to do with the climb. He pauses outside Takemichi's door, smoothing his hair and taking a breath to steady his voice. He isn't going back to his room to hide; he’s going where the variable is. It’s the only place in the house that currently makes any sense to him, even if it's the place that started the 'infection' to begin with.

His hand is inches from the wood, ready to knock, when the trill of the doorbell cuts through the upstairs hallway.

Koko freezes, his hand stalled mid-air. The sound is jarring in the quiet house. Below him, the rowdy laughter in the kitchen dies out as if someone has flipped a switch.

The Honmachi residence is still new, and more importantly, it isn't a place where people just show up. They haven't given the address to anyone yet, and Takemichi’s social circle isn’t supposed to be knocking on the door unannounced on a weekday afternoon. Koko’s brow furrows as he turns back toward the stairs.

The doorbell rings again, a steady, rhythmic chime that suggests the person on the other side is prepared to wait.

"Did you order something?" Seishu’s voice drifts up from the foyer, low and laced with a deep, genuine confusion.

"No," Kazutora replies, his usual playfulness replaced by a puzzled frown as he peers through the side window of the door. "Takemichi didn't say anything about guests, did he?"

Koko begins a slow descent down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the front door. He isn't reaching for a weapon, but his mind is already cataloging possibilities. Who would even know Takemichi is here? The three of them shared a look of mutual bewilderment as they clustered in the hallway. It isn’t the tension of an ambush, but the sheer, baffling mystery of a visitor at a house that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't have any.

Kazutora reaches for the handle, his movements cautious. He swings the door open slowly.

Standing on the porch is a blonde guy, his finger hovering just millimetres away from the doorbell button as if he is about to press it for a third time. He’s dressed simply, but there’s an energy about him that freezes the moment he makes eye contact with the person who opened the door.

”K-Kazutora…? I-Inupi and…Koko…?”

Seishu stands at the back, his pale eyes narrowing as he instantly begins a mental tally. ‘Blonde. Casual clothes. Same height and age range as Takemichi’. The visitor looks like he’s seeing spectres, his face going green as he looks between the three of them. He knows them. He knows all of them by name, and judging by the sheer terror and disbelief in his voice, he shouldn't have expected to find them here, let alone all together in one house.

The visitor’s breath hitches. He looks past Kazutora, searching the depths of the house with a weird energy that curdles into something else as he fixes his gaze on the person opening the door.

Seishu watches the boy’s trembling hands, his gaze shifting to the messy blonde hair and the way his posture seems to collapse under the weight of their combined stares.

"A-Are you..." Seishu starts, his voice low and dangerous, a sharp contrast to the visitor's panic. "Are you Mikey?"

The name drops like a live wire into the foyer. Koko feels the temperature in the room plummet, though he’s unaware of the reason. Beside him, Kazutora’s shoulders hitch, a flinch that he quickly tries to mask with a rigid, unnatural stillness. The very air seems to vibrate with the weight of that one name.

"Who are you?" Koko asks, his voice dropping into that cold, business-like tone that usually makes people flinch. "And how do you know our names?"

The guy doesn't answer. He just stares, his breath hitching, looking like he might bolt or pass out at any second.

"What's with the noise? I can hear the doorbell from upstairs!"

Takemichi’s voice rings out from the landing, followed by the sound of his quick, clumsy footsteps as he jogs down the stairs. He’s still holding a pen in one hand, looking slightly frazzled and completely oblivious to the frozen, tectonic shift occurring in his hallway. He rounds the corner, stopping just behind Koko and Seishu.

"Who's at the..."

Takemichi stops. His eyes land on the blonde visitor at the door, and the pen falls from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden floor.

“Ta… Takemitchy?”

Mikey’s world has been static lately. The garage, the bike, the ghosts, everything is a blur.

He’d been thinking about Izana. He’d been thinking about Izana again. He remembers the wind outside the orphanage and the storm in Izana’s eyes, his eyes when he looked at Shinichirou’s and his ‘other brother’, himself. Mikey knows he should be the object where all of Izana's hatred is directed. That was what Izana sees in the last timeline.

But leaving Yokohama after that destined day, Mikey felt and received something entirely different. Izana didn't hate him who’s standing beside Shinichirou. He hates Shinichirou. Or maybe he’s disappointed at Shinichirou.

He hates the fact that Shinichirou kept him as a secret, tucked away in an orphanage like something that was shameful, instead of telling him outright that they were family. He hates the selective honesty, and frankly, he sort of understands. If Mikey’s in his shoe, he’d hate how Shinichirou could look him in the eye and fix his bike while a whole brother, a whole life can simply be left to rot in the dark. To Izana, the truth shouldn't have been a reward, it should have been the foundation. And Shinichirou had built their brotherhood on sand.

He decides he can't sit still anymore. He takes his bike, the roar of the engine the only thing that feels honest right now, and decides to ride to Yokohama. He needs to find Izana. Mikey had made a semi-promise to himself and Izana that he’d be back, not as a bystander nor a stranger, but as someone who could finally look Izana in the eyes, and call him brother. He thought that, while the silence in the Sano household is deafening, it is as good a time as any.

The wind whips past him as he speeds through the city. On the way, the path takes him right through Honmachi. He knows exactly where the turn-off is, where the traffic lights is, where the one he want to find most, is. He could have taken it. He could have steered the bike toward that specific street, toward the house that held Takemichi.

But as the street sign for Honmachi looms ahead, Mikey feels the tension in his chest.

He is afraid.

He’s terrified of seeing that 'Hamakaki' plaque on the door. To see it would be to confirm that Takemichi is not there, that his dearest is not there.

A fragile spark of hope did flickers within him however, the thought that if he stops, he might find 'Hanagaki' carved into the wood instead of 'Hamakaki'. But the fear of disappointment is much more prevalent, one that snuffs the flame out before it can take hold.

So, he doesn't turn. He avoids Honmachi like it's a wound he isn't ready to touch. He keeps his grip tight, jaw set, and drives straight for the highway, the lights of Yokohama calling to him from the distance, promising a confrontation that feels far simpler than the one waiting for him in Takemichi's hallway.

Huddled behind the living room sofa, Seishu, Kazutora, and surprisingly Koko are all in tune for once, acting like a group of middle-aged gossips. Their collective gaze is focused entirely on the kitchen doorway, where a certain blonde has managed to lure Takemichi away for 'tea'.

"Look at that," Kazutora grumbles, his chin resting on the velvet cushion of the couch. "Why are they standing so close? There's a whole table. There’s room for a literal feast between them, but no, he’s basically breathing Takemichi’s air."

"He's laughing too much," Seishu adds, his eyes narrowed into slits as he peers over Kazutora’s shoulder. "Takemichi just told a story about a cat. It wasn't that funny. Why is that guy doubling over like it’s the greatest comedy special in history? It’s performative... It’s transparent... He’s overacting…"

Koko, crouched on the floor with his arms crossed, clicks his tongue in annoyance. "And the tea-pouring? It’s a kitchen. The pot is right there. Is Takemichi suddenly incapable of lifting a ceramic vessel without help? It’s a blatant power move..."

Every time Takemichi smiles from across the hall, the trio feels a brief flicker of warmth, but it’s immediately washed away when they see the blonde's smug face basking in it.

"He just ruffled his hair," Kazutora gasps, his hands curling into the sofa fabric. "Did you see that? He just reached out and... Who does that? That's our job! I spent twenty minutes helping Takemichi find his comb this morning! I have seniority in hair-related matters!"

"I hate him," Seishu says simply, his voice a low vibration. "I don't know who he thinks he is, but he’s overstaying his welcome in our kitchen. He hasn't even touched his tea. He’s just staring."

Koko lets out a long, frustrated sigh, shifting his weight. "He’s acting like he’s the main character of this house. He’s got that... that 'old friend' energy that’s impossible to compete with. It’s incredibly irritating. It’s making my head hurt."

"We should go in there," Kazutora suggests, already half-crawling toward the doorway. "We can pretend we’re going to get... milk. Or a very specific type of salt that’s only kept in the cupboard directly behind that guy’s head."

"We have milk on the table, Kazutora," Seishu mutters, though he’s already moving in a low-crouch alongside him. "But I agree. He’s been in there for ten minutes. That’s ten minutes too long for a 'quick catch-up'."

Koko just stares at the slice of the kitchen he can see, his jaw set. "How they want to be in that position," he murmurs, his usual composure completely shredded by the sight of someone else getting the version of Takemichi they all secretly crave.

In the kitchen, Takemichi laughs again, and that’s the signal for the three to mount their 'casual' invasion.

"My slippers! Where is my other slipper?" Kazutora hisses, nearly face-planting on the hardwood as he scrambles toward the kitchen. "I can't confront him with one cold foot, Seishu!"

"It's under the couch where you kicked it, you idiot!" Seishu whispers back, already sliding across the floor with a grace that belies his high-alert panic. "Koko, hurry up! We need to form a perimeter!"

"We walk. Slow. But naturally! Maintain a radius of three metres from the sink!" Koko snaps, though he is currently adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror with trembling fingers.

"Three metres?" Kazutora rounds the corner of the kitchen, trying to look like he’s just casually passing through to look at a wall. "How am I supposed to measure that? I don't have a ruler in my eyes, Koko! Just tell me when to lean against the counter and look brooding!"

"Shh! They're still talking!" Seishu warns, peeking around the doorframe. "Stay low... And Kazutora, if you make your bell-earring jingle, I’m cutting it off. I mean it. Total silence."

The three of them spill into the kitchen in a mess of limbs and suppressed breathing, pretending to be deeply interested in the contents of a fruit bowl the moment Takemichi glances over.

"Why is he looking at us?" Koko hisses, staring intensely at a single banana. "Does he know? Did you jingle your earrings?"

"I didn't jingle! Maybe he has a sixth sense for being watched by us three!"

"He’s not looking at the banana," Seishu says, squinting. "He’s looking at the fridge. That guy is pointing at the magnets. Great. Now they're touching the magnets. They're going to rearrange them into a heart. I can feel it in my soul. A magnetic heart. Argh..."

"We’re going in," Kazutora declares, his eyes flashing with a mix of madness and panic. "We're going in and we're taking the magnets. If there are no magnets left, they can’t express their 'aibou' bond. It’s the perfect crime."

"That is the stupidest plan I've ever heard," Koko says, already lunging for the fridge to look 'busy' with the grocery list. “Let’s go."

Of course, to the dismay of those three spying, the only person who can make Takemichi react with such pure, unadulterated joy is his partner, his aibou, Chifuyu.

“Ta… Takemitchy?”

Chifuyu called out when he saw Takemichi walking over, and of course, Takemichi did too, recognising his partner immediately without a second thought. The three roommates watching from the hallway are currently forgotten, mere background noise to the dramatic collision happening at the door.

By the time Takemichi crashed into Chifuyu, pulling him into a tight hug, he’s already crying into his shoulder, a messy sob that echoed off the walls.

“C-Chifuyu? Why are you here? Wait, why do you even know me?” Takemichi sobs out the question, his hands gripping Chifuyu’s jacket like he’s afraid he’ll turn into smoke if he lets go.

“I’ve been having too many dreams, aibou! At first it feels like normal dreams, but the more it occurred, the more I learned… it was like my brain was finally syncing up with the memories” Chifuyu similarly sobbed out, patting Takemichi’s back with enough force to wind him.

“M-Memories? You mean… you remember? You remember everything?” Takemichi pulled back just enough to look at him, his face a disaster of snot and tears. “The future?”

“Mostly the weird hair choices, honestly,” Chifuyu sniffled, giving a wet laugh. “But yeah. I saw the junkyard. I saw the snow. I saw you looking like you were about to die like, a few different times. I woke up screaming so many times my mom threatened to call an exorcist.”

“Wait, so you came all the way here just because of dreams?”

“Dreams? Takemitchy, I saw this house in my dream yesterday! I immediately came here!” Chifuyu gripped Takemichi’s shoulders, his expression turning intensely serious despite the tears. “I didn't think it is real until I saw those three creepily hovering behind you, and then your stupid face, and thought, ‘Yep, that’s definitely Takemitchy, still collecting dangerous people like cards.’”

“I’m not collecting them!” Takemichi protested, his sob turning into a hiccuping giggle. “They just... they just showed up!”

“They always ‘just show up’ for you!” Chifuyu shook his head, finally wiping his eyes. “God, I missed this. I missed being the only one who actually knows what’s going on while you bumble your way through a crisis.”

Behind them, Koko cleared his throat, sounding incredibly unimpressed. “Are we going to stand in the doorway all day, or are you going to introduce his new friend?”

“H-He’s my aibou!” Takemichi yelled back, still clinging to Chifuyu’s arm and crying.

Seishu stepped forward, his expression uncharacteristically harsh. He looked Chifuyu up and down, his eyes lingering on the way Chifuyu’s hand was still familiarly resting on Takemichi’s shoulder. He knew this kid. Not from this life, but from the fragments his Takemichi told him. Matsuno Chifuyu. The First Division Vice-Captain. The one who had stood by Takemichi when Seishu himself was lost in the shadows of the Black Dragons.

“Matsuno,” Seishu said, his voice flat and lacking any of its usual calmness. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Chifuyu’s eyes widened, his grip on Takemichi tightening as he processed the familiarity in Seishu's voice. He slowly turned his gaze toward Takemichi, a silent, heavy question hanging between them as the presence of the others felt suddenly suffocating. “Takemitchy,” Chifuyu whispered, his voice laced with a sudden, sharp clarity. “Do they know? About... everything?”

Takemichi froze, his breath hitching as he looked from Chifuyu’s bewildered face to the stone-cold expressions of his roommates. He gave a small, sheepish nod, the movement almost invisible but enough to make Chifuyu’s heart sink.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Kazutora chimed in, leaning against the doorframe with a forced, jagged smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like he wanted to physically peel Chifuyu away from Takemichi. “We were doing just fine without a ‘aibou’ showing up to mess with the dynamic. Takemichi doesn’t need an aibou. He has us. We’re practically his full-time security detail.”

“Security detail?” Chifuyu scoffed, looking at Kazutora with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “You look like you’re one bad day away from a mental breakdown out of jealousy, Kazutora. I’m the only one who actually knows how to handle his nonsense without making it about my own trauma.”

“Excuse me?” Kazutora’s smile twitched. “I handle his nonsense excellently! I helped him with his comb! I know his toast preferences!”

“His toast preferences?” Chifuyu let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I know his entire life story! I’m the one who stayed up with him when he was crying about saving everyone! I’m the one who died for him!”

The hallway went silent. The last sentence is too much to ignore. Seishu’s eyes darkened, a flash of unadulterated jealousy crossing his face. He dislike how easily Chifuyu could claim that spot. He dislike that there is a history he could never replicate, a bond that made him and Kazutora look like latecomers even though they’re the first.

"Wait, wait, wait," Koko interrupted, his hand raised as he stepped between the bickering trio. His eyes were darting between the three of them, his mental ledger failing to balance for the first time in his life. "What snow? What junkyard? And who exactly died for who? Takemichi, what is going on?"

Koko’s voice was uncharacteristically high, his composure cracking. He looked at Seishu, expecting a rational explanation, but Seishu wouldn't meet his eyes, his gaze locked on Chifuyu with a possessive ferocity. He looked at Kazutora, who was currently vibrating with such intense irritation that he looked ready to start a fistfight in the foyer.

"It's a metaphor, Koko!" Kazutora snapped, his eyes flashing. "A dramatic, unnecessary metaphor from a guy who’s clearly obsessed with our Takemichi!"

"It wasn't a metaphor!" Chifuyu yelled back, stepping forward until he was nose-to-nose with Kazutora. "I was there! I've been there since the beginning! You guys are just... the temporary houseguests!"

"Houseguests?" Seishu’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl. He stepped closer, his presence looming over Chifuyu. "You’re just a memory from a dream, Matsuno. We’re the ones here, now."

"Yeah, well, 'now' is about to get a lot more crowded!" Chifuyu poked Seishu’s chest. "Because Takemitchy doesn't do anything without his aibou!"

The three of them erupted into a chaotic, overlapping argument, voices rising as they debated who knew Takemichi better, who had protected him more, and who deserved the title of his 'top' confidant. It was a mess of egos and buried trauma, a three-way tug-of-war with Takemichi as the rope.

Takemichi watched them, his head spinning. He felt a tug on his sleeve.

Koko was staring at him, his face pale and his expression one of pure, bewildered hurt. He looked like he’d just realized he was the only one at a party who didn't know the inside joke.

"Takemichi," Koko whispered, his voice barely audible over the shouting. "Tell me you're not actually making sense of this. Tell me they're all just... crazy."

Takemichi looked at his roommates, then back at Koko’s desperate face. He saw the genuine fear in Koko’s eyes, the fear of being excluded, of the variable finally becoming too complex to calculate. He realized he couldn't leave Koko in the dark anymore. Not while the others were using the truth as a weapon against each other.

"Koko," Takemichi murmured, grabbing Koko's hand. "Come with me. To the kitchen."

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled Koko away from the escalating brawl in the hallway, slipping into the quiet kitchen and shutting the door behind them. The muffled sounds of Kazutora and Chifuyu arguing about 'toast loyalty' drifted through the wood, but the kitchen felt like a different world.

Takemichi sat Koko down in the chair where, just moments ago, he had been planning a happy trip to Hakone.

"I'm sorry, Koko," Takemichi started, his voice soft and trembling. "I should have told you. I just... I didn't want to make things even more complicated than they already were."

Koko leaned forward, his fingers digging into the edge of the table. "Make what complicated? Takemichi, they’re talking about dying. They're talking about memories that haven't happened. Inupi... Seishu looks at that kid like he’s jealous of him. What am I missing?"

Takemichi took a deep breath, his heart racing. "Everything they’re saying... it’s real. But it’s not from here. It’s from another time. Another... timeline."

Koko stared at him, his eyes wide. He didn't laugh. He didn't scoff. He just watched Takemichi's face with a terrifying intensity, waiting for the rest of the ledger to be revealed.

"I was from the future, Koko," Takemichi whispered. "And Chifuyu... he was the first person I ever told. He stayed with me through every failure, every death. And Seishu and Kazutora... they know because I told them… And now I’m telling you, too…"

The silence in the kitchen was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the distant, muffled yelling from the hallway. Koko didn't move for a long time. He just sat there, his mind racing through a thousand calculations, trying to find a price, a logic for a man who could rewrite reality.

Finally, Koko let out a breath that sounded like a heavy exhale of relief. He looked up at Takemichi, his eyes clearing as the pieces finally clicked into place. "It makes sense now," Koko murmured, his voice regaining its steady, analytical edge. "The way you act… You were hiding it because you were carrying all of it alone."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against Takemichi’s hand with a surprising gentleness. "I don't need to 'believe' in time travel to see the effect it's had on you. I just needed the context… understand now."

"Koko..." Takemichi squeezed Koko's hand, his eyes welling with fresh tears of relief. "This feels so much like deja vu, you know… Both Kazutora and Seishu said something similar..." Takemichi let out a sound of relief.

Outside, the door to the kitchen burst open. Kazutora, Seishu, and Chifuyu tumbled in, still bickering, but they stopped the moment they saw Takemichi holding Koko’s hand.

"Oh, great," Kazutora huffed, crossing his arms. "Now the whole house is in on it. Is there anyone else?"

"Shut up, Kazutora," Seishu muttered, though he looked visibly relieved that the secret was finally out. He looked at Koko, his expression softening just a fraction.

Chifuyu, however, didn't look relieved. He looked like he’d just found a golden opportunity to inflict maximum emotional damage on his partner. He leaned against the kitchen island, his arms crossed and a predatory, mischievous glint in his eyes that Takemichi knew all too well.

“Aibou~ You’ve been scheming, haven’t you?” Chifuyu’s voice is a melodic drawl. “I leave you alone for a while, and I come back to find you living in a house with three more guys... Harems are real after all~”

Takemichi’s brain seemed to stall, the blood rushing to his head with such force he actually felt a bit dizzy.

“S-Shut up! I’m not gathering a harem!!!” Takemichi shrieked, his voice hitting a decibel usually reserved for opera singers or people being chased by bears. He waved his hands frantically, his face turning a shade of red that matched the burner on the stove. “It’s not like that! They just… They just come over a lot!!! They’re like, domestic partners. Wait! I mean, very domestic friends!”

“‘Domestic partners’,” Kazutora repeated, his eyes widening as he tested the phrase out. He looked at Seishu, who seemed to be contemplating the legal and emotional ramifications of the term. “I like that. It sounds much more official than ‘temporary houseguest’, doesn’t it, Matsuno?”

“Don’t push your luck, Tiger,” Chifuyu snapped, though his focus never left Takemichi’s vibrating form. “But seriously, Takemitchy. Look at them. You’ve got the loyal knight,” he gestured to Seishu, “the chaotic guardian,” he pointed at Kazutora, “and now the shrewd banker.” He nodded toward Koko. “It’s a classic otome game setup. Which route are you on? Or are you going for the secret ‘harem’ ending?”

“Chifuyu, I will kill you!” Takemichi grabbed a dish towel and threw it, but Chifuyu caught it effortlessly, laughing so hard he almost doubled over.

“Wait,” Koko interrupted, his analytical mind struggling to integrate the concept of ‘otome games’ into his new worldview. “What is a ‘harem ending’??”

“It means he’s the centre of the world, Koko,” Seishu said, his voice unusually soft. He looked at Takemichi, who was currently trying to hide his face in his hands. “And considering the things he’ve done… maybe it’s the only ending that makes sense.”

“Stop talking!” Takemichi’s voice was muffled by his palms. “Everyone stop talking! There is no harem! There are no routes! We are going to Hakone as friends! And I’m bringing Chifuyu along to catch up!”

“Friends who share an outdoor bath,” Chifuyu added helpfully, ducking as Takemichi finally lunged for him.

The kitchen exploded into a new kind of chaos, by the sheer, ridiculous energy of four boys who are all, in their own way, utterly smitten to the disaster called Takemichi currently trying to tackle his best friend into the pantry. Koko watched them, a small, genuine smirk playing on his lips. He didn't know much about time travel or harems, but as he looked at the draft of the Hakone trip on his laptop, he realised that for the first time in his life, he didn't care about the price.

"Alright fine... A trip for five~"

Chapter Text

Koko, Seishu, and Kazutora found themselves grumbling in unison as the train rattled toward Hakone. The three of them sat in a row, a coalition in irritation, their eyes fixed on the cluster of people surrounding Takemichi just a few seats away.

At first, they thought they’d have to bear the sight of just Chifuyu. The three of them were confident they could manage one ‘aibou’ through intimidation, or by simply physically moving Takemichi away when necessary. However, Takemichi had arrived at the station with a smile that is blindingly earnest and a guest list that had unfortunately grown exponentially.

To the disappointment of Koko especially, who had seen his carefully curated ‘luxury getaway for five’ turn into a rowdy excursion, Takemichi had insisted on using his own savings. He hadn't just invited Chifuyu. He brought along Takuya, Kakucho, and even Izana.

"Four extra people," Koko hissed, tapping his phone against his knee with an agitated click-click-click. "I told him we should have just taken a private van. But no, 'let's take the train, Koko, it’s more nostalgic!'"

"It's crowded," Seishu muttered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze is like a laser, piercing through the back of Kakucho’s skull. "Why are the ones from Yokohama here? And why is he sitting so close to Takemichi?"

"Seishu, one’s a 'childhood friend'," Kazutora mimicked, his voice dripping with venom. He’s leaning forward, looking ready to vault over the seats. "Look at them. They’re talking about the birds and the bees or some crap. And Izana... why is he even looking at the scenery? He should be looking at the exit. He doesn’t fit in…"

A few seats ahead, the atmosphere is a stark contrast to the brooding trio.

"I still can't believe you paid extra for this, Michi!" Takuya said, leaning over the aisle. "You really didn't have to."

"I wanted to!" Takemichi laughed, though he looked a bit frayed at the edges as he tried to juggle four different conversations. "It's been so long since we all just... hung out. Right, Kaku-chan?"

"Yeah," Kakucho beamed, looking genuinely relaxed for once. "It's nice. Though," he glanced back over his shoulder, "I feel like I’m being hunted by three bird-of-preys."

Izana, sitting by the window with a look of bored regality, didn't turn his head. "Ignore them, Kakucho. It’s just the sound of jealousy. It has a pathetic frequency."

"Who are you calling pathetic?!" Kazutora barked from two rows back, earning a shush from Takemichi.

Chifuyu, sitting directly next to Takemichi, leaned back with a smug grin, his hands behind his head, though accidentally poking Izana’s side a bit too hard. He looked over at the Honmachi trio and gave them a mock-sympathetic salute.

"Don't worry, guys!" Chifuyu called out, loud enough for the three to hear. "Takemichi made sure we're all sharing one big room. I'll make sure to snag the futon right next to him so he doesn't get scared in the middle of the night. You guys can handle the luggage, right?"

Koko’s eye twitched. "I am going to find a way to leave that blonde idiot at the bottom of the lake. How does he even breathe with his head that far up his own ass?"

"I'll help you hold him under," Seishu added, his hand drifting to where the supposed waterline should be. "One room... Takemichi really has no idea about the storm he has summoned.

Takemichi sighed, sinking into his seat as the bickering escalated. He caught Izana’s amused lilac eyes in the window's reflection. "This is supposed to be a peaceful trip…" Takemichi whispered to himself.

"With this group?" Izana finally turned, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "You’re smarter than that, Takemichi. This isn't a trip. This is a war with a hot spring at the end of it."

Takemichi rubbed the back of his neck, leaning closer to Izana to escape the shouting match erupting between Kazutora and Chifuyu. "Maybe," he admitted softly, "but wars are loud. I’d rather just listen to something else for a bit."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a tangled pair of wired earphones, painstakingly unknotting them. He held out one earbud toward Izana. "You want to share? It might drown them out."

Izana looked at the plastic bud as if it is an alien artefact. He isn’t used to people offering him pieces of their world. He took it, his fingers brushing against Takemichi’s, and tucked it into his ear.

"What is this?" Izana asked, leaning his head back against the window. "I expected you to listen to something upbeat and annoying. Like a cartoon theme song."

"Hey! I have better taste than that," Takemichi huffed, scrolling through his library.

He selected a slow, older ballad. It is a track that favoured soft piano. As the vocals hummed through the wire, Takemichi felt the tension in his shoulders finally start to dissolve.

"I keep thinking about when we met in Yokohama," Takemichi said quietly, the music creating a private bubble for just the two of them. "You are so ready to shoo us away. I remember buying you that soda and just... You didn't leave, even when I started rambling about bonds and family."

Izana hummed, the melody vibrating in his ear. "I thought you are a lunatic. You just wanted me to drink a lukewarm soda and listen to your droning."

"It worked, didn't it?" Takemichi teased, though his voice is thick with fatigue. "You're here. On a train to Hakone. Sharing earphones with the lunatic. It surprised me you said yes to my invitation to be honest."

Izana didn't argue. He listened to the singer’s soft voice pleading to 'get right next to you,' noting as the lyrics spoke of silence saying more than useless words ever could. It reminded him of the way Takemichi had been in his space back in Yokohama, filling the void with a presence that didn't demand anything in return. To this Takemichi, he is just Izana, someone who looked like he needed a friend.

"You're strange, Takemichi," Izana murmured. "And your music pick… It’s peculiar."

"Maybe I’m strange... but at least it's good choice..." Takemichi’s words becoming slower, his blinks longer.

The swaying of the train combined with the gentle ballad proved to be too much for his frayed nerves. The lyrics about wanting nothing more than a smile when blue drifted into the background as Takemichi’s head began to loll. Finally, as the train took a gentle curve, his weight shifted, and his head came to rest squarely on Izana’s shoulder.

The shouting match across the aisle died a sudden death. Izana could feel the murderous intent radiating from Koko and Seishu, and he knows without looking that Kazutora is likely vibrating with the urge to intervene.

But Izana didn't move. He didn't push Takemichi away or stiffen in discomfort. Instead, he simply adjusted his shoulder, making sure the angle is right for the sleeping one.

Looking down at the messy raven curls, Izana feels an unfamiliar warmth. Now, he only know that for the first time, someone had chosen to rest their head on him because they chose to.

‘A brother,’ Izana thought. So this is what it’s like.

He reached up, subtly checking that the earbud hadn't fallen out of Takemichi's ear, and then closed his eyes, letting the "war" wait until they reached the station.

By the time they reached Odawara, Koko is starting to have serious doubts about his own planning. He stood on the platform, squinting against the bright mountain sun, watching Takemichi lead the way with a ridiculous amount of energy for someone who had been dead to the world twenty minutes ago, fast asleep while leaning on Izana’s shoulder.

Despite Koko’s internal thoughts about the damage done to his nerves, he found himself following as the group spilled out into the afternoon heat, their casual retreat up the mountain quickly descending into a wandering circus.

Takemichi is currently sandwiched between Chifuyu and Izana, pointing out every souvenir shop and vending machine as if they are fascinating monuments. Behind them, Kakucho and Takuya are engaged in a surprisingly earnest conversation about manju and milk at the onsen, leaving the Honmachi trio to trail behind.

"Look at that," Koko muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the front. Izana, who usually looked like he wanted to kill anyone who stepped within three feet of him, is currently holding a paper bag of roasted chestnuts for Takemichi, his expression weirdly soft, almost indulgent every time Takemichi accepts what’s offer to him a toothy grin, one that’s blindingly bright.

"He's being too comfortable," Seishu agreed, his eyes narrowed as he watched the way Chifuyu kept bumping shoulders with Takemichi. "And that blonde one... he hasn't stopped talking since they got off the train."

"It's the air," Kazutora grunted, kicking a loose pebble. "The mountain air is making everyone crazy. Full of poisonous sulphur… Why are we walking instead of taking a bus? We should be at the ryokan already. We should be in the room where I can sit between them."

Despite the simmering jealousy in the back ranks, the atmosphere was undeniably light. The path was lined with lush greenery and the distant sound of rushing water from the Haya River. Takemichi stopped at a bridge, leaning over the railing to point at a stray cat sunning itself on a rock below.

"Look, Chifuyu! It looks just like Peke J!" Takemichi cheered, nearly toppling over the edge in his excitement.

Chifuyu grabbed the back of Takemichi’s jacket to steady him, laughing. "Not even close, partner! Peke J is way more majestic than that scruffy stray."

Izana hummed, reaching into the bag and popping a chestnut into his mouth. "It has the same vacant expression as you, Takemichi. Maybe it's a relative."

"Hey!" Takemichi pouted, though it lasted all of two seconds before he saw a sign for fresh onsen-tamago and dragged the group toward it.

The hour-long trek up the winding road is a blur of chaos. Every ten minutes, someone would find a reason to ‘adjust’ their position in the formation. Kazutora managed to weave through the crowd to walk on Takemichi's left, only for Takuya to accidentally step between them while trying to show Takemichi a photo on his camera. Seishu stayed close behind Takemichi, occasionally reaching out to steady the boy's backpack strap when he bounced too much, his enthusiasm threatening its balance.

As they climbed higher, the air grew cooler, smelling of cedar, steamy water and sulphur. Takemichi is sweating, his face flushed, but his laughter didn't stop. He is busy telling Kakucho about a movie he'd seen, his hands gesturing wildly, accidentally smacking Chifuyu in the arm twice.

"You're a hazard, Michi," Chifuyu grumbled, though he was grinning.

"Sorry, sorry!" Takemichi chirped. He paused to wipe his brow, looking back at the trio trailing behind. "Koko! Seishu! Kazutora! Hurry up! We're almost at the big tori gate!"

Koko sighed. "He really is enjoying this," he murmured, more to himself than the others. Despite the crowd and the unwanted guests, seeing Takemichi this happy made the steep incline feel a little more tolerable.

"He deserves it," Seishu said simply.

The group finally crested the last hill, the traditional gates of the onsen district looming ahead. The steam rising from the roadside gutters gave the town a dreamy, blurred quality. Takemichi stood at the entrance, hands on his hips, breathing hard but beaming.

"We made it!" he shouted, ignoring the confused looks from passing tourists. "Next stop… the ryokan. And then... the biggest dinner you've ever seen!"

"And then the bath," Izana added, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he glanced at the Honmachi trio. "Where we can see who has the most 'spirit' after all."

The war, it seemed, is only just beginning.

The ryokan is a beautiful, sprawling estate with dark wooden beams and a raked zen garden in its entrance. It looked like the pinnacle of peace and traditional elegance, a vibe that lasted exactly ten seconds until the group entered the lobby after Takemichi.

The check-in process started professionally enough. Takemichi approached the desk, his face bright with excitement, ready to handle the reservation he’d remembered thanks to Koko’s reservations. However, as he began to fumble with his wallet, said ‘help’ arrived.

"I’ve got the reservation details here," Koko said, smoothly stepping forward and sliding a card onto the counter as if by reflex. "Don't worry about the deposit, Takemichi."

"K-Koko! I told you, I’m paying!" Takemichi squeaked, trying to push Koko’s hand away.

"The luggage," Seishu interrupted, hoisting Takemichi’s oversized backpack onto the counter with a heavy thud that made the receptionist jump. "It is too heavy for him. He nearly tripped twice on the stairs. It needs careful handling."

"It's just a backpack, Seishu!"

"I'll carry the key," Kazutora announced, reaching over the desk before the receptionist had even pulled one out. "I’m the fastest, I’ll find the room first and make sure the layout is... safe."

"Wait, wait up!" Chifuyu barked, elbowing his way to the front. "I should be the one to check the room!"

Within moments, the pristine lobby is filled with the sound of six different young men trying to take charge of a single check-in. Kakucho is trying to help Takemichi find his ID while Izana stood back, looking at the ceiling as he know exactly what would happen if he gets involved, occasionally making comments about how ‘slow and disorganised’ everyone is being. Takuya is trying to apologise to the other tourists who are being blocked by their entourage.

"Sir, please, only one person needs to sign-" the receptionist started, her polite smile beginning to twitch.

"I’ll sign!" Koko and Chifuyu said in unison, their hands hovering over the pen.

"I’ll carry him!" Kazutora added, for no apparent reason, eyeing Takemichi as if he is about to throw him over his shoulder right there.

Takemichi’s face went from glowing pink to a neon red. He looked at the receptionist, whose eyes are darting between Koko’s card, Seishu’s gaze, and Chifuyu’s pointing.

"I am so, so sorry!" Takemichi bowed so low his forehead nearly hit the wood of the desk. "Please! They’re just... they’re just excited! They’re not usually this... bumbling!"

"Speak for yourself, Takemichi," Izana drawled, plucking a chestnut from his pocket. "I’m a picture of grace. These fools, however..."

"Izana, you're not helping!" Takemichi wailed. He finally managed to snatch the pen and the receipt, scribbling his name as fast as humanly possible while using his body as a shield against the others.

By the time they are following the attendant down the hall toward their suite, Takemichi’s patience had evaporated entirely, the embarrassment at the desk being the final straw. He marched down the corridor, his footsteps unusually heavy on the tatami, his back stiff with a fury that is surprisingly intimidating.

"Takemichi, wait up," Kazutora started, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "I was just about to make sure the staff didn't give us a room with bad–"

Takemichi spun around, his eyes narrowed and his face still flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. "Don't. Touch. Me."

The entire group stopped. Chifuyu, who had been about to make a joke about the size of the yukatas, clamped his mouth shut. Koko and Seishu shared a wary glance.

"You guys are unbelievable!" Takemichi hissed, his voice trembling with genuine anger. "You... you all acted like I’m some kind of toddler who can’t even sign my own name! Koko, stop trying to buy everything! Seishu, I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bag! Chifuyu, Kazutora... stop fighting over who gets to check the room! It’s pathetic! It’s embarrassing!"

He looked at each of them in turn, and for once, the crybaby looked ready to throw hands.

"If anyone says one more word that don’t make sense," Takemichi threatened, pointing a finger at Chifuyu’s nose, "I am going to pay for a separate room for myself, and leave you all to sleep together. Do you understand?"

A collective, muffled "Yes" came from the four of them.

Takemichi huffed, turning his back on them. But then, his gaze softened as it landed on Takuya and Izana, who are standing slightly apart from the chaos. Takuya had been quietly carrying the smaller snacks and Izana had simply... well, Izana had just been Izana.

"Takuya," Takemichi said, his voice returning to a normal, gentle volume. "Thanks for being normal. And Izana... thanks for not joining in. You guys are the only ones who didn't make me want to crawl into a hole and die."

Takuya gave a sheepish, sympathetic smile. "No problem, Michi. It’s a lot of people."

Izana just gave a small shrug, throwing a wink toward the seething Kakucho. "I told you, Takemichi. I am a picture of grace. I don't need to bark like a dog to be heard."

"Shut it, Izana," Kazutora muttered, though he kept his voice so low Takemichi barely heard it.

Takemichi didn't even look back at the others. He continued down the hall, flanked by Takuya and Izana, leaving the four disasters to follow in a pouting single file.

The suite is massive, featuring a large tatami room for large groups like theirs, a balcony overlooking the steam-filled valley, and a private outdoor bath that smelled faintly of cedar. It is beautiful, but the peace was non-existent.

"Shoes," Takemichi said softly. He didn't turn around, but his voice carried a flat, disappointed tone that is far worse than a shout. He stood in the genkan, staring at the floor. "Please. Line them up properly. I don't want the staff to think we have no manners... and I really don't want to regret coming here with you guys."

Koko, whose usual response to a request is a smirk, feels a shiver of guilt. Beside him, Kazutora and Chifuyu are practically vibrating with the effort to be silent, their eyes wide as they carefully placed their sneakers exactly parallel to the wall.

"I-I’ve got it, Michi," Chifuyu whispered, his voice small and pleading. "See? Perfect. Not a single lace out of place."

Takemichi let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to drain the energy from the room. He walked into the centre of the suite, his footsteps muted. "Bags in the corner, okay? Just... don't make a mess. Please."

Seishu, usually the most sensible, didn't say a word. He simply hoisted three bags at once, trying his best as to avoid agitating Takemichi further. The group huddled near the entrance, watching Takemichi’s slumped shoulders, he looking like a person who is simply tired of being embarrassed, utterly defeated by his own company.

"Okay," Takemichi muttered, rubbing his temples as he stared out toward the balcony. "Dinner is in two hours. Until then... just stay on your cushions. Try to be quiet. If I hear one more argument about who knew me first, I think I’m just going to go sleep in the bath with Takuya and Izana."

"We won't! We'll be good!" they all whispered in unison, their voices hushed. They sank onto their floor cushions in a neat, terrified semi-circle, like a group of guilty kids who had broken their mother's favourite vase.

Koko sat as stiff as a board, staring intently at a knot in the wood of the table.

Seishu is beside him, his posture rigid, his hands folded so tightly in his lap as he stared at his own knees with a look of profound regret.

Kazutora is picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, his energy replaced by a pouting desire to be forgiven.

Chifuyu looked like he is holding his breath, staring at the tatami, arguing with himself within the confines of his minds.

Kakucho’s shoulders tense as he tried to blend into the floor to avoid becoming a target for Takemichi's disappointment.

Takuya moved like shadow around them all, setting out the tea set with care, while Izana reclined on a cushion near the balcony. He watched the disaster quintuplet squirming in their own guilt with a look of malicious glee. He leaned his head on his hand, his lilac eyes shimmering.

"Oh, look at you all," Izana purred, his voice the only one that didn't sound like a funeral. "The terrors of the streets, silenced by a single sigh. It’s almost poetic. Takemichi, I think your 'mellow' side is far more effective. Look at them. They’re practically vibrating with shame."

Takemichi finally turned around, his eyes still a little glassy from the stress but softening as he looked toward the fresh air of the balcony. "I’m just tired, Izana... come look at the steam. It’s finally quiet."

Takemichi stepped out into the mountain breeze. Izana rose with a slow sweep of his yukata, stepping past the huddle of boys. He paused for just a second, looking down at Koko and Chifuyu with a smirk that felt like a slap, before sliding the balcony door shut behind him.

"He's actually more terrifying when he's like this," Kazutora hissed, leaning toward Chifuyu with a panicked expression. "He’s not even yelling. That’s bad. That’s really bad."

"Shut up!" Chifuyu whispered back, his eyes darting toward the balcony. "He’ll sense your guilt through the panelling… Just, don’t act up for now!”

After a few minutes of agonising silence for the group indoors, the balcony door slid open with a soft rattle. Takemichi stepped back inside, his face no longer flushed with that scarlet hue, though his eyes still held a lingering weariness. Takuya and Izana followed closely behind him, looking entirely too relaxed for the current mood.

“I’m going to head to the onsen now~” Takemichi said, his voice light but still carrying that mellow tone. He didn't look directly at the five boys huddled on the tatami, instead reaching for a clean yukata. “I’m going with Izana and Takuya. You all can come in like… whenever you feel like it, I guess.”

He didn't give a specific time. He didn't give a command. He just left it hanging there, vague and up to interpretation.

The disaster quintuplet watched them leave with wide eyes. Every single one of them wanted to spring up and follow him, to see if they are still in the doghouse. But the way he said ‘whenever you feel like it, I guess’ feels like a trap.

"He didn't say 'come with us,'" Chifuyu whispered, looking like he was about to burst into tears of frustration. "He said 'whenever you feel like it.' That’s a test. If we go now, we’re being pushy again."

"But if we wait too long, he'll think we don't care," Koko added, his hand gripping the edge of the low table so hard the wood groaned.

Seishu nodded in agreement, his sight fixed on the empty space where Takemichi had just been. "We have to wait. We need to show him we can be patient and respectful. We'll wait fifteen minutes. No, twenty minutes."

"I can't wait ten minutes, let alone fifteen? Twenty!?" Kazutora hissed, his leg bouncing at a frantic speed. "Izana is already in there! He’s probably laughing at us right now while he splashes Takemichi!"

"Stay. Down." Seishu commanded, though his own expression was pained.

The hallway to the hot springs is quiet, the air thick with the scent of hinoki wood and steam. Takemichi walked in the middle, his feet shuffling softly on the polished floor. He let out another sigh of frustration.

"They're exhausting," Takemichi murmured, staring at the flickering lanterns along the base of the wall. "I love them, I really do. But sometimes I feel like I'm trying to walk a handful of aggressive guard dogs at the same time."

Takuya let out a soft, sympathetic chuckle, bumping his shoulder against Takemichi’s. "You kind of are, Michi. But you're the only one who can actually hold the leashes. If it is anyone else, they would’ve torn the lobby apart."

"It's because you allow it," Izana said, though his tone is even. He isn’t mocking him this time. He looked at Takemichi’s profile, the way his brow is permanently furrowed.

Takemichi looked up at Izana, surprised by the lack of bite in his words. "I just wanted this to be a good memory. For everyone..."

"It will be," Takuya assured him, reaching out to adjust the collar of Takemichi’s yukata. "They’re miserable right now because they realised they upset you. That means they care. Just focus on the water."

Izana stopped at the entrance of their private bath, pulling back the navy curtain. He waited for Takemichi to enter first. "Don't worry about those idiots, Takemichi. They’re far more resilient than you think, and right now, they're suffering enough in that room. Let them marinate in their guilt. It’s good for their character."

Takemichi finally cracked a small, genuine smile. "Marinate? You make them sound like chicken."

"They have the brains of chickens. You draw a line in front of them, and they’ll get hypnotised," Izana replied, a smirk returning to his face.

Their private bath is located further down the hall, isolated from the public baths to preserve the view of the valley. The wood is dark, cool to the touch, and the lighting is dim, providing a sanctuary for shelter with soft amber glows.

As the three of them began to shed their outer yukatas inside the changing room, the atmosphere shifted. Without the shouting of the others to act as a buffer, the silence felt intimate in a way that Takemichi isn’t quite prepared for. He focused on unknotting his obi, his fingers clumsy from fatigue.

Izana moved with an odd tempo, probably owing to his lack of experience in such activities. As he pulled his yukata from his shoulders, the light caught the lean, youthful lines of his back. Takuya, ever the steadying presence, undressed with a familiarity. He looked like exactly what he is, a teenager who played sports occasionally and walked a lot, his build average and healthy, comfortable in his own skin.

When Takemichi finally stepped out of his own clothes, Izana’s gaze drifted toward him.

He stopped mid-motion, his fingers still curled around the fabric of his robe. The breath hitched in Izana’s throat, catching in a way that made his chest feel suddenly tight. He had seen Takemichi a few times, had sat beside him on the train, but in the amber, flickering light of the changing room, the boy looked different.

Takemichi looked smaller, his skin appearing almost translucent under the soft glow. He looked incredibly soft, his frame lithe, the curve of his ‘assets’ visible as he leaned forward to set his clothes aside.

Izana feels a prickle of heat crawl up his neck, settling behind his ears. It isn’t just the steam from the nearby water. Instead, his own pulse is suddenly hammering against his ribs. He found himself mesmerised. He is embarrassingly flustered.

He quickly averted his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his own yukata. The air in the room feels too personal, something he couldn't name. He could hear the soft rustle of Takuya’s towel and the hum Takemichi made as he stretched.

"Izana? You okay?" Takemichi asked, his voice sounding soft and close in the damp air.

Izana didn't look back. He felt like if he did, he might say something entirely out of character. "I'm fine," he snapped, though the bite is missing, replaced by a strange, breathless quality. "The air is just... stronger than I thought."

‘Liar,’ a voice in his head whispered. ‘You're looking at him like he's made of porcelain and gold.’

Takemichi, sensing the hesitation but not wanting to make Izana feel awkward about his obvious lack of experience with ryokan etiquette, reached out and lightly caught Izana's wrist. The skin-to-skin contact made Izana jump slightly, his lilac eyes darting to Takemichi’s face.

"Come on," Takemichi said gently, leading the way toward the washing area. "Takuya is already rinsing off. Let's get the grime out of the way so we can actually enjoy the hot spring. I'll help you out if the faucets are tricky."

He led Izana to the row of low wooden stools and plastic basins. The room is filled with the heavy scent of hinoki cypress and floral soap. Takemichi sat down on the stool next to Izana, moving with an ease that is entirely too intimate in the shared space with what is supposed to be his acquaintances. He filled his basin with warm water, the sound echoing softly against the tiles.

"You know," Takemichi started, his voice hushed as he began to lather a washcloth. "I always wanted to do this with someone. I was too young to do it with my dad, and... Nevermind… It’s supposed to be about cleaning up, but really, it’s about taking care of each other before you go into the big bath."

Izana sat rigidly on his stool, his hands resting on his knees. He looked completely out of his depth, with nothing but a plastic bucket and a bar of soap. "Taking care of each other, huh…." he repeated, his voice barely audible over the trickle of a faucet.

"Yeah." Takemichi turned slightly, offering a soft, encouraging smile. He noticed the way Izana was holding himself, all tensed, wound up tight as a spring. "Hey, Izana. Turn around. I'll wash your back for you."

The request hung in the air, heavy and sweet. Izana felt his heart lurch. The idea of someone, especially Takemichi, touching him so freely made his head spin. He hesitated for a heartbeat before slowly, tentatively, turning his back to Takemichi.

The feeling of the warm, soapy cloth against his skin was an electric shock. Takemichi’s touch is firm but incredibly gentle, moving in slow circles across the muscles of Izana’s back.

"You're so tense," Takemichi murmured, his breath warm against the nape of Izana's neck. "You've been helping me all day, even if you won't admit it. Just relax, Izana. No one is watching us right now."

Izana leaned his forehead against the cool tiled wall, his eyes slipping shut as the warm cloth move across his shoulders. He remained motionless, his breath hitching slightly as the steam filled the small alcove.

"I feel like I'm washing an older brother's back," Takemichi said softly, a chuckle escaping him.

And the cloth suddenly stopped moving.

The splashing of Takuya’s water from the other side of the room sounded loud in the ensuing silence. Takemichi’s hand remained pressed against the centre of Izana's back, the soapy washcloth dripping a single bead of water that tracked slowly down Izana’s spine. Takemichi’s eyes widened, and he bit his lower lip, his fingers twitching slightly against Izana’s skin.

"I-I'm sorry," Takemichi stammered, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. He pulled his hand away quickly, nearly dropping the cloth into the basin. "I didn't mean to… I just meant that you’re older, a-and you’re now looking out for me, and…"

Izana stayed perfectly still, his forehead still resting against the tiles. He didn't turn around or comment at the slip of the tongue. Instead, a deep, hot flush spread rapidly from his neck up to the tips of his ears, visible even in the dim amber light.

He didn't speak for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in shallow, quickened breaths.

"It's fine," Izana finally whispered. His voice was thick, losing its usual sharp edge, and he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor tiles. He took a shaky breath and leaned forward slightly, exposing the back of his neck again. "Keep... keep going. You didn't finish."

Takemichi hesitated, glancing at the side of Izana’s face, but the other boy remained turned away, his posture uncharacteristically soft. Seeing no sign of anger, Takemichi reached back out, dipping the cloth into the warm water before resuming the slow, careful circles.

"Okay," Takemichi murmured, his voice returning to a gentle, soothing tone as he worked the soap over Izana’s skin. "I'll make sure to get all the soap off."

As Takemichi’s hand moved higher, easing the tension in Izana’s shoulders with a kneading pressure, an involuntary groan vibrated in Izana’s throat. It is breathy, a sound of relief that seemed to fill the quaint shower area.

Takemichi sort of jumped in his seat, his face instantly turning a shade of red that rivalled the ryokan’s lanterns outside. He pulled the washcloth back slightly, looking around as if to check if Takuya had heard.

"I-Izana!" Takemichi hissed, his voice cracking with embarrassment. "Aren’t you... aren’t you making a bit too much noise? I know it’s relaxing, b-but someone might hear!"

Izana didn't move a muscle, his fingers still curled around the edge of the stool. He let his head hang low, his damp hair shielding his face, though the heat radiating from his skin was palpable. He didn't answer, simply leaning further into the stool, his breathing coming out in jagged, quiet puffs.

He slowly turned his head, just enough for one lilac eye to peer through his wet bangs at Takemichi’s frantic, blushing face. A sly expression began to pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Why, Takemichi?" Izana drawled, his voice regaining a bit of its playful, predatory edge despite the flush still lingering on his cheeks. "Are you worried about what your groupie back in the room will think if they hear me enjoying your care?" He paused, letting out a soft, intentional whine that sounded dangerously close to a purr, deliberately pitching his voice to sound vulnerable and satisfied at once. "Ahnn... right there. It feels so good, Takemichi... you're really good at this."

Takemichi sputtered, nearly knocking over his water basin. "That's… that's not…! You're doing this on purpose!"

"Maybe," Izana said, letting out a soft, huffed laugh as he fully turned around on the stool. He leaned in slightly, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and that new, softened warmth. "But you're the one who offered, 'brother.' It would be rude not to show my appreciation~"

He reached out, his damp fingers ghosting over Takemichi’s wrist. "You're still blushing. If you’re that embarrassed, maybe you should hurry up and rinse me off so we can hide in the steam."

Takemichi couldn't even manage a coherent reply. He just ducked his head, his hands working double-time to splash water over Izana’s shoulders, effectively silencing the king’s teasing with a flood of warm water.

Back in the suite, their mental timer had finally expired. It was Kazutora who broke first, standing up with such force his cushion slid backward across the tatami. "That's it. I can't take the inaction anymore. If I stay here another second, I'm going to manifest into a vengeful spirit. I'm going to lose my damn mind."

"Agreed," Koko said, snapping his fan shut. "We've shown sufficient restraint. Any more would be self-flagellation."

The five of them moved as a single unit, power-walking through the corridor with their towels and wash-sets clutched in their hands. They entered the changing area at haste, shedding their clothes in a flurry of movement, without an ounce of self-consciousness.

They burst into the showering area, eyes darting left and right, only to find the wooden stools empty and the basins turned upside down. The only sign that anyone had been there was the lingering scent of soap and a few puddles of warm water on the tiles.

"They're already in," Chifuyu whispered, his face falling. "We missed the... the washing part."

"Shut up and clean yourself," Seishu ordered, though his own hands are moving with frantically as he scrubbed.

They performed a world-record-breaking rinse, barely taking the time to properly lather before they are stumbling toward the sliding door that led to the outdoor bath. They moved, pushing the door open to reveal the moonlit valley and the rising plumes of silver steam.

The clack of their entrance is loud, but it didn't elicit a reaction.

There, off to one side of the steaming onsen, sat the three they had been looking for. Takuya is getting some shut eye near the entrance steps, his arms draped over the smooth stone ledge, the picture of absolute serenity.

But it is the sight in the middle that stopped the five boys in their tracks, the water cooling on their skin as they stared.

Takemichi is fast asleep. His head is lounging to the side, resting squarely and comfortably on Izana’s shoulder, nudged just right around his upper arm. The heat of the water and the day's exhaustion had claimed him. His face is peaceful, a light flush across his cheeks, his breathing deep and even, his mouth slightly opened.

Izana watched them through the thick mist. He didn't move an inch to accommodate the newcomers; instead, his gaze swept over the five of them with clarity. Chifuyu’s jaw dropped so low it looked painful, his wide eyes welling with the injustice of his 'aibou' hierarchy being overturned. Kazutora’s eyes narrowed into slits, his spark of envy flickering as his hand twitched by his side. Koko’s hand tightened on the door frame, his mind obscured, his composure crumbling all because the scene playing in front of him. Seishu stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the way Takemichi's damp hair clung to Izana's skin, his expression a gaze that could have turned the hot spring into ice.

Beside them, looking at their reaction to Izana’s action, Kakucho simply let out a long, heavy sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders dropping as he shook his head at Izana’s showboating.

Without breaking eye contact with the fuming quintuplet, he raised his free hand, the one not supporting Takemichi, and brought it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to his palm and then lazily ‘blew’ it toward the sleeping boy's head, the gesture so blatantly mocking and intimate that it feels like a slap to the rest of the group.

Takemichi shifted slightly in his sleep, his nose scrunching as he let out a soft, unconscious mumble, leaning even closer into the curve of Izana's chest. He is completely unaware of the skirmish of glares happening over his head.

The cold air from the open door finally reached the center of the pool, or perhaps it was the collective heat radiating off five glares, but Takemichi’s eyelids fluttered. He let out a sleepy yawn, rubbing his eyes like a child.

"Mmh... Izana?" he murmured. He blinked, slowly becoming aware that he was basically draped across the other boy's chest. "Ah! Sorry! I didn't mean to fall asleep on you!"

"Don't worry about it," Izana said smoothly, his eyes finally flickering away from the group to look at Takemichi with a soft, genuine smile. "I didn't mind."

Takemichi’s face turned a dusty pink. He started to pull away, but as he turned his head, he finally spotted the five silhouettes standing like frozen statues in the water. "Oh! Everyone's here!"

The five boys collectively exhaled, their shoulders dropping as his disappointment appeared to be over.

"Takemitchy!" Chifuyu was the first to scramble over, splashing through the water. "We... we were just... giving you space! Like you asked!"

"Yeah," Koko added, sliding into the water with a practiced cool that didn't quite hide his relief. "We thought we'd let you enjoy the peace for a bit."

Takemichi looked at their nervous, hopeful faces and felt the last bit of his annoyance melt away. He couldn't stay mad at them when they looked like kicked puppies trying to earn a treat. "It's okay, guys. I was really tired."

"No, we were being too much," Seishu said softly, settling into the water a few feet away. "We'll be better…"

"Good," Takemichi smiled, leaning back into the stone. However, as he moved, he realized he hadn't fully detached himself from Izana's side. Izana’s arm is still resting behind him on the ledge, and the proximity is... intense. Takemichi tried to scoot an inch away, but his heart was racing. Why is it so hot in here? he thought, trying his best not to look flustered.

"So," Kazutora said, his voice a bit strained as he watched Takemichi's shoulder still brushing against Izana's. "What were you guys talking about before we got here? Anything... interesting?"

"Not really," Takuya yawned, finally opening one eye. "Just talking about chickens."

"Chickens?" Kakucho asked, raising an eyebrow as he finally joined them in the water.

"Internal joke," Izana smirked, looking at Takemichi, who is currently staring very intently at a floating leaf to avoid making eye contact.

"Anyway," Takemichi said, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "The water is great, right? Let's just... relax."

"Whatever you say~" Chifuyu beamed, though he pointedly sat on Takemichi’s other side, effectively sandwiching him between himself and Izana.

Taking advantage of the scene thus far, Izana reached out. His hand slid behind Takemichi’s wet hair, fingers gently cupping the back of his head. Before Takemichi could even process the movement, Izana pulled him back with a firm pressure, guiding his head to rest right back against Izana's collarbone.

The five boys across from them froze mid-breath, the air turning ice-cold despite the steam.

The group though settled into a ‘generic’ onsen scene, a circle of teenagers soaking in the steam, the conversation drifting toward mundane things like the food they’d have for dinner and who was going to pay for the snacks later (Koko, obviously).

Takemichi tried his best to engage in the lighthearted banter, but he was acutely aware of the steady, warm presence of Izana at his side. Every time Izana laughed or shifted, Takemichi felt a jolt go through him. He kept his eyes forward, nodding along to Kazutora’s story about the cat they saw earlier the day, while his brain screamed in a loop: Don't look flustered. Act natural. You're just resting on a friend. A very, very pretty friend who smells the same as him, because of the soap.

Izana, for his part, seemed perfectly content. He leaned his head back, watching the sky through the steam, a look of satisfaction and triumph on his face.

He had won the battle, when he isn’t initially a participant in this struggle.

Chapter Text

Any lingering tension from the onsen seemed to melt away, or perhaps, simply thickened into a different viscosity, under the warm glow of the lanterns and the sight of the elaborate kaiseki spread waiting for them. The humidity of the bathhouse, mixed in with the smell of sulphur has been replaced by the crisp, cedar-scented air of the private dining hall. It’s a sensory overload of the highest calibre for all the urban dwellers here for his trip, the translucent slices of sea bream arranged like fallen petals, mountain vegetables simmered in dashi that caught the ambient light, and the rich and savoury aroma of wagyu marbling beginning to sweat on individual stone grills.

On the left side of the long, low table, Kakucho sat at the far end, seemingly immune to the psychic warfare radiating from the rest of the group. Beside him sat Izana. He didn't look at the others, he simply existed in the space, his face one of serenity and boredom, just waiting for the food to be ready in front of him.

Takemichi sat precariously between Izana and Chifuyu. His expression is one of relief, though the tension in his shoulders suggested he is anticipating for the next shoe to drop. Chifuyu occupied the corner seat, him casting a narrowed and sidelong look that doesn’t leave Izana for more than a heartbeat.

Across from them, the trio formed a defensive line, while Takuya sat at the far left with a rather knowing, almost pitying smile. Koko, Kazutora, and Seishu had their eyes fixed forward, their gazes brittle, flashing like flint against steel. They tracked every movement Izana and Chifuyu made in Takemichi’s surrounding space, cataloging grievances for later.

"This seating arrangement is a bit lopsided, isn't it?" Takuya remarked, breaking the silence as he adjusted his yukata sleeves, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. "I feel like I’ve got a front-row seat to a nature documentary, and I'm just waiting to see who strikes first."

"It's fine where we are," Kazutora muttered, though his eyes are still glued to the way Izana’s shoulder is mere centimetres from Takemichi’s arm. "At least we can see everything clearly from here. Better to watch the snake before it bites."

"Can you really see everything, Kazutora?" Wicked Izana asked, his voice smooth and dangerously polite, not even bothering to lift his eyes from his tea. "From all the way over there, the perspective must be... distorted. It must be hard to tell who Takemichi is actually leaning toward~"

Kazutora’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes hardening into slits. "Distance doesn't matter when you've been around longer. Some people are just temporary distractions. Novelties that would wear off sooner or later."

"Is that so?" Izana tilted his head slightly, finally looking up. A small, provocative smile played on his lips, sharp as a knife's edge. "And yet, here he is, right next to me. It seems your ‘seniority’ didn't buy you much of a vantage point tonight. Perhaps the view is better from down here, right by the gutter?"

Takemichi let out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. The constant friction is starting to wear him down, leaving him feeling frayed. "Come on, guys. I'm really hungry... And if you keep bickering, the food’s gonna get cold. Can we just... eat? Please?"

As the meal began, a fray of motion erupted from the trio, desperate to reclaim agency in a situation where they had lost proximity. Koko is the quickest, his natural instinct kicking in. He leaned over the table, ignoring personal space, to adjust the heat on Takemichi’s grill. His eyes are focused intently, ensuring the temperature is optimal for the wagyu they’d ordered.

Seishu, meanwhile, took over the actual cooking. He placed the thin strips of beef onto the hot stone for Takemichi, flipping them with ease as the fat began to render. The sizzling sound filled the silence, a hiss that confirmed they are indeed seared perfectly, him checking the colour with an obsessiveness that bordered on mania.

Kazutora, sitting the farthest away, seemed to vibrate with the need to contribute. He carefully picked out the best garnishes from his own plate, pickled daikon, shiso leaves, crab roe salad, and moved them toward Takemichi’s tray, his eyes daring anyone to object to his offering.

Amidst the noise of the trio’s fretful hovering, the clinking of chopsticks, the shifting of bowls, Chifuyu remained uncharacteristically still. He didn't reach for the meat or the tea. Instead, he sat with his arms crossed, a smug face plastered under those blond hair as he waited.

The sliding door opened, and a server placed a small, unassuming bowl of clear liquid in front of Takemichi.

It is beef consommé.

Nobody else at the table blinked twice at it, but Takemichi’s eyes glowed, a breathy gasp escaping his lips. The smell hit him instantly, salty, rich, and nostalgic. He hadn't told a soul in this timeline about his craving for the broth.

Only Chifuyu knew. Chifuyu, who had shared countless late-night convenience store runs for consommé crisps with him in a future. Chifuyu, his aibou, who remembered the nights they sat on the curb, eating junk food because they are both too tired to go anywhere else.

Chifuyu didn't need to say a word. He simply caught Takemichi’s eye and smirked. He leaned back in his seat with the confidence of someone who holds a key that the others couldn't buy with all the money, commitment nor devotion in the world. He only watched as the trio continued their frantic serving, blissfully unaware that they had already lost.

Takemichi took a sip of the broth, and his shoulders dropped noticeably. The familiar taste filled his mouth, tasting like safety.

The rest of the group certainly noticed the shift in Takemichi’s mood, as they watched on, him relaxed into the seat, ignoring the perfectly seared wagyu Seishu had painstakingly prepared in favour of the simple soup. The disdain on Kazutora’s face deepened as he realised he’d missed something vital.

The three expectant stares eventually broke through Takemichi’s soup-induced bliss. He lowered his spoon, looking up to see Seishu holding a pair of chopsticks laden with beef like a peace offering, Koko waiting for feedback on the meat, and Kazutora hovering over a pile of rejected garnishes.

"Ah... sorry, everyone," Takemichi offered, a slightly apologetic smile tugging at his lips. He felt a pang of guilt for neglecting them, but the warmth in his chest was undeniable. "Everything looks amazing, but..." He took another small, appreciative sip of the consommé. "I really want to have this soup first. It's... it's exactly what I wanted."

Seishu’s hand froze mid-air, the perfectly cooked wagyu beginning to cool and lose its luster. Kazutora slumped back into his seat with a quiet huff, looking like a kicked puppy. Koko simply sighed, rubbing his temples, his gaze flickering toward a smugly silent Chifuyu with newfound wariness.

"The soup," Koko muttered under his breath, sounding personally offensive by a broth he hadn't accounted for in his budget. "Of course. It's always the thing you don't expect. It is always the sentimental value."

Feeling the guilt spike at the sight of Seishu’s dejected expression, Takemichi’s resolve softened. He couldn't leave them hanging. He looked at the perfectly seared piece of beef still held out toward him and then back at Seishu’s expectant pair of eyes, which are now shimmering with a heavy-lidded sheen, true dogboy eyes, pleading for acknowledgment through the simple act.

"Actually..." Takemichi leaned forward slightly, his cheeks dusting with a faint pink. He opened his mouth with a small "Ahh~" signalling his acquiescence.

Seishu’s hand jerked and trembled, the meat nearly slipping from his chopsticks. He stared, wide-eyed, his breath hitching as he struggled to process that Takemichi is actually giving him this opportunity in front of everyone.

Next to him, Kazutora’s jaw fell off his head, his earlier ‘seniority’ argument crumbling into dust in the face of such a direct and unabashed display. Chifuyu, for all his smugness about the soup earlier is visibly shocked as well, his grip tightening on his own spoon.

Across the table, Koko let out a sound that falls between a half-laugh and a half-exasperated sigh. He leaned back, covering his mouth to mask his own amusement. "Unbelievable," Koko whispered. "He really does know exactly how to handle you, doesn't he? He plays us like a fiddle without even trying."

Seishu didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second once his brain rebooted. He carefully fed the piece of wagyu to Takemichi, watching the way his lips closed around the meat. As Takemichi chewed, offering a muffled hum of approval, Seishu’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

"Is it good?" Seishu asked, his voice low and attentive.

"Delicious," Takemichi managed after swallowing, giving him a bright look before immediately picking his spoon back up. "Now, I'm going back to my soup."

The meal continued in this strange, oscillating pace. Takemichi’s plate is steadily piling with food as the trio across from him continued their relentless campaign of service. He eventually looked over at Chifuyu and Izana, both of whom appearing to be quietly eating their own portions without the frantic energy of the others.

Feeling a bit selfish, a literal pile now stacked in front of him, Takemichi picked up a slice of the premium cut Seishu had left for him. He turned to Chifuyu first, offering it with a small smile.

"Chifuyu, you want some? It's really good."

Chifuyu initially shook his head, a modest instinct from his 'vice-captain' days kicking in. "Nah, keep it, aibou. You're the one who-"

He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened as he watched Takemichi immediately pivot to Izana. He saw the way Izana’s eyes lit up, the way he practically leaned into Takemichi’s space.

Izana didn't hesitate. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Izana leaned in, his lips parting to take the meat. But instead of pulling away, Izana lingered. His teeth, perhaps lips even, grazed the tips of Takemichi's chopsticks, and he kept them clamped in his mouth for a beat too long, his purple eyes locking onto Takemichi’s, a way that’s rather possessive to anyone’s liking.

Takemichi, however, simply tilted his head, watching with a curiosity as Izana maintained the grip. "Izana? Is it really that good? You're holding onto the chopsticks pretty tight..."

Izana blinked and released the wood, chewing slowly. "Yes," Izana replied softly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "It’s... tasty."

Chifuyu felt a cold realisation wash over him. His modest refusal had been a tactical blunder of catastrophic proportions. He had literally handed the opening to Izana on a silver platter. Seeing Izana’s reaction, Takemichi turned back to Chifuyu, his ‘sharing’ switch fully flipped. "Chifuyu, seriously, you have to try it! Just one bite, okay?"

This time, Chifuyu didn't play it cool. He practically lunged forward. "Actually, you're right. I changed my mind. Give it here, aibou."

Takemichi beamed and guided a fresh piece of wagyu toward him. Chifuyu accepted it eagerly, his gaze snapping toward Izana as he took the meat directly from Takemichi’s hand, a clear ‘stay back’ message written in his eyes.

Kazutora had watched the entire exchange with mounting panic. Seeing Izana and then Chifuyu get fed is more than his fragile ego could take. "Hey, Michi…" Kazutora blurted out, leaning so far across the table that he was nearly hovering over Seishu's grill. "What about me? I... I haven't tried that specific part yet. Can I have a piece too?"

And the table goes silent.

Takemichi blinked, surprised by the direct request but quickly softening. "Oh! Of course, Kazutora! You gave me those garnishes earlier, so you definitely deserve the best piece."

Takemichi carefully selected a perfectly marbled slice. "Here, heh, open up!"

Kazutora practically levitated out of his seat to meet the chopsticks halfway. He leaned in with his head tilted, his golden eyes wide, a cat pleading for approval and a scrap of attention. He accepted the feeding with a soft, breathy sound, his eyes fluttering shut as he savoured the win.

Across the table, Koko covered his face with one hand. "This is a disaster," he muttered to Takuya. "We're all being domesticated by a bowl of soup and a pair of chopsticks."

Takuya chuckled nervously. "Well, at least everyone got a bite in. Progress is progress, I suppose."

The group retreated to the veranda of their ryokan after dinner, the cool night air a welcomed relief after the chaos of the meal. They stood in a loose semi-circle, unsaid words floating above their heads like the steam rising from the valley just outside their window. Even the chirping of the distant cicadas seemed to pulse in time with the tension.

It had been agreed during the dessert course that Takemichi would be the one to decide the sleeping arrangements.

The ryokan is spacious, but there is no way for all eight of them to sleep comfortably in one room without it turning into a literal oven. There are two distinct sleeping areas, a smaller room tucked away at the side behind sliding screens, and a larger living room that made up the main part of the suite.

Takemichi could sense their collective gaze, heavy and expectant. He could see the way their eyes darted back and forth, with Koko’s calculating, Kazutora’s wide and pleading, Izana’s bored, Seishu's expectant, and Chifuyu’s confident.

Taking a deep breath, Takemichi eventually settled his gaze.

"Okay," he started, his voice steady despite the nerves. "I’ve thought about it. Since the back room is a bit smaller... Izana, Kakucho, you’ll be in there with me."

The air seemed to leave the veranda in one quick vacuum. Izana didn't move a muscle, but the glitter in his purple eyes is unmistakable. It is the look of a cat that had just secured the cream. Kakucho simply nodded, a relieved smile tugging at his lips, though he carefully avoided looking at the murderous expressions of the others.

Takemichi turned his attention to the rest of the group. "And for the bigger room... Kazutora, Chifuyu, Seishu, Koko, and Takuya. Takuya, I hope you don't mind? The room is really big, so there's plenty of space."

Takuya offered a small shrug in return. "I don't mind at all, Takemichi. I think a bit of extra space will be good for everyone."

The other four, however, are in various states of suppressed outrage. Chifuyu’s jaw is set so tight it looked like it might snap. Seishu and Koko exchanged a look of frustration, while Kazutora looked like he is about to start panicking right on the spot.

"It’s settled then!" Takemichi added quickly, clapping his hands together. "Let's get the futons ready."

Moments later, once the lights are finally turned off, the silence in the larger room is anything but peaceful. While Takuya’s breathing evened almost immediately, the other four lay in a row of stiff frustrations. Through the thin walls, the muffled sound of Takemichi’s light chuckles from the other room, likely responding to something Izana or Kakucho had said, drilled into their ears.

"We should not have been that eager during the day," Koko’s voice cut through the dark, it laced with bitter regret. "If we hadn't suffocated him at the reception, we’d be sleeping with Michi right now. We played ourselves."

"Ha," Kazutora let out a sharp, mocking breath. "Even the legendary 'loyal aibou' lost to the waifs from Yokohama. That’s embarrassing, Chifuyu."

Chifuyu shifted aggressively, his futon rustling loudly. "Who are you to talk about seniority, Kazutora? I’ve been his right hand since forever."

"It doesn't matter when you met him," Kazutora countered, his voice turning soft as he reminisced. "I met Michi on my birthday... He is like a gift to me. A literal miracle."

"A gift he probably wanted to return once realise you're a fusspot~" Koko muttered.

"Shut up, Koko," Seishu intervened, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. "None of your 'seniority' or 'gifts' compare to what we have. I was literally saved from a housefire by Michi. I owe him my life, and Akane's, too... That’s a bond that cannot be broken."

"And I got dragged into this ‘harem’ following the trail of these two," Koko added with a sigh. "But don't act like you're the only ones who’ve shared moments with him. I’ve seen the way he looks when he thinks no one is watching."

"Shared moments?" Chifuyu scoffed. "I remember that time we shared yakisoba together in the middle of a cold night, and we’d get so comfortable we’d end up borrowing each other's clothes for days. He wears my hoodies better than I do. He smells like me."

"He’s hugged and slept together with us before too," Seishu noted, his voice calm but the statement landing like a bomb. "In the hospital, and after... he didn't pull away once."

"Yeah," Kazutora added, sounding smug. "He’s remarkably warm. You wouldn't know, Chifuyu, since you're always so busy being his 'aibou'."

"I know exactly how warm he is!" Chifuyu hissed, sitting up slightly. "We went to hang out at night during the peak of winter... it was just us, all alone, and we ended up cuddling close for warmth under a single coat. He didn't just hug me, he sought me out."

The room goes quiet for a moment. The air now no longer thick with competition. Instead, it is paralysed by a wave of overwhelming shock.

"You're lying," Koko said, his voice dropping several octaves. "There’s no way Michi would be that forward."

"He sought you out?" Kazutora's voice was strained. "A single coat? Chifuyu, if you're making this up–"

"I’m not making it up!" Chifuyu shot back, his face heating up. "It was freezing! We were just... walking, and he kept shivering, so I opened my jacket. And he didn't hesitate. He just tucked himself right against my chest. We walked like that for blocks. He even fell asleep for a second when we finally stopped to rest."

Seishu let out a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a choked sob. "He fell asleep on you? Under your jacket?"

"Yeah," Chifuyu’s voice regained its smug edge. "Like I said. Seniority matters."

"You guys really have high standards for 'special' moments," a voice drifted over from the far corner. Takuya hadn't even moved, his voice sounding perfectly groggy yet sharp enough to cut through the bullshit. "Coat cuddling? Borrowing hoodies? Sharing a bed in a hospital?"

The four of them stiffened. They had almost forgotten the childhood friend is even in the room.

"Takuya?" Kazutora whispered. "You're awake?"

"Hard to sleep when you're all narrating your fanfiction," Takuya sighed, shifting onto his side. "I don't know where you all got your 'experiences' with Takemichi, but if you want to talk about seniority... I've literally bathed with him since we were four. I've seen him cry over a dropped ice cream cone, helped him through the mumps, and stayed over at his place so often his mom used to keep a toothbrush for me. I’ve seen him in every embarrassing state imaginable before any of you even knew what a 'Takemichi' is."

The silence that followed us different. It isn't the shock before, it is one of defeat.

"I’ve probably carried him home on my back more times than Chifuyu has bought yakisoba," Takuya continued, his tone conversational. "And he’s slept on my shoulder during every single movie night we had when we were younger. It’s not a 'sought out' moment. It’s just... Thursday."

He let out a satisfied yawn after that. "Now, unless someone here has actually changed his diapers, I suggest you all shut up and go to sleep. Some of us actually want to enjoy the breakfast he’s going to be sitting next to us for tomorrow."

Koko let out a heavy, hollow exhale. "This trip is a disaster," Koko whispered.

No one argued. The room finally goes still, the only sound being the distant, muffled whispers of the one they are all losing to, echoing from behind a wall that is paper-thin.

In the smaller room separated by the paper partition, the atmosphere is a contrast to the war zone next door. The breathing of Kakucho permeated the silence, the boy having fallen asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow.

Takemichi lay on his back, staring up at the dark timber beams of the ceiling. His face felt like it is permanently on fire. The doors are thin enough that he had caught fragments of the ‘competition’ from the other room. Their mentions of coats, hoodies, and baths. He felt all exposed, stripped bare by their memories and recollections of him.

"You're still awake," a voice murmured from the futon beside him.

Takemichi jumped slightly, his heart hammering. He turned his head to see Izana propped up on one elbow, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders, shimmering faintly in the moonlight filtering through the shoji screens.

"I... yeah," Takemichi whispered back. "It’s hard to sleep when the others are being so... loud."

Izana’s lips curved, and he leaned closer, his presence expanding in the quiet dark. "They’re desperate," Izana whispered, the word rolling off his tongue with a mix of pity and amusement. "They sound... No, they are like starving dogs fighting over a scrap."

"They're just... being themselves," Takemichi mumbled, feeling the need to defend them even as his skin prickled under Izana's gaze.

"Is that what you call it? A lack of self-respect and shame?" Izana asked, shifting so his weight is closer to Takemichi's futon. "They want to claim you like a prize, Takemichi. But look where you are. You aren't with the 'loyal aibou' or the 'senior' miracle. You're here. With me."

"It's just for the night, Izana," Takemichi whispered, his heart skipping a beat.

"Is it? Everything starts with a single night," Izana countered, his purple eyes gleaming with an unreadable depth. "Or are you so naive that you think I'm just here for the scenery?"

Takemichi swallowed hard. "I think you're... lonely. And maybe you just want someone to listen."

Izana's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, something crossing his face before the mask reset. "Listening is a dangerous game. People hear things they aren't meant to." He shifted again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Takemichi’s trembling form. "Is the mountain air too much for you? You’re shivering a little…"

"I'm fine, Izana. Just a bit... bit overwhelmed."

Izana sighed. "You're lying. Your teeth are practically chattering."

"I can't help it," Takemichi huffed, turning on his side to face away from Izana. "Just ignore it."

"I can't," Izana said. "It's loud." There is a rustling of fabric, and then Izana’s voice came again, closer this time. "Come here."

Takemichi turned back, confused. "What?"

"Come here," Izana repeated, rolling onto his side and lifting the edge of his own heavy duvet. "Unless you want to keep shaking all night and keep me awake."

"Wait, Izana, I have my own—"

"Don't be stubborn," Izana interrupted, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You’re practically trembling. It's... efficient. Sharing body heat. It’s what you did with Chifuyu, isn't it? Or are you only willing to share with your 'aibou'?"

The challenge hung in the air. Takemichi hesitated, but the draft from the veranda is indeed beginning to bite. Slowly, he shuffled his futon closer, sliding into the warmth of Izana’s duvet. The heat is immediate, and certainly comforting. It isn't just the duvet, instead, it is Izana. He radiated a furnace-like warmth that seeped into Takemichi's bones instantly.

Izana didn't say anything as he wrapped an arm around Takemichi’s waist, pulling him back against his chest. But as Takemichi settled in, the soft curve of his back fitting perfectly against Izana’s front, the silence grew heavy.

"Is this... okay?" Izana asked, and to his own shock, his voice cracked slightly, itself a fracture in his composure.

He had intended for this to be a silent victory, a way to stake his claim. But with Takemichi this close, the boy’s soft breathing tickling the hollow of his throat, Izana felt his own composure starting to fray. His hand, resting on Takemichi’s stomach, felt unnaturally hot. He could feel every shallow breath Takemichi took, every subtle tremor.

"Yeah," Takemichi whispered, his voice small. "It's really warm. Thank you, Izana."

Izana squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering against Takemichi’s shoulder blades. He had meant to be the cool, unshakable one. Yet he was the one struggling to regulate his breath. He found himself burying his face in the crook of Takemichi’s neck, his nose brushing against soft skin. He inhaled deeply, one that felt far too raw for the casual 'comfort' he had initially offered.

"You're warm," Izana muttered, his words muffled against Takemichi’s skin. He felt a sudden spike of heat in his own cheeks. He is Kurokawa Izana, he shouldn’t get flustered by a bit of proximity. He shouldn't be feeling this... 'settled'.

"Izana... you're holding me really tight," Takemichi breathed, his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

"Because if I let go, you might float away back to that bigger room. That's where your attention is..." Izana replied. "I don't like sharing. I never have. And I certainly don't intend to start now."

Izana’s hand on Takemichi’s waist tightened, pulling him even closer until there is absolutely no air between them. He let his fingers splay across Takemichi’s stomach, feeling the way the boy’s breath hitched. "Stay still," Izana breathed, his voice ragged. "If you move... I won't be able to guarantee I'll keep being 'nice'."

The threat is thick, but that certainly isn't violent.

Takemichi let out a tiny, soft sound, halfway between a gasp and a whimper, and leaned back... instinctively...?

Izana, despite his bombast behaviour, felt like his heart is going to burst through his ribs. He turned his head just enough to press his forehead against the side of Takemichi’s face, his eyes closed tight.

"Why are you like this?" Izana whispered, more to himself than to Takemichi. "Making me act like some brat..." He is flustered, his own pride warring with his need to just hold tighter.

He shouldn't be the one whose hands are shaking. He shouldn't be the one whose thoughts are spinning in a dizzying loop.

"Izana...?" Takemichi’s voice barely a thread. "Are you okay?"

"Shut up," Izana muttered, his face flaming in the dark. He buried his face deeper into the soft junction of Takemichi’s shoulder and neck. "Just... stay right there. Don't go anywhere."

He stayed like that, his face hidden and his pulse racing, caught in a trap of his own making, halfway between a protector and a captive, unable to figure out which one he wanted to be more. He just know he didn't want to let go.

Next morning, the sunlight gleaming onto the platform of the Odawara Station feels far too bright for the level of collective fatigue radiating from the group. They stood in a jagged line, bags in hand, looking significantly less 'refreshed' than a group leaving an onsen should be. Koko looked like he had aged five years, while Chifuyu and Kazutora are actively refusing to look at each other.

As the train pulled into the station with a screech of brakes, the group shuffled toward the doors. Takuya trailed behind them, a small, amused smile on his face as he watched Chifuyu and Kazutora start a bickering match over who got to sit in the seat directly behind Takemichi.

Takemichi felt a gentle but firm tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Izana standing there, his expression shielded by the brim of a hat he had bought from the gift shop. It is a ridiculous thing Takemichi had picked out for him, though his eyes remained fixed on the chaotic group ahead of them.

"They're going to suffocate you the moment we step off this train," Izana said quietly, his voice carrying that familiar, underlying possessiveness. He didn't look at Takemichi, instead focusing on the way Koko was already checking his watch with an impatient frown.

"It's okay, Izana," Takemichi offered, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "I'm used to it. They mean well."

Izana let out a huffing sound that might have been a laugh. He reached out, his fingers grazing the back of Takemichi's neck for a fleeting second before he pulled back, his hand retreating back to the safety of his pocket.

"Don't be," Izana murmured. He stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against Takemichi's as they prepared to board. "Next time if you invites me... it won't be a group trip. Just remember that."

Before Takemichi could process the implications of the 'next time', Izana is already stepping onto the train, his gait confident and his head held high. Takemichi followed, his face warming once again as he caught sight of the faint, uncharacteristic flush on the back of Izana’s neck.

The Hakone trip had been many things. It is certainly expensive, exhausting, and emotionally devastating, but as the train began its journey back to Tokyo, Takemichi found himself leaning his head against the cool glass, his thoughts lingering on the heat of the onsen, the heat of the dinner, the heat of the ryokan, and the heat from the room last night.

Chapter Text

Sehnsucht: The feeling of a deep, intense longing or yearning for an individual, a place, or a state of being that is distant, unattainable, or perhaps even unknown.

The sweet, toasted scent of batter hangs in the humid air around the small street-side stall. Mikey stands before the glowing heat of the iron casts, watching the steam rise in pulsing puffs as the vendor flips the fish-shaped cakes. The golden crust of the taiyaki is perfectly crisp, a stray dollop of dark red bean paste sizzling where it touched the hot metal. He doesn't move. Outside the small awning, the streetlights comes to life, casting an amber glow over his idling bike. The vendor scrapes the excess batter away with a metal pick, clink, clink, the sound clicking against the low evening chatter of the passing crowd. Mikey’s shadow is long and static across the weathered pavement.

I’m standing in a crowd but I’m on my own, the world playing with the sound turned off, all these faces around me are just spectres in the same space. They see the leader, the invincible, the champion, but they don’t see the one who’s already dead. I’ve got not a single care for this world or its clamour, all of them simple ambience I find myself walking through. Only you know the existence, let alone the weight of the darkness behind my eyes. Only you know the taste of the blood from that fateful final day. The only reason my eyes stay open wide is to keep you in frame, to make sure you don't flicker out like everything else had. I keep my eyes open so I don't lose the only version of me that actually exists, the one you hold in your head... It is true. I’m breathing, for you.

Nothing in my possession is worth holding onto, just the metal in the air and the smell of dripping sweat. I was given the time to fix the blood and fire, to rewrite the graves and bring the ghosts back home, but I’m the only one left holding the original script. I changed my world and ended up a stranger in it. The peace is loud and the happiness is for everyone else, a harvest of light that I’m forced to eat alone. Where are the scars we earned together? Where is the soft touch of the hand that held mine when the sky fell? I’m waiting for the light to change, it is, however, still stuck on perpetual red... It is true. I’m living, for you.

Years of checking time. Tonnes down the drain. I only know how to love you with my fists or my absence, pushing you back until my arms ache, to ensure the dark shadows of my past never stain you in any way. I build these walls and call them a haven, sacrificing the 'us' just to keep the 'you' and 'them' safe, though the irony stays as deadly poison. Despite every wall I propped up, every distance I carved out, the only thing I truly want is to see you one more time. I am the architect of my own exile, yet I’m still standing here, waiting for the reunion, waiting for your resonance to finally break the cycle. I need your impact to shatter the glass, to leave a mark that doesn't wash away with the rain. Every thought hits a wall and reflected back as your name. I try to hold it together, but my hands are just the mist, like an illusion. Where is the heat of that summer? Where is the sound of your boots on the stairs? I’m just waiting in line for a future that feels true... And I’m waiting for you.

Years wasted... Tears wasted...

The paper bag is warm enough to ache. Mikey finally grips the steam-softened edges, the crinkle of the paper loud in the brief silence between customers. He walks away from the stall, the friction of his sneakers on the asphalt sounding like a muffled cry. How he wish to do that right this second... He leaves a few coins on the wooden counter, and waits for a change he doesn't want no more. As he turns the corner to leave, he pauses, leaning his shoulder against a cold brick wall for a second longer than necessary before stepping out, back into the wind.

Mitspah (מטפחת): Meaning "Lookout". Symbolises a promise of faithfulness, protection, and a deep, enduring connection despite a distance.

Kazutora sits on the edge of the engawa, watching the moon reflect off the ryokan’s koi pond. September 16th used to be a date that is discarded as soon as it is past. Before he met Takemichi, it is just another Tuesday, another day of silence that would pass without a single mention inside the Hanemiya household. But everything changed the moment the arcade lights flickered and a boy bumped into him, cracking the solitude of his world wide open. He touches the bell earring, a chime in the silence, and thinks of Takemichi not as a person he met, but as an event that happened to him. A miracle that rewrote the script of his life, from one of tragedy to one of certain romance and friendship. He breathes in the mountain air, feeling the absence of the emptiness that should have defined him. He is no longer an interloper in his own life, he is now a keeper of a gift he intends to polish until it shines.

‘Why are you still crying, Michi?’ The pain is now through. Those tears don’t belong to the present, so let me take them off your face. I’ll catch them all if I have to. You’re the gift I didn’t know I was waiting for, the only substance in a life of absence. So please, just open up that heart, let the light reach the places that still ache.

'It’s time to start smiling, right?’ What else is there to do? This stolen time we’ve shared is all the history I need, and I’m going to stay right here beside you. All those stories you told me, about the futures that went wrong, the things you saw… They make me want to break that barrier down. But I won’t. I’ll just wait. I’ll wait until you’re ready to let it out.

I wonder if Michi looks at me and sees that it doesn't matter where we end up, either rich or dirt poor, my love is the only currency I ever had. I want him to see that I’ve laid everything bare for him; every jagged, every rough edges, and every soft, every concealed place I used to guard. I’ve opened my heart so completely that I can only hope he feels safe enough to do the same. He shouldn't have to carry that sorrow in secret no more. I want him to feel the invitation from this quietude, to know that stepping into my life is finally a safe place to land. I’ll stay here until the sun stops burning, just so he can look in my eyes and see the only truth I trust: That we are no longer drifting between a ruined past and a hollow future. We are the tranquility of the water, the lapping of the shore, the belated breath of homecoming.

The water in the pond ripples, disturbing the moon. Kazutora leans back, his hands bracing against the wood. He doesn't need to fight for Takemichi. He just needs to be the place where the chase stops. He realises now that his role isn't to be the strongest or the loudest, but to be the one who remembers and knows that Takemichi is soft. He closes his eyes, making a silent vow to the night. He shall be the handkerchief, the thing that absorbs the sorrow so the gift can remain pristine. He will wait for the smile, even if it takes a lifetime of catching tears.

Yaabourni (ياعبوني): Meaning "You Bury Me". An expression of love used to convey that life would be unbearable without the other person.

Seishu lies on the bed in Takemichi's room, watching the ceiling and letting the silence settle over him like a second skin. Takemichi isn't here. He's downstairs getting water, the creak of the floorboards marking his distance, one that Seishu counts under his breath. The room smells of him, and Seishu breathes it in until his lungs feel tight. He looks over to the tabletop, where an ema plaque sits, its surface dusty. He finds himself tracing the grain of it with his eyes, with the hope that whatever ink Takemichi pressed into its surface, his own name is somewhere in it. He thinks about how easily he could have been ash, how the heat should have claimed him, but instead, he’s here, occupying the space where Takemichi sleeps. In all the warmth of the room, his pulse feels like its under the pressure of a hand, and it’s pressing against his ribs. He hear the gentle and uneven cadence of Takemichi’s approach, as if the vibration itself could provide some strange healing. He wonders if the boy knows that he has become the only pull that which Seishu yields to.

If not for you, I'd probably still be wandering wastelands that only exists in my nightmares. I couldn't find the exit, nor could the light for the haze in my throat. I'd have been vacant, pacing a forgotten lot, waiting for a morning that never comes. It is pathetic, I know, how I have linked my entire existence to the mercy of you who simply happened to be brave. I have no foundation of my own, and I am shameless enough to let you stay.

If not for you, the winter would be a permanent slate of grey. I find myself matching the fever of the others, yet I am reduced to a singular stillness the moment you look at me. I have become something that only holds its shape because you have chosen to touch it. Isn’t that woeful? There is no pride left to wound. I am a man grown, yet I have settled into the habit of waiting for your presence, as if it is my only source of oxygen, shedding every pretence of independence to claim my place in the silence you leave behind. I have no destination of my own, and I am eager enough to let you lead.

If not for you, my sky would have collapsed. The rain would fill my chest until I could no longer breathe. Without your doting, I would’ve been a footnote in Koko’s ledgers, lost to the void. I would be nothing but silence, if not for you. I suppose it’s a bit late to start worrying about my dignity now, seeing as I'm clearly past the point of hiding. Let me be the shadow at your heel, something that feeds on your coolth. I have shed my pride along with my past. I am quite content to be this small, as long as it means I am yours to keep.

Without you, I have no idea who I am supposed to be.

Seishu closes his eyes as the door handle clicks. He won’t speak these truths. Instead, he waits in the stillness. He hopes Takemichi will be the one to bridge the distance, to claim the proximity Seishu feels too stained to ask for. He’s just waiting for a nudge, for Takemichi to tell him where to stand or how to move. He wants to be his so completely that he doesn't even have to think about it.

Meraki (Μεράκι): Meaning "Essence of yourself". Doing something with soul, creativity, love, and putting a piece of yourself into your work, leaving a lasting imprint.

Koko stands in the dim light of his own kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound permeating in the apartment. His bag sits by the door, still unpacked after Hakone, a reminder to a weekend that defied every estimation he ever made. He runs a hand over the smooth granite of the countertop, but his mind isn't on its material value. He’s replaying the memory of Takemichi’s face at the ryokan, the flush of heat from the onsen, the unbought smile over a simple bowl of consommé. For years, Koko has measured and accounted the world, believing that every affection had a price tag and every loyalty a receipt. Takemichi is a variable that breaks the equation. The boy doesn't want his money not ability, he wants his presence, and Koko feels a strange lightness in his chest, one of certain, unprofitable joy.

Let the restless chase their phantoms through the mountainous passes. Let them bleed for the prestige of a dominion that isn't theirs to keep. They possess no inkling of the fortune I’ve found in the quiet. I have no appetite for the skirmish or the cold mass of a crown.

While others chart your depths like the restless seas, tracing the tides of your courage and the salt of your tears, I find no peace in the ocean’s drift. Let them seek the blue horizon.

Like the salamander, I take my residence within your blaze, finding my oxygen in the very heat that would reduce another to ash. Like the phoenix, emerging from the liquidated remains of my past thoughts, renewed in the currency of your every expression.

The world dictates that such a fever is a liability, a cost too steep. Yet I dwell within these golden flames, find a luxury in the stay. What use have I for the sterility of a life spent in relief? For too long, I have occupied the space behind silhouettes, behind the shadows casted by the saved and the gifted. I see them now, Seishu’s and Kazutora’s, and I realise I have been merely the echo in their shared corridor. But one glance from you, and the margin between us dissolves. I am shedding the skin of the bystander, the one who merely tags along. I will find my own calling within this triad, claiming a stake in the fire that isn't borrowed or reflected. I shall subsist on this radiance, sustained by this conflagration. Call it what you will, this consumption... I am no longer the one who settles the accounts. I am, finally, a stakeholder in the life I was merely funding.

Koko ignores the stack of unread mail on the table, those prospectuses that used to be his interests in life. Instead, alone in the quiet of his own house, he focuses on the small, mundane task of folding his laundry, smoothing the wrinkles out of a plain cotton shirt with a focus usually prioritised. He recognise his love isn't a debt to be paid like Seishu’s or Kazutora’s. It is a state of being, a constant, burning engine that drives him forward. He is the salamander in the fire, sustained by the very intensity that should destroy him. He will labour for this, not with capital, but with his soul and being. He will build a place where Takemichi never has to worry about his own existence, and for the first time, Koko knows that the return on this quiet investment will be infinite.

Anamchara: Meaning "Soul-Friend". A spiritual connection where two souls are seen and accepted without pretence.

Chifuyu leans against the cold iron of the footbridge, chin tucked deep into the collar of his knit sweater. Below, the city is a blurred array of light and motion; headlights cut through the smog as the tyres thrums against asphalt vibrates through the soles of his shoes. He watches the traffic surge, but his mind is fixated to the figures now orbiting Takemichi. He grips the railing, fingers tightening until the rust flakes under his fingernails. He is the aibou, the one who truly knows, the one who saw it all first. Yet lately, that title has started to feel like a suit several sizes too small, constricting and ill-fitting in this new world.

A discomfort stirs within him while he watched the others move into Takemichi's space, unsettled by the speed at which they’ve begun to decipher him. When he sees Seishu catch the subtle sparkle in Takemichi’s gaze, or Kazutora anticipate the slight slump of his shoulders, it feels like a violation of the only thing Chifuyu once truly owned. He is supposed to be the sole translator of the mystery that is Takemichi. It feels as though the others have claimed a level of affection they haven't earned, especially with the likes of Koko and Izana, who never had to stand beside him when his world was blood, sweat and tears. This intrusion leaves him feeling unmoored, plagued by the awareness that his private refuge is being rearranged into a public square.

I’m over it, honestly. I’m done with the hints, the whispers, and the half-light of the periphery that kept me at arm’s length. I’m tired of playing the part of the aibou, always standing just one step behind, content with being the immediate parallel. I want more than a seat at the table. I want the warmth of the hearth. I’ve memorised the sound of your breathing throughout the years, but now I want the source. I’m ready to be the one who finally steps across that line. I’ll kick down anybody’s door just to hold you in my arms again. I’d go anywhere, and you know I don’t care anymore.

There’s a line I can draw, a threshold I’ve paced for years, and it’s rare I feel this sure about finally crossing it... So what if your inner circle gets uptight? Let the friends and the brothers stare! They don’t have the stomach for the grit. They don’t know the depth of the bite or the way the air used to taste like ash. Right now, the silence has shattered and the horizon is wide open. They lack the oomph born from losing you a thousand times and finding you again in the dark. I’m the one who returned, and I’m the one who’s staying. There’s nothing I can do to stop me falling more in love with you. Maybe I just don't care the way I used to anymore.

It can’t be so bad, wanting what you don’t have, even if it drives all of them mad to see the aibou finally step into the light. I’ll kick down anybody, past the guards, the memories, and across the line, just to hold you in my embrace. I’m resigned to this fate, yet I've never been more certain. It might upset the rest to see me claim what’s mine, but I don’t think it’s unfair. I’d go anywhere, and you know I don’t care about the rest anymore.

It's only ever been about you.

The vibration of the traffic travels up through the air and into his ears. Chifuyu exhales a puff of white mist into the night air. He accepts that while everyone else sees Takemichi as their savior, their gift, their light, or whatever else they desired, he is the only one who has ever pioneered the labyrinthine nature of Takemichi. If they want to challenge his claim, fine. He will assert himself against everyone in the circle. He’d even fight them if need be, consequences be damned. He pushes off the railing, straightening his clothes, the resolve in his chest feeling more solid than the concrete beneath his feet. He’s going further, and he’s going there with Takemichi.

Isshin (一心): Meaning "One-Heart" or "Wholeheartedness". The feeling of total, undivided devotion and mental focus toward a single person, goal, or path.

The rough weave of the tatami pricks against Izana’s palms. He sits on the floor, legs stretched out across the worn mats of the dormitory, leaning his head back against the plaster. Outside, the sounds of the world are muffled by the glass, distant and incoherent, only offering a vague impression of the movement beyond the gate. A moth buzzes against the pane, trying to get it. Izana watches it. He holds a can of grape soda, unopened, the condensation pooling in his palm and dripping onto his thumb. The room is dim, the afternoon sun slicing through the dust motes, the beam now visible. He doesn't drink. He just turns the can, feeling the aluminium chill against his skin.

The sun is high, burning the blue sky white. I’m drifting here, warm in a way that feels like a daze. Where are the memories of the winter I lived in? Where is the ice that used to hold my ribs together? You spoke about reason, about a bond we choose to keep. You handed me a drink and shattered the logic of my blood. I lost my mind the second you said we’re the same. You walked right into the empty room of my chest. Said you’re here. Said surrender. Said stay.

I’m sinking deeper into the depths, your deep blue, though I’m not drowning. Nothing separates my life from the bond I hold dear, that hereditary vestige I once worshipped. It’s all pushed out into the external world now, just a relic of who I once was. Since your arrival, everything has shifted. You have settled deep within my soul, one that has finally found the silt, a presence that doesn't need a lineage to proof. Where are the hate I used to rest on? They’re gone now. The outside world has become a shell that I no longer want to partake, but the stillness gathered within is a tide that tastes only of you.

I open my eyes and the sky is bruising purple. Where did the time go? Sun’s sunk low, shadows stretching out. I feel this joy, and I call your name. You’re everything my eyes can see. Next time, it won't be a crowd. No groups, no distractions, no sovereigns. Just a road with only two sets of tracks. I’ll kiss the crown goodbye, watching the gold tarnish in the waves, indifferent all I might want to build. All throne is nothing but a dream of dust. I let the sceptre fall into the formless, a ghost-flame extinguished by your rain. I would trade everything for your simple presence, just to stay ever in your company, walking where the tracks are yours and yours alone.

The tab cracks with a hiss, breaking the silence of the room. Izana stares at the clear liquid bubbling at the rim. The carbonation stings his nose with its chemical sweetness. He takes a sip, the sugar coating his tongue, cool and tingling. He sets the can down on the windowsill, the aluminium ring leaving a wet circle on the wood. He doesn't look at the door, but his body angles toward it, waiting for the sound of footsteps that aren't his own.

Forelsket: Initial rush of falling in love, the euphoria, butterflies, and pure anticipation at the very start of a romance.

The welkin wind by the Zenpukuji river is a soft breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint bustle of the city drifting off to sleep. Takemichi stands along the bank, his skin still humming with the residual heat of a world that has finally decided to be kind. The water before him is a dark, glassy ribbon, moving with a silence that seems to have absorbed the city’s atmosphere. The only sound getting into his ears is the occasional lap of water against the reeds, the urban heartbeat for the night. Looking eastbound, he searches for the far-off point where the Musashi Shrine should sit, a place distant in the geography of Tokyo, but always close in the geography of his heart. It is the cradle of his memories, watchful under the stars.

Directing his gaze back on the horizon, it catches the moon's reflection in the rippling surface of the river and realises the brightness in his own eyes matches it. There’s the breathless sensation of falling, not into a void, but into a sea of light that he never thought would apply to someone like himself. Amidst the stillness, he traces the faces of his life, feeling for the tinkle and chime of Kazutora’s bell earring in the breeze, for the way the moonlight catches on the blonde of Chifuyu’s hair, for the purpure in Izana's ever-so fond regard, for the sweet caress of Seishu’s fingertips tracing invisible lines against his palm.

He is falling in love with the fact that they are all here, and for that, the realisation sends blinding dawn through the marrow of his bones, leaving him lightheaded. His heart feels over-saturated, a sponge holding more joy than it is designed for, leaking happiness with every pulse until he’s giddy with the scale of it. He finds himself breathless at the thought of even the most mundane. The shared luncheon, the long walks at sunset, even the banter that always led back to laughter. Every single prospect, from Izana’s mention of a private trip to the warmth of Kazutora’s hand in his, pulls his spirit forward into a future that unfolds as a series of beautiful, endless possibilities.

While all is still in the night and the silence starts its flow, I find myself wrapped in a peace I never earned. It flows around us like water, and for the first time in my many lifetimes, I feel like I’m carried by my own volition. Become or disbelieve me, it doesn't matter. The truth is, I’ve finally stopped running from the prospect of what might have been.

While waiting on the light for so many years, I watched my own patience learning to grow like the weeds in the cracks of the broken pavement. I thought only the endeavour, the agonising struggle to save everyone, could ever relieve me of my guilt. But being here with the group, in the calmness... that is the real work. Left alone with my heart, in this suspension of time, I’m just... learning and experiencing. I am learning how to love all of you all over again, and experiencing the love all of you expressed, without the weight of the world on my shoulders. Left alone with my heart, the fear has finally begun to ebb away. I know now that I can love you all with hands that don't have to be clenched into fists.

I want to relish you all with a heart that finally dares to try, offering a devotion that no longer has to germinate from the soil of desperation. I want to move you in more ways than you have ever seen, taking us to a point in time where we see so much more than just the dirt beneath our feet or the scars I’ve spent time burying. I used to only see the end. Now, I want to see the horizon. Every step is still unsure, I know. The ground feels new, and my heart still skips when the shadows stretch too long. But for once, we are stepping forward instead of back.

As teardrops cloud the sight, lingering like the mist over the river, I realise they are just remnants of an old world. Eyes may never have to know that particular brand of pain again. No truth could ever fear me now, not when the worst has already passed and the best is standing right here in front of me.

Left alone with my heart, under the watchful gaze of the moon, I am simply learning how to love you all.

Takemichi looks at the moon and realises that he doesn't have to choose a favourite star when the entire sky is finally clear. A navigator on a long-lost carrack, he is someone who spent years steering by the memory, destination a mirage-shore, only to find himself now in calm waters under a brilliant, living canopy. They are his constellation, each light a point of reference that keeps him from wandering. Chifuyu is his Polaris, the one fixed high in the night sky, one that promises he will never lose his way again; Izana is his Sirius, burning with brilliance that demands to be seen from the furthest reaches of the sky; Kazutora is his Capella, a golden-yellow beacon of a binary star, shining with as a pair that speaks of a past reconciled and a future held by his protective hands; Seishu is his Vega, a steady and serene jewel of the summer sky, offering a sanctuary of sapphire-blue light that calms the turbulent sea; Koko is his Spica, a singular point of icy silver that anchors the harvest of their lives, its light that ensures their destiny remain prosperous.

And then there is Manjirou. Of course, he remains the Sun, the singularity whose warmth Takemichi still carries like an ancient memory etched into his soul, a heat that once defined the boundaries of his world. But in this new life, Takemichi has learned to sail under the deep velvet of the night skies. Even the Sun, for all its blinding power, cannot compete with the firmament he called ‘Now’. Buried by the vastness of the Earth and the infinite reach of the stars, the sun is no longer this sole ruler of the horizon. His love hasn't diminished. It has simply burgeoned, blossoming into a greater equal that encompasses every light in the dark. They are each his sanctuary, a home built of light where the shadows no longer hold any terror.

Within this radiant gloom, he is finally on course, no longer adrift in his own submarine sepulchre. In its stead, he's now steered by the souls he has tethered with his own.

Chapter Text

The rumbling of the engines usually sounded smooth to Mikey, a sound that is music to his ears. But today, his babu is coughing, a constant stutter that disrupted the harmony of Toman’s formation. Each gear shifts feel like pulling teeth, grinding with a stubbornness that forced Mikey to lag behind, watching the backs of his friends as they disappeared against the coastal horizon.

It had been Mikey’s idea to head toward Sagami Bay, something he’d announced on a whim that morning while balancing a piece of toast on his nose and staring blankly toward the dojo yard. He’d insisted with a grin that 'sea salt is the only seasoning strong enough for a hero's breakfast', dismissing any talk of chores or training in favour of the casual retreat. The tang of the sea already teased the air, but for Mikey, the pace is agonisingly slow.

"Mikey! Your gramps walks faster than how you’re riding right now!" Draken shouted over his shoulder, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. "What the hell is wrong with that junker?"

"It's not a junker, Ken-chin," Mikey huffed, twisting the throttle only to feel the bike groan in protest. "It’s a special break-in period. If you push Shin's masterpiece too hard at the start, it loses its soul. I'm just... synchronising with it."

"Synchronising?" Baji pulled up alongside him, his hair whipping along in the wind. "It sounds like it’s choking on a marble, Mikey. You’re making us look like the 'Tokyo Moped Club', and you've already got rid of the Hawkmaru... We’re supposed to be legendary, not a traffic hazard."

"Shut up, Keisuke," Mikey retorted, his eyes narrowing. "It’s all tactics. It builds suspense for when we actually arrive. Beside, look at the scenery. You guys are too impatient to appreciate the 'vibe'."

"The 'vibe' is giving me a headache," Mitsuya added with a chuckle from the front on his Impulse, though he kept his speed slow enough to stay within Mikey's range. Only Haruchiyo remained silent, looking slightly concerned by the erratic puffs of smoke escaping the babu’s exhaust.

Their bickering is cut short by the discordant whine of high-pitched engines. A group of older riders, draped in purple jackets embroidered with ‘15th Generation Shōnan Mermaids’, swerved around them, boxing the boys in. They looked like relics of an era that didn’t realise its time was up.

"What’s this?" one of them sneers, slowing his bike to a crawl right in front of Mikey's tyre. "Founding a gang on tricycles? Never heard of you brats. Move this scrap metal off the road before we turn it into actual scrap."

He reached out a booted foot, aiming for a dismissive kick toward the frame of the Babu.

Mikey didn't move his bike. He didn't even flinch at the proximity of the heavy boot. Instead, his posture went unnervingly still, the whimsical tilt of his head vanishing as he turned his gaze toward the man. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, flattened into two black voids that pinned the stranger in place through the opening of his helmet.

"If you scratch a single millimetre of this bike..." Mikey said, his voice sharp through the engine rumble like a razor, "I will kill you where you stand."

The man froze. The arrogance drained from his face, replaced by a primal fear. He pulled his foot back as if the bike were made of white-hot iron. His companions looked at each other, their bravado vanishing into the salty air.

"Tch. Whatever. We don't waste time with little kids," their leader barked, though his voice cracked. "Next time we see you, we'll crush you."

They sped off, their retreat far faster than their approach.

"Aw, man! Why’d they leave?" Baji groaned, sounding genuinely heartbroken. "I was just getting ready to fly. Mikey, you scared 'em off too fast!"

"We are supposed to have a brawl!" Pah grumbled. "Now we’re just stuck behind your wheezing bike again. This is your fault for being a buzzkill."

"My bike saved their lives," Mikey muttered, but the Babu decided that was its final performance. With a clunk, rather pathetically, the engine stalled and died completely. He coasted to the shoulder of the road, the silence of the broken machine echoing in his ears.

"Great. Fantastic," Baji said, hopping off his bike and crossing his arms. "Leisure time is over. We told you to check it before we left. You said it was 'perfect'."

"I blame Shinichirou," Mikey said, pulling out his phone. "He’s the mechanic. If it’s broken, it’s because he didn't give it enough love during the last tune-up."

"You probably didn't even put oil in it," Mitsuya sighs.

Draken looked at the sun, then back at the road. "The beach is still a ways off. We're not spending the whole afternoon on the shoulder."

"It's a Toman problem," Mikey declared, leaning back against the seat with unearned confidence. "One for all, right? Let's settle who stays with the bike and who waits for Shin with rock-paper-scissors."

They formed a circle, the decision weighing heavier than any gang war.

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

Baji let out a scream of pure agony as his 'stone' fell to the collective 'paper' of the others.

"No! No way! Why am I always the one?!" he bellowed, kicking the dirt.

"Don't worry, Keisuke," Mikey grinned, suddenly lunging forward. Before Baji could react, Mikey had hopped onto the seat of his bike, kicking up the stand with a practiced flick. "I'll keep your Goki warm while you wait for Shin. We’ll be at the water!"

"I'll kill you all!" Baji yelled after them as they roar away, finally at full speed.

As they reached the coast, the vastness of the blue water opened up before them. Draken and Mitsuya immediately started arguing about who can hit the water first, stripping off their shirts as they race toward the tide. But Mikey lingered by the edge of the sand, turning his attention to the silent figure nearby.

"Haru..." Mikey said, his voice light but carrying that strange feeling whenever he takes about serious stuff. "We should buy some of those ice pops for Keisuke and Shin. To make up for the wait and that 'junk' bike."

Haruchiyo nodded in response, as Mikey looked back toward the road they had just driven past.

"Actually... I'm going back to Keisuke," Mikey announced, already turning the Goki around. "He's probably crying into my Babu's handlebars by now. I want to see the look on his face when I eat his ice pop in front of him~ Tell the rest!"

Shinichirou’s bike hummed, Izana sat behind him, his hands resting on the seat’s edge rather than on his brother. Beside the two, the roar of the 750-killer sliced through the air, as Wakasa rode, his expression masked by boredom as he leaned into the wind, tagging along with the ‘Sano’ 'brothers'.

Izana remained quiet thus far, eyes fixed on the asphalt shimmering under the sunlight.

Shinichirou shouted over the engine, his voice devoid of the fatigue he usually carried in the shop. "I used to think the road never ended, Izana! Back when I started the Black Dragons, we thought we could just keep riding until the world ran out of land!"

Izana didn't respond. He just turned his gaze to the back of Shinichirou’s head.

Wakasa adjusted his grip on the bars, his eyes flicking toward Izana for a second before returning to the road. Izana knew Shin is reaching for him, trying to pull him back from the cool dry place he had retreated into.

Shinichirou’s effort is noisy, and to Izana, it felt like it had already hardened.

That energy doesn't feel like love. It felt like a performance of it, a display that only served to highlight how vast the distance between them truly was. The more Shinichirou tried to pull him closer, the more Izana felt himself drifting.

"You speak about it like it's a fairy tale," Izana finally said, his voice flat. "It was just a gang, Shin. Boys playing something they weren't."

Shinichirou laughed, a sound that didn't falter despite the circumstances. "Maybe. But we were the centre of our own little world… And now... I want that for you too."

They slowed as they approached a clearing overlooking the industrial sprawl of Yokohama. Shinichirou killed the engine, and Wakasa coasted to a stop a few paces away. He didn't speak, just leaning against his bike, eyes half-lidded as always, him watching the bright blue sky.

"I’ve been retired for a long time now, Izana," Shinichiro said, turning his seat to face him. His voice took on a formal weight. "The Black Dragons haven't been 'mine' for generations, but they still carry the soul we gave them..." Wakasa shifted slightly, the only sign he is paying attention.

"I’ve been waiting to say this properly." Shinichirou hesitated for a fleeting second, the memory of Mikey’s voice from that morning surfacing. Mikey had cornered him in the kitchen, eyes devoid of their usual childish glint, speaking with a seriousness that suggested he isn't just guessing, but remembering.

“Don’t tell him you’re giving it to him just so he can pass it to me later,” Mikey had warned, his gaze unusually concrete.

"If you give Izana the gang, let it be his. Don’t make him feel like a placeholder, Shin. If he thinks he’s just a seat-warmer for me, you’ll lose him forever.”

Shinichirou had seen the sincerity in his younger brother’s face. He didn't quite understand how Mikey knew the exact speech he'd prepared, but given the fact his younger brother had lived longer lives than he had, the warning had stuck. He couldn't afford to fumble this.

"I want you to take over," Shinichirou finally continued, his eyes soft but certain, choosing his words carefully to ensure no mention of Manjirou followed. "Consider this my blessing to you. The Black Dragons need someone who can lead... I’m giving them to you, Izana. Lead the next generation into something glorious."

The blessing left Izana momentarily breathless, it pressing in on him from all sides. It is a test and a temptation all at once. He looked over the horizon, his throat tightening. The delight of being chosen, of finally holding onto something that's truly his. He wanted to snatch it, to hoard it, to revel in the power Shinichirou is handing him.

But he suppressed it, burying the urge under a layer of frost. He didn't want Shin to see how he's feeling now.

Izana looked at the industrial skyline, and for a moment, another face flickered in his mind. Someone brighter, someone who actually held the light Izana felt he had lost in the depths of the orphanages.

"The Black Dragons..." Izana murmured, the words tasting like iron. He turned to Shinichirou, his face a mask of polite indifference, though his fingers twitched with a phantom grip on the handlebars of power. "I guess... if that’s really what you want. I’ll take them. I’ll make sure they become something the world won't forget. If I'm going to have a gang, might as well be yours... A custodian, if you will..."

Shinichirou beamed, clapping a hand on Izana’s shoulder, a wave of relief washing over him. He is completely unaware of the civil war raging behind Izana's violet eyes, or the fact that Izana is already imagining the day he's ready to abdicate. Wakasa exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his silent gaze lingering on the line of Izana's jaw for a moment longer before he looked away.

"I knew I could count on you," Shinichirou said, his distrust in himself melting into a newfound peace.

Izana merely nodded, the midday heat settling over him. 'I’ll take them, Shin,' he thought, his heart hammering in a delight he refused to acknowledge.

'But they won't be mine. Not in the end...'

The moment is shattered by the shrill ringing of Shinichirou’s phone. He fumbled with his pocket, offering a sheepish grin to Izana before flipping it open.

"Moshi moshi?" Shinichirou’s expression shifted quickly from sentimental to bewildered. "Wait, slow down. What do you mean it died? Did you run it into a ditch?"

He listened for a moment, his brow furrowing as a faux-frantic voice barked from the other end.

"Stalled? On the way to Sagami Bay? Manjirou, I literally tuned that engine last night! It was perfect!" Shinichirou started to pace, his hand flying up in an exasperated gesture. "No, don't you dare blame my tune-up! You probably forgot to shift properly or- what? No, I'm not coming out there just to kickstart it for you! You're a gang leader, act like one! Stop screaming!"

He pulled the phone away from his ear as the shouting became audible even to Izana and Wakasa.

"What do you mean you're already at the beach? Then who’s- Keisuke? You left Keisuke alone on the shoulder?" Shinichirou pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice rising in disbelief. "Fine! Fine, just stay put. If Keisuke touch the spark plugs, it'll only make it worse... I'm on my way!"

He snapped the phone shut, looking utterly defeated. "So much for the 'serene' ride. Manjirou said he’s already hitting the water and Keisuke’s the only one waiting by the bike. Little brat abandoned his own brother for the waves."

Wakasa let out a dry, short puff of a laugh. "The little gremlin is calling for his mechanic?"

"He's blaming me, Waka," Shinichirou groaned, hopping back onto his bike. "The brat is actually blaming me for his own lack of maintenance. Unbelievable."

Shinichirou turned back to Izana, his expression softening as he finally realised the earlier conversation had been abruptly cut short by the family chaos. "Look, Izana... I have to head out to the bay to deal with Manjirou before he and Keisuke start a fire trying to 'fix' it themselves." He gestured toward Wakasa. "Waka can take you back to the orphanage. It's still early, but I don't want you stuck on the road while I'm playing mechanic."

Wakasa kicked his stand up, ready to comply with a lazy nod, but Izana didn't move toward him.

"I don't mind going to Sagami," Izana said, his voice casual, almost bored. "It’s not a huge detour anyway. Beside, I want to see this 'masterpiece' that can't even handle a coastal breeze."

Shinichirou blinked, a small, surprised smile tugging at his lips. He hadn't expected Izana to want to linger in the orbit of the Sano family's nonsense, but the invitation to stay was one he wouldn't refuse.

"Fair enough," Shinichirou laughed, patting the back of the seat. "Hop on. Let's go see if the legendary Manjirou has managed to sink a bike on dry land."

Izana climbed back on, his hands returning to the seat's edge, steadying himself as the engine roared back to life.

The asphalt is baking. Baji sat on the hot shoulder of the road, leaning his back against the tire of Mikey’s dead Babu. He is sweating his balls out under the sun, the salt from his skin stinging the small scratches on his arms, him having tried to see is there anything wrong with the bike. Every few minutes, he’d look down the long, empty stretch of road where his own Goki had disappeared, carrying Mikey toward the waves.

"That damn bastard," Baji muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a grime-stained hand. "I’m stuck here playing babysitter to a piece of junk while he’s probably already halfway to being a prune in the ocean."

He looked at the Babu with clear resentment. It sat there, silent and mocking. He reached out and kicked the exhaust pipe, immediately regretting it as the heat seeped through his trousers as it meet his shin.

"And it’s hot! Why is it so damn hot?!" he bellowed at the sky. He pulled at and eventually unbuttoned his collar, trying to coax a breeze that didn't exist. He felt abandoned, by both his friends and a machine that didn't even belong to him.

The silence of the coastal road is suddenly shredded by the high-pitched scream of multiple engines. Baji stood up, his eyes narrowing as he recognised the silhouettes. ‘Purple jackets… The Shōnan Mermaids.’

"Look at this," the leader sneered, slowing his bike to a crawl. "It’s one of those lame-asses from before. Where’s your scary little boss, kid? Did he leave you behind because you’re as useless as this scrap heap?"

The gang swarmed around him, half a dozen bikes circling Baji like sharks.

"We said we’d torch your bikes if we saw you again, didn’t we?" another member laughed, revving his engine until the exhaust smoke clouded Baji’s vision. "Looks like we’re starting with this one."

Baji didn't back down. He didn't even look for an escape. He rolled his shoulders, a jagged, wild grin splitting his face. "Torch it? You can try. But I’m going to use your teeth as pavement markers first."

The leader swung a pipe, and the fight exploded into motion. Baji is a whirlwind of unrefined violence. He took a hit to the shoulder just to land a punch that sent one rider flying off his feet, but the numbers were against him. For every man he sent to the road, two more were there to grab his arms or swing from behind. He stood toe-to-toe with them, his knuckles bruises and his breath coming in gasps, but neither side is winning. It is a stalemate of attrition, Baji’s stubbornness acting as a wall against their repeated hits, all the while shielding the Babu from possible hits.

Then, the sound of a lone engine approached fast.

A black blur screamed over the rise. Mikey didn't slow down, he instead launched the Goki onto the shoulder, skidding it into a halt. Just as the bike stopped, Mikey is in the air.

He descended like a falling star, his leg snapping out in a perfect, vertical dropkick that slammed into the Shōnan Mermaid leader’s chest. The man didn't just fall. He is pinned to the ground by the force of the impact, the air leaving his lungs in a sickening wheeze, a bit of sick forced out of his stomach.

Mikey stood over him, his face devoid of its whimsy before. He didn't say anything at first, reaching past the groaning leader to flip the latch on the Babu's compartment. He pulled out a pair of swim trunks that he’d tucked away earlier and forgotten.

"Found them~" Mikey said, his voice flat. He looked around at the bruised and bloodied riders, then at the bruises forming on Baji’s face. He stuffed the trunks into his pocket, his gaze shifting back to the leader beneath his boot. "And... Why the hell did you hurt what’s important to me?"

That ism’t a question. It is a condemnation. He looked at Baji, the icy look cracking just enough for a flicker of genuine guilt to show through.

"Keisuke," Mikey said, his voice softening. "Sorry. I shouldn't have left you stranded."

Baji spat a mouthful into the dirt, wiping his mouth. "About damn time, you prick. I was starting to think I’d have to walk to the bay."

"Let's finish this," Mikey said, turning back to the Mermaids.

The two of them began to move in sync, a display of why Toman would one day rule the streets. They are a blur of kicks and haymakers, dismantling the older gang one by one. But before they could truly cross the line into doing something permanent, the thrum of two more bikes approached.

The Shōnan Mermaids, already on the verge of breaking, looked up. Their eyes went wide as they saw the two bikes slowing down.

"Wait... that's Sano Shinichirou," one of the riders hissed, his voice trembling. "And that's Imaushi Wakasa... The Black Dragon founders?"

They didn't even wait for a command. The Mermaids scrambled for their bikes, dragging their fallen leader with them, and fled toward the horizon, the sound of their retreat a whine against the wind.

Mikey stood in the middle of the road, his fists still clenched. He let out a long, frustrated breath, his shoulders slumping. "Lame," he muttered. "They didn't even get beaten up properly. They’re supposed to be veterans, but I guess they're so dusty they’re scared of something as pathetic and ancient as Shin."

He kicked a loose stone, sulking at the interference, until his eyes drifted toward Shinichirou’s bike. His expression curdled, the annoyance replaced by a jolt of shock. He went rigid, his body tightening as he find his gaze locked onto the silver-haired figure sitting behind his brother. ‘Why is he here? Why the hell did Shin bring him?’

Baji, however, had no such restraint. He marched toward Shinichirou’s bike, his face bruised and his temper frayed. He looked at Izana, then at Shinichirou, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Who the hell is this?" Baji asked, his voice confrontational. "Shinichirou, why are you hauling around some stranger while we’re getting jumped?"

Shinichirou fumbled, his hands hovering over the handlebars. "Uh, well, he’s... he’s… ehhh, Keisuke. He’s…"

Mikey opened his mouth. trying to offer a similar deflection, his mind racing for a lie.

But Izana didn't wait for them to protect him. He sat up straighter, his violet eyes locking onto Baji’s own.

"I’m his brother," Izana said, his voice clear and resonant, slicing through the tension. He flicked his gaze toward Mikey, a ghost of a challenge in his expression. "I'm Manjirou and Shinichirou's brother. Got a problem with that?"

Baji’s jaw dropped so far it is a wonder it didn’t hit the pavement. He looked from Izana’s foreign features to Shinichirou’s standard ‘Sano’ face, then back again. "What?! Brother? Since when did Mikey get a third sibling? You don’t look anything like them!" He squinted at Izana’s silver hair and tanned skin, his voice rising. "Are you sure? He looks totally foreign, Shin! Are you sure you didn't just pick up some runaway and-"

Smack.

Mikey’s hand connected with the back of Baji’s head with a crack. Baji stumbled forward, clutching his skull and yelping.

"Shut up, Keisuke!" Mikey barked, though his own expression still tight with a mixture of shock. He didn't look at Izana, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the bruised mess of Baji’s face. Beside him, Shinichirou had gone equally stiff, his hand twitching on the throttle. Both of them shared a momentary thought: ‘Don't mention the 'family' part like that'.’

They both knew Izana’s history, and they feared that the reminder of blood, or the lack thereof, would cause the boy to explode.

Izana, however, didn't explode. He didn't even flinch. He watched the chaotic interaction with an amusement. He reached up, casually shrugging his shoulders to settle his jacket.

"It's fine," Izana said, his voice cool and indifferent, effectively diffusing the panic radiating from the Sano brothers. "It's understandable. I wouldn't expect someone with more bruises than brain cells to understand the concept of a family tree." He offered Baji a thin and toothed smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, does the mouth-breathing come with the 'founding member' title, or is that just a personal hobby of yours?"

Shinichirou jumped in immediately, his hands raised in a peace-making gesture that looked more like he was trying to catch a falling glass. "Okay! Okay, enough! Keisuke, go check your goki. Izana, don't mind him, he's just... prone to overheating." He quickly pivoted toward the dead babu, his voice taking on a forced, professional brightness. "Waka! Forget the coastal air, come help me with this disaster. I need to see if Manjirou actually managed to fry the stator."

Wakasa sighed, a long-suffering sound, but he kicked his stand down and sauntered over to the bike. As they began to tinker, Shinichirou caught Izana by the arm, pulling him a few steps away from the noise of Baji’s indignant grumbling. His eyes searched Izana’s face, his voice a chagrin, having been left speechless by Baji's question earlier.

"Are you alright, Izana?" Shinichirou asked, his brow furrowed. "I know Keisuke can be... blunt. He didn't mean anything by the family comment, he's just…"

Mikey appeared at Shinichirou’s elbow, his presence sudden and silent. He leaned in, his voice a whisper meant only for his older brother’s ears. "Shin... be careful. Last time, Izana reacted very angrily at you when you talked about the 'family' thing."

They both watched Izana as if he is a bomb that had already been dropped, waiting for the fuse to catch.

Izana, on the contrary, is already looking past them. He had overheard the whispered caution, and an unreadable expression crossed his face.

"Don't worry so much," Izana said, his voice echoing with that same detached quality Mikey had noticed before. He looked at his own hand, then back at the horizon where the sun was still blazing high and bright. "Yesterday, today is tomorrow, and tomorrow, today would be yesterday."

He looked at Mikey then, a flicker of something knowing shining in his violet eyes. "The words don't hurt if you've already heard it in a different order. I’m fine, Shin. Fix the bike so he can get to the water before the day disappears."

He turned away before they could respond, leaving Mikey and Shinichirou standing in the dust.

Getting back to work, the Babu is quickly fixed. Shinichirou’s hands moved with precision that belied his earlier panic. He muttered to himself, tracing lines and checking valves until he found the culprit. It turned out the engine oil drain hose is plugged up with a nasty combination of grime and a stray bit of plastic, likely something Mikey had run over or ignored during his ‘synchronisation’ period.

"There," Shinichirou grunted, wiping a thick smudge of black oil onto a rag. He gave the kickstart a firm shove, and the engine is revived. It didn't just start, it sang, a healthy holler that vibrated through the pavement. "See? Love and maintenance, Manjirou. Try it sometime."

Mikey just grinned, already hopping onto the seat. "I told you it is just a break-in period! Now it’s even stronger than before!"

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. With a shout to Baji, Mikey slammed the bike into gear and tore off toward the beach. Baji followed close behind, his own Goki speeding in attempt to keep up, leaving a cloud of dust and the faint scent of gasoline in their wake.

Shinichirou watched them go, a tired but fond smile on his face. He turned back to Wakasa and Izana. "Well, that’s that. One crisis averted. Waka, let's head back. Yokohama is calling, and I think I've had enough 'bonding' for one afternoon."

They rode back toward the city, the coastal road bright and clear under the midday sun. The air was thick with heat, the horizon shimmering. But as they approached the turn-off that would lead back to the orphanage, Izana leaned forward, his voice cutting through the wind into Shinichirou’s ear.

"Shin," Izana said, his tone unusually pointed. "Drop me off at Honmachi."

Shinichirou slowed the bike, glancing back over his shoulder. "Honmachi? Izana, that’s the opposite way from Yokohama. It’s still early afternoon, and the staff will be looking for you if you're not back soon."

"I have something to do, and I'm old enough to stay out if the staff knows." Izana replied, his gaze fixed on the passing cars on the expressway.

"What could you possibly need to do in the middle of Honmachi?" Shinichirou asked, his brow furrowed with a sudden, protective worry. "If you’re getting into something dangerous on your own, you have to tell me, Izana. I can't let you just wander off into the city without knowing why."

Izana didn't clarify. He didn't even look at Shinichirou. He just sat there, a silent and immovable weight on the back of the bike. The silence stretched, thick and impenetrable, until it felt like a wall between them.

"Just drop me off, Shin," Izana repeated, but this time his voice hitched, a microscopic fracture in his facade. A dusty pink crawled up the back of his neck, visible even in the harsh daylight. He looked away, his posture going stiff and awkward, like a cat that had been caught doing something ridiculous.

Shinichirou’s eyes widened in the rearview mirror. He shared a quick, baffled look with Wakasa, who had pulled up alongside them.

"Wait a second," Wakasa said, his voice trailing off as a slow, mischievous grin began to spread across his face. "Izana? Are you... being secretive? Are you blushing?"

"I am not blushing," Izana snapped, though the colour deepened, spreading to the tips of his ears. He gripped the edge of the seat so hard his knuckles turned white. "It's the wind. My face is just hot from the sun."

"Hot from the sun?" Shinichirou now chimed in, leaning back on his bike with a lazy smirk. "You’ve been stone-faced all day. Suddenly you’re asking for a drop-off in a shopping district and looking like you’ve been caught stealing?"

"Shut up, Shin," Izana muttered, his head ducking lower into his collar. "I just have... an errand. It's personal."

"An 'errand'?" Wakasa let out a bark of laughter, the heavy tension from before completely evaporating into pure sibling delight. He tapped the handlebars, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Does this 'errand' have a name? Or maybe a favorite colour? Oh man, is Shin's little brother going on a secret mission? Is it a date?!"

"It's not a date!" Izana hissed, his voice cracking slightly. He looked genuinely huffy now, his usual ethereal dignity replaced by the frantic, embarrassed energy of a regular teenager. "Stop talking. Just drive the bike or I'm walking from here."

"A date in Honmachi," Wakasa teased, already revving the engine with renewed vigour. "Should I be worried? Do you need Shin to teach you how to treat a lady? You know, He's got a wealth of experience with romance—"

"Wealth of experience?" Shinichirou snorted, cutting Wakasa off.

"Shin, you have a wealth of is rejection notices. If Izana wants to actually succeed at this date, he should listen to the guy who's been turned down by every girl in the prefecture. He'll know exactly what not to do~"

"Hey! It isn't that much!" Shinichirou protested, his face flushing with indignation as he nearly swerved the bike. "And those were learning experiences! I was building character!"

"You were building a graveyard of lost hopes," Wakasa countered, his voice dripping with mock-pity. "Izana, just look at whatever Shinichirou does and then do the exact opposite. You'll be married by next week."

"I don't want advice from either of you!" Izana yelled, his face now a magnificent shade of crimson.

"I don't know, Shin," Wakasa added, his voice returning to that dry, teasing drone. "He looks pretty panicked. Maybe we should follow him? Just to make sure he doesn't use one of your 'character-building' pick-up lines and get slapped into next year."

"If you follow me, I will burn down the shop. And no, I’m not dating anyone!" Izana said, though the threat carried zero weight because he was too busy trying to hide his face behind Shinichirou’s shoulder.

Shinichirou laughed, a bright and genuine sound that echoed through the sun-drenched street. He felt a rush of affection for this silver-haired boy who usually felt so stoic. For a moment, Izana was just a kid with a secret, squirming under the weight of his incessant teasing.

"Alright, alright," Shinichirou said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "I'll let you have your mystery errand. But you better tell me everything later. Or at least tell me if I need to buy a suit for a wedding anytime soon!"

"Shin!"

Shinichirou steered the bike toward the residentia; heart of Tokyo, Honmachi, pulling up at a corner bustling with crowds of the neighbourhood. Izana hopped off as soon as the wheels had stopped spinning, his movements jerky and hurried. He didn't say thank you, and he didn't look back, his silver hair a bright spark as he practically bolted into the crowd, his ears still glowing a bright, tell-tale red.

Shinichirou and Wakasa stayed on the corner for a moment, watching him go.

"He's definitely meeting someone," Shinichirou said, shaking his head with a grin.

"Definitely," Wakasa agreed, clicking his bike into gear. "And he's definitely going to hate us for the next week for bringing it up."

"Worth it," Shinichirou laughed, and together, they turned their bikes toward home under the relentless glare of the afternoon sun.

The Sagami Bay shoreline is a shimmering white-gold under the afternoon sun. By the time Mikey and Baji got to the public parking lot, the asphalt is already radiating waves of heat. Mikey killed the engine of the Babu, the silence that followed punctuated by the distant crash of the Pacific.

Mikey didn't even bother with a lock, trusting the look of their bikes alone can keep the curious away.

Down on the sand, the rest of the group are already sprawled out like casualties under the sun. Draken lies flat on his back, eyes closed against the glare, while Mitsuya and Pah wrung out their trunks, the saltwater forming dark patches on the dry sand. Haruchiyo had retreated a few paces, seeking sanctuary under a dense overhang of foliage to escape the worst of the midday heat, eating one of the ice pops.

Baji pulled up behind Mikey, and he is still buzzing, the adrenaline of the fight and the shock of the encounter with Shinichirou and the supposed ‘third brother’ vibrating in his voice.

"You guys won't believe it!" Baji bellowed, his voice cutting through the peace. He didn't even wait for a response, stomping over to where Draken lay. "I was on the shoulder by the highway, right? Getting jumped by those Mermaid losers, and then Shinichirou rolls up. But he wasn't alone!"

Draken opened one eye, looking up at Baji’s bruised, frantic face. "Did he bring a tow truck? Because Mikey’s bike is basically a paperweight."

"No! He brought Waka and a brother!" Baji waved his arms emphatically. "Another one! A third! Mikey has been hiding a whole-ass sibling from us!"

Mitsuya stopped wringing his shirt, his brow furrowed. "A third brother? Shinichirou-kun and Mikey are it. Unless you're counting Emma-chan, but she's a girl."

"That’s what I said!" Baji shouted, turning to Mikey, who was busy looking frustrated at him. "But this guy… Name's I-Izana, right? He looks absolutely nothing like them. Silver hair, tanned skin, violet eyes... he looks like he fell out of a completely different planet. I told him he looked foreign and Mikey nearly cracked my skull for pointing the obvious!"

"Izana?" Draken sat up properly now, brushing sand off his arms. He looked at Mikey. "Mikey, what’s he talking about? You have another brother?"

Mikey didn't look up immediately. But he eventually replied after thinking for an ambiguous answer.

"Yes Keisuke met Izana," Mikey said simply, finally looking over at them. "He's older than me, younger than Shin. He’s been... estranged. For a long time."

"He called himself your brother, Mikey," Baji added, his tone uncharacteristically serious for a split second before jumping back into his loudmouth energy. "But seriously, Takashi, you should've seen him. He’s got this... vibe. And worse! He’s got a mouth on him! He called me a mouth-breather! Me! A founding member!"

"To be fair, Keisuke," Mitsuya chuckled, "you are probably breathing through your mouth at the time."

"That’s not the point!" Baji huffed. "The point is, his household is way weirder than we thought. Why didn't you ever mention him, Mikey? We've been hanging out at your dojo for years."

Mikey shrugged, walking toward them and dropping onto the sand beside Draken. "It's complicated. Family stuff. Shin only just found him recently… But yeah. He’s my brother. And if he thinks he can call Keisuke a mouth-breather and get away with it, he’s probably going to fit in just fine."

"He's scary," Baji muttered, though there was a hint of respect in his voice as he gingerly touched a bruise on his jaw. "I think he’s even more of a freak than you are, Mikey."

"Good," Mikey grinned, closing his eyes and letting the sun bake into his skin. "Toman could use more freaks."

Baji didn’t let the subject drop, though. He sat there, stewing in the memory of the long walk he almost had to take and the blatant theft of his own bike. He reached down, grabbing a handful of coarse sand.

"You're a real piece of work, Mikey," Baji grumbled. Suddenly, he flung the sand directly at Mikey’s head. "That's for stealing my Goki and leaving me to rot!"

Mikey spluttered, sand getting into his hair and the corners of his mouth. He sat up, shaking his head like a wet dog, a  glint then appearing in his eyes. Without a word, he lunged across the sand.

"Hey! Get off!" Baji yelled as Mikey tackled him.

Mikey hauled the thrashing Baji up by the collar of his jacket, dragging him toward the shoreline. Baji kicked and swung, but Mikey had the leverage. In a heave, Mikey pitched Baji forward. Baji flailed in the air for a second before hitting the surf with an unceremonious splash.

Mikey stood at the water's edge, brushing his hands off with a satisfied smirk as a soaked and cursing Baji emerged from the foam. "Now you’re with the ocean, Keisuke~"

Mikey laughed, the tension of the day finally washing away in the tide.