A closer look

by Keith0

Summary:

To most of Toman(and other), Takemichi has always been the reckless, stubborn crybaby they couldn't help but protect. But lately, they're starting to notice things they never saw before — teasing smiles, unexpected touches, and strange little details that don't quite fit. Expensive watches, confident smirks, secrets hidden behind familiar tears.
"What, surprised? I never said I was helpless," Takemichi teases with a grin, leaving everyone scrambling to figure out just how much they really know about him.
This collection of oneshots explores the subtle shifts and shocking discoveries as the Tokyo Revengers cast realizes that there's far more to their crybaby hero than they ever expected — and once they start noticing, they can't stop.

Or

Takemichi deciding to be a menace to society. So here are some oneshots of it.

Notes:

Back to back posting, this collection has been sitting on my notes for some time now. I have 21 oneshots lmao.

Chapter 1: Drunken Party[Mikey]

It was supposed to be one of those rare nights—no fights, no emergencies, no disasters. Just Toman having a chill, laid-back party together. Music playing, drinks on the table (allegedly juice), people vibing for once instead of throwing punches.

 

But then, of course, Kazutora decided to be a menace to society.

 

In what he probably thought was a hilarious prank, he swapped the juice for alcohol. Strong alcohol. Not the “just enough to loosen you up” kind—the “you'll forget your name by midnight” kind.

 

And naturally, no one noticed.

 

The descent into chaos was immediate.

 

Baji somehow set something on fire (and no one’s entirely sure what or how), Hakkai was down on one knee proposing—in his own weird way—to Mitsuya with slurred words and tear-filled eyes. Meanwhile, Draken, usually the responsible one, looked around at the trainwreck in progress, sighed deeply, and decided to just join in. If you can’t beat the chaos, drink with it.

 

One by one, Toman’s finest fell into drunken absurdity.

 

 

 

 

Except for one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hanagaki Takemichi.

 

 

 

 

The crybaby. The underdog. The guy Kazutora expected to pass out after two sips and start sobbing about friendship or something.

 

But here he was—completely fine. No slurred speech, no flushed cheeks, no staggering around.

 

Because, apparently, Takemichi has insanely high alcohol tolerance.

 

It’s not that he drinks often—he really doesn’t. But when he does? He drinks like a champ. There’s no warning, no ramp-up. He’ll outdrink you ten times over, and he won’t even stumble. Getting him drunk is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline—it just doesn’t work how you think it should.

 

Sure, there are rare occasions where alcohol affects him, but even then, he never does anything outright stupid. No blackout moments. No getting arrested. No setting things on fire like a certain someone.

 

And tonight?

 

He saw his chance.

 

kazutora thought he couldn’t handle his liquor. So why not play into it? Just for fun. A little teasing. A little chaos of his own. After all, with everyone else too wasted to even register their surroundings, he might as well have some harmless fun.

 

And if he had to start somewhere…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why not pick the one person who drives him insane across every future timeline?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes. Tonight, Hanagaki Takemichi is going to flirt with Mikey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just to see what happens.

 

 

 

Takemichi smiled to himself, a slow, almost feline smirk tugging at his lips as he scanned the chaotic room. The room buzzed with noise—half-drunken laughter, clinking bottles, the occasional thud of someone losing a round in whatever game they’d started playing an hour ago. He also saw Kazutora laughing like a maniac in a corner.

 

Dim light pooled from the hanging lamp above, soft shadows stretching over the couch where Mikey sat.

 

And yet, amid the chaos, he remained still. Reclined lazily against the backrest, his expression unreadable save for the faint flush blooming across his cheeks—whether from the alcohol or the warmth of the room, even he didn’t know. His platinum hair was tousled just enough to look effortlessly good, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the ghost of a smirk resting on his lips.

 

It was almost cinematic, the way the storm of voices dulled to a distant hum.

 

Perfect.

 

Takemichi moved like mist—soft, graceful, and just a touch too fluid to be completely innocent. His steps barely made a sound, the gentle sway of his body like some teasing dance. He wasn’t drunk, but he wore the performance well: eyes hazy, lips curled into a breathy smile, like he had no idea what he was doing.

 

But he knew.

 

Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

He giggled—high, airy, and suspiciously cute—before leaning in, arms loose at his sides. The scent of whatever sweet drink he’d been nursing clung faintly to his breath as he came close. Very close. Less than twenty centimeters.

 

And Mikey noticed.

 

Their eyes met—sapphire and obsidian—and something electric sparked in the silence.

 

“Say, Mikey-kun…” Takemichi's voice was low, honeyed, drawn out like he was tasting the syllables. The nickname dripped off his tongue, mocking-drunk and sugary sweet. “Looking at you this close… you’re really handsome.”

 

That caught Mikey off-guard. His brows twitched slightly. “H-Huh?”

 

He stiffened, blinking once, then twice, as if trying to reset his brain. But Takemichi only tilted his head with faux innocence, lashes low, lips parted in a teasing smile that threatened more than mischief.

 

Then—before Mikey could process anything further—Takemichi’s hand pressed lightly against his chest, guiding him down with a deceptive gentleness until his back met the cushions of the couch. Smooth. Effortless. Almost sweet.

 

 

 

 

Almost.

 

 

 

 

The air between them shifted—warmer now, thicker, charged with something neither of them dared name. Takemichi straddled one of Mikey’s legs, careful not to cross the line… but oh, how close he was to doing so.

 

“You’ve got these sharp eyes,” Takemichi murmured, his voice a caress as he brushed his fingertips along Mikey’s cheekbone, tracing it with admiration. “And those lips… mm, they’re almost unfair.”

 

Mikey’s breath caught, his body stiff but unmoving. “T-Takemichi… what are you doing?”

 

“Complimenting you,” came the easy reply, soft and steady. “You deserve to hear it, don’t you think? You’re beautiful, Mikey-kun.”

 

 

 

 

 

And then—fingers slipped under Mikey’s shirt.

 

 

 

 

Roughened palms, calloused from fights he didn’t talk about, ghosted over smooth skin and firm muscle, exploring with shameless precision. Mikey twitched beneath his touch, stomach flexing under the sudden contact, and a shaky breath escaped him.

 

“I-I’m not ready enough for this—” he muttered, but Takemichi wasn’t done.

 

He leaned in again, close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Mikey’s ear, close enough that the heat of his whisper sent a shiver down Mikey’s spine.

 

“And your body…” Takemichi’s voice dipped into something darker, softer, a velvet promise wrapped in silk and sin, “is so damn sculpted. Your future partner’s going to be obsessed with you.”

 

The hand trailed lower. Lower. Slipping under the waistband just slightly—enough to make Mikey’s heart stutter, enough to make his breath shake. His skin tingled in the wake of every touch, every word, as though the air itself had become flammable.

 

And then—Takemichi tilted his head, his lips curling into a slow, devilish smirk.

 

“How I wish it would be me.”

 

Those words fell like a match on gasoline.

 

Mikey’s entire body locked up. His face flushed from pink to crimson in the span of seconds. “W-What the hell?! Are you—Takemichi?!”

 

His voice cracked. He was spiraling—tumbling helplessly into a confusing blur of warmth, embarrassment, and… something else. Something dangerously close to curiosity.

 

And then—

 

 

 

 

 

“But anyway!” Takemichi chirped, springing away from him like nothing happened.

 

The loss of warmth was immediate. Mikey nearly fell forward from the sudden absence. Takemichi plopped down beside him, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap, the picture of perfect innocence. He picked up a drink, took a casual sip, and started chatting about the party, like he hadn’t just set Mikey’s nervous system on fire.

 

Mikey sat frozen. Wide-eyed. Red-faced. Speechless.

 

“…The hell just happened?” he whispered.

 

And Takemichi only smiled, that sweet, coy little smile.

 

Like he’d won a game Mikey didn’t know they were playing.

 

 

 

 

 

On the other end of the room, leaning against the wall with a cup long since emptied, Draken stood frozen.

 

His brows were raised so high they were practically part of his hairline. He hadn’t blinked in at least thirty seconds.

 

Across the room, everyone else remained blissfully unaware—still yelling over card games, debating music, or taking blurry selfies. But Draken? Draken had seen. Every second. Every breath. Every scandalous touch.

 

What the fuck was that?

 

He didn’t even realize his jaw was slightly open until a stray piece of popcorn hit his lip. Someone had thrown it. He didn’t even look to see who. He was too stunned.

 

'Is this what alcohol does to Takemichi?' the thought barged into his mind, uninvited and unsettling. Because that—that—wasn’t the soft-spoken crybaby he knew. That was a smooth operator. A menace. A wolf in dork’s clothing. That was a problem.

 

Takemichi had just turned the strongest delinquent in Tokyo into a twitching mess with a blush that could rival a stoplight, and now he was sipping soda like nothing happened? Like he hadn’t just flirted like his life depended on it?

 

Draken exhaled slowly. “What the hell.”

 

He blinked once. Then again. Just to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating.

 

Still there. Mikey, red as a tomato. Takemichi, acting like he didn’t just awaken a new side of himself that belonged in a telenovela.

 

This party had gone from mildly rowdy to absolutely chaotic. He’d seen fights break out, people passed out in bathrooms, even a guy once try to fistfight a vending machine. But this? This was flabbergasting.

 

He rubbed a hand down his face, muttering, “I need to go home. Or I need another drink. Or maybe both.”

 

But as he glanced over again—just to be sure, just to make sure his brain hadn’t betrayed him—he caught Takemichi glancing his way. Just a glance. A tiny flick of those blue eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, mischievous. Dangerous.

 

And for one brief second… Draken felt a chill run down his spine.

 

Maybe if I got Takemichi drunk, he’d do the same to me…

 

 

 

The thought came uninvited.

 

 

 

It stayed.

 

 

 

It curled somewhere in the back of his mind like a cat refusing to be kicked out.

 

 

 

Draken stiffened.

 

 

 

“…Oh no” he whispered.

 

Chapter 2: Beach Day!![Draken]

Ah, peace. Or at least, the illusion of it.

 

A rare alignment of planets had occurred, allowing the Toman crew to escape blood, betrayal, and bruises for a single day to touch grass—or in this case, sand. Behind them lay the chaos of their everyday lives, the noise of fights and shouts replaced by the tranquil sounds of crashing waves and distant seagulls. A beach trip had been meticulously planned, each detail crafted to ensure a day unlike any other. Coolers were packed with an assortment of snacks and drinks; vibrant beach towels were rolled tightly; volleyballs were inflated, bouncing merrily in the early morning sun; and Mikey had been expertly bribed with taiyaki to ensure his presence. As they gathered, a promise resounded among them—today would be calm.

 

 

And yet—

 

 

“Why am I on time out?!” Kazutora’s voice rang across the beach like a warning siren, echoing off the waves and instantly killing any lingering hopes of peace that had swept in with the tide.

 

He sat several meters away from the rest of the group, plopped on a separate towel under a suspiciously small umbrella, looking like a sulking cat with a juice box—perpetually pouting, with an expression that could only be described as dramatic.

 

Draken didn’t spare him a glance. “Because you spiked the drinks at the last party.”

 

“I didn’t know it was the strong kind!” Kazutora shouted back, his indignant protest caught in the wind.

 

Chifuyu, ever the vigilant guardian of group sanity, whipped around, sunblock in one hand, a scowl ready as if it were a weapon. “You switched labels so no one would notice!”

 

“You lit the fuse!” Baji yelled from behind the cooler, a tub of ice and soda perched precariously beside him. “Literally! I thought it was ceremonial, man!”

 

Draken’s eyes narrowed at Baji’s enthusiasm. “Are you encouraging this?”

 

“Of course! Why not?” Baji said with a grin. “It’s not a party unless someone’s flipping something!”

 

Mitsuya, comfortably lounging and slipping sunglasses over his face with precision, rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “You set the whole fire pit ablaze and danced in the middle of it while screaming, ‘I am the spirit of loyalty!’”

 

Baji only grinned wider, laughter bubbling just under the surface. “And I’d do it again.”

 

“Oh, and let’s not forget,” Pah-chin added dryly, towel slung over his shoulder as he leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Hakkai proposed to Mitsuya with a glowstick ring.”

 

Everyone turned their attention to Hakkai, whose face flushed an embarrassed tomato red, unable to meet their gazes. “I—I meant it platonically!” he insisted, burying his face in the sand like an embarrassed ostrich, wings metaphorically flapping as if to hide away from their banter.

 

“Still said, ‘I wanna be your wife,’” Mitsuya quipped, his smirk growing as he relished in Hakkai’s mortification.

 

Kazutora scoffed from his corner. “You’re all acting like it wasn’t the best party of your lives. I mean, look at us now.”

 

Draken couldn’t help but sigh, turning to glare at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You’re in time out. Stay there. If you get up, I’m burying you neck-deep in sand and letting the crabs decide your fate.”

 

Kazutora dramatically sipped his juice box, eyes narrowed defiantly. “Tyrant.”

 

And just like that, the day continued on—radiant sunshine glaring down, soft waves lapping playfully at the shore, and the gentle chaos that seemed to follow them everywhere. Laughter erupted like a kettle boiling, punctuated by splashes of water and the occasional shout of triumph as someone managed a particularly impressive volleyball spike.

 

Until someone said:

 

“…Wait. Has anyone seen Takemichi?”

 

The question hung in the salty breeze, suspended like a fishing line cast into open waters, before slowly turning heads as they exchanged uneasy glances.

 

Draken’s brow furrowed, concern rising in the pit of his stomach. “He went to change, right?”

 

Chifuyu squinted toward the row of changing stalls, annoyance creeping into his tone. “That was like… twenty minutes ago.”

 

“Maybe he fell asleep in there?” Hakkai offered, already sounding unsure, as if trying to convince himself that Takemichi was indeed just being Takemichi.

 

“Takemichi’s many things. Chronically tired? Yeah. But sleeping standing up in a public changing room?” Angry shook his head, pointing out the absurdity of that scenario.

 

The group slowly exchanged glances, a subtle tension beginning to weave into their afternoon. From his designated exile zone, Kazutora raised an eyebrow and smirked like a cat caught in an act of mischief. “Y’all act like he didn’t vanish last time for two hours and came back covered in bandages, saying he ‘tripped’.”

 

“This isn’t funny, Kazutora,” Draken snapped, his voice low, eyes already scanning the area like he was preparing for a threat that hadn’t arrived yet, but one that loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon.

 

The air shifted, thick with unvoiced worries.

 

Draken stood up without a word, brushing sand off his board shorts, feeling a sense of urgency coil in his gut. He had known too many times what could happen in their unpredictable lives. “Y’all stay here,” he instructed, his voice carrying the kind of authority that signified he meant business. “I’ll go check on him.”

 

Because when Takemichi disappears for more than five minutes, it usually means something is wrong.

 

 

Or about to be.

 

 

And this time, with the weight of previous experiences heavy on his shoulders, Draken swore he’d catch it before it started.

 

He walked to the changing room and, with a singular focus, just barged in. No knocking, no warnings—just straight through. It had become somewhat of a habit by now, a tactic honed out of necessity, because of the things Takemichi tended to hide, the way he bottled everything up, and the unbearable weight he kept putting on his own shoulders. Better not to question it—just act. Fast. Because if you waited too long… Takemichi might already be hurt.

 

“Oi, Takemichi—” Draken began, but his voice caught in his throat as he stopped mid-sentence.

 

His eyes landed on the boy standing there, caught mid-change, an unexpected scene that rendered him momentarily speechless.

 

A hue of bright blush spread across Draken’s face, shocking him out of his customary tough-guy exterior. Takemichi’s back was to him at first—bare, scarred, and slim—fragile-looking yet unyielding all at once. When he turned slightly in shock, the reality settled in, and Draken noticed more than he had initially meant to.

 

Takemichi’s body was a canvas filled with marks—some old, memories etched in skin that spoke of battles fought and moments no one had been there to witness—yet it was more than that. It was… androgynous. Not quite sharp, not quite soft; there were narrow shoulders, subtle curves in unexpected places. The build defied categorization. It was just him. Delicate and strong, a contradiction melded magnificently together.

 

And then he saw them.

 

The tattoos.

 

A sleek black snake curled up Takemichi’s right thigh, inked deep and bold, the head hidden just under the line of his trunks, as if poised to strike. And on the left side of his lower waist, spider lilies bloomed in blood-red ink, elegant petals cascading into delicate butterflies that seemed frozen in time, caught mid-flight. Symbols wound together with meaning, trailing across his skin like whispered secrets in a room full of noise.

 

“Shit,” Takemichi cursed under his breath, a breathless mix of embarrassment and surprise flooding his features.

 

He scrambled to pull his swim shirt over himself, the fabric catching awkwardly on his elbows and damp skin. But it was too late—Draken had already seen. The scars—story-stitches defined by pain and resilience—were one thing, old reminders of fights and silent struggles. But the ink? That was different, telling a different story altogether.

 

Draken stood there, stunned. Silent.

 

Takemichi didn’t meet his eyes, yet he could feel the weight of Draken's gaze, as heavy as any burden he carried. He shifted his weight, striving for a semblance of calm, but it was hard with someone like Draken watching him so intently, the look in his eyes reflecting understanding rather than judgment.

 

The black snake coiled on his right thigh felt more vivid under the fluorescent lights, alive, as if responding to the attention it received now. The red spider lilies and delicate butterflies on his lower waist—hidden symbols, private meanings—were no longer just ink; in this moment, they were illuminated. Change and rebirth..death. Words unwhispered, emotions locked away, things he never said out loud. Things that lived beneath skin and silence.

 

“…Don’t say anything,” Takemichi mumbled, voice low, a mix of self-defense and vulnerability.

 

He didn’t have to look up to know that Draken wasn’t judging, that he was just... trying to understand.

 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Draken managed after a pause, his voice lower than usual, soft in a way that reverberated against the walls of that small room, drawing Takemichi’s attention even without direct eye contact.

 

Takemichi exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle again, like the tide pulling back from the shore, letting the moments breathe.

 

“Next time, knock, dumbass,” he grumbled, tucking his shirt fully down, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief wash over him, like the tide lapping at his ankles.

 

Draken huffed, barely holding back a crooked smile, his serious facade crumbling slightly. “No promises.”

 

And somehow, amidst the exposure, amidst the uncertainty and the weight of their shared histories, even with his chest tight and skin prickling from the vulnerability of the situation, Takemichi didn’t feel quite as exposed anymore. The tattoos glistened—reminders, but not burdens—understood only by Draken, who stood before him not as a threat but as a reminder of camaraderie, loyalty woven through laughter, chaos, and the humble acceptance of who they were.

Chapter 3: Calloused hands[Mitsuya]

It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the city quiets down and everything seems more honest. Mitsuya sat at his sewing desk in the small studio he called home, a dim lamp casting a warm glow over the chaos of color and texture pooled around his hands. The gentle whirr of the sewing machine provided a soothing rhythm to the silence, a metronome for the thoughts weaving through his mind as deftly as the fabric between his fingers. Mitsuya’s shoulders were tight with concentration, but tonight, perhaps more than others, his mind drifted.

 

Takemichi was beside him, focused yet tangled in his own chaos—his brows furrowed in determination as he battled a stubborn mess of thread. “I swear this thing’s cursed,” Takemichi muttered, squinting at a needle that seemed to mock him from its spot in the fabric. “How do you even do this without going blind?”

 

Mitsuya chuckled softly, amused by the exaggerated torment in Takemichi's voice. “Years of practice. You want me to show you how it’s done?”

 

“No, no—I got it.” Takemichi retorted, his determination flaring as he held up the needle again. The thread shook nervously between his fingers like a tightrope walker balancing over a precipice.

 

Mitsuya let him wrestle with it for a few moments longer before he reached over, the touch of his fingers brushing against Takemichi's hand as the needle changed ownership. The moment lingered, a fleeting electric pulse that he hadn’t expected. Takemichi's hands were warmer than he had anticipated, not rough in the battle-scarred warrior sense, but calloused in a way that spoke of precision. The pads of his fingers, the edges of his thumbs—these spoke of careful, repetitive movements. Not the hands of a fighter, but of someone meticulously dedicated to the craft of creation.

 

“Your hands,” Mitsuya found himself saying, the words slipping out before he could consider their weight. “You ever work with watches or something?”

 

Takemichi blinked, momentarily startled by the question. “Watches? Uh… yeah. Kind of. I used to fix small electronics sometimes, back when—” he hesitated, the air around them suddenly thickened with unspoken memories. “When I had more time.”

 

Mitsuya nodded slowly, the information sinking in like a stone into still water. Of course. It made sense; Takemichi had always been observant, seen things others overlooked. Someone who’d take apart an object to understand it, who would rather repair than replace.

 

The rhythm of sewing wavered as Mitsuya returned to his work. Each thrust of his needle into the fabric felt heavy with thought. When had he started paying attention like this? To the way the curve of Takemichi’s neck caught the lamplight just right, framing his youthful features. The timbre of his voice when he was determined, sinking low with focus. How the warmth of his presence filled the quiet corners of the room, turning solitude into something altogether different.

 

 

 

 

 

When had he begun to notice every little detail?

 

 

 

 

 

More importantly—why didn’t it bother him?

 

 

 

 

A soft flutter awakened in his chest as Takemichi leaned closer to peer at the stitches that Mitsuya had begun to weave, his shoulder brushing against Mitsuya's own. The warmth of his body sent a thrilling jolt up Mitsuya’s spine. He was used to being the steady one, the reliable anchor in chaotic waters; yet Takemichi seemed to capsize that steady persona with every casual smile he offered, every innocent word that hung in the air between them.

 

“No more distractions,” he murmured to himself, trying to focus his thoughts back on the sewing, but each movement felt mechanical, caught in a whirlpool of thoughts far from the fabric in front of him.

 

Mitsuya finished the last line of stitching and cut the thread with a satisfying snip. “All done.”

 

Takemichi’s eyes lit up, and for a moment, the room sparkled with his enthusiasm. “Seriously? That fast?”

 

“Some of us are just built different,” Mitsuya replied with a teasing smile, but the warmth in his tone tinged with something heartfelt.

 

Still, there was a moment, a pause that hung between them thick as molasses. Mitsuya felt it wrap around them like the warmth of the lamp—gentle yet unyielding.

 

“Thanks for letting me hang out while you work. I didn’t mean to stay this late,” Takemichi said, stretching his arms above his head, his sleepiness juxtaposed against the tangible excitement for what they had just created together.

 

“It’s fine,” Mitsuya replied, his gaze lingering on his hands for just a moment longer. “You’re… easy to have around.”

 

Takemichi looked over, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks that was deliciously infectious. “That’s… probably one of the nicest things anyone’s said to me today.” His smile was shy yet inviting, lighting up the room even more than the lamp could.

 

Mitsuya found himself smiling faintly in return. “You should hear nicer things more often.”

 

Another pause fell over them, softer this time, tinged with quiet uncertainty. Takemichi shifted in his seat again, the weight of something unvoiced hanging in the air.

 

“Hey… Mitsuya?”

 

“Yeah?” Mitsuya turned to meet Takemichi’s gaze, caught in those earnest eyes that seemed to search the depths of his soul.

 

But Takemichi didn’t finish the thought; he simply stared—an unscripted moment stretched out between them as if the world outside had faded away, leaving just the two of them suspended within the cocoon of the quiet night.

 

It wasn’t that Takemichi was hesitant; rather, he held an air of tentative awe, like he was grappling with the essence of what this moment could mean. Finally, he opted for safety and offered a weary smile in place of words.

 

“I’ll clean up my mess,” he said, breaking the enchantment, starting to gather stray threads with the same carefulness he demonstrated with everything he touched.

 

Mitsuya watched him fuss with the thread scraps, a warm chuckle escaping his lips. Funny, how Takemichi could make even the mundane seem filled with purpose.

 

Calloused hands. Careful touches. Silent questions. Here, now, doing something as trivial as cleaning up between them—a whole world of unspoken words, thoughts, and feelings.

 

Mitsuya didn’t have the answers yet, but for the first time in a long while, he was beginning to want to find them, to navigate the labyrinth of the emotions stirring in his heart.

 

“Hey, Takemichi,” Mitsuya called softly, as Takemichi bent over the table, his concentration drawn toward the scraps.

 

“Yeah?” Takemichi glanced up, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

 

“I think… I think I’d like to explore this more. Us.” Mitsuya blurted out, his heart pounding in his chest at the weight of his own words.

 

Takemichi froze momentarily, a look of surprise washing over his features, and in that stillness, Mitsuya felt his breath hitch.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Mitsuya nodded, trying to keep his voice steady as a flurry of hope blossomed in his chest.

 

“I’d like that,” Takemichi replied, an infectious smile breaking out across his face, lighting up the dim room like dawn breaking after a long night.

 

And in that moment of shared certainty, Mitsuya knew that navigating the unknown together might just be the adventure worth having.

Chapter 4: Lip balm[Baji]

It started with the lip balm.

 

Cherry-flavored. Innocent enough at first glance, and yet it took on a life of its own. Baji didn’t think much of it during that lazy afternoon as they lounged around the hideout, the sounds of bustling motorcycles fading into the background. Takemichi reclined against a crate, casual and at ease, unscrewing the tiny cap with the sort of simplicity that was both annoying and charming. He swiped the balm across his lips, slow and thoughtful, as if savoring a treat only he could taste.

 

Baji averted his gaze.

 

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself, pushing the uncomfortable feeling away. It was just a little lip balm. It wasn’t as if it meant anything significant.

 

But then it happened again and again—the constant, almost rhythmic application of cherry-scented balm. Each time Baji caught sight of that familiar tube, the slight twitch in his stomach became more pronounced. Maybe it was just another one of Takemichi’s quirks? He had plenty of them; muttering to himself when deep in thought, tripping over his own feet during a getaway, or leaning a little too close when discussing plans. No big deal.

 

Except this time, Baji found himself caught off guard when his eyes met Takemichi's. It was a brief glance, but one that left an imprint in Baji’s mind. Takemichi’s lips parted slightly, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he bit down on his lower lip—something about that benign gesture made Baji’s heart skip a beat.

 

“H-what?” Baji snapped, the sudden heat rushing to his cheeks making him feel vulnerable.

 

“Nothing,” Takemichi said, blinking innocently. Yet the smirk that followed was anything but innocent. It was a dangerous, almost teasing smile that pierced through Baji like a dart.

 

Baji quickly turned away, irritation and confusion swirling in his chest. Whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with him. It was just lip balm, he tried to convince himself, but the sweet scent lingered in the air long after Takemichi had turned his attention elsewhere.

 

After that fleeting encounter, things began to spiral. Takemichi leaned closer during their conversations, his breath warming the air and swirling around Baji like a sugary haze. “What do you think of this plan, Baji?” he would say, eyes sparkling playfully as his lips hovered dangerously close to Baji’s ear, taunting and testing. And every time Baji's heart would race, defiance mingling with an undeniable rush of excitement.

 

“This is stupid,” Baji grumbled to himself. He tried to ignore how Takemichi’s playful demeanor set his skin alight or how the curve of his mouth when he smiled could make Baji dizzy.

 

One night, after everyone had dispersed, the weight of his thoughts became too much to bear. Baji finally cracked. He found Takemichi sitting on a stool, the dim light of the hideout casting a warm glow around him.

 

“Alright,” Baji said, trying to keep his voice steady as he crossed his arms defensively. “What’s your deal?”

 

Takemichi looked up, surprise flickering across his face. “Huh?”

 

“You know what I mean.” Baji took a step closer, narrowing his eyes. “The smirks, the leaning in, the—” He gestured vaguely, frustration and confusion mixed together, “cherry.”

 

Takemichi’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Ohhh, that.” His tone drew out the word, as if he delighted in Baji’s annoyance.

 

“Don’t mess with me,” Baji warned, his tone low, edged with something that felt like vulnerability.

 

But Takemichi only smiled wider, stepping a fraction closer. The sweet cherry scent enveloped Baji, maddeningly intoxicating.

 

 

 

 

“Maybe I’m just sweet,” he murmured, his voice soft and teasing.

 

 

 

 

 

Baji blinked, his heart stuttering. “What?”

 

But before he could decipher that explosive revelation, Takemichi casually brushed past him. A cool breeze followed in his wake, leaving Baji standing there—lost, furious, and ridiculously aware of the way Takemichi had effortlessly slipped past his defenses.

 

That night, Baji tossed and turned in bed, the blanket kicked off as he buried his face in the pillow. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Takemichi’s smirk invaded his thoughts. “Shit,” he groaned. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

 

He avoided Takemichi for two full days. The retreat felt pathetic, yet powerful. He faced rival gangs without breaking a sweat, but the thought of that playful grin tied his stomach in knots.

 

Two days later, they crossed paths again in Draken’s garage. Baji leaned against the wall, attempting to project nonchalance as if he hadn’t spent sleepless nights dwelling over every interaction.

 

“Yo,” Takemichi greeted, casually digging into his pocket. “Haven’t seen you in a bit.” His eyes glimmered, and Baji noticed how the light bounced off the cherry balm he pulled out.

 

“Been busy,” Baji grunted, fighting to keep his own defiance intact.

 

With deliberate slowness, Takemichi unscrewed the cap, the familiar aroma wafting toward him like a siren’s call. “You want some?” he asked innocently, holding it out as if it were a mere stick of gum.

 

“Do I look like I wear lip balm?” Baji shot back, frustration flaring in his chest.

 

“You could pull it off,” Takemichi replied casually. “Maybe strawberry, though.”

 

Baji stared incredulously. “What the hell does that mean?”

 

Takemichi’s grin widened, and he brought the tube to his lips, applying the balm in an impossibly slow and deliberate motion. Baji's heart raced; the sweet scent was overwhelming. He looked away, embarrassment crawling up his neck. “Stop doing that.”

 

“Doing what?” Takemichi feigned innocence.

 

“You know what!” Baji could feel the heat radiating off his face.

 

“Baji, you’re really worked up over some chapstick,” Takemichi said, tilting his head slightly, lips glistening.

 

“Because you’re weird about it!”

 

“You’re the one staring,” Takemichi countered, stepping closer, his voice softening.

 

“Shut up,” Baji muttered, unable to conceal the surprise in his tone.

 

Yet as he looked into Takemichi’s eyes, he didn’t see malice. It was an unspoken challenge, a daring invitation to bridge the gap between their playful rivalry and something deeper.

 

“What do you think?” Baji asked, voice lower than intended. The question felt dangerous, vulnerable, but he needed to know.

 

Takemichi paused, studying Baji with an open expression. “Not always,” he admitted honestly. “But… sometimes.”

 

Baji’s heart raced, and for once in his life, nothing felt certain. “Yeah? Then what does that make you?”

 

The air shifted, and Baji was barely aware of the way Takemichi leaned back, shrugging as if it were no big deal. But that glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

 

 

 

 

 

“Maybe I’m your type.”

 

 

 

 

 

With that, he turned and strolled out of the garage, leaving Baji standing there—frozen and bewildered, a storm of emotions swirling inside him.

 

“What have I gotten myself into?” Baji whispered to himself, feeling both furious and electric with a thrill he had never anticipated.

 

He was emotionally doomed. And yet, the weight of something significant hung in the air, promising that their break from the ordinary might just be the shift he never knew he needed.

Chapter 5: His voice[Mikey]

Mikey couldn’t sleep again.

 

But this time, it wasn’t the usual kind of restless. It wasn’t the ghosts or the heaviness or the memories crawling up his spine like ivy.

 

 

 

It was him.

 

 

 

The memory of Takemichi’s voice had embedded itself somewhere beneath his ribs, whisper-soft and stubborn. It played on loop—his name in that low, fond tone, like it meant something. Like he meant something.

 

 

 

And Mikey hated it.

 

 

 

He hated how badly he wanted to hear it again.

 

 

 

So he got up.

 

Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t tell anyone. Just slipped on his hoodie, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked. The streets were mostly empty at that hour—just headlights illuminating the pavement, vending machines humming quietly, the occasional buzz of a streetlamp flickering above.

 

As he walked, Mikey wrestled with thoughts that came and went like the shadows cast by the streetlights. What am I even doing here? Was it really such a good idea to show up at Takemichi’s house unannounced? Would he even want to see Mikey after everything?

 

He almost turned around, almost allowed his resolve to crumble into the night. But then, a soft light flickered from Takemichi’s apartment window—dim and golden, spilling warmth like a beacon.

 

 

Still awake.

 

 

Mikey climbed the stairs two at a time, his heart racing, a flurry of emotion igniting every nerve ending. He hesitated at Takemichi's door, his hand poised inches from the surface—but he didn’t knock at first. He stood there, feelings swirling chaotically in his mind.

 

What on earth am I going to say?

 

“Hey, your voice won’t leave me alone”?

 

“Say my name again”?

 

“Make it stop”?

 

 

 

Before he could chicken out completely, the door creaked open.

 

 

 

“Mikey…?”

 

Takemichi stood there, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a worn-out T-shirt draping his figure, blinking at Mikey as though he were a deer caught in headlights, the sleep still clinging to his features.

 

 

His voice.

 

 

Soft. Tired. Familiar.

 

 

Mikey felt his heart leap in response. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a second, then muttered, “Can I come in?”

 

Takemichi stepped aside immediately, weariness momentarily forgotten.

 

Inside, it was warm. Quiet. Lived-in.

 

Mikey sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, eyes glued to the floor like it held all the answers.

 

 

Why am I here?

 

 

Takemichi didn’t ask questions. He simply sat beside him, an anchor of calm, waiting patiently.

 

“…I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mikey said finally, his voice barely breaking the stillness.

 

“You didn’t.”

 

Silence enveloped them, thick and pregnant with implication, each second echoing louder than the last.

 

And then, so gently Mikey almost missed it—“You okay?”

 

That voice again. That softness that felt so real, not forced or influenced by circumstance.

 

Something in Mikey cracked, like a fragile glass on the verge of shattering. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his throat constricting under the weight of something unsaid, overwhelming. “I just—” He stopped. Breathe. “I remembered how you said my name. That day.”

 

Takemichi blinked, his brow knitting together in concern. “Mikey, I—”

 

“I didn’t want to forget it,” Mikey is barely audible. “I didn’t want it to go away.”

 

Takemichi didn’t speak for a second. The air between them shifted into something tangible, a silent understanding ensnaring them.

 

Then—quietly, almost reverently—he reached over and placed a hand over Mikey’s.

 

“You’re not going to forget it.”

 

Mikey’s chest ached like something heavy has settled there, an inexplicable longing that tethered him to Takemichi’s words. It felt impossible, this connection that seemed to bound them, yet hold an equality they had both never felt before.

 

“…Say it again,” Mikey pleaded, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

 

Takemichi’s eyes softened further, deepening into pools of sincerity. “Mikey.”

 

There it was again.

 

Mikey closed his eyes, surrendering to the sound, letting it wrap around him like a warm blanket. All the noise in his head settled into a profound silence, a moment made entirely of that single syllable spoken just for him.

 

He didn’t say anything after that. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, resting his head against Takemichi’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

And Takemichi didn’t pull away, not once. He simply allowed Mikey to lean into him, offering strength without asking for anything in return.

 

That night, for the first time in what felt like years, Mikey fell asleep to someone’s voice—not in his head, not a memory.

 

 

But here. Alive. Warm.

 

 

 

Morning Light

 

Mikey woke to the soft smell of freshly made eggs and sunlight warming his face.

 

For a second, he couldn’t quite grasp where he was or how he had gotten there.

 

Then he felt the weight of a blanket laying over him—he hadn’t pulled it over himself. The pillow under his head smelled faintly of Takemichi—clean and a little like citrus. The world was still, the quiet greeting the dawn like a gentle lover.

 

He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings as his own heart beat, each pulse a muffled echo in the serene morning.

 

Takemichi was in the kitchen, barefoot, hair messy and tousled like he had just rolled out of bed, humming something tuneless under his breath. He didn’t see Mikey right away, busy fumbling with instant miso and toast, the sound of his movements breaking through the silence in a way that felt oddly comforting.

 

Mikey watched him from the couch, arms resting loosely over his knees, letting the moment stretch.

 

 

 

It felt… unreal.

 

 

 

Like a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet.

 

Eventually, Takemichi turned, startled to see Mikey awake. “Oh! Morning. I, uh—wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”

 

Mikey shrugged, trying to hide the rush of embarrassment coursing through him. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

 

Something flickered across Takemichi’s face—was it surprise? No, it was something softer, something that made Mikey’s heart swell.

 

“I made too much,” he said, motioning to the counter filled with steaming bowls. “If you’re hungry.”

 

Mikey stood and padded over without a word, the familiarity of the moment pulling at the edges of his emotions. They ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just new.

 

And Mikey kept noticing it—the way Takemichi didn’t push, didn’t pry. He simply was—steady and familiar. Letting Mikey exist in this strange space between feeling worn-out and weightless.

 

But what got to him most was the way Takemichi said “Mikey” again.

 

Just once. Casually. In the middle of offering him more tea. But it still hit like an echo from the night before—low, gentle, and only for him.

 

Mikey looked away, heart heavy and full at the same time.

 

“You always talk like that?” he asked suddenly, his voice quiet.

 

Takemichi tilted his head, looking genuinely curious. “Like what?”

 

“Soft. Like I’m glass.”

 

Takemichi set down his cup, a crease forming between his brows as he pondered the question.

 

“No,” he said honestly, “Just with you, I think.”

 

Mikey didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not really.

 

Because that meant something, didn’t it?

 

 

 

Didn’t it?

 

 

 

Afternoon Reflections

 

That afternoon, Mikey walked home slowly, hoodie pulled over his head, hands deep in his pockets. The sun hung high in the sky, bathing the world in hues of gold.

 

He didn’t tell anyone where he’d been.

 

But then someone called his name—too sharp, too loud—and he flinched.

 

It wasn’t the same.

 

It wasn’t Takemichi’s voice.

 

Because Takemichi’s voice was still in his head, warm and quiet, saying his name the way no one else ever had.

 

It hung in the air, lyrical and lingering, as Mikey walked on. He could still feel the warmth of Takemichi’s shoulder beneath his head, the wrapping safety of that moment in the dark and everything they had shared.

 

For the first time in a long time, Mikey wasn’t sure if he was afraid of breaking…

 

Or of being held together.

 

The path home felt longer, each step heavy with the weight of realization. Mikey couldn’t shake off the feeling of vulnerability, the fear of letting someone else in and what that might mean.

 

“Hey! Mikey!” another voice called out, sharper this time, and Mikey flinched again, instinctively pulling his hood tighter, the sound like shards of glass cutting the air.

 

But it was just his friends. Just Baji, with that spirited energy as always, his endless curiosity leading him to follow Mikey down the street.

 

“Where were you last night, man?” Baji asked, falling in step beside him. “You missed the whole thing.”

 

Did I?

 

Mikey didn’t just nod; he shrugged. “Oh, you know. Just went for a walk.”

 

“You must’ve really been lost, then.” Baji grinned, trying to pry more out of Mikey, but Mikey felt warmth flood his cheeks, memories of last night crashing into him like tidal waves against rocky shores.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, trying to keep his tone casual, “I guess I was.”

 

The words hung in the air, a hesitant admission that didn’t quite capture the complexity of what he felt—a sense of yearning, of a bond that extended beyond anyone he had ever known before.

 

He had been lost, hadn’t he? Lost in thoughts of Takemichi, their connection seeping into his bones like an incomplete song.

 

“Are you okay?” Baji suddenly asked, his tone more serious. “You seem kinda out of it.”

 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Mikey paused, trying to search for the right words. “Just… a lot on my mind.”

 

The truth was that it was everything. His mind swirled with images and emotions; all he could think about was the warmth of Takemichi’s voice, the way it wrapped around him and made the world feel lighter, somehow.

 

But would anyone understand that? Would they see it as anything more than a fleeting moment? Or would they think he was just losing his grip on reality?

 

“Well, if you ever want to talk, you know I’m here for you,” Baji said, his sincerity unmistakable.

 

Mikey shrugged again, a smile breaking through the weight pressing on him. “Yeah. Thanks,” he replied.

 

“Whatever it is, you’re not alone, man.”

 

“Right.”

 

They both fell silent as they continued to walk, the city painting its usual picture around them. But inside him, something shifted. It was like glancing through a cracked lens—he could see the colors, bright and vivid, yet hazy and out of focus all at the same time.

 

For night was approaching again, and with it, the echo of a name still resting upon his heart.

 

 

 

End of the Day

 

The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky turning into a beautiful gradient of pink and purple as Mikey found himself standing outside the familiar brick building.

 

His heart raced with anticipation as he recalled the night previous, how comfort had wrapped around him like a gauzy layer of tranquility beneath Takemichi’s tone.

 

This time, though, as he reached the door, he hesitated only briefly before knocking. He could feel it—a desire burning deeper within him, a closeness he wasn’t willing to let go of without a fight.

 

The door creaked open almost instantly, and there stood Takemichi again, that same easygoing expression melting into surprise and delight when he saw Mikey.

 

“Mikey!” he greeted, the name spilling from his lips like a melody.

 

Mikey couldn’t help but let a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, somehow lighter upon hearing it again.

 

“Hey.”

 

The moment stretched, and for an instant, they both seemed to exist in a world uniquely their own.

 

“Did you just come here to stand awkwardly at the door?” Takemichi joked, breaking the silence, his smile glowing with an infectious energy.

 

Mikey chuckled as he stepped inside. “No, I just—”

 

And the words fled him again, as they always did, wrapped up in the feelings he couldn’t quite articulate but didn’t want to let go of either.

 

But it was easy like this, with him.

 

“Want to hang out?” Takemichi suggested, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I have some snacks left over from last night.”

 

And just like that, as he led Mikey further into the living room, the distance that had felt so cavernous before now seemed to fade into something welcomed.

 

Yes. He wanted this.

 

He wanted the space between them to close.

 

As they settled together, surrounded by laughter and warmth, Mikey recognized that while the world outside was chaotic and unpredictable, this small corner of it—this moment with Takemichi—felt like home.

 

And that was enough.

 

Now, Mikey wasn’t just fearful of being held together. He was beginning to understand the beauty that could exist in that very experience.

 

Maybe this was what it meant to belong. To have someone, to allow himself to be seen and heard in ways that transformed shadows into colors.

 

“Mikey?” Takemichi’s voice broke through, gentle—not too loud, just right.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks for coming over.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

And as they began to talk, it didn’t matter that the night was still long. It didn’t matter if the edges were rough or the shadows loomed large.

 

Because for the first time, Mikey felt the promise of connection surrounding him like warmth, sheltering him from the uncertainties that blurred the edges of the world outside.

Chapter 6: Hair ties and chaos[Hakkai & Inupi]

Notes:

I have a feeling the timeline of this might be a little confusing, but let's just say it's Bad Toman with them.

They don’t notice it at first.

 

It begins in the dimly lit back room of their headquarters, where the shadows loom like specters of their past. The air is thick with the remnants of previous battles—an assortment of bruises, broken promises, and whispers of loss hangs in the atmosphere. It’s during one of these somber strategy meetings, amid the scattered maps and fierce debates, that Takemichi displays the first of his strange rituals.

 

He’s hugging the wall, seated at a rickety table cluttered with snacks that he’s salvaged from somewhere nobody remembers. A half-eaten bag of chips lies sprawled next to a bowl of pretzels while an assortment of candy bars sits in the center, all pick-me-ups nobody remembers claiming ownership of. The living embodiment of chaos and comfort, Takemichi rummages through his pockets absentmindedly, searching for something, anything to distract himself from the gravity of their discussions.

 

“Now, if we move our territory up to here,” Draken gestures toward a poorly drawn sketch of a neighborhood on the map, fingers tracing the thick lines, “we can cut off their supply routes.”

 

Amid the fervor of opinion, Takemichi slips a hair tie off his wrist and approaches Hakkai, his head bent low in thought. With a sudden swift motion, he loops the band into Hakkai’s hair, styling it deftly into a loose ponytail. “There,” he states casually, like he’s summarizing his thoughts rather than making a bold move between them.

 

Hakkai freezes, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and confusion. “What—?” he starts to say, but the words evaporate as he processes the action, his fingers instinctively reaching up to feel the foreign touch atop his head.

 

Takemichi isn’t waiting for validation. He returns to the meeting, continuing to discuss strategy as if this was a regular occurrence—a simple addition to their protocol of protection. They remain oblivious, too wrapped up in charts and potential skirmishes to recognize the shift in atmosphere.

 

A ripple of reactions follows in the days to come. Takemichi does it again—at their next meeting, as the group gathers around, debating logistics and allegiances. He approaches Inupi this time. Inupi stands tall, basking in the afterglow of a fresh victory, but Takemichi spots the weariness etched on his face. With a quiet solemnity, he reaches for Inupi’s unruly bangs, tucking them away with a nimble hand and binding them with another hair tie.

 

Inupi stares, while the others keep talking, words flowing around them like water. “Can’t see blood if your hair’s in your face,” Takemichi murmurs, avoiding eye contact. The moment feels heavy despite its ordinariness.

 

Once again, there’s no response that follows; no gratitude or bewilderment, only silence that is both a respite and a comfort. Inupi’s fingers touch the hair tie—black, sleek, and easily forgotten. But to him, it feels weighty, grounding. He doesn’t pull it out, doesn’t shake it loose as soon as he leaves the meeting. Instead, he keeps it.

 

In the ensuing days, Takemichi has a knack for slipping these hair ties to others, almost as if he’s reclaiming pieces of them along this chaotic journey. He offers a navy tie to Hakkai one evening, who finds himself staring down at trembling hands after a brutal confrontation—the memory of pain still clawing at the edges of his mind. Takemichi doesn’t need to say anything; he simply places the tie in Hakkai’s palm and nods. Hakkai ties back his hair, feeling an odd sense of calm wash over him.

 

It’s not until a few weeks later that Inupi and Hakkai can finally call attention to it. They sit together beneath the skeletal branches of a nearby tree, the night air sharp and cool, offering promises of a world that could be if only they could stitch together their jagged pieces.

 

Inupi absentmindedly twists the hair tie around his wrist, feeling the material stretch as if it’s last year’s memory of battle. “Do you ever wonder if Takemichi knows what he’s doing?” he asks quietly, glancing sideways at Hakkai.

 

Hakkai shrugs, but a small smile breaks upon his lips. “The guy’s got his own challenges,” he replies softly. “But maybe he knows. Maybe that’s the point.”

 

It’s a bittersweet realization, settling like dust around them. They sit in silence, absorbing the nuances between their past struggles and their present vulnerabilities. The stars above twinkle like fractured glass, illuminating their shared thoughts but also their unshared fears.

 

Spring turns into summer, and with it comes a series of decisive battles. Each confrontation marks deeper scars on their hearts, yet Takemichi remains a steady presence. He notices when the air becomes too thick with tension or when a teammate’s laughter seems forced. More often than not, this gentle bear of a man seeks out the ones who are faltering, offering his capable hands as solace.

 

After a particularly devastating showdown, Takemichi crouches down beside Inupi, who is trying to wipe the blood that runs down his chin with his sleeve, shaking hands betraying the lingering effects of adrenaline.

 

“Hold still,” Takemichi instructs gently, brushing Inupi’s bangs back and securing them with a loose knot. Inupi gapes at him, confusion dancing across tired eyes.

 

“It’s just—” Inupi begins but falters, overwhelmed by the gesture. It’s simple; trivial, some would say. But the warmth behind such an act lingers in the corners of his heart.

 

“Just so you can see,” Takemichi replies, his tone sincere yet light, as he straightens up and disappears into the chaos of their comrades reassessing their strategy. Inupi finds he cannot loosen the tie—it feels more like an anchor.

 

Weeks turn into months, and the fabric of their makeshift family begins to weave tighter with shared experiences, but they still don’t say anything about the hair ties that Takemichi has distributed like lifelines. Takemichi’s collection grows sparse, the hair ties transformed into talismans of care.

 

In a moment of stillness, Hakkai finds himself standing in front of the mirror, his hands working to secure whatever loose strands are visible. He studies the hair tie—one of Takemichi’s, fraying at the edges but strong around his wrist, a remnant of battles won and lost.

 

Admiring the sheer simplicity of it, he turns to Inupi, who’s watching quietly from the doorway. The two exchange knowing looks—the kind that no words could ever capture.

 

“Maybe we should thank him,” Inupi suggests, breaking the silence that had seeped into the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked him properly. Not for this.” He gestures to his own hair tie.

 

Hakkai’s lips pull back into a fond smile. “Would that even do him justice?” he replies, the warmth of their bond enveloping them both.

 

They decide that words aren’t enough. Takemichi never asks for anything in return—never expects appreciation or acknowledgment. But that’s what makes this act more poignant. It’s an offering, both silent and deafening.

 

One night, they gather around a fire after a lengthy day of strategizing and training. The camaraderie glimmers warmly in the faces of warriors seasoned by blood and oath. They sit together, swapping stories as laughter drifts into the night, bittersweet yet riveting.

 

Suddenly, the topic of Takemichi comes up, led by Mikey’s almost-shy mention of his friend’s unwavering spirit. “He can be such a dumbass,” Mikey chortles, “But I swear, that idiot knows what he’s doing, sometimes better than any of us.”

 

Hakkai and Inupi exchange glances. “Have you noticed how he ties back our hair after a fight?” Inupi challenges, his voice rising just enough to capture everyone’s attention.

 

“Oh, that,” Draken chuckles. “It’s like his special move or something.”

 

“But it’s not just that,” Hakkai interjects, his tone earnest. “It’s the way he does it. It’s like—he’s stitching us back together with these little gestures. We’re all falling apart, and somehow, it feels like he’s holding us steady. It’s a kind of magic.”

 

Inupi nods, his heart swelling with gratitude. “Right? I don’t even know why I keep it. It shouldn’t matter so much, but it does.”

 

Draken raises an eyebrow, amused at this newfound form of realization illuminating their group.

 

“Have you ever thought about how just lending that piece of him to us changes everything?” Inupi continues, shifting in his seat as he speaks. “It’s a small thing, but it’s like he’s telling us we’re worth it.”

 

In the glow of the fire, the air buzzes. They talk animatedly about Takemichi and each hair tie he has gifted—each one carrying a part of him that has entwined itself with their hearts. It feels like unveiling an unseen tapestry woven between their souls, strengthened by the kindness of a world that typically rewards brutality.

 

“Hey, you think we should do something for him, then?” Hakkai suggests suddenly, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

 

“What do you mean?” Inupi asks, curious.

 

“Why don’t we surprise him? Show him we appreciate the little things he’s done,” Hakkai proposes, his mind racing. “A little gesture—like picking out a hair tie for him.”

 

Inupi raises an eyebrow, thoughtfully tracing the ethical boundaries of their plan. “Do you think he’d like that?”

 

“Screw it! Even if he doesn’t, we’ll plant the idea that he deserves appreciation,” Hakkai grins wickedly, his spirit suddenly charged with a sense of purpose.

 

They scheme late into the night, plotting every detail of their plan like a battle strategy. It feels both silly and necessary—the mirth of a world built on broken futures, transcending into an act of kindness.

 

Days pass, and finally, the time comes to unveil their surprise. One day after training, when Takemichi’s exhausted limbs are slumped on the sidelines, they gather around him, cloaked in conspiratorial silence.

 

“Hey, Takemichi,” Hakkai calls, stepping forward with a small pouch. “We’ve got something for you.”

 

Takemichi blinks, surprised, rubbing his eyes and taking in the scene before him. Hakkai holds out the pouch—intricately tied, the colors a whirlpool of shades. “Open it,” he encourages gently.

 

Takemichi reaches for it slowly, brow furrowing in confusion. “For me? What is it?”

 

“Just… just open it,” Inupi urges, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leans closer.

 

Takemichi unties the drawstring and opens the pouch, revealing an array of vibrant hair ties, each one a unique shade and texture. His eyes widen, darting between Hakkai and Inupi, utterly bewildered.

 

“I know you usually only have the darker colors,” Hakkai explains softly. “But you’ve always given us a piece of yourself, and we want to do the same for you.”

 

Takemichi stares at the small offering, heart swelling at the sight, overwhelmed by the kindness sitting in his palms. The moment crystallizes in high definition—laughter and warmth filling the crevices of his heart, a stark contrast to the shadows that loomed in their everyday lives.

 

With a small, shy smile taking over his face, Takemichi's quiet confidence surges. “You guys…” he trails off, emotion thick in his throat. “This means so much to me.”

 

“Now you can play with your hair any way you like,” Inupi quips, grinning, attempting to break the tension that has built up around them.

 

Takemichi chuckles, his laughter bright and infectious, a sound that fills the air like a balm. He holds each hair tie up like a badge of honor, a visual recognition of their bond. “I’ll wear them all!” he declares playfully, determination shining in his eyes.

 

The evenings revert to their gentle laughter as they sit around the fire, woven into an anchor of warmth and understanding. Within that shared moment, Takemichi extends a sense of hope, offering parts of himself in the absence of grand gestures.

 

Yet, they all recognize that it is, after all, the smallest threads—the fraying hair ties—that construct the most vital fabric of their collective journey. In a world built on scars and broken futures, Takemichi’s kindness asserts an undeniable truth: that love, however small, can stitch them all back together. One quiet, fraying tie at a time.

Chapter 7: Control Freak[Izana]

Notes:

Another confusing timeline, this is a tenjiku Takemichi AU! This is pre-tenjiku arc...ish.

Izana doesn’t lose control. Not over his surroundings. Not over people. Not over anything.

 

He’s built a life around it, a meticulously crafted facade that keeps chaos at bay, allowing him to wield influence in a world that teeters on the edge of unpredictability. He’s the one with the commanding presence, the one whose every gesture inspires loyalty, respect, even fear. His charm is razor-edged, cutting through the weak, the easily intimidated, and bending them to his will. He’s the one who watches others crack, like ice beneath too much weight, relishing their recoil beneath his stare. In any room, he’s the boss; the puppeteer has all the strings, and he pulls them with practiced ease.

 

 

 

But everything shifts with Takemichi.

 

 

 

It happens one chaotic night during a routine meeting—nothing is ever truly ‘routine’ for them, but the tension is thick, crackling in the air like static electricity. Kakucho’s voice drones on about logistics, detailing how they’ll maneuver through the ever-shifting landscape of rival gang territories and police scrutiny. Izana leans back in his chair, his gaze flicking around the room casually until it lands on Takemichi.

 

There he is, leaning forward on the table, all youthful enthusiasm and raw energy. He’s messy, sure—his unruly hair, the way his informal attire clashes with the serious business attire of everyone else in the room—but there’s a recklessness in his confidence that piques Izana’s interest. It’s provoking and exhilarating, like watching a flame dance closer to the edge of a pile of flammable material.

 

Their eyes lock, starkly contrasting in intensity. Izana can feel his heart pick up its pace, fingers itching for control over a situation that seems to have spiraled slightly beyond reach. Takemichi doesn’t look away; he holds that gaze as if challenging the very essence of Izana’s command.

 

And just like that, something deep inside Izana stirs.

 

“I hope you’re not planning to stare me down all night,” Takemichi suddenly cuts through the stagnant air, his voice low yet firm, tinged with a playful edge. “If you’re going to do that, you should at least buy me dinner first.”

 

The playfulness of it ignites an irritation within Izana—but even more, a thrill. The room falls deathly silent as Takemichi’s words hang in the air, thick and heavy. Izana blinks, momentarily taken aback, surprise washing over him. Nobody speaks to him like that; nobody dares.

 

“Is that so?” Izana asks, raising an eyebrow, masking the rush of heat under his skin. The chuckle that escapes his lips is deliberate, but it has an edge—a hint of danger. “You have a lot of nerve, don’t you?”

 

“It’s just dinner,” Takemichi shrugs nonchalantly, his expression defiant. The confidence radiating off him is almost palpable, a stark contrast to the traditional submission he’s used to receiving.

 

Izana grins—sharp, calculating. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

 

The atmosphere shifts dramatically, the tension crackling back to life. Takemichi, for all his bravado and charm, is just a loose cannon in a world that demands control. Izana’s curiosity grows like a gathering storm, drawing him in deeper, grazing the raw edge of something dangerous and exhilarating.

 

Later, when the meeting breaks up and the business-minded clatter of the room fades into a dull echo in Izana’s ears, he watches as Takemichi walks past him. Their shoulders almost brush—a touch so fleeting, yet weighty. It’s not a mistake; it’s too calculated, too deliberate. Takemichi is aware of where he stands, of the challenge he poses. There’s no hesitation in his steps as he strides down the hallway, leaving Izana with an unfamiliar mix of intrigue and hunger gnawing at his insides.

 

Instead of chasing after him, confronting him, Izana remains rooted to the spot. For the first time, he feels the sharp edges of his carefully maintained control fray like tattered threads. It frustrates him; there’s no other word for it.

 

The next day, Izana can’t shake off the previous night’s exchange. He brushes his fingers through his hair, shaking off a sense of uncertainty that harks back to unfamiliar territory. He doesn’t dwell on it, though the sense of challenge lingers tantalizingly in his mind. As the day unfolds, an idea forms, compelling him into action.

 

Instead of holding a grudge or brushing off the implications of Takemichi’s irreverence, Izana decides to play along. He shows up at their next encounter, armed with takeout from that small deli around the corner known for its hearty ramen and gyoza—a place he remembers that Takemichi mentioned offhandedly during another meeting.

 

He slides the bag across the table with an almost casual ease, watching Takemichi’s reaction with measured intent.

 

“Dinner,” Izana announces, voice smooth as silk, masking the mix of emotions stirring beneath the surface. “You can thank me later.”

 

The glimmer in Takemichi’s eyes is immediate, a wide grin splitting his face, and Izana feels a flutter of something akin to satisfaction—perhaps even triumph. “How generous,” Takemichi replies, that hint of mischief dancing around him like an aura. “Maybe you’ll get a thank you after I finish the food.”

 

The pulse that drums in Izana’s veins is intense now; it pours adrenaline and anticipation through him, while at the same time a sliver of annoyance flickers. This isn’t like him. He thrives on control, after all. With Takemichi, the delicate balance is tipping, and for the first time in a long while, he questions who truly is in control of this escalating game.

 

“How do you even know it’s my favorite?” Takemichi challenges, leaning back with the bag nestled in his lap and looking as if he just won an argument, playing it like an old hand.

 

A hint of laughter escapes Izana. “Let’s just say I have my ways,” he replies, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. The atmosphere shifts, tinged with something electric, laden with the truth of unspoken words.

 

“Right. You definitely have your ways.” Takemichi rolls his eyes, though his tone is playful, teasingly dismissive. He reaches into the bag, and as he pulls out a steaming bowl of ramen, he pauses, glancing up at Izana with a knowing smirk. “So, what’s the catch? You don’t usually do nice things without wanting something in return.”

 

Izana leans forward, intrigued by Takemichi’s tenacity. “You assume too much. Maybe I just find joy in feeding the gullible,” he muses, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

 

“Gullible?” Takemichi gasps, clutching his heart dramatically. “I am not gullible! I am merely a seeker of truth, a fighter for what’s right!”

 

Izana can’t help the chuckle that slips past his lips, the humor lacing Takemichi’s words captivating him further. “A fighter, huh? What have you fought for recently?”

 

“Fighting for my life daily, with you around,” Takemichi quips, before his expression quells, growing serious. “No, really. If I want to be here, I have to stand my ground. You don’t get ahead without a fight in this world.”

 

The room shifts, the mood darkening slightly. Izana reads the undertones in Takemichi’s voice, the edge to his passion. His eyes narrow, intrigued, drawn in by the layers he senses beneath the surface. “You certainly do. I have seen where your spirit leads you, Takemichi.”

 

“Is that so?” Takemichi retorts, his brow furrowing in concentration.

 

“I see you. You stand in the face of danger while the rest of us burrow behind our walls.” Izana studies him unblinkingly, gauging his reaction, the heat rising around them both palpable. “It’s… fascinating.”

 

Takemichi’s expression softens slightly—no longer challenging but contemplative, as if trying to assess the man across from him. “I suppose that’s one way to put it,” he admits slowly, allowing the moment to linger between them. “But it’s not about fascination…it’s about making a difference.”

 

Izana isn’t sure what to make of this newfound honesty, but a surge of unexpected admiration floods through him. “You talk about making a difference,” he muses, voice low, “but don’t you fear the repercussions?”

 

“Every day.” Takemichi’s voice is quiet, steel-hard yet gentle. “But the fear doesn’t stop me. If anything, it pushes me harder.” He sets his ramen down, his gaze steady. “You should try it sometime. It’s liberating.”

 

“I prefer to keep my fears in check,” Izana responds, a light smirk gracing his lips, though the words sit heavily between them.

 

Takemichi shrugs, seemingly unfazed. “Sometimes you just have to let go.”

 

Izana arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “Letting go? Sounds reckless.”

 

“Reckless, maybe, but what’s life if you’re not living on the edge?” Takemichi retorts, a mischievous smile dancing across his lips. For a moment, he feels as though he’s seen through the polished veneer of Izana’s control, into the tumult of thoughts swirling beneath the surface.

 

“Are you really advocating for chaos?” Izana probes, feeling the air shift again, the exhilarating tension urging him to come closer, let himself fall into the heat of the moment.

 

“Just… the unexpected.” Takemichi glances down at his food, focusing on the steaming broth before him but with a spark in his eyes that makes Izana’s stomach twist with both discomfort and excitement. “Life’s too short to be entirely predictable.”

 

“You’re dangerously close to sounding philosophical,” Izana remarks, leaning back with a remain interest. “What would others say about your philosophy on life, hmm?”

 

“They’d probably say I’m insane,” Takemichi shoots back with an easy laugh, shaking his head. “But if insanity is what it takes to make a change, I’m willing to live with it.”

 

Izana watches him, the sincerity in Takemichi’s words bubbling beneath the surface of their playful banter, painting a vivid picture of not just what drives him, but who he is at his core. Izana wades through the unpredictable waters of Takemichi’s spirit, feeling an inexplicable pull toward understanding the chaos and unpredictability that he embodies.

 

Days turn into weeks, and the thrill of their encounters begins to shape their dynamic. Casual banter gives way to something more—a deeper exploration of motives and desires simmering beneath the surface as they navigate the dangerous landscape of their world. Night after night, after meetings peppered with tensions, Takemichi’s reckless confidence breathes life into Izana’s otherwise meticulously sealed existence.

 

And all the while, Izana basks in the revelations—every laugh, every soft challenge, every stolen moment that seems to tear down the walls he’s built around himself. Takemichi becomes an enigma he can’t quite solve, a puzzle he finds himself drawn to piece together, even knowing that some pieces may cut him in the process.

 

One night, they find themselves on the rooftop of an old, abandoned warehouse, the cityscape a sprawling expanse beneath them, glittering with lights. The air is buoyant and crisp, filled with possibility. Izana glances at Takemichi, who stands at the edge, arms spread wide like he’s ready to take flight.

 

“This is wild!” Takemichi exclaims, laughter spilling from his lips, unfazed by the dizzying heights around him. Izana allows a small smile to emerge, his defenses momentarily lowered in the wake of Takemichi’s exuberance.

 

“Careful,” Izana warns, making his way closer, his protective instincts instinctively flaring like a guiding compass. “You might fly too close to the sun.”

 

“Or I might just learn how to soar!” Takemichi replies, face alight with hopes and dreams. “You should join me, Izana. Embrace the risk!”

 

Izana considers the leap before him—not just in terms of the physicality of the ledge, but the emotional chasm that looks eager to swallow him whole if he lets it. “You really are foolish.”

 

“Foolish?” Takemichi turns to him, eyes wide with incredulity. “Or brave?”

 

The challenge hangs in the air, electrifying the distance between them. Their gazes lock again, and in a surreal moment, Izana finds himself teetering on the edge, both literally and metaphorically.

 

“Why do you make this so easy?” Izana asks, genuine curiosity edging his tone. “How do you weave through the chaos without letting it consume you?”

 

Takemichi’s expression softens, sincerity brimming in his eyes. “Maybe because I learned early on that we’re all fighting our own battles. The key is to find the courage to keep fighting, no matter the odds stacked against you.”

 

Izana feels the last of his walls begin to crumble at the honesty flooding the night air. Takemichi’s words carve a path through the maze of control he’s nurtured for so long.

 

“Tell me, then,” Izana challenges, a smirk pulling at his lips, “what would you fight for?”

 

“Everything.” Takemichi stares straight at him, determination fire sparking in his gaze. “I’d fight for my friends, for what’s right. And honestly, I’d fight for any moment where someone like you can let go of that control you cling to.”

 

The boldness of his statement sends a rush of heat cascading through Izana, emotions swirling like a tempest within him. “You think you can read me? That you understand me, just because you challenge me?”

 

“I think I see you, Izana—a glimpse beneath the layers,” Takemichi replies steadfastly. “And I think we both know that you’re not just the unemotional puppet master you try to portray.”

 

Izana holds Takemichi’s gaze, a mixture of admiration and frustration brewing between them. It’s strange; the way Takemichi breaks through his armor and yet, he inadvertently strokes the ego that lives inside him. “So you think you can handle what lies underneath? The messiness of it all?”

 

“Pretty bold, coming from someone so in control,” Takemichi teases lightly, a hint of laughter lingering behind. “But hey, someone’s gotta be brave enough to break the mold.”

 

And as he stands there, buoyed by Takemichi’s unwavering spirit, Izana feels a shift—the cool night air enveloping them, carrying hope and complications in its wake. Maybe it’s reckless. Letting go. But perhaps it’s time to embrace the unexpected.

 

So, he takes a step closer to the ledge and to the warmth of Takemichi’s presence, the adrenaline blazing between them, and for the first time, he feels the intoxicating thrill of surrender.

 

“Then let’s see just how far we can soar.”

Chapter 8: Cherry-Stained Mischief[Ran]

Notes:

I've set this in the Bonten timeline, but feel free to use any other timeline if you'd prefer. Just keep in mind, whenever the characters are older than 17, Takemichi would also be around their age. This ensures that Takemichi is never a minor, so the character dynamics stay consistent and appropriate.

Ran Haitani leaned against the sleek marble bar, his dark hair tousled yet perfectly styled, exuding a vibe of effortless charisma. The club pulsed with electrifying energy; neon lights flickered and danced in synchrony with the heavy bass that vibrated through the floor. He watched the sea of bodies bobbing in rhythm, his purple eyes glinting with mischief.

 

“Hey, enough with the daydreaming, Ran,” came a voice beside him, laced with playful sarcasm. It was his friend, Riku, who had a penchant for keeping Ran grounded, even amidst the thrumming chaos. “You’re not actually planning to stand here all night, are you?”

 

Ran shrugged, grinning lazily. “Just enjoying the view, Riku. You know how it is.” He took a sip of his drink, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat, while his gaze remained fixed around the room, seeking something—or someone—specific.

 

The bass dropped, drowning out any further conversation. People cheered, and the mood intensified, becoming thick with anticipation. But then the doors swung open, and like a gust of fresh air, Takemichi stepped into the extravagant space.

 

The atmosphere shifted.

 

Ran’s attention snapped to the newcomer. Takemichi wasn’t like the others tonight; there was an undeniable aura around him. Clad in a fitted black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to showcase toned arms, he looked effortlessly handsome. The collar was undone just enough to hint at mischief, while his hair framed his features in a way that made him appear even more appealing.

 

And then there was that stance—he stood there with an ease, but with an air of expectancy that Had Ran raising an eyebrow. What was he waiting for?

 

The crowd surged around Takemichi, but he didn’t seem distracted. Instead, he stood with a hint of defiance, almost as if he were daring Ran to approach him. The world around became a blur as an electric charge sparked between the two across the room.

 

And then it happened.

 

As if sensing his gaze, Takemichi raised a cherry to his lips, his thumb gliding over the smooth skin. The juice glistened as he took a slow, deliberate lick, his eyes locked on Ran the entire time. The simple act turned into a tantalizing performance, and with each movement, Ran felt the heat pool in the pit of his stomach.

 

Through the vibrant noise, he could almost hear the siren call of Takemichi’s smirk inviting him over. Time slowed, absorbing the moment as if it painted a vivid picture in the air around them.

 

Ran pushed off the bar, breaking into that infuriatingly charming smile he had perfected over the years, and strode across the room. “You trying to start something, little hero?” he asked, letting his fingers brush lightly against Takemichi’s wrist as he leaned in closer.

 

“I thought you already started it,” Takemichi replied, that sweet innocence laced with mischief, his voice smooth like honey dripping from the most decadent treat.

 

Ran’s breath hitched, a strangled laugh catching in his throat. It was a simple exchange, but Takemichi's undeniable conviction stirred something deep inside him. The confidence that radiated from Takemichi was intoxicating, like a rare vintage he couldn’t quite get enough of.

 

“What’s a guy gotta do to keep your attention?” Ran asked, desperation edging subtly into his voice. He was the master of the game, but this time, the rules felt skewed.

 

“With looks like yours? Nothing. But you might want to try harder if you want to catch me,” Takemichi teased back, a playful twinkle in his eye. He stepped aside almost casually, brushing against Ran as if it held no significance, but the heat of their brief contact left Ran momentarily dazed.

 

“Playing hard to get? That’s cute,” Ran replied, flustered. He maintained his confident demeanor, yet the lingering touch had sent ripples through him. Takemichi was dangerous, a wildfire threatening to consume him.

 

Time fled as the night raced ahead, and it wasn’t long before Takemichi weaved through the crowd, every move fluid and deliberate. It was an effortless tease that had all eyes following him, including Ran’s, who felt like a moth drawn to a flame.

 

Takemichi leaned into groups, laughed, and joked, but his gaze always seemed to flit back to Ran, taunting him. Each look was woven with a hint of challenge, and with each passing moment, Ran’s feelings of control slipped further from his fingers.

 

Riku, wise to the unfolding tension, leaned in again, whispering, “You’re in trouble, my friend. That one’s not playing by your rules.”

 

“Shut it,” Ran muttered, his eyes trailing after Takemichi, who had now engaged in an animated discussion with a group of girls. Somehow, Ran was still the center of his attention, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could manage the unfolding drama in his chest.

 

“But he’s cute,” Riku added, grinning. “And a bit naughty. Might be fun to chase.”

 

“I don’t chase,” Ran shot back, forcing himself to look away, only to catch sight of Takemichi licking the cherry juice again, this time from his own fingertips. The sight was seared into Ran’s mind, igniting something primal that simmered beneath his carefully constructed calm exterior.

 

But as the night wore on, it was evident: he was losing his composure.

 

Ran maneuvered through the crowd, but Takemichi was always two steps ahead. Each time Ran moved close, Takemichi slipped past, tantalizingly close but never close enough, like a dizzying dream teetering just out of reach.

 

As he leaned against a pillar, exhaustion layer on top of exhilaration, Takemichi approached, his slow gait promising mischief. Ran stood his ground, but with Takemichi right there, the air became electric, charged with tension.

 

“Oops,” Takemichi whispered, leaning in close to Ran’s ear, his breath fiery against his skin. “Did you miss me?”

 

The teasing lilt in his tone sent shivers down Ran’s spine. “What game are you playing, Takemichi?” he demanded, unable to suppress the thrill of anticipation bubbling inside him.

 

“Game? Oh, I thought we were just having some fun.” Takemichi’s voice was sultry, faintly teasing, but his gaze was serious, dissecting every expression that flickered across Ran’s face.

 

“Fun?” Ran echoed skeptically, his heart racing. “Seems more like I’m the one being played.”

 

Takemichi leaned back slightly, a devil-may-care grin spreading across his lips, and for a moment, both succumbed to the laughter that danced between them. But Ran didn’t let his guard down, not entirely.

 

“How about we change the stakes?” Takemichi proposed, leaning in further, the distance between them nearly nonexistent.

 

“Stakes?” Ran arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “What did you have in mind?”

 

“I’ll offer you a wager,” Takemichi said, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper that made Ran’s pulse quicken. “If I can make you lose your cool by the end of the night, you owe me… an exclusive. Whatever I want.”

 

Ran smirked, stuffing down the thrill rising within him. “And if I win?”

 

Takemichi tilted his head, considering. “Then you get to choose one thing for us to do together.”

 

“Oh, I’m definitely in.” Confidence surged, invigorating him. “You have no idea who you’re up against.”

 

“Oh, I think I do,” Takemichi said, that infuriating smirk returning. “And I’m curious to see how you plan to keep it together.”

 

The challenge floated between them, palpable and enticing, and it was impossible to ignore the electricity humming in the space around them.

 

As the crowd ebbed and flowed, Ran found himself drawn in deeper. They traded playful banter, backing each other into an exhilarating game of wit laced with flirtation. They moved closer—bodies brushing with every laugh, every accidental touch that seemed to set fire to the very air between them.

 

“Does this count as losing my cool?” Ran asked, laughter bubbling up as he caught Takemichi’s arm.

 

“Not even close,” Takemichi replied, a glimmer of mischief dancing in those depths. “Better step it up.”

 

But the truth was, everything shifted as they continued their verbal volley. Ran felt the thrill of the night wrapping around him, suffocating and liberating all at once. With every challenge he accepted, every gleam in Takemichi’s gaze, it became clearer: the stakes were rising, and for the first time, it was terrifyingly exhilarating.

 

As midnight approached, the energy in the room reached a breaking point. Bodies swayed, laughter reverberated, and amidst it all, Takemichi locked eyes with Ran again. This time, the intensity of the gaze was undeniable.

 

Ran stepped forward, advancing into the storm that was Takemichi, a part of him daring to embrace the chaos threatening to consume him. “You know, I think I just might lose my cool,” he teased, inching closer.

 

“Oh? Is that supposed to scare me?” Takemichi shot back, his voice rich with challenge.

 

Before he knew it, Takemichi closed the gap, leaning so close their noses nearly brushed. The breath hung heavy in the air, and the intensity of the moment seemed to stretch out into eternity.

 

“Maybe it should,” Ran murmured, the words escaping in a hushed tone he hardly recognized as his own.

 

In a bold move, he reached out, brushing his fingers against Takemichi’s cheek, the touch lingering despite the chaos swirling around them.

 

The smirk slipped from Takemichi’s face, replaced by something raw—something that mirrored the unspoken confirmation of what they were both feeling.

 

“Are you ready to let go?” Takemichi asked softly.

 

Ran hesitated, their gaze locked in an understanding that transcended the noise of the club around them. He felt as if everything was on the line, yet the thrill of it was intoxicating.

 

In that perfect, fleeting instant, Takemichi leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing against Ran’s. It was a whisper of a promise, a tease of what was to come, and it sent a shockwave coursing through Ran, igniting every nerve ending.

 

“Let’s take this somewhere quieter,” Ran suggested, his voice trembling slightly with urgency.

 

Takemichi’s smile was knowing and triumphant as he took Ran’s hand, weaving through the undulating crowd, leading him towards the back of the club where things quieted, and secrets could be spilled without the prying eyes of the crowd.

 

They made it to an intimate nook, half-hidden from the main party, and once they stepped into the semi-darkness, it felt like the world beyond simply vanished.

 

“Is this where you plan to win?” Takemichi asked, an air of challenge still lingering in his tone, but there was another undercurrent—anticipation, excitement.

 

Ran’s breath caught again, the distance between them evaporating as he reached out. “I plan to make sure you remember this night.”

 

Closer now, Ran could feel the warmth radiating off Takemichi’s body, pulsing with a wild energy. He brushed his thumb softly over the corner of Takemichi’s mouth, where a drop of cherry juice lingered, and watched as Takemichi closed his eyes, surrendering a beat to the moment.

 

“If you’re daring enough,” Takemichi murmured, tilting his chin slightly upward.

 

A challenge hung in the air, and without thinking—spurred on by the thrill of the night and the intoxicating presence of Takemichi and Ran

Chapter 9: Static[Rindou]

Summary:

this in the Bonten timeline. With bonten Takemichi!

Rindou Haitani doesn’t like interruptions. He thrives on control—the kind of brutal, unshakable authority that leaves others flinching before he even lifts a finger. Surprises are just chaos wrapped in bad timing. He’s not here for that. His life is steady, rhythmic, like the beat of a war drum before a battlefield erupts into bloodshed.

 

 

Everything stays exactly where he wants it.

 

 

 

Except Takemichi.

 

 

Takemichi’s the kind of disturbance that crawls under Rindou’s skin without warning—loud where Rindou prefers silence, reckless where he demands precision. Not the chaos Rindou enjoys orchestrating in fights or riots; no, this is different. Persistent. Electric. A static buzz that doesn't die no matter how hard Rindou tries to stamp it out.

 

 

 

And tonight’s no different.

 

 

Rindou leans back in his chair, the heavy bass of his music thundering through his veins. The room is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners, painting the edges of the world in muted grays and blacks. His body is loose, his mind detached from the grind, submerged in the suffocating comfort of something dark and violent vibrating through his skull.

 

 

For a moment, just a brief one, the world is quiet.

 

 

 

Manageable.

 

 

 

Then it happens.

 

 

 

A sudden, jarring tug—sharp and unapologetic—yanks his earbuds from his ears.

 

The music cuts out mid-thrum. Silence slams into Rindou’s senses, jagged and raw. His head snaps up instantly, his eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits.

 

 

And there he is.

 

Takemichi Hanagaki.

 

Too close. Too bright. That stupid grin stretched across his face like he’s proud of himself, like he hasn’t just trespassed on sacred ground.

 

Rindou’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl slowly into fists against the arms of his chair.

 

"What the hell do you always listen to, huh?" Takemichi teases, voice light, dangerously careless. He waves the confiscated earbud between his fingers, a glint in his eye. "Lemme guess... emo breakup songs? Or maybe you’ve got, like, secret Swiftie energy hidden under all that doom and gloom?"

 

For a heartbeat, Rindou says nothing.

The room thickens with the weight of his silence.

His stare is pure ice, assessing, cold enough to kill.

 

He’s deciding.

 

 

Laugh—or break Takemichi’s nose?

 

 

A smirk, slow and sharp, pulls at the corner of his mouth. Not kind. Not amused. Dangerous.

 

"Careful, Takemichi," Rindou drawls, his voice low and rough, each word deliberate, heavy. "Keep poking and I might show you what I really listen to."

 

The threat coils in the air between them, thick and suffocating.

 

Any sane person would back the hell off. Would flinch. Apologize.

Everyone else does when Rindou gets that look—the look that promises violence with frightening, surgical precision.

 

But Takemichi doesn’t move.

 

Instead, he leans in closer, reckless to the bone, as if daring Rindou to act. His shoulder brushes against Rindou’s, casual and stupidly fearless. His voice drops, conspiratorial, a whisper against the shell of Rindou’s ear.

 

"Sounds like you’re hiding something."

 

The spark between them crackles—sharp, hot, volatile.

 

Rindou’s fingers twitch at his side before he moves, sudden and brutal.

He grabs Takemichi’s wrist in one swift motion, his grip tight, a warning just shy of pain. He yanks Takemichi in closer, so close that the breath between them tangles and burns.

 

For a fleeting second, Takemichi’s smirk falters.

Just a flicker—but Rindou sees it.

And it feeds the wolfish grin that twists his mouth.

 

"You really that desperate to find out," Rindou murmurs, voice dark, "or you just like giving me excuses?"

 

Takemichi’s heartbeat flutters against Rindou’s palm, but he doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t beg.

Doesn’t break.

 

Instead, he laughs—low, soft, maddening. The sound slides under Rindou’s skin like a blade.

 

"Maybe both," Takemichi whispers, reckless and sure, like he knows exactly how close he is to the edge and still leans into it anyway.

 

Rindou’s pulse pounds in his ears, louder than the music that had filled the room before.

But his face stays blank—bored, even.

Only his eyes betray him, dark and sharp, dissecting every microexpression on Takemichi’s face.

 

Stupid, Rindou thinks.

Stupid or fearless. Maybe both.

 

His grip loosens, then shoves Takemichi back with a roughness that isn’t quite anger—more like restraint snapping at its last thread. Takemichi stumbles half a step before catching himself, grinning like he’s just won something important.

 

Rindou leans back, exhaling a slow breath, heavy with the simmering tension between them.

 

"You're lucky I’m in a good mood," he mutters, his voice rougher now, scratchier around the edges. "Next time you touch me without asking, you won’t be laughing."

 

Takemichi only smiles wider, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve like Rindou’s threat is just another gust of wind.

 

"Next time, huh?" Takemichi echoes, tilting his head playfully. His grin widens, eyes gleaming. "So you're already thinking about it."

 

The audacity.

 

Rindou scoffs under his breath, sharp and humorless, shaking his head like he’s dismissing Takemichi entirely—but he doesn't deny it.

 

He can feel the static still clinging to his skin, buzzing in his veins. Stronger.

Louder.

 

Takemichi, undeterred, tosses the earbud back onto Rindou’s lap like it’s a gift, a token of some invisible game he’s decided they’re playing.

He turns away, cocky as hell, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder as he saunters toward the door.

 

Rindou watches him go, the predatory smile curling slow, hungry, at the edges of his mouth.

 

Let him think he’s won.

 

Next time—

Next time, Rindou's not letting him off so easy.

 

And when that moment comes—

when Takemichi inevitably pushes too far,

crosses a line not even he can laugh off—

 

Rindou will be waiting.

 

No warnings.

 

No mercy.

 

The beat of war drums returns, steady and patient beneath his skin.

 

This game had only just begun.

 

Chapter 10: Trigger Discipline[Sanzu]

Summary:

Also set in the bonten timeline, with bonten Takemichi.

Sanzu had seen a lot of people flinch.

 

It was practically a reflex, something humans were born with—the fear of pain, the instinct to survive. He’d made a life out of hunting that flinch. Watching the way people’s faces twisted when they realized how close to death they were. It was a thrill, a private joke only he understood.

 

But Takemichi?

 

Takemichi didn’t flinch.

 

The barrel of Sanzu’s gun pressed right into his chest, close enough to feel the hammering of a heartbeat through the metal—and yet Takemichi didn’t even blink. His wide, ocean-blue eyes stayed fixed on Sanzu’s, calm, almost serene. Like he’d seen death before, danced with it, and decided it wasn’t so scary after all.

 

It was wrong. It was infuriating.

 

And it was fascinating.

 

Sanzu’s fingers tightened around the grip, nails digging into the worn surface. His body screamed at him to pull the trigger, to restore the natural order—fear me, his blood sang. Fear me.

 

But Takemichi didn’t.

 

Instead, he stepped closer.

 

Deliberate. Controlled. Like a man walking into a burning building, knowing exactly what he was doing and daring the flames to catch him.

 

Sanzu’s mind raced, torn between instinct and something deeper, something messier. He tried to steel himself, tried to remember the rules: dominance, fear, control. That’s how it always worked.

 

But Takemichi shattered that carefully built structure with every slow, steady step.

 

The muzzle of the gun pressed harder against Takemichi’s sternum as he moved in. Close enough now that Sanzu could smell the faint scent of rain still clinging to Takemichi’s clothes, could see the way a stray lock of blond hair brushed against his forehead.

 

“You gonna pull the trigger?” Takemichi asked, his voice a low murmur, cutting through the electric silence between them. His tone wasn’t mocking, wasn’t scared—it was something far worse.

 

It was curious.

 

Challenging.

 

“Or are you just trying to get my attention?”

 

Sanzu’s breath caught.

 

The bastard had the audacity to smirk.

 

It wasn't wide or cocky—it was small, knowing. Like he already had Sanzu figured out, down to the way his hands were trembling ever so slightly against the gun.

 

Sanzu hated that. Hated how Takemichi stood there, untouched by fear, untouched by him. Everyone else broke. Everyone else shattered under his gaze.

 

But Takemichi... Takemichi leaned into it. Thrived under it.

 

“You’re crazy,” Sanzu muttered, but the words lacked their usual venom. His voice cracked, too raw, too human.

 

Takemichi’s smirk deepened.

 

“Takes one to know one,” he said softly, and the words slipped under Sanzu’s skin like a knife. A mirror. A fucking reflection.

 

The gun wavered.

 

Sanzu's arms felt heavy, too heavy to hold steady. His heart punched against his ribs, a furious, traitorous rhythm. He could feel the heat of Takemichi’s body, the steady thrum of life so close to death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He should pull the trigger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead, he let the gun fall a few inches, lowering it to Takemichi’s stomach, then his side, until finally, it hung useless at his side.

 

Takemichi didn’t move.

 

Didn’t retreat.

 

He stayed right there, lingering like a storm cloud about to break open.

 

Sanzu stared at him, his mind a hurricane of want and rage and confusion. Every part of him screamed for action—for something to snap the tension building like static between them.

 

But all he could do was breathe, ragged and shallow, as Takemichi’s hand moved.

 

Slow.

 

Unhurried.

 

Takemichi’s fingers brushed over the barrel of the gun, tracing it with a gentleness that made Sanzu’s spine stiffen. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushed it down further, until it was aimed harmlessly at the ground.

 

“Not today,” Takemichi said, his voice soft but firm, like he was granting mercy.

 

Or taking power.

 

Sanzu’s fingers twitched. He should shove him away. Should punch him, curse him, anything to reclaim the control slipping like sand through his fingers.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He just stood there, frozen, as Takemichi stepped back—one step, then another. His gaze never leaving Sanzu’s, like he was tethered there, pulling something invisible between them.

 

Even as he retreated into the shadows of the night, Takemichi’s presence lingered like smoke.

 

Sanzu watched him go, his chest tight, his lungs aching.

 

He had no idea what the fuck just happened.

 

All he knew was that for the first time in a long, long while, someone had walked right up to his madness, stared it in the face... and smiled.

 

No fear. No begging. No breaking.

 

Just Takemichi.

 

Sanzu's hand finally loosened on the gun, letting it drop to his side with a dull thud of metal against flesh. His head tipped back against the rough wall behind him, and he laughed—hoarse and broken.

 

God, he hated him.

 

God, he wanted him.

 

The line between the two blurred into something dangerous, something reckless.

 

Takemichi is playing a game he doesn’t even know the rules to, Sanzu thought, chest heaving. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.

 

Either way, Sanzu wasn't sure if he wanted to destroy him... or follow him into the fire.

 

He shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans and kicked off the wall, starting toward the shadows where Takemichi had disappeared.

 

One way or another, this wasn’t over.

 

Not even close.

 

Sanzu’s smile twisted into something dark, something hungry.

 

Because if Takemichi thought he could poke the beast and walk away unscathed... he was even crazier than Sanzu was.

 

And god, didn’t that just make him all the more irresistible.

 

Chapter 11: The lean and linger[Kisaki]

Notes:

Bad Toman timeline.

Kisaki prided himself on being cold, analytical. Untouchable. He was the kind of person who moved pieces, not the kind who was moved. Emotions were distractions. Affection was weakness. And Takemichi Hanagaki? A nuisance. A wild card. A variable in an otherwise perfectly constructed equation.

 

 

But even variables demanded attention.

 

 

They were working late in the office. Technically, it wasn’t supposed to be their office, but Kisaki had commandeered it for his own use. Paperwork was spread in organized stacks across the table, every detail catalogued and calculated. Takemichi, of course, couldn’t sit still. He wandered, asking questions with a voice too soft for this kind of world.

 

 

Then he leaned in.

 

 

Kisaki felt him before he even registered what he was looking at. The warmth of another body pressed subtly, but undeniably, into the space just behind his chair. Takemichi’s breath stirred the fine hairs on the side of his face. A shiver crawled down Kisaki’s spine before he could suppress it.

 

“What are you doing?” Kisaki snapped, though it came out tighter than he intended.

 

Takemichi didn’t flinch. He only leaned closer.

 

“You smell like ink,” Takemichi murmured. There was something too casual about it, as if commenting on the weather. As if it wasn’t a line meant to rattle.

 

His fingers brushed Kisaki’s wrist, featherlight.

 

Testing.

 

“Back off,” Kisaki growled. His voice was hard, but his body stayed still. Too still.

 

Takemichi tilted his head, just slightly, so his lips nearly touched the curve of Kisaki’s jaw.

 

“You’re not telling me to stop.”

 

Kisaki’s jaw clenched. He looked down, eyes catching on the spot where Takemichi’s fingers hovered against his own. They weren’t quite touching anymore, but the ghost of it lingered.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Couldn’t.

 

A moment passed.

 

Then two.

 

Takemichi's voice dropped again, quiet but loaded: “You pretend you're untouchable, Kisaki. But you flinch more than you think.”

 

Kisaki’s breath hitched. “Get out.”

 

Takemichi smiled—small, infuriating, and knowing.

 

“Sure,” he said, already stepping back. But as he moved, his hand slid against Kisaki’s, the slow drag of fingers lingering just a moment too long.

 

The door clicked behind him.

 

Kisaki stared straight ahead, the air too loud in his ears. His pulse thundered traitorously. His fingers curled into fists, only to relax again as if trying to remember the shape of the touch.

 

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But he did.

 

Chapter 12: The whispers of the nape[Senju]

Notes:

Our first female! I headcannon brahman to have a locker room in their place and Senju has her own separate one because you know, she's a female.

Senju Kawaragi didn’t get flustered.

 

She’d grown up toeing the line between power and perception. Being small didn’t mean being weak. Being cute didn’t mean being soft. She had fought, led, built an image of strength that kept people at bay.

 

Then came Takemichi.

 

She didn’t dislike him. In fact, she liked him far more than she admitted to anyone else—especially herself. He was persistent, loyal, unexpectedly clever in ways people often missed. She respected that.

 

But that didn’t explain why, in the middle of a sparring session, she completely froze when he leaned in and whispered against her skin.

 

“The way your hair’s tied up,” Takemichi murmured, his breath warm against the nape of her neck, “it leaves your neck really exposed.”

 

Senju’s body went still. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

 

“You should be careful,” he added, pulling back with a smirk that didn’t belong on someone called a crybaby.

 

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how. Soft, intentional. As though he knew exactly what reaction it would pull from her.

 

Was it a warning?

 

A compliment?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A flirtation?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She couldn’t tell. And that unsettled her more than any punch or kick could.

 

Later, in the locker room, her fingers fumbled with the tie holding her hair up. She looked at herself in the mirror, saw the slight flush across her cheeks, and scowled.

 

Get it together, Senju.

 

But she couldn’t stop replaying it—the warmth of his voice, the exact placement of his lips, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. And it wasn’t just that moment. There’d been others, hadn’t there? Lingering glances, half-smiles, casual touches that felt too deliberate to be accidental.

 

Was he doing this to everyone? Or just to her?

 

A knock at the locker room door startled her. She called out, “Just a minute!” but the voice that answered was unmistakable.

 

“I forgot my water bottle.”

 

Takemichi.

 

She opened the door and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed.

 

“You tied your hair differently,” he observed casually.

 

Senju blinked.

 

“You noticed?”

 

Takemichi tilted his head, smiling again—soft, almost fond. “Of course I did.”

 

She shut the door quickly, chest tight. Her reflection stared back, pink-cheeked and confused.

 

Takemichi Hanagaki was dangerous in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

 

And for the first time in a long while, Senju didn’t know how to defend herself.

 

Chapter 13: The tension in the grip[Inupi]

Notes:

Idk where to set this, really. Let your imagination run wild I guess. I think this is one of the shorter ones

They were mid-argument when Takemichi grabbed Inupi’s wrist—tight, unyielding. It wasn’t the first time they’d clashed, but something about this time was different. The air between them sizzled, not just with frustration but something harder to name.

 

“Look at me,” Takemichi said, voice low and stormy.

 

Inupi froze, eyes narrowing. His breath hitched at the dominance in that grip. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but the intensity behind it sent a jolt straight through him.

 

“You’re not listening,” Takemichi growled.

 

Inupi yanked his arm, but Takemichi held firm. “Then say it clearly,” he challenged.

 

Takemichi didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped in closer, forehead nearly brushing his, the tension between their bodies thick and electric.

 

“I hate it when you get reckless,” Takemichi said, the words sharp but layered with something else—concern, desperation, maybe even fear.

 

His thumb began to trace a slow, deliberate circle against Inupi’s pulse point. That small gesture undid everything. It soothed and unsettled at once.

 

Inupi’s voice died in his throat.

 

“You don’t get to throw yourself into danger like your life doesn’t matter,” Takemichi continued, softer now. “Because it does. It matters to me.”

 

Inupi blinked rapidly, unsure if he’d heard that last part right. “Takemichi—”

 

But Takemichi didn’t let go. “You keep acting like you have nothing to lose.”

 

Inupi searched his face, found no mockery, only sincerity. “And what if I don’t?” he whispered.

 

Takemichi’s grip tightened. “Then I’ll give you something to lose.”

 

Silence followed, heavy and intimate. The space between them shrank, filled with unspoken things.

 

“I’m serious,” Takemichi added, thumb still moving in gentle, maddening circles. “Stop trying to break yourself before I can help put you back together.”

 

Inupi’s knees nearly buckled. He didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

 

But he didn’t pull away either.

Chapter 14: Fragrance[Koko]

Notes:

I ALSO don't know where to set this, so let your imagination run free again,

---

Koko noticed it during an overnight job. The air was cool, the clock ticking past 3AM, and the building had long gone silent save for the low hum of neon signs flickering just beyond the narrow windows. Their makeshift hideout—an old, once-luxurious office on the top floor of a shuttered hotel—had fallen into that peculiar kind of hush that only arrived when night tipped into morning.

 

He was leaning against the hallway wall, scrolling idly through his phone, tracking the market price of an antique watch he’d been eyeing. His eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, yet his senses remained sharp. That’s when it hit him.

 

Familiar.

 

 

Pricey.

 

 

His.

 

A scent he knew intimately—notes of bergamot, oud, and black pepper, subtle yet commanding. It clung to the air like a secret, teasing and taunting. Koko’s brows furrowed as he lowered the phone. He sniffed again.

 

And turned.

 

Takemichi was strolling down the hallway, skin still dewy from the shower. Damp hair clung to his temples and neck, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets racing down the slope of his chest and disappearing beneath the soft fabric.

 

He should’ve looked ridiculous—Takemichi, the crybaby, padding barefoot across an old floor—but there was something undeniably arresting about him in that moment. Unbothered. Languid. Dangerous, in a way that had nothing to do with weapons.

 

Koko’s eyes narrowed, but Takemichi caught the look and slowed.

 

A smirk curved onto his lips—small, almost lazy, but sharp at the edges like broken glass.

 

He leaned in, his breath warm against Koko’s ear, sending a shiver racing down the taller man’s spine.

 

“You like expensive things, right?” Takemichi’s voice was soft, almost sultry. “Then you must’ve noticed the cologne I stole from your bag.”

 

Koko stiffened.

 

“That,” he said, carefully measured, “was limited edition.”

 

“Mm. I know.”

 

Takemichi pulled back just enough to meet Koko’s eyes, head tilted, damp strands framing his face like an afterthought. “Smelled good on me, didn’t it?”

 

Koko exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to keep his composure. The scent really did smell good on him. Too good.

 

“You shouldn’t touch my stuff,” he said coolly.

 

Takemichi shrugged, the movement shifting the towel just slightly lower.

 

“You left it unguarded.”

 

“It’s not a toy.”

 

“And I’m not a thief,” Takemichi countered, a glint in his eye. “I was borrowing it. Temporarily.”

 

Koko crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze. “You really don’t know how expensive that was, do you?”

 

“Nope,” Takemichi said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “But I know you noticed. And that’s the point.”

 

There was silence between them. Heavy. Electric.

 

Takemichi took another step forward, until there was barely space between them. The towel brushed Koko’s jeans. Koko didn’t move.

 

“You’re dangerously cocky for someone half-naked in a hallway,” Koko muttered.

 

“And yet,” Takemichi said, his voice dropping an octave, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

 

He brushed past Koko slowly, intentionally, his shoulder grazing Koko’s chest as he did. Just before his door, he glanced back.

 

“Goodnight, Koko.”

 

The door clicked shut.

 

Koko stayed rooted in place, jaw tight. The scent lingered—on the air, on his thoughts. He stared down the hallway, empty now, and felt a pulse of frustration low in his gut.

 

That scent—his scent—wasn’t supposed to suit anyone else. But on Takemichi, it became a weapon.

 

He tapped the back of his phone against his palm, trying to regain his focus. But when he looked at the antique watch listing again, all he could picture was water dripping down Takemichi’s collarbones.

 

The next morning, Koko found himself glancing toward Takemichi more than once.

 

He’d thrown on his usual hoodie and jeans, towel gone, hair messily air-dried. But the cologne still lingered faintly, warmed by his skin.

 

“You're still wearing it?” Koko asked casually, not looking up from his laptop.

 

Takemichi sipped his coffee, then smirked. “You’d know better than anyone.”

 

Koko didn’t respond right away.

 

“I’m serious,” he finally said, closing the laptop. “Why do that?”

 

Takemichi tilted his head. “Do what?”

 

“You’re not the type to flex something you don’t care about.”

 

A beat passed. Then another.

 

Finally, Takemichi leaned in, elbows on the table, his gaze sharp under sleep-heavy lashes.

 

“You ever think maybe I’m not the same kid you remember?” he asked, voice soft. “People don’t notice things about me until I want them to.”

 

“And now you want to be noticed?”

 

Takemichi’s smile turned inward. “Maybe.”

 

Koko studied him carefully. He was done underestimating Takemichi. The softness, the flushes, the vulnerability—it was all still there. But it wasn’t all there was.

 

The boy who cried in back alleys was gone. Or maybe hidden just beneath the surface, weaponized now. Something more deliberate. More calculating.

 

Koko leaned back in his chair, reaching into his bag. He pulled out the bottle of cologne, placing it on the table between them.

 

“Keep it,” he said. “You made it yours.”

 

Takemichi blinked. “That easy?”

 

“You think I give away anything that easy?”

 

They locked eyes. The tension was playful, but under it was something far more dangerous.

 

Koko liked expensive things. And Takemichi—bold, teasing, unreadable—was becoming the most priceless of them all.

 

He could feel it already: this wouldn’t be the last night he lost sleep over the scent of his own cologne.

Chapter 15: Redecorating

Notes:

Now, this is one of the few oneshots that isn't about flirting, this is more of a getting to know my Takemichi, this is my AU so nothing here is canon. Also, in this time placement chifuyu hasn't been to Takemichi’s house.

It was a Saturday, and Takemichi felt absolutely bored out of his mind.

 

No—worse than bored. Hollow. Empty. The kind of feeling that lingers even when you blink and try to shake it off. The kind of feeling where time doesn’t just slow—it stops altogether.

 

He laid on his back in the living room, staring up at the bland, white ceiling. His eyes followed the faint line of a spider web in the corner, untouched and nearly invisible unless the sun hit it just right.

 

No decorations.

No board games.

No Nintendo DS.

No smartphone.

 

Just... silence.

 

He huffed, breathless from nothing. The only sound in the house was the soft ticking of the old wall clock in the hallway. Even that sounded too loud in this place.

 

It wasn’t just the silence that was loud—it was the emptiness.

 

Everything felt still. Still in the way a tomb was still.

 

Takemichi sighed and rolled over, pressing his cheek into the hardwood floor. "This house is plain as shit," he mumbled.

 

It was a big house—no, massive. Two stories. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows in some rooms. A broad staircase that curved up like something from a drama. Marble tiles in the hallway. A living room that could fit a basketball court. And yet... nothing filled the space. Just old furniture, neutral colors, and shadows. Always shadows.

 

He hated it.

 

But what made it worse was what the house reminded him of.

 

His mom. His father. His ■■■■■■■...

 

Takemichi pressed his lips into a thin line, then sat up sharply, as if he could chase the thoughts away with motion. But they came anyway—stronger than ever.

 

That day.

 

That door.

 

That scream.

 

He remembered it too clearly. The cold sting of metal as he banged on the heavy door. How his tiny fists bruised, then bled, each knock more desperate than the last.

 

"Stop! Don’t go! Please come back! PLEASE—!"

 

But no one came. And when the silence fell again, it was final.

 

He touched the faint scar across the side of his hand, barely visible now.

 

He remembered the fights. Mama screaming. Things breaking. Blood. His father standing there, arms crossed, pretending to care. Pretending to be mourning when all he cared about was whether she’d still sleep in his bed that night.

 

His father. That bastard with too many wives and even more kids—only two of which he ever acknowledged, and only because one was beautiful and the other a ghost.

 

He remembered when Mama asked to leave the main house, and his father had agreed—not out of grief, but because she was his favorite. His trophy. His muse.

 

But he didn’t love her. Not really.

 

And when she broke—when the memories of ■■■■■■■ clawed at her day after day, until she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe—he just sent money and left her to rot.

 

Takemichi remembered how she’d smiled less. Laughed less. Talked less. How her eyes started looking past him, even when he stood right in front of her. And how, one rainy morning, she had walked into his room with her makeup done and the kitchen knife in her hand.

 

And then—

 

Takemichi sucked in a shaky breath, eyes wide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He gritted his teeth and stood up. Shaky hands reached for his flip phone.

 

"You know what?" he said out loud, voice hoarse. "Screw it. I’m redecorating this place."

 

He stared around the hollow room.

 

"...It’s not like anyone’s going to stop me."

 

He scrolled through his limited contacts and tapped on the name he knew wouldn’t let him down.

 

Ring... Ring...

 

"Hello?" came the familiar, half-awake voice.

 

"Chifuyu!" Takemichi perked up, trying to sound way more energetic than he felt. "Glad you picked up."

 

"Takemitchy?" Chifuyu yawned. "It’s like... barely noon..."

 

"Exactly. Prime productivity hours." Takemichi grinned. "Hey, are you free today? I want to redecorate my house."

 

"...Your what?"

 

"My house. It’s too plain. I wanna give it a new look."

 

There was a beat of silence, then a sigh.

 

"Sure, partner. I’m down. I can’t let your sad little house continue to look like a hospital waiting room."

 

Takemichi laughed. "Thanks, man. Sending you the address now—oh, and I’m inviting Hina-chan too!"

 

He hung up before Chifuyu could respond.

 

Next, he called Hina. It was a similar conversation—only this time, she was immediately enthusiastic.

 

"I’ve been telling you to fix that place up! I’ll bring snacks and mood boards!"

 

A few hours later, all three of them stood in the front hallway of the mansion-like home, blinking up at its vast, empty spaces.

 

"...How are we supposed to redecorate this when it’s so huge?" Hina and Chifuyu asked in unison.

 

Takemichi only chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "We’re not doing the whole house—just enough to make it feel alive. And we’ll go all-out in my room."

 

He pulled out the folded floor plan from his back pocket, and when he spread it out on the hallway table, Hina audibly gasped.

 

"...Jesus Christ," she whispered.

 

"Okay, okay," Chifuyu leaned in. "You’ve been living in a damn castle this whole time and never told us?"

 

"It doesn’t matter if it’s a castle when it feels like a crypt," Takemichi muttered.

 

They both went quiet at that.

 

Over the next several days, the house began to change.

 

The three of them worked non-stop, turning the once sterile space into something brighter, warmer, real. They started small—buying paint, posters, fairy lights, throw pillows, bean bags, plants (some real, some fake), rugs, and board games.

 

They tackled one room at a time.

 

The kitchen got new curtains and a cheerful, fruit-themed backsplash. Hina put up a hanging herb garden by the window.

 

The guest rooms were styled in different themes—one calm and pastel, another full of old movie posters and neon signs. Chifuyu took it upon himself to assemble the furniture (badly), which led to many “what-the-hell-is-this-screw-for” moments.

 

They blasted music through an old CD player Hina found in a thrift shop and sang loudly while painting the hallways. Takemichi got blue paint in his hair. Chifuyu stepped in a paint tray. Hina almost knocked over a ladder.

 

They laughed. A lot.

 

And for the first time in years, the house echoed with joy.

 

Takemichi’s room was the final masterpiece.

 

He’d chosen deep black as the base color—something that would’ve scared him in the past. But now, it felt honest. Like a clean void he could paint himself into.

 

The wall behind his bed became an art mural—something he and Hina worked on for hours. A field of red spider lilies stretched from corner to corner, petals vivid and dangerous. Above them, crimson butterflies floated in clusters like spirits.

 

Takemichi’s walk-in closet had a mirror wall—behind it, Chifuyu painted a coiling snake in greens and golds. It wrapped around invisible wounds, guarding them.

 

They added shelves, posters, hanging lights, books, and little personal treasures.

 

The room felt like a reflection of Takemichi’s mind. Dark, but beautiful. Wounded, but alive.

 

 

“You okay?” Hina asked softly one night, as they stood in the middle of the newly finished bedroom.

 

Takemichi didn’t answer right away.

 

He walked to the mural, ran his fingers gently across the petals.

 

“I think... this is the first time this place has felt like mine,” he said, voice tight.

 

She smiled gently. “It is yours.”

 

He turned to her—and for once, didn’t look away.

 

Later that evening...

 

The house was quiet again—but this time, it was a warm kind of quiet. The kind you feel after a long day filled with laughter and effort. A silence earned, not endured.

 

Takemichi sat on the edge of his new bed, his hand trailing across the soft texture of the black-and-red sheets they picked out together. A faint scent of paint still lingered beneath the lavender candles Hina lit. The fairy lights above the headboard glowed dimly, like fireflies trapped in a jar.

 

From the hallway, soft footsteps approached. The door creaked open just enough for Chifuyu’s head to poke through.

 

"You good?" he asked.

 

Takemichi glanced over. "Yeah. Come in."

 

Chifuyu stepped in quietly and flopped down into the giant beanbag in the corner with a soft thud. “Damn, this room actually slaps.”

 

Takemichi snorted. “Didn’t think it’d come together like this.”

 

"Me neither. But I gotta admit, you’ve got taste, bro. Dark, dramatic, definitely haunted... but stylish."

 

Takemichi chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

Chifuyu noticed.

 

"You’ve been quiet since we finished painting the mural," he said softly.

 

Takemichi shrugged. "Just... a lot on my mind."

 

"Like what?"

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then Takemichi stood, crossed the room, and stared at the spider lily mural.

 

"She liked these flowers," he said finally. “My mom.”

 

Chifuyu looked up from the beanbag. He didn’t speak—just waited.

 

“I used to think they were creepy,” Takemichi went on, “but she said they reminded her of death and rebirth. The kind of beauty that only grows where pain has been.”

 

He traced a red petal with his fingertip.

 

“And I guess… I needed to see them again. Like she was still here. Like part of her survived in the walls.”

 

Chifuyu’s expression softened.

 

“I miss her, Fuyu,” Takemichi whispered. “So much.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I feel like if I say it out loud, it makes it worse. Like I’m admitting she’s really gone.”

 

“She’s not gone, though,” Chifuyu said quietly. “She’s in this mural. In you. In the way you walk and speak and get mad when I forget to use a coaster.”

 

That earned a soft laugh. Takemichi sat beside him, eyes glimmering.

 

“You never talk about her,” Chifuyu added.

 

“Because talking about her used to hurt. And... because I felt like nobody would understand. She wasn’t perfect. She was struggling. And yet... she was everything to me.”

 

Chifuyu nodded. “You don’t have to explain that to me, man.”

 

There was silence again, but this time, it felt like a shared blanket instead of a wall.

 

“You ever feel like this house is cursed?” Takemichi murmured.

 

Chifuyu tilted his head. “Nah. I think it was just... unloved. For a long time. And now, little by little, it’s becoming yours.”

 

Takemichi swallowed hard. “Thanks, Chifuyu.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

 

The next day

 

Hina came over again, arms full of small houseplants, LED strips, and decorative coffee mugs with motivational quotes like “Survive Now, Cry Later” and “Coffee First, Punch Trauma Second.”

 

“I thought your kitchen needed more sass,” she said with a wink.

 

Takemichi rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. The plants went near the windowsill. The mugs on the rack. The LED strips around the ceiling gave the room a soft glow—like the sunrise, but without the commitment.

 

They spent the day reorganizing the living room. Hina chose vibrant orange and teal throw pillows. Chifuyu set up a DVD shelf full of classic anime, even though they had no working DVD player. Takemichi hung up a vintage wall clock shaped like a cat that wagged its tail.

 

“Why the cat?” Hina asked.

 

Takemichi shrugged. “Mama liked cats. Thought they were little gods.”

 

He said it casually—but there was a lump in his throat.

 

That night, the three of them sat around the new coffee table, eating takeout and drinking soda straight from the cans.

 

"I never thought you’d let anyone into this place," Hina said quietly.

 

Takemichi picked at his rice. “Me neither. I thought if I kept it empty, it wouldn’t hurt as much to live here.”

 

Chifuyu stretched. “But the thing about empty spaces is... they echo louder.”

 

Takemichi looked at him, surprised.

 

“That’s... surprisingly poetic for you,” he said.

 

Chifuyu shrugged. “I read it on a Tumblr post once.”

 

They all laughed.

 

The final touch came later that week.

 

They stood at the front of the house, holding a small wooden plaque.

 

Painted on it in dark crimson were the words:

 

“This house is not a grave.”

 

Takemichi screwed it into the wall beside the door. It was small, almost easy to miss—but to him, it felt like the most important thing he’d ever put up.

 

Sometime later...

 

One evening, Takemichi sat alone in his room. The soft hum of a record player Hina gave him played lo-fi jazz in the background.

 

He stared at the mural. The flowers. The butterflies. The gold flecks they’d added last minute—representing memories.

 

A gentle knock came at the door.

 

He turned. “Come in.”

 

Hina poked her head through. “Hey. You busy?”

 

He shook his head.

 

She stepped inside, hands clasped. “I just wanted to say... I’m proud of you.”

 

Takemichi blinked. “Huh?”

 

She smiled. “You’ve changed. You’re not running from it anymore. You're facing it—even the hard parts.”

 

He looked down. “I’m trying.”

 

“And you’re doing good.” She stepped closer, wrapping him in a hug. He stiffened, then slowly returned it.

 

After a beat, she pulled back slightly. “And if you ever want to talk about her—about your mom—I’ll listen. Always.”

 

Takemichi nodded. “Thank you, Hina.”

 

Later that night, Takemichi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. But this time, he wasn’t bored. Or numb. Or scared.

 

He was... full.

 

Full of memories. Of friends. Of pain. And hope.

 

The silence wasn’t oppressive anymore. It was peaceful.

 

He smiled softly.

 

"...Welcome home, Mom."

Notes:

Side note, I know Takemichi’s house was briefly(?) seen in the anime but I decided to use my own ideas for the house, because as I said, this is my AU nothing here is canon.

Chapter 16: Epilogue: Some time later

Notes:

Just as the title says, this is an epilogue of the last chapter

The sky was painted in hues of apricot and lilac—one of those sunsets that felt like the world was apologizing for all the bad days before.

 

Takemichi stood outside his house, sipping a warm cup of tea from one of Hina’s obnoxiously uplifting mugs. The plaque by the door caught the light just right:

 

“This house is not a grave.”

 

He traced the words with his eyes, letting them settle into his chest like a heartbeat.

 

The garden had begun to grow. Hina had helped him plant herbs and wildflowers around the perimeter, and even Chifuyu brought over some suspiciously obtained bonsai trees from “a totally legal source.” There was color in the yard again. Movement. Life.

 

A few neighborhood kids were riding their bikes nearby. One of them pointed at the house.

 

“That’s the cool haunted one, right?”

 

“No,” another kid said. “My mom says a guy lives there now. A nice guy. He gives out full-sized candy bars at Halloween.”

 

Takemichi smiled.

 

He’d been called a lot of things. Delinquent. Loser. Time leaper. Failure.

 

But nice guy?

 

That one felt... new.

 

He turned and went back inside.

 

The house felt lived in now. Laughed in. Mourned in. Everything a home should be.

 

The living room was messy in the best way—blankets half-folded on the couch, books stacked at odd angles, and a lazy orange cat napping in the sunbeam by the window. (They hadn’t planned on adopting it, but it had wandered in one day and never left. Takemichi named it “Miso,” because it was small and warm and occasionally caused chaos.)

 

Upstairs, the mural still bloomed across his bedroom wall—spider lilies, golden butterflies, and all. Sometimes, he found himself staring at it without realizing. And when he did, it wasn’t painful. It was comforting. A silent reminder of where he came from—and how far he’d come.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

He opened it to find Chifuyu holding two steaming bento boxes and a DVD player under his arm.

 

“Movie night,” he announced.

 

Takemichi blinked. “That thing even work?”

 

“Probably not,” Chifuyu said. “But it’s vintage. You gotta respect the classics.”

 

A second later, Hina showed up behind him, carrying a blanket and a smug grin. “I brought the Studio Ghibli collection. You’re legally required to cry at Whisper of the Heart, by the way.”

 

Takemichi chuckled. “House rule?”

 

“Universal law.”

 

They made themselves at home, as they always did. Chifuyu sprawled across the beanbag like it owed him money. Hina set up the tea again, this time with lemon and honey.

 

The screen flickered to life. The movie started. And for a while, no one spoke.

 

Just the soft crackle of dialogue. The occasional laugh. A quiet sniffle or two.

 

Halfway through, Takemichi leaned back on the couch, a blanket pulled up to his chest.

 

He looked around at his friends. His home. His life.

 

And for the first time in a long, long time—

 

 

 

 

 

He felt safe.

 

 

 

 

 

He felt whole.

Chapter 17: Bruises[Kakucho]

Notes:

Another withTenjiku Takemichi AU! Also this one is more fluffy than the rest ig?

The flickering gaslight cast long shadows across the worn wooden floorboards, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Kakucho sat rigidly on a stool, the rough-hewn wood digging into his thighs, a stark contrast to the unexpected gentleness he was experiencing.

 

He was used to pain.

 

The sting of betrayal, the sharp bite of a blade, the dull ache of a broken bone – these were familiar companions.

 

But this… this was different.

 

Takemichi, kneeling before him, was a picture of quiet concern, his brow furrowed in concentration as he dabbed at the scrape on Kakucho's cheekbone with a damp cotton ball.

 

The scrape, a testament to a recent brawl, was a minor injury, barely a scratch compared to the wounds Kakucho had endured over the years.

 

Yet, the almost reverent care Takemichi was showing, the delicate touch of his fingers, felt strangely… intimate.

 

“You’re too rough on yourself,” Takemichi muttered, his voice barely a whisper, his entire focus on the task at hand.

 

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken affection. "I hate it," he added, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate more from his chest than his vocal cords.

 

The confession was surprising, vulnerable. Kakucho felt a tightening in his chest, a sensation unfamiliar and yet oddly comforting.

 

He was used to stoicism, to the impenetrable mask of indifference he wore to protect himself. But Takemichi seemed to see past it, to the raw, vulnerable core beneath.

 

Kakucho tried for his usual stoic reply. "It's just a bruise," he said, his voice gruff, his shoulders stiffening, a reflex action born of years of suppressing emotion.

 

He wanted to pull away, to retreat into the familiar fortress of his own detachment. But he couldn't. The warmth radiating from Takemichi, the quiet intensity of his focus, was hypnotic.

 

"You're not," Takemichi countered, his thumb brushing the edge of the cotton ball, stopping just short of Kakucho’s skin, a gentle hesitancy in the movement. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the gaslight. The air thrummed with unspoken emotions, thick and heavy.

 

"You're... more than that," Takemichi finally added. The words were simple, almost naive, yet they carried a weight that resonated deep within Kakucho's soul.

 

He heard the unspoken words echoing in the silence – more than just a fighting machine, more than just a weapon.

 

The casualness with which Takemichi spoke, the way he stated it as a simple fact rather than a bold declaration, sent a jolt through Kakucho. It wasn't a grand proclamation of love, but it was more profound, more deeply felt, and more destabilizing to his carefully constructed defenses.

 

It tied a knot in his chest, a knot of complex emotions he couldn't quite name – surprise, vulnerability, and something else, deep and aching, that felt akin to… hope.

 

Without thinking, Kakucho reached out and caught Takemichi's wrist, his fingers closing lightly around the delicate bones. The contact was electric, sending a wave of heat through Takemichi. He froze, the cotton ball suspended mid-air. His eyes, wide and surprised, met Kakucho's.

 

As their gazes locked, a question flickered in Takemichi's eyes — Why? The unspoken question hung between them, laden with mutual vulnerability.

 

For a long moment, time seemed to stop. Kakucho held Takemichi's wrist, his grip neither forceful nor loose; it was a carefully measured hold, like he cradled a precious thing, something he had to protect from being broken.

 

The quiet intimacy of the moment seemed to stretch for an eternity. Kakucho wasn't sure if he wanted to pull away, to maintain the facade of stoic indifference he had carefully cultivated over the years, or if he should keep holding on, reveling in this unexpected vulnerability.

 

Takemichi’s breath hitched. The scrape on Kakucho’s cheek seemed distant, a minor detail in the context of the intensity of their unspoken connection. The world outside, with its violence and betrayal, faded into the background.

 

It was simply them, two figures bathed in the warm, flickering light of the gas lamp, their emotional distance collapsing around their clasped hands.

 

The weight of unsaid emotions hung heavy in the air. Years of carefully constructed walls, of emotions rigidly suppressed, were crumbling. Kakucho found himself contemplating a future he'd never allowed himself to imagine; a future where there was space for… this.

 

Chapter 18: Hoodie[Smiley]

The air hung heavy with the scent of rain and something else – the musky, almost intoxicating aroma of Nahoya himself. Takemichi wore Nahoya's hoodie like a second skin, the oversized sleeves enveloping his hands as he sat on the worn couch of Nahoya's small apartment.

 

The hood was pulled halfway over his eyes, partially obscuring his features in a shadow. Despite not being the owner of the garment, he wore it with an air of casual confidence and almost reckless intimacy.

 

Nahoya watched him, his gaze lingering on the way Takemichi idly fiddled with the drawstrings, the rhythmic tugging a hypnotic counterpoint to the silence that filled the room.

 

He observed everything: the small movements of the fingers, the way their touch grazed the soft fabric, the quiet contentment in Takemichi’s stance.

 

“Don’t stretch it,” Nahoya said, his voice low and gravelly, a voice that usually hinted at a lurking violence but now laced only with a quiet possessiveness.

 

His words were a statement, a subtle claim of ownership, barely audible above the almost imperceptible sound of the rain against the window pane.

 

Takemichi smiled, a small, knowing smirk that sent a surprising warmth tracing across Nahoya's skin, an unnerving pleasantness dislodging the protective layer of cynicism he usually wore.

 

"It’s comfy. Smells like you," he replied, his voice casual, almost nonchalant, but with a subtle undercurrent of something deeper, something that made Nahoya's grin twitch involuntarily.

 

The words, simple yet laden with implications, felt like a provocation, an invitation to something more. Nahoya’s jaw tightened. He normally thrived on confrontation, violence, the chaotic energy of a fight.

 

But Takemichi's unassuming boldness, his effortless display of intimacy, were utterly disarming. His silence, rather than being an act of aggression, felt like a drawn-out battle, not of fists, but wills.

 

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, punctuated only by the rhythm of the rain.

 

The air crackled with unspoken tension.

 

Was Nahoya angry?

 

Jealous?

 

Or was there something else simmering beneath the surface, something more primal, more profound? Nahoya couldn’t explain the disconcerting warmth creeping into his chest.

 

“You mad?” Takemichi asked, his voice laced with a playful tone, his hand still tugging on the sleeve, the drawstring a thin thread connecting their unspoken feelings. The question hanging in the air was a direct challenge, an invitation to bridge the space that had always existed between their worlds. "Or flattered?"

 

Nahoya didn’t answer verbally, a familiar silence hanging in the air. The unspoken answer, however, was far more profound, more revealing than any words ever could be.

 

Instead of resorting to his usual violence, of which the room displayed abundant signs (shattered glass on a nearby table, a ripped painting leaning precariously against the wall), he rose from his seat with a controlled grace that belied his usually rough edges.

 

He crossed the room, his movements purposeful and steady, and he plucked the hood off Takemichi’s head, his fingers lingering for an almost painfully long moment on Takemichi's hair. The casual gesture held power – a quiet assertion of control, a subtle demonstration of possessiveness.

 

This act, much more intimate than any brawl, dislodged the usual confidence from Takemichi, replacing it with a shy vulnerability only visible through wide, surprised eyes.

 

When he ruffled his hair, the action was light, but felt impossibly intimate, bordering a caress. Takemichi's lips parted, a silent gasp half-formed on the threshold of utterance. He looked vulnerable, caught off-guard, unexpectedly exposed.

 

“Next time,” Nahoya said, his voice low and dangerous, its intensity not from anger but from something akin to barely contained emotion, a torrent of unspoken, complex feelings that seemed to fill the room.

 

The threat was laced with an unfamiliar tenderness, a hint of possessiveness, "ask first."

 

Takemichi smiled, a sudden bright flash that had Nahoya's own heart skipping a beat. But the smile was not just of playful innocence; it held a deeper meaning, an acknowledgement, a silent understanding that reached further than the stolen hoodie, further than that simple piece of clothing that somehow became a symbol of their connection.

 

It was a smile that promised more, a smile that stole the breath from Nahoya's lungs, a smile that made him question everything he thought he knew about himself and the boundaries of his own emotions.

Chapter 19: Almost....[Hakkai]

The air hung thick with the scent of spilled paint, cheap bubblegum, and the lingering sweetness of a thousand teenage crushes. The abandoned warehouse throbbed with a chaotic energy, the remnants of a prank gone wildly awry.

 

Colorful streamers, remnants of a glitter bomb explosion, clung to dusty rafters, a testament to the recent mayhem. Overturned buckets of paint lay scattered across the concrete floor, their vibrant hues a macabre parody of a Jackson Pollock masterpiece.

 

Amidst the debris, a different kind of tension simmered – the silent, charged atmosphere between Takemichi and Hakkai. It hadn’t started as anything serious. It had begun with playful shoves in the crowded hallways of their school, the accidental brushing of hands during shared laughter.

 

Lingering touches that lingered long after the contact was broken, leaving a tingling warmth on Hakkai's skin. Light teasing, escalating into near misses and breathtaking brushes of skin that sent shivers of unpredictable sensations sprawling down his spine.

 

These were not accidents; they were carefully calculated gestures, a silent dance of unspoken attraction.

 

Tonight, however, innocent playfulness had spiraled into something far more intense.

 

The prank, a meticulously planned operation involving glitter bombs, super-soakers, and a strategic deployment of more than a few strategically placed whoopie cushions, had backfired spectacularly.

 

Now, Hakkai found himself trapped, his back pressed against the cold, damp concrete wall, caught between Takemichi's playful aggression and a tidal wave of unexpected emotions.

 

Takemichi, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, stood close, his body a subtle but effective barrier, preventing Hakkai's escape. He seemed to exude a predatory ease, a casual confidence that was both intriguing and unnervingly intense. His hand, a firm pressure against the concrete behind Hakkai, was a physical manifestation of his near dominance over Hakkai’s body, and indirectly, over the situation.

 

Hakkai felt pinned, trapped but strangely undisturbed.

 

Takemichi leaned closer and murmured in the suffocating silence, "You've got something here," his voice softer than any Hakkai would have expected.  His thumb then gently brushed away a stray smudge of chocolate from the corner of Hakkai's mouth.

 

It was only a simple gesture, but Hakkai’s perception of it would determine the outcome of this encounter. It felt intensely intimate. The lightest touch, a fleeting pressure of skin and thumb, left an undeniable warmth spreading across Hakkai's skin.

 

It was a casual action, almost careless, yet it carried a provocative undercurrent, a hint of possessiveness that sent a shiver down his spine. The closeness was stifling, suffocating, but it wasn't exactly unpleasant.

 

Their faces were impossibly close; a mere breath separated them. Hakkai could smell Takemichi's skin – a blend of sweat, lemon, and fresh-cut grass – the unique, invigorating essence of his being, a unique and mesmerizing fragrance that invaded his senses.

 

The intensity of their proximity overwhelmed Hakkai, his mind struggling to keep up with the rapid beating of his heart. He felt a sense of disorientation; trapped amidst a confluence of emotions he hadn’t expected to experience – a swirling mix of fear and exhilaration, a heady cocktail of uncertainty and overwhelming longing.

 

"You always look this red when I touch you?" Takemichi breathed, his lips inches from Hakkai's. The question, a seemingly casual observation, hung heavy in the air, pregnant with untold consequences.

 

Hakkai froze. He couldn't speak; his mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions. The scent of Takemichi, the warmth of his breath, the intense physical proximity… it was too much. His brain short-circuited, unable to process this rapid escalation. He was captivated, paralyzed by a wave of overwhelming attraction.

 

This close confrontation had begun to feel almost unbearably close, almost unbearably real. This is what it meant to be pinned. This is what it meant to be at the mercy of another's presence.

 

The silence that followed Takemichi's departure was deafening. Hakkai remained pressed against the wall, the echoes of his rapid heartbeat ringing in his ears. The air remained thick with the lingering scent of Takemichi's skin, a phantom touch igniting a wildfire of emotions within him – confusion, exhilaration, a powerful, unsettling desire. He was left reeling, a mixture of emotions that couldn't be neatly categorized or immediately resolved.

 

His fingers itched to reach out, to call Takemichi back, to bridge the gap that had suddenly formed between them, that sudden departure that was seemingly so cruelly indifferent. He wanted to force recognition of the near-miss, to demand acknowledgement of the potent tension that had briefly filled the air between them.

 

He yearned for a reciprocation of feeling, an echo of the desires churning within his own heart. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mixture of shyness, fear, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. He slowly ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the lingering ghost of Takemichi's touch, and wondered if it was truly as simple as his companion had presented.

 

A small detail, a slight gesture.

 

Yet it filled Hakkai’s mind, and his heart.

 

He looked around the chaotic aftermath of the prank war, the spilled paint and scattered debris creating only a faint impression on him. He barely registered the vibrant colors; the chaotic setting filled his senses, but it did not penetrate his current concentration. These superficial disturbances didn’t matter now.

 

The only tangible evidence of the confrontation was the lingering warmth on his skin and the unsettling turmoil in his heart. The near-miss felt incredibly stark against this reality. The reality of this casual near-encounter stood in harsh contrast to the overwhelming wave of sensation that had broken over him.

 

Was it real?

 

Had it happened?

 

Or was he simply imagining a response to this overwhelming attraction? This sudden confrontation felt almost like a dream, a thrilling yet painful fantasy that was both acutely real and impossibly fleeting.

 

He remained alone in his reflection long after Takemichi had left. The lingering emotions that overwhelmed him stood a sharp contrast to the physical reality surrounding him. His awareness of his reality stood in stark contrast to the confusion generated by Takemichi’s almost-actions. He still stood there, pressed against the cold, damp concrete, long after Takemichi was gone.

 

Hours later, amidst the clearing up of things, Hakkai still registered only the faint echo of Takemichi's near-touch, the lingering scent of his skin and that lingering warmth on his lips. The almost-kiss, the near-miss, played on a continuous loop in his mind, an agonizing reminder of what could have been, of a connection that remained tantalizingly out of reach. The almost-relationship, the unspoken feelings, gnawed at his soul, a quiet ache that resonated deeply.

 

Days turned into weeks, and the memory of that night in the warehouse remained vivid in Hakkai's mind. The almost-kiss, the near-miss, continued to haunt him, a persistent echo of unspoken emotions, the unsettling power of his attraction to Takemichi.

 

He found himself constantly replaying that encounter in his head, focusing on small details, analyzing every subtle gesture, every exchanged glance, finding new layers of meaning in each fleeting moment. The memory of that night’s intensity was a powerful counterpoint to the mundane nature of his daily experiences.

 

He started to notice Takemichi differently – the way he moved, the way he laughed, the playful glint in his eyes, the subtle confidence that almost radiated from his person. A subtle confidence that had a strange and undeniable appeal.

 

The earlier near misses seemed less like accidents and more a part of a carefully constructed pattern, a subtle game of cat and mouse that he was at once participating in and entirely bewildered by. Hakkai began to wonder if he was being subtly toyed with.

 

Every casual encounter now seemed fraught with unspoken meaning, every shared glance, a clandestine conversation. The lingering touch, the almost-kiss… the intensity of this sudden attraction had deeply disturbed his sense of self-control. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of this attraction; an attraction both exciting and incredibly disturbing.

 

One afternoon, while studying in the school library, Hakkai unexpectedly saw Takemichi. The earlier casualness was gone, replaced by something else almost undefinable. He felt a sudden surge of warmth, then a wave of nervousness. The feeling was so powerful that it seemed to stop him in his tracks. He had to take action, he had no choice.

 

"Hey, Takemichi," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, while a storm raged in his heart.

 

Takemichi looked up, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Hakkai," he replied, his tone equally steady.

 

The brief exchange became a charged confrontation, an unspoken recognition of the intensity of what they had both felt. Their eyes met. To Hakkai, these exchanges felt more powerful than any physical contact, each glance creating a cascade of emotions that both excited and terrified him.

 

This silent exchange was the realization of the unspoken tension that had been steadily developing between them. He felt vulnerable, exposed, yet suddenly at peace with the revelation of what the exchange meant to his life.

 

There was no grand gesture, no dramatic declaration of love. There was only a mutual awareness and recognition of unspoken feelings, a silent acknowledgement of the "almost," the silent potential that lay between them.

 

The almost-kiss, the near-miss… those moments, those charged exchanges in the abandoned warehouse, had cemented a connection that neither could ignore.

 

Chapter 20: A quiet breach[Wakasa]

Notes:

As I've mentioned before, Every character above the age of 17, Takemichi would also be physically around their age so it would not seem like a proship with a 14 year old and a 17+ old character.

The air in the dimly lit bar hung heavy with the aroma of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and the faint, musky scent of old leather. Low-slung jazz music pulsed through the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hushed conversations and the clinking of glasses.

 

Wakasa, a figure carved from shadows and silence, sat perched on a high stool in a quiet corner, his gaze fixed on the swirling ice cubes in his glass. He was a creature of habit, a master of observation, his life a carefully constructed tapestry woven from meticulous surveillance and calculated distance.

 

He was used to people hovering, to the almost suffocating proximity of urban life. He had survived and thrived on his abilities to blend in, to become practically invisible. But these crowded conditions usually didn’t penetrate the quiet spaces of his mind. Crowds were background noise – a necessary evil, but not a personal concern.

 

The chaos simply was. He knew the city well enough to be able to be comfortable even in the most crowded settings.

 

But this was different.

 

Takemichi’s presence was unlike anything Wakasa had ever experienced. It wasn’t the casual intimacy of a shared space; it was a deliberate intrusion, a blatant disregard for the boundaries Wakasa instinctively maintained. The young man perched beside him, casually leaning his elbow on Wakasa's shoulder, had the audacity to make it feel… comfortable.

 

Takemichi's head was tilted, a casual smile playing on his lips. His presence was a gentle pressure, a warm weight that seemed to defy Wakasa's usual stoicism, challenging him in some subtle manner Wakasa was still attempting to decipher.

 

This quiet invasion felt surprisingly compelling. It was a calculated and deliberate breach of the usual respectful distance that Wakasa commanded in his dealings with others.

 

"You're steady," Takemichi observed, his voice a low, relaxed hum cutting through the ambient music. "Like a lamppost. Or a tree." The comparison seemed ridiculous, childish almost, but there was a genuine appreciation in his tone, a subtle sincerity that piqued Wakasa's curiosity.

 

Wakasa side-eyed him, his expression unchanged despite the internal perturbation. The casual comparison, though ostensibly innocent, was unsettling; a violation of his carefully constructed personal space. "You calling me old?" he retorted, his voice a low rumble, masking any hint of surprise the casual comparison might otherwise have evoked.

 

Takemichi grinned. “Nah,” he chuckled, "I like tall, quiet things.” The words were simple, almost bland, yet there was a subtle layer of appreciation, a warmth in the casual compliment that was difficult to ignore.

 

Wakasa found himself fascinated by this casual manipulation of his personal boundaries. This deliberate violation of his personal space evoked an unexpected response, one that went against his usual stoicism.

 

Wakasa didn't react. He didn’t flinch away, didn’t instinctively try to erase this violation of his personally determined perimeters. He remained immobile, a silent, unyielding presence bearing Takemichi's weight without complaint.

 

"You've got no sense of danger," Wakasa muttered, his voice a low growl barely audible above the music as he made an observation rather than an offensive comment.

 

Takemichi rested his chin on his hand, remaining in the same posture, his casual observation seemingly unwavering, and almost certainly ignoring Wakasa’s subdued objection.. "You're not dangerous to me," he replied, his voice calm, almost serene.

 

His seemingly nonchalant observation was a declaration of trust – an almost reckless display of confidence that startled Wakasa with its utter simplicity. It was a statement of faith placed entirely on his seemingly nonchalant companion.

 

Wakasa watched, unmoving and unperturbed, as Takemichi finally stood up and moved casually toward an exit. Wakasa observed his companion's departure, his shoulder still faintly warm from the lingering contact, still bearing the quiet energy of Takemichi’s unusual proximity. What was this inexplicable attraction between the two individuals? The warmth felt almost tangible; a potent counterpoint to Wakasa’s own inherent stoicism.

 

Wakasa remained seated on the stool, the low thrum of the jazz music continuing its steady presence, the ambient sounds undisturbed by his concentration. He watched the bar patrons, his eyes scanning, observing, collecting details.

 

His body was still, but his mind was anything but; he continued to replay Takemichi’s visit in his mind, dissecting it, analyzing every subtle gesture, every seemingly casual move. This deliberate breach of his personal space violated all the implicit rules Wakasa had lived by during his whole life.

 

He pondered Takemichi's casual confidence, examining the unexpected simplicity of the action, exploring the unexpected implication of a simple leaning action. This simple move had triggered a reaction in Wakasa completely at odds with his usual stoicism. The casual touch, the surprising openness, were elements entirely beyond Wakasa's understanding.

 

Although there had been no direct physical contact other than the casual elbow resting on his shoulder, Takemichi’s actions had somehow caused Wakasa’s emotional equilibrium to be disturbed. The unexpected and completely unsolicited interaction had somehow unsettled Wakasa despite his best attempts to maintain emotional detachment.

 

This subtle disturbance, a disturbance he would never have expected, had unsettled his usual stoic resolve.

 

He considered the implications of Takemichi's words, the seemingly innocent comparisons, the subtle flattery that implied something deeper than simple conversation. His words hinted at a comprehension of what Wakasa rarely allowed himself to consider – vulnerability, connection.

 

The implications of Takemichi’s casual presence and words created a sharp and sudden counterpoint to Wakasa’s self-imposed isolation. They were casual words that carried, however, an untold significance, a meaningful undercurrent that Wakasa couldn’t ignore.

 

Wakasa’s mind remained occupied long after Takemichi had left. The lingering warmth on his shoulder, a tactile reminder of the unexpected exchange, became a focal point for his internal reflection. The casual trust, the implicit confidence, were elements entirely beyond Wakasa's normal understanding of human interaction.

 

The quiet strength, the solid foundation suggested by Takemichi's words – these elements were unexpectedly attractive to Wakasa, a subtle suggestion of something beyond the usual patterns of his existence. Wakasa did not have a concept of a response.

 

He was entirely outside his comfort zone, examining these interactions with careful precision. This interaction was a breach of his self-imposed barriers, and yet it was, in some unexpected manner, remarkably undisturbed. He was fascinated by this perturbation.

 

The hours that followed saw Wakasa still grappling with the echoes of the encounter, observing the ongoing activities of the bar patrons whilst still examining the unexpected complexities of his unexpected experience.

 

He continued to dissect every detail, trying to decipher the cryptic communication inherent in Takemichi’s approach, analyzing the casual confidence and thoughtful implications of every moment.

 

He was fascinated not only by Takemichi’s casualness but also by the resulting emotional disturbances this unexpected familiarity generated.

 

 

The image of Takemichi, casually leaning on his shoulder, remained stubbornly imprinted in Wakasa's mind. The casual confidence, the subtle trust, the deliberate breach of his personal space – all were elements he continued to meticulously dissect, trying to understand their significance.

 

Days turned into weeks, and Wakasa continued his routine, still preoccupied by what was clearly a violation of his rigid personal space but which seemed so unexpectedly comforting. The casualness of Takemichi's approach continued to intrigue him.

 

Wakasa found himself unexpectedly pondering the implications of this subtle confrontation, questioning what effect this unprecedented interaction might have on his carefully constructed life. He was surprised by the power of this unexpected casualness.

 

He reviewed the details of the bar encounter in his mind. The casual observation, the unexpected compliment, were elements that triggered a response entirely alien to his nature. The implied connection, the unexpected invitation—Wakasa considered the potential implications of a violation of his stoic approach. This casual exchange had created a powerful echo in his normally quiet soul.

 

One evening, while patrolling his usual haunts, Wakasa unexpectedly found himself in a similar situation to the previous encounter. Takemichi, seeing him, approached with a calm confidence entirely at odds with Wakasa’s usual detached demeanor.

 

“You seem… pensive,” Takemichi remarked, his tone casual, almost teasing.

 

Wakasa paused, meeting Takemichi’s gaze with a cautious intensity. The same casual confidence, the same deliberate avoidance of any overt display of aggression.

 

“Is there something on my mind?” Wakasa replied, his voice betraying none of his inner preoccupation.

 

Takemichi smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. “Maybe,” he said, his eyes twinkling. There was a subtle implication to this comment, an understanding that went beyond their previous encounter, a shared acknowledgment of the almost unspoken connection that had developed between them. There was a silent implication of a potential for a future connection that had been unexpected and yet implicitly welcomed.

 

"Maybe," Wakasa responded, the word a quiet acknowledgment of his own emotional turmoil.

 

There was no grand gesture, no dramatic declaration. It simply was an implicit recognition of the potential that was almost casually hinted at at their bar encounter. It was, for Wakasa, an acceptance of a sudden reality. His usual detachment had failed him, the casual encounter initiating a change in his previously isolated personality.

 

The quiet strength, the subtle confidence, the unexpected warmth – these were the elements that had begun to reshape Wakasa's carefully constructed world.

 

Chapter 21: Menace [Takeomi]

Notes:

Sorry for not uploading in a few days, got writers block. Anyways just like before, If a character is 17+ Takemichi would be around the same age as them.

The rooftop bar is the kind of place where secrets get bought in whispers and spilled in gin. Takeomi’s halfway through his second cigarette when he feels someone slip into the seat beside him — casual, like they belong there.

 

"Takeomi," Takemichi greets, voice smooth. No stutter. No panic. Just calm, dangerous calm.

 

Takeomi doesn’t look at him right away. Just smirks and flicks ash over the railing. “Didn’t think this place was your scene, Hanagaki.”

 

Takemichi hums, swirling the amber in his glass. “Funny. People always say that about me.”

 

Takeomi finally turns. And there he is — same messy hair, same faint bags under his eyes — but something's shifted. Maybe it’s the sharp watch on his wrist, or the way he lounges like he owns the night.

 

“You used to cry if someone looked at you too hard,” Takeomi says, studying him.

 

“I still do,” Takemichi says lightly. “Sometimes. Doesn’t mean I don’t see them coming.”

 

That earns a short laugh. Takeomi gestures with his glass. “So, what’s the play here? I’ve got guys defecting left and right, and your name keeps coming up — usually followed by a favor they can’t say no to.”

 

“I’m just good at listening,” Takemichi replies, a smile curling. “People like to be heard. You should try it sometime.”

 

“Careful,” Takeomi warns, the amusement dropping just slightly from his tone. “You might be rising fast, but you’re not untouchable.”

 

Takemichi leans in. “Neither are you.”

 

The air crackles between them.

 

Takeomi’s quiet for a beat, then chuckles. “You’ve changed.”

 

Takemichi tilts his head. “Maybe I just stopped hiding.”

 

They sit like that for a while — two kings on opposite corners of the board, neither moving a piece. Yet.

 

“I remember when you couldn’t lie to save your life,” Takeomi says after a moment, almost nostalgic.

 

“I still can’t,” Takemichi replies with a grin. “I just stopped telling the whole truth.”

 

Takeomi exhales, looking at him with something between respect and wariness. “What are you trying to become?”

 

Takemichi finishes his drink, stands, and tosses a folded note on the table — a name, a meeting place, a warning. “Something that makes even you nervous.”

 

He walks off without looking back.

 

Takeomi picks up the note and laughs.

 

“Menace,” he mutters, almost fond.

 

 

Notes:

Sorry if this was short, writers block took a heavy hit on me.

Chapter 22: Wanna dance, crybaby? [Hanma]

“You know,” Hanma drawls, spinning a switchblade between two fingers, “when I heard you were making waves, I figured someone was pulling a prank.”

 

Takemichi doesn't flinch. He’s seated on a crate like he owns the place, jacket half-off, hands stained from recent business. “Disappointed?”

 

“Intrigued,” Hanma replies, smile like a crescent moon. “Didn’t peg you for the puppetmaster type, Hanagaki. More like… the sacrificial lamb.”

 

Takemichi leans back, resting his chin in his hand. “That’s what makes it fun.”

 

Hanma whistles low. “You’re so not the guy I chased around the city a couple years ago.”

 

“No,” Takemichi says, calm as ever. “Back then I thought I had to save everyone. Now I’m just choosing who’s worth the effort.”

 

Hanma’s grin widens. “Cold.”

 

“Necessary.”

 

He steps closer, just enough for tension to rise. “So what’s your angle now? Build your own empire? Take Mikey’s spot? Or are you just collecting favors like pretty little coins?”

 

Takemichi’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Does it matter, if people keep handing them over?”

 

Hanma chuckles, low and delighted. “God, you’re terrifying. I like it.”

 

“I know.”

 

There’s a pause. Electricity hums between them — not quite threat, not quite invitation.

 

“You ever think about joining me?” Hanma offers, eyes glittering. “Two monsters under one roof. Think of the chaos.”

 

Takemichi stands, stepping close enough that their shoulders almost brush. “I don’t join chaos,” he murmurs, voice like steel under silk. “I let it think it’s in control… right before I bury it.”

 

Hanma watches him walk away, heart thudding like drums at war.

 

And for once in his life… he isn’t sure who the real danger in the room was.

Chapter 23: Checkmate's just the beginning [Kisaki]

Notes:

If I have a hanma chapter, I have to have a kisaki chapter after.

“You’ve changed.”

 

Kisaki’s voice cuts through the still air like a blade.

 

Takemichi doesn’t respond immediately — just closes the notebook in his hands, slowly, like a final chapter. “I had to. You kept killing everyone I cared about.”

 

Kisaki’s smile is thin, wary. “And now you think you’re strong enough to stop me?”

 

“No,” Takemichi replies. “I think I’m smart enough to beat you.”

 

That makes Kisaki pause.

 

The Hanagaki he remembers would’ve yelled. Pleaded. Thrown himself between people and bullets like some self-sacrificial fool.

 

But this version of Takemichi sits with his back straight, voice calm, eyes calculating.

 

Dangerous.

 

“How many times did you go back?” Kisaki asks, fingers twitching with curiosity. “How many futures did you die in before this one?”

 

Takemichi leans forward. “Enough to stop caring about being liked.”

 

Kisaki studies him. “So this is your endgame? Turning into me?”

 

Takemichi’s laugh is low and humorless. “No. You burn everything down just to be king of the ashes. I? I rebuild. And then I bury you under the foundation.”

 

The silence that follows feels suffocating.

 

Finally, Kisaki smirks again — not the confident one, but the one he wears when he’s covering fear. “Let’s say you win. What then?”

 

Takemichi shrugs. “Then I erase you. Not just from history — from memory. From legacy. Like you were nothing but a bad dream.”

 

And for the first time in any timeline, Kisaki Tetta sees something unfamiliar in Takemichi’s eyes:

 

Pity.

 

“Goodbye, Kisaki.”

 

He leaves him there in the silence, staring at a door that’s already closed.

 

 

Notes:

Just realised that I haven't done ONE Chifuyu chapter yet...if you don't count the redecorating chapter.

Chapter 24: The Crybaby Plays Dirty [Shion]

Notes:

Another tenjiku Takemichi AU.

Shion cracks his knuckles, grinning like a wolf. “You sure about this, Crybaby?”

 

Takemichi’s already stepping into the circle. No flinching. No trembling. Just calm, measured breaths as the crowd hollers around them.

 

He tilts his head. “You’ve lost, what, twelve out of your last fifteen fights?”

 

Shion blinks. “Oi, don’t get cocky.”

 

Takemichi shrugs. “Just saying. I like my odds.”

 

That shouldn’t irritate Shion, but somehow it does. There’s something off about the way Takemichi says it — like he’s not just confident. Like he’s bored.

 

The bell rings.

 

Shion lunges with a wild swing. Fast. Brutal. Loud. Everything he’s known for.

 

But Takemichi doesn’t even try to dodge.

 

He steps into the punch.

 

It grazes his cheek, but not before his fist slams straight into Shion’s ribs with perfect, surgical aim. Twice. A beat later, Shion’s gasping for air.

 

“What the hell—?”

 

“You fight like you’ve never been hurt for real,” Takemichi says flatly, stepping forward again. “You throw fists like they’ll fix your inferiority complex.”

 

The crowd laughs.

 

Shion roars and swings again — sloppier this time — only to find himself flipped, slammed to the mat with a move too clean for someone “helpless.”

 

Takemichi doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smirk.

 

He crouches next to Shion, voice low enough that no one else can hear.

 

“You thought I’d play fair because I cry when people die?”

 

A pause.

 

“I only cry when they mattered.”

 

And Shion… stays down.

 

Because for once, the “crybaby” didn’t need saving — he was the one delivering the warning.

 

Notes:

Shion is one of my biggest hear me out of Tokyo Revengers. I'm not proud of it.

Chapter 25: The Quiet Ones Lie Best [Shinichiro]

“You remind me of myself,” Shinichiro says, handing Takemichi a cold drink from the tiny garage fridge.

 

Takemichi blinks, startled. “Me? Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Shinichiro leans against the workbench, hands dusty, sleeves rolled. “Quiet. Stubborn. Gets in over his head a lot.”

 

Takemichi chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is that a compliment?”

 

“It is,” Shinichiro says. “Because people like us don’t give up. Even when we probably should.”

 

Something in his voice makes Takemichi pause.

 

He studies the older boy — the tired eyes, the careful kindness. A ghost of something familiar. Something doomed.

 

“You’re different too,” Takemichi says, softly. “Not like the stories.”

 

Shinichiro raises an eyebrow. “Stories?”

 

Takemichi sips his drink. “The way others talk about you. It’s all legend and tragedy. But… they never mention how tired you looked.”

 

A pause.

 

Shinichiro doesn’t ask how Takemichi would know that.

 

And Takemichi doesn’t explain.

 

Instead, they sit in the soft hum of the garage light — two boys, both pretending they’re simpler than they are.

 

“I think you’re hiding something,” Shinichiro says eventually.

 

Takemichi smiles faintly. “I think you knew I was the moment I walked in.”

 

Another pause. Then Shinichiro chuckles. “You’re dangerous, huh?”

 

Takemichi finally looks him in the eye. “Only when I have to be.”

 

Shinichiro nods like he understands. Because maybe, in some quiet corner of himself, he does.

 

And for once, Takemichi doesn’t feel the need to run.

Chapter 26: Wrong fight, right guy [Hanma]

Summary:

Takemichi didn’t mean to flirt with a dangerous, tattooed lunatic—he meant to threaten him. But somewhere between throwing a punch and dodging a flirtatious grin, Hanma flipped the whole script. Now Takemichi is stuck in a game of cat and mouse—except the mouse is blushing, and the cat is way too into it.

Notes:

I fucking love writing hanma. Idk why.

“You again?”

 

Takemichi’s voice cracked at the worst time. Not because he was scared. No. He was not scared. He was just… surprised. That was all. Because there, lounging on a broken metal staircase in a half-abandoned parking lot like he was born for crime dramas, was Hanma Shuji—shirt open, cigarette dangling from his lips, and smirking like he had been expecting Takemichi to show up.

 

Which was impossible. Right?

 

“I told you I’d find you,” Takemichi said, fisting his hands at his sides. “You don’t get to screw with my friends and walk away like it’s—like it’s sexy or something.”

 

Hanma snorted. “You think I’m sexy?”

 

Takemichi blinked. “That’s not what I—”

 

Hanma flicked the cigarette away, hopping off the stair with theatrical grace, his long limbs swinging like a lazy pendulum. “You sure? ‘Cause that was the best compliment I’ve gotten all week.”

 

“I was threatening you!” Takemichi snapped.

 

“You flirt weird.”

 

“I wasn’t—!”

 

But it was too late. Hanma was already circling him like a shark, head tilted, grin impossibly wide. His golden and black tattoo shimmered under the dim streetlight, and the closer he got, the harder Takemichi’s brain short-circuited.

 

Hanma leaned in close, voice low. “So what now, Hanagaki? Gonna take me down? Tie me up?”

 

Takemichi tried to be intimidating, but his voice came out three octaves too high. “W-What’s wrong with you?!”

 

Hanma cackled and Takemichi took a half-step back.

 

Big mistake.

 

Hanma chased the space like a challenge, stepping forward until Takemichi’s back hit the cold concrete wall. “If I didn’t know better,” Hanma purred, “I’d think you came here to flirt.”

 

“You’re delusional.”

 

“And you’re adorable when you lie.”

 

Takemichi knew he should punch him. That was the plan. Run in, throw a punch, and tell Hanma to stay away from Mitsuya. But somehow, he was stuck here—flushed and cornered and very aware that Hanma’s shirt was only held together by one button.

 

“I’m warning you,” Takemichi tried, trying to sound like a delinquent and not someone on the verge of cardiac arrest. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

 

“Is that a threat,” Hanma said, stepping closer, “or a promise?”

 

Takemichi’s brain short-circuited. “What—what the hell does that even mean?!”

 

Hanma tilted his head, grinning wider. “Means if you wanna fight me, you better buy me dinner first.”

 

Takemichi gaped. “What is wrong with you?!”

 

Hanma’s eyes glittered. “You want a list?”

 

“No!”

 

“Too bad. Number one: I’m obsessed with chaos. Number two: I think you’re cute when you’re mad. Number three—”

 

“You think I’m cute?”

 

Hanma raised an eyebrow. “You did threaten me in a back alley. That’s a bold move. Kinda hot.”

 

“I was trying to punch you!”

 

“You missed.”

 

Takemichi huffed. “You dodged!”

 

Hanma leaned closer, palm against the wall next to Takemichi’s head. “You blushed.”

 

“I did not!”

 

“You’re still blushing.”

 

Takemichi’s cheeks were hot. His entire face, actually. “Shut up.”

 

Hanma’s voice dropped an octave. “Make me.”

 

That should have been Takemichi’s cue to punch him. But something about the glint in Hanma’s eye, the way he was so casually reckless and flirtatious—it scrambled his brain chemistry. So instead, Takemichi crossed his arms and said the first stupid thing that came to mind.

 

“Fine. You’re hot.”

 

Hanma blinked. “Oh?”

 

“But you’re also insane.”

 

Hanma grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

 

“It is!”

 

“But you still think I’m hot.”

 

“I didn’t mean to!”

 

Hanma’s laughter echoed off the walls, wild and delighted. “God, you’re fun.”

 

“I’m not trying to be fun!”

 

“I know.” He leaned in, nose practically brushing Takemichi’s. “That’s what makes it better.”

 

Takemichi swallowed thickly. “What do you want from me?”

 

Hanma hummed, tapping his finger against his chin. “Dunno. A kiss? A second date? Maybe for you to shove me against a wall and tell me I’m a bad boy who needs to be punished.”

 

“WHAT?!”

 

Hanma waggled his brows. “C’mon, you cornered me in an alley. What did you expect me to say?”

 

“Something normal! Like ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I’ll leave your friends alone!’”

 

“That’s boring.” He stepped back just enough to slide his hand into Takemichi’s. “Tell you what. You beat me in a fight, I’ll behave. But if I win—”

 

“You’re not winning!”

 

Hanma smirked. “Then I guess you better hit me, hero.”

 

Takemichi did try to hit him. Several times. And to his credit, he even managed to land a punch—right across Hanma’s smug mouth. But instead of going down, Hanma laughed, blood trickling from the corner of his lips.

 

“You’re so hot when you fight me,” he growled.

 

“You’re a menace,” Takemichi panted.

 

Hanma lunged again, and Takemichi yelped, dodging behind a pillar.

 

Hanma chased him like it was a game, laughing the whole time. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll enjoy it?”

 

“I hate you!”

 

“Then why are you smiling?”

 

Takemichi paused. He was smiling. A stupid, breathless grin pulling at his lips.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

 

Hanma caught him again, slamming a hand to the wall beside him. “Wanna know what I think?”

 

“No.”

 

He leaned in anyway. “I think you came here to be the hero. But you didn’t expect the villain to flirt back.”

 

Takemichi’s breath hitched.

 

Hanma’s voice dropped. “So what now? You gonna slap the smirk off my face or kiss it?”

 

Takemichi stared at him. Hanma’s eyes were wide and dark, a little wild but not cruel. He looked like trouble, like chaos, like every warning sign rolled into one.

 

But his voice was soft.

 

Almost gentle.

 

And for some godforsaken reason, Takemichi’s pulse fluttered like a stupid little hummingbird.

 

“I’m gonna do something stupid,” Takemichi whispered.

 

Hanma’s grin widened. “Promise?”

 

And just like that—Takemichi kissed him.

 

It wasn’t graceful. Takemichi practically threw himself forward, mouth colliding with Hanma’s in a way that was more teeth than lips. But Hanma caught him, arms looping around his waist like a net, and kissed back with enthusiasm, like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.

 

When they broke apart, Takemichi was flushed and breathless, clinging to Hanma’s shirt like a life preserver.

 

“That was…” he gasped.

 

“Hot?” Hanma offered.

 

“Dumb!”

 

“Even better.”

 

Takemichi tried to glare. It came out more like a pout. “You’re not supposed to enjoy getting punched.”

 

Hanma shrugged. “I enjoy getting kissed more.”

 

“I’m not doing it again.”

 

“Liar.”

 

Takemichi hesitated. “Okay, maybe once more.”

 

Hanma didn’t wait. He leaned in again, softer this time, one hand cradling the back of Takemichi’s neck. The second kiss was slower—less chaos, more heat. It left Takemichi dizzy in a different way.

 

When they finally pulled back, Hanma rested his forehead against Takemichi’s.

 

“So,” Hanma murmured. “About that dinner date…”

 

Takemichi groaned. “You’re the worst.”

 

Hanma grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

 

They didn’t date immediately. They made out in a few more alleys. Takemichi called him an “idiot” more times than he could count. Hanma called him “sweetheart” just to watch him turn red.

 

But eventually—after a few midnight texts, a stolen helmet ride, and one memorable moment where Takemichi tackled him into a river for being “too smug”—they found a rhythm.

 

Takemichi still didn’t understand why he liked Hanma.

 

Hanma never explained why he only smiled that way around Takemichi.

 

But maybe that was the point.

 

Some things didn’t need explaining.

 

Some fights ended in stolen kisses and crooked grins.

 

And sometimes—just sometimes—the hero didn’t save the villain.

 

He dated him instead.

 

Chapter 27: Reverse Uno (You're Blushing, Chifuyu)

Notes:

Finally! A Chifuyu one.

Chifuyu liked to think he had the upper hand when it came to flirting.

 

He was confident, charming (in a half-broken street-punk sort of way), and—when the mood struck—completely unfiltered. Teasing Takemichi had become something of a sport. A cute one, too—especially when the guy blushed so easily it was like his entire face short-circuited at the word “hot.”

 

So yeah. Chifuyu had game.

 

That was, until Takemichi decided to ruin everything.

 

“Nice shirt,” Takemichi said, leaning on Chifuyu’s shoulder.

 

Chifuyu blinked. They were at his place. Takemichi had come over to help reorganize his manga collection (and maybe spend the night—but that wasn’t important). What was important was that Takemichi was suddenly leaning in, grinning like he knew something.

 

Chifuyu glanced down. “Uh. Just a black tee?”

 

Takemichi hummed, voice dangerously casual. “Yeah. It’s tight.”

 

Chifuyu squinted. “…Are you flirting with me?”

 

Takemichi grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

And that’s when Chifuyu realized he was in danger.

 

Because Takemichi—nervous, awkward, perma-blushing Takemichi—was smirking. Confidently. And way too close.

 

“I—uh—what’s gotten into you?” Chifuyu stammered, backing up.

 

Takemichi followed him with a lazy stroll, arms crossed. “Just appreciating the view. Can’t I admire my very handsome, very crush-worthy best friend?”

 

Chifuyu choked. “You never call me that!”

 

“Maybe I should.” Takemichi tilted his head, faux-innocent. “Would that fluster you, Chifuyu-kun?”

 

The honorific hit like a bullet.

 

“Oh my god,” Chifuyu muttered. “You’ve lost it.”

 

“No, no.” Takemichi took another step forward. “I’ve found something. Your weak spot.”

 

Chifuyu’s back hit the wall.

 

Takemichi grinned, placing a hand beside his head.

 

Chifuyu’s breath caught. “Takemichi—”

 

“You always do this to me,” Takemichi said, voice low. “Flirting like it’s your full-time job. Winking. Stretching. Saying things like ‘you like what you see?’ And then you smirk.” He leaned closer. “So I figured it’s my turn.”

 

Chifuyu swallowed hard. “Okay. Okay, let’s—just—breathe. Time-out.”

 

Takemichi raised an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”

 

“No!” Chifuyu squeaked, then cleared his throat. “I mean. Unless you want to.”

 

Takemichi laughed, leaning away at last. “You're adorable when you're cornered.”

 

Chifuyu sat on the edge of the bed, holding his face. “You’re evil.”

 

“I learned from the best.”

 

“Traitor.”

 

Takemichi flopped next to him, proud. “Don’t worry. I’ll only use my powers for good.”

 

“Define ‘good.’”

 

“I don’t know. Making you blush. Getting you flustered. Seeing how many times I can get you to drop something when I compliment your arms.”

 

“You noticed my arms?”

 

Takemichi very obviously looked at them. “You wore a sleeveless hoodie last week. What did you think was going to happen?”

 

Chifuyu covered his face again. “I was trying to look cool!”

 

“And you did. I nearly fell down the stairs.”

 

Chifuyu groaned. “I hate you.”

 

Takemichi patted his shoulder. “No you don’t.”

 

“…No, I don’t.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment.

 

Then Takemichi spoke, quieter. “You know, it’s easier to flirt now. When I’m not scared you’re gonna laugh at me.”

 

Chifuyu looked up. “I’d never laugh at you.”

 

“I know that now. But I didn’t, back when we first got close. You always seemed so… put-together.”

 

“Me? I eat cold ramen and cry at dog commercials.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ve got this way about you. Like—you know what you’re doing. Meanwhile, I’m over here tripping on flat surfaces.”

 

Chifuyu softened. “You’re the bravest person I know, you know that?”

 

Takemichi blinked. “What?”

 

“You’ve been through hell and back for people. You’ve faced more than anyone should. And still, you’re here, smiling, calling me hot and flirting with your whole chest.”

 

Takemichi flushed. “Okay, that makes me sound cooler than I am.”

 

“It makes you real.”

 

They sat quietly again, a little closer this time.

 

Chifuyu reached out, his pinky brushing against Takemichi’s.

 

Takemichi took the invitation, linking their fingers.

 

“…I liked seeing you all bold and teasing,” Chifuyu admitted.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. It suits you.”

 

Takemichi smirked. “Then brace yourself, Chifuyu-kun.”

 

Chifuyu glared. “Don’t.”

 

Takemichi leaned in again, voice sweetly evil. “You want me to stop, Chifuyu-kun?”

 

“Takemichi, I swear—”

 

Too late.

 

Takemichi kissed his cheek and whispered, “You’re blushing again.”

 

Chifuyu groaned and shoved him over onto the bed.

 

Takemichi laughed, triumphant.

 

“I’m never safe again,” Chifuyu muttered into the pillow.

 

“Nope,” Takemichi grinned. “Welcome to the new era.”

 

 

 

Notes:

Bonus Scene: The Next Day

 

Draken: “Why is Chifuyu walking into walls?”

 

Mitsuya: “Takemichi winked at him this morning.”

 

Draken: “That’ll do it.”

Chapter 28: Slow burn and heavy heat. [Mikey]

Notes:

GAYS. GAYS, GAYS I SAY.

The room was dim, bathed in the gold-orange glow of paper lanterns strung lazily across the ceiling. A bottle rolled across the floor, clinking softly against the wooden floorboards as everyone groaned or grinned at the next victim.

 

"Truth or dare, Mikey?"

 

The circle turned quiet.

 

Mikey yawned, legs crossed, fingers absently playing with the hem of his hoodie. His eyes—half-lidded, unreadable—drifted toward Takemichi sitting directly across from him.

 

"Dare."

 

Baji smirked. "Alright then... I dare you to sit in Takemichi's lap for the rest of the game."

 

The reaction was a mixture of gasps and snickers.

 

Takemichi blinked. "Wha—hey, what kind of—?"

 

Mikey stood.

 

The room went still.

 

He walked over without a word, straddled Takemichi's thighs like it was nothing, and settled down with infuriating calm. Their faces were inches apart. Takemichi's back hit the couch as Mikey leaned against him, light and natural, like he did this all the time.

 

He didn’t.

 

Takemichi’s breath stuttered.

 

“Comfortable?” Mikey asked, voice low, just for him.

 

Takemichi nodded slowly. “You’re light.”

 

“You’re warm.”

 

The game moved on, but neither of them heard it. Not really. Not with the weight of Mikey’s hips on his thighs, or the way Mikey’s breath ghosted against his neck when he leaned in to whisper something sarcastic during Kazutora’s turn.

 

Takemichi was aware of every inch of contact. Mikey’s fingers lightly brushing against his chest. The way his knees pressed tight against Takemichi’s sides. The curve of his back when he shifted a little, getting more comfortable.

 

And Mikey wasn’t looking away.

 

Their eyes kept meeting. And neither of them backed down.

 

By the time the game ended and everyone else scattered—some laughing, others pretending not to notice the tension—Mikey was still in Takemichi’s lap.

 

“Truth or dare?” Mikey asked, soft.

 

Takemichi tilted his head. “Still playing?”

 

“I am now.”

 

Takemichi licked his lips. “Dare.”

 

Mikey smiled.

 

“Touch me.”

 

Takemichi’s heart flipped. “Where?”

 

“Wherever you want.”

 

Silence stretched between them, the kind that felt alive. Breathing. Buzzing.

 

Takemichi’s hands moved slowly, deliberately—one to Mikey’s waist, the other to his thigh, fingers brushing the inside seam of his jeans. Mikey inhaled.

 

“Here?” Takemichi asked, teasing.

 

Mikey’s mouth curled into a dangerous smile. “Mmh. Try higher.”

 

Takemichi’s hand glided up to his lower back, then higher, fingers splayed across Mikey’s spine. He tugged him closer.

 

Mikey let it happen. His chest pressed to Takemichi’s, foreheads nearly touching.

 

“You’re not nervous?” Mikey asked, quiet.

 

“Terrified,” Takemichi whispered. “But you’re still in my lap.”

 

“That I am.”

 

Takemichi let his fingers trail along Mikey’s jaw, the pads of them tracing the curve of his cheekbone. He wanted to memorize him. Hold every scar, every shadow, in his hands.

 

“You always play like this?”

 

Mikey chuckled. “Only when I want something.”

 

Takemichi swallowed. “And what do you want?”

 

“You.”

 

It wasn’t a joke.

 

Takemichi’s throat went dry. “Then take me.”

 

Mikey stilled.

 

“I mean,” Takemichi added, voice rough with restrained heat, “if you’re gonna sit here like this, grinding into me with every breath, looking at me like I’m already yours—then do it. No half-measures. No pretending.”

 

Mikey’s breath hitched.

 

A slow burn crept across his face, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned closer, nose brushing Takemichi’s.

 

“You’ve changed,” Mikey murmured.

 

“So have you.”

 

“I like it.”

 

Takemichi’s hands slid beneath Mikey’s hoodie, finding the warm skin beneath. Mikey exhaled sharply, fingers curling in Takemichi’s hair.

 

“You like teasing people, huh?” Mikey asked.

 

“Only you.”

 

Mikey’s lips parted. Takemichi took that as permission.

 

Their kiss was slow. Not desperate. Not rough. But it burned—a quiet, heavy heat. Mikey tilted his head, deepening it, one hand cupping the back of Takemichi’s neck.

 

When they parted, breathless, foreheads pressed together again, Mikey didn’t move away.

 

“This isn’t just a game,” he said.

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re not scared I’ll leave again?”

 

Takemichi shook his head. “Not if I hold on.”

 

Mikey’s hands tightened in his shirt.

 

“…Then don’t let go.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Later, they didn’t talk much. They stayed curled on the couch, Mikey still sitting in Takemichi’s lap, hoodie half off, their breathing synced. No more dares. No more distractions.

 

Just warmth. And heat.

 

And the soft echo of something real beginning to burn.

 

The night deepened. The glow from the lanterns dimmed until the room was shadows and silhouettes. Somewhere down the hall, laughter echoed faintly—but it was distant. Unimportant.

 

Mikey shifted, deliberately slow. Takemichi’s hands steadied him by instinct, and Mikey hummed.

 

“Still warm,” Mikey murmured.

 

Takemichi chuckled softly, voice a little husky. “Still sitting on me.”

 

“I like your lap.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

Mikey leaned down, nose brushing Takemichi’s neck. “What if I don’t want to get up?”

 

Takemichi's fingers pressed into Mikey’s hips. “Then don’t. Stay as long as you want.”

 

Mikey’s breath tickled against his skin. “Even if I misbehave?”

 

Takemichi’s voice dropped, slow and smooth. “You’ve been misbehaving since the second you sat down.”

 

Mikey smirked. “And yet you haven’t stopped me.”

 

“I like the view.”

 

Mikey sat back, eyes glittering in the low light. “You’re bold now.”

 

Takemichi grinned. “You started it.”

 

Mikey reached back, grabbed Takemichi’s wrists, and placed his hands squarely on his waist. “Then finish it.”

 

Takemichi’s hands gripped tighter. Mikey rolled his hips, slow and dangerous.

 

“You sure?” Takemichi asked.

 

Mikey's voice dipped, sultry. “Try me.”

 

They kissed again, rougher now. Mikey tugged Takemichi closer by the shirt, and Takemichi’s hands slid beneath fabric, caressing the sharp lines of Mikey’s back. Their mouths moved in rhythm, not frantic—but heavy, sensual, every brush of lips like a dare.

 

Mikey rocked in his lap, steady, teasing pressure. Takemichi groaned, hands moving lower, squeezing the top of Mikey’s thighs.

 

“I could get used to this,” Mikey whispered.

 

Takemichi kissed the corner of his mouth. “You already have.”

 

They didn’t need a bed. Not yet. The couch, the heat between them, the weight of years and longing—it was enough for now.

 

Fingers tangled in hair. Mouths met again and again.

 

And beneath it all, something sweet and raw: trust. History. A bond reforged in fire.

 

Mikey kissed Takemichi’s jaw, then his throat, his voice muffled against skin. “Don’t stop touching me.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

 

Their bodies fit, movements smooth and easy now—like puzzle pieces pressed too close for separation.

 

It was past midnight when Mikey finally stopped moving, head tucked into Takemichi’s neck.

 

“You still awake?”

 

Takemichi nodded against his hair. “Yeah.”

 

“I think I like you too much.”

 

Takemichi smiled. “Good. That means I’m winning.”

 

Mikey chuckled, lazy and warm. “Truth or dare?”

 

Takemichi groaned. “Again?”

 

“Last one.”

 

“Fine. Truth.”

 

“Did you mean it? When you said you’d hold on?”

 

Takemichi’s arms wrapped tighter around him. “Every word.”

 

Mikey closed his eyes, heart thudding quietly. “Then don’t let go.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

And he didn’t.

 

Mikey didn’t move at first.

 

He just stayed in Takemichi’s lap, back straight but tense, breath slowing but shallow. The room buzzed with static—the kind that clung to skin, built in silence, and ignited with the slightest spark.

 

Takemichi knew what he was doing now.

 

He slid a hand slowly up Mikey’s thigh, not breaking eye contact. “You're not running,” he murmured.

 

“Should I be?” Mikey’s voice was lower, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. Vulnerable. Dangerous.

 

Takemichi leaned forward until their noses brushed. “Depends. Are you scared of what I’ll do if you stay?”

 

Mikey’s mouth twitched. Not a smile—more like a dare.

 

Then, Takemichi’s hands moved. One cupped Mikey’s waist, steady, firm. The other traced the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin. Mikey’s breath caught—not from fear. From anticipation.

 

“You flirt like you mean it now,” Mikey whispered.

 

Takemichi’s smile curved. “That’s because I do.”

 

He tugged Mikey closer, hips pressing, and Mikey let out a soft exhale, fingers curling into Takemichi’s shirt. The tension snapped taut—delicious and dizzying.

 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Mikey muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

 

“And you love danger.” Takemichi’s voice was a low rasp now. “You like sitting in the fire.”

 

His lips grazed Mikey’s jaw, teasing. Mikey shivered—subtle, but real. Takemichi felt it, tracked it with his lips: down Mikey’s neck, soft skin against soft breath, pausing just below his ear.

 

“I wonder,” Takemichi said softly, “what it would take to really make you fall apart.”

 

Mikey’s hands moved to his shoulders—steady, gripping hard. “You’re really pushing it.”

 

Takemichi met his gaze, dark heat flickering in his own. “You haven’t stopped me.”

 

And then Mikey leaned down—crashing their mouths together.

 

The kiss was not gentle. It was all teeth and tension, rough edges and fire. Mikey kissed like a man starved. Takemichi responded in kind, threading his fingers into Mikey’s hair and tugging—not cruelly, but possessively.

 

Mikey gasped into him, and Takemichi swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding under Mikey’s shirt now, palm pressed to the bare skin of his back.

 

“You really don’t fight fair,” Mikey murmured as he pulled back, breathing hard, lips flushed.

 

“Neither do you.” Takemichi nipped at his lower lip. “Now we’re even.”

 

Mikey smirked—eyes hazy, half-lidded, dangerous. “You think I’m going to just sit here and take it?”

 

“I think,” Takemichi said, voice dark, “you like being the one who is taken.”

 

That earned him a growl. Mikey surged forward again—but this time Takemichi caught him by the waist and flipped their positions. Mikey’s back hit the couch, Takemichi straddling him now.

 

“You said truth or dare, right?” Takemichi whispered, breath ghosting Mikey’s lips.

 

Mikey’s eyes widened.

 

“Dare,” Takemichi said.

 

And Mikey grinned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shinichiro stood in the doorway, frozen.

 

His eyes scanned the scene in front of him—clothes askew, Mikey shirtless on the couch with a very smug (and also disheveled) Takemichi leaning over him, breathless and blinking like they’d just come down from something dangerous.

 

Takemichi glanced up.

 

Mikey didn’t.

 

“...Manjiro,” Shinichiro said, voice carefully level but undercut with panic. “What the fuck happened?”

 

Mikey, ever composed—even with a visible bite mark on his collarbone—didn’t miss a beat.

 

“Truth or dare,” he said flatly.

 

Shinichiro looked like he aged five years in one second. “Truth or—?! Did the dare involve setting fire to your dignity?”

 

Takemichi opened his mouth to defend them—

 

—and Mikey just casually reached up and pulled Takemichi back down into his lap, where their chests brushed again. “It’s fine. You’re early.”

 

“EARLY FOR WHAT?” Shinichiro cried. “The intervention I didn’t know I had to plan?”

 

Takemichi tried—and failed—not to laugh. Mikey smirked.

 

“You should knock next time,” Mikey said, smug and unbothered.

 

Shinichiro backed out, muttering something about bleach and therapy. The door clicked shut.

 

Mikey turned back to Takemichi.

 

“Now where were we?”

 

And Takemichi—still flushed, still breathless—just grinned.

 

“Right about to make you lose your voice.”

 

 

 

Chapter 29: Say It Again Pretty Boy [Kazutora]

The rain had finally stopped.

 

Pavement still glistened under neon lights, but the humidity made everything cling a little too tight. The air smelled of wet asphalt, cigarettes, and street food—and for once, Takemichi wasn’t being chased, punched, or having a mental breakdown. It was rare peace. Suspicious peace.

 

He didn’t trust it.

 

And especially not when Kazutora Hanemiya slinked up behind him like a damn cat, grinning with something dangerous behind his golden eyes.

 

“You’re late,” Takemichi muttered, arms crossed, refusing to turn around.

 

Kazutora leaned in behind him, whispering near his ear, “I’m always worth the wait, baby.”

 

Takemichi shivered.

 

Kazutora knew what he was doing. He always did.

 

“Don’t call me that,” Takemichi said, cheeks already tinged with red.

 

“Why not?” Kazutora teased, stepping around to face him. “You get all shy when I do. It’s cute.”

 

He was wearing that ripped leather jacket again—slightly too tight, tattoos peeking through the neckline of his shirt. His earrings glinted with each movement. He looked like trouble, smelled like mint and mischief, and Takemichi hated how much he noticed.

 

“You said we were meeting to talk about Toman,” Takemichi reminded him, trying (and failing) to sound stern. “Not—flirt.”

 

“Why not both?” Kazutora grinned.

 

“Because you’re an idiot.”

 

“And yet you still showed up.”

 

Touché.

 

Kazutora reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-melted lollipop. “Want a taste?”

 

Takemichi blinked. “What?”

 

“I said do you—"

 

“I heard you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

 

Kazutora smirked. “What, offering candy to a boy I like? Scandalous.”

 

Takemichi flinched.

 

“Wait. ‘Like’?”

 

Kazutora shrugged, popping the lollipop into his mouth. “Mmhm. It’s not rocket science. You’re cute. Brave. Stupid enough to keep throwing yourself into danger for people who barely deserve it. That kind of self-harming loyalty’s hot.”

 

Takemichi made a strangled noise.

 

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

 

“Both.” Kazutora winked. “But mostly compliment. You blush really easily, you know that?”

 

“I’m not blushing!”

 

“You are. Want me to touch your face and check? I can use my mouth too, if that helps.”

 

Takemichi stumbled back a step, nearly tripping over the curb.

 

Kazutora laughed. “Careful, Hanagaki. You fall for me any harder, you’ll break something.”

 

“You’re insufferable,” Takemichi hissed.

 

“And yet…” Kazutora leaned closer. “You still haven’t walked away.”

 

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

 

Takemichi didn’t want to walk away. Not when Kazutora was standing there, warm and sharp and real in a way that made Takemichi feel seen. Not like a time traveler. Not like a ghost trying to fix the past.

 

Just him.

 

And maybe that was the real danger.

 

“…I hate how charming you think you are,” Takemichi muttered.

 

Kazutora’s smile turned sly. “I don’t think. I know.”

 

“Okay, shut up,” Takemichi said, exasperated. “Let’s just go inside before I melt.”

 

Kazutora’s eyes flicked up and down. “You already look a little flushed.”

 

He barely dodged Takemichi’s half-hearted punch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inside Kazutora’s apartment, the mood shifted.

 

Dim lights. A couch too small for comfort. Posters of bands Takemichi didn’t recognize. Clothes strewn half-organized. An ashtray and two unopened cans of beer.

 

Kazutora tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair and flopped onto the couch with a lazy grin. “Mi casa es su casa, angel.”

 

“Don’t call me—ugh. Never mind.”

 

Takemichi stood awkwardly by the door. The silence stretched.

 

Then—

 

“You ever gonna sit down?” Kazutora asked, one eyebrow arched.

 

“I—yeah.”

 

Takemichi finally moved, sitting at the edge of the couch like a hostage.

 

Kazutora scooted closer.

 

Takemichi didn’t move.

 

“So…” Kazutora began, voice soft. “You’re not just here to talk about gangs, are you?”

 

Takemichi stiffened. “Maybe I am.”

 

“But you’re not denying it.”

 

“I just did.”

 

Kazutora reached over and tapped his chest with two fingers.

 

“You always wear your heart here. Big. Loud. Obvious.”

 

Takemichi flinched again. Not because of the touch—but because it felt like Kazutora could see through him.

 

“I could ruin you, y’know,” Kazutora said suddenly. Quietly.

 

“What?”

 

“I could take you apart so gently you’d thank me for it.” His fingers skimmed up Takemichi’s chest, brushing his collarbone. “You’ve got all these cracks, Takemichi. Let me in, and I’d make you forget why you were ever broken.”

 

Takemichi swallowed hard.

 

“You talk like a villain in a romance manga.”

 

Kazutora smirked. “You read romance manga?”

 

Takemichi groaned. “That’s not the point—!”

 

Kazutora leaned in, voice dropping. “The point is… you’re here. With me. And I’ve been dying to kiss that stubborn mouth since the first time you stood up to me and called me an emotionally stunted psycho.”

 

“…You are one.”

 

“And you still came over.”

 

Takemichi hesitated.

 

“I came because… I trust you. Somehow.”

 

Kazutora blinked.

 

For once, no snark. No grin.

 

Just a beat of silence.

 

“You shouldn’t,” he said softly. “But thank you.”

 

Takemichi’s eyes dropped to Kazutora’s lips.

 

God, he was close.

 

“Are you gonna keep flirting with me,” Takemichi asked, voice strained, “or are you actually gonna do something?”

 

Kazutora’s eyes widened a fraction.

 

Then he laughed. Genuinely. “Well damn, Hanagaki. That’s the boldest thing I’ve ever heard from you.”

 

“I’m serious,” Takemichi whispered.

 

Kazutora stopped laughing.

 

He tilted his head.

 

Studied Takemichi’s face.

 

Then leaned in.

 

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

 

It was fire. Teeth. Breath. Fingers curling into fabric. Takemichi gasped against his mouth, hands gripping Kazutora’s shirt like a lifeline as Kazutora dragged him closer, into his lap, into his space, into something that felt dangerous and safe all at once.

 

Kazutora pulled back first.

 

“You still taste like strawberry soda.”

 

“You still taste like poor decisions,” Takemichi shot back.

 

Kazutora grinned. “You love it.”

 

Takemichi’s hand slid under his shirt, curious fingers brushing along inked skin. “You’ve got a lot of tattoos.”

 

“Want your name on me?” Kazutora teased. “Right above my heart?”

 

“God, you’re such a flirt.”

 

Kazutora’s eyes softened. “Only with you.”

 

Takemichi paused.

 

That was the thing.

 

Underneath all the bite and play, Kazutora meant it.

 

“You’re a mess,” Takemichi whispered.

 

“So are you.”

 

They kissed again. Slower this time. Less teasing. More promise.

 

Takemichi pulled back with a smile.

 

“You’re dangerous, Kazutora.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I might actually like you.”

 

“I know that too.”

 

Takemichi rolled his eyes, laughing.

 

And just for a moment—under those cheap apartment lights, tangled together with their hearts worn bare—it felt like maybe, just maybe, broken boys like them could learn how to fall in love without falling apart.

 

Chapter 30: Tide between us [Izana]

Summary:

Post-series, Izana survived and is recovering. Takemichi visits him regularly at a quiet seaside house owned by Emma’s(not Karen. Fuck karen) side of the family. Tension brews.

Notes:

ILY izana.💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Rain tapped lightly on the veranda roof, mist veiling the horizon. Somewhere below, the sea murmured against the cliffs—steady, like a heartbeat.

 

Inside the quiet beach house, Izana lounged on a sun-bleached couch, a blanket over his legs and a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He looked better. Still pale, but alive. Alive in a way Takemichi hadn't seen him before—no manic spark in his eyes, no venom on his tongue. Just… tired, maybe. And at peace.

 

"You didn't have to bring food again," Izana said flatly, but his eyes flicked toward the bag in Takemichi’s hand like a cat pretending not to care.

 

"And let you survive off crackers and pride? I think not," Takemichi teased, setting the bag down with a dramatic flourish. "I made onigiri. They're heart-shaped. Like my feelings."

 

Izana stared at him.

 

"You’re insufferable," he said, but a corner of his mouth twitched upward.

 

Takemichi sat down on the arm of the couch, a little too close. “Aw, c’mon. Admit it. You missed me.”

 

“I missed the silence more.”

 

Takemichi leaned closer. “Liar. You missed me and my charming personality.”

 

“You have the personality of a soggy sock.”

 

“But a lovable soggy sock, right?”

 

Izana rolled his eyes. “You’re relentless.”

 

Takemichi grinned. “Only for you.”

 

They ate on the floor by the coffee table. Izana’s legs were curled under him, posture elegant as ever, even in worn pajama pants. Takemichi sprawled out like a satisfied cat, looking every bit like he belonged there—which he didn’t. Not officially. He wasn't family. Not a nurse. Just someone who kept showing up.

 

Izana noticed the stare and arched an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“You’ve got rice on your lip,” Takemichi said innocently. “Want me to get it for you?”

 

“I’m capable of—”

 

Takemichi leaned in slowly, fingers brushing Izana’s chin. Their faces were close now—intimate, almost daring.

 

“There,” Takemichi said softly, thumb lingering. “Gone.”

 

Izana was quiet. Not retreating, but not pushing forward either.

 

“You’re doing that thing again,” Izana muttered.

 

“What thing?”

 

“Flirting like you’re not serious.”

 

Takemichi's smile faded into something softer, more real. “Who says I’m not?”

 

A beat passed. The rain continued its soft rhythm.

 

“I’m dangerous,” Izana said after a while. “I’ve hurt people. I hurt you.”

 

“And yet here I am. With snacks.”

 

“You’re a fool.”

 

“Maybe. But I’d rather be a fool beside you than someone smart who left you behind.”

 

Izana stared at him—really stared. “Why?”

 

Takemichi didn’t look away. “Because I think you’re worth knowing… even the broken parts.”

 

Later, they sat outside under the covered porch. The sky was bruised with dusk, and the wind tasted like salt. Takemichi had brought out blankets and insisted Izana wrap up like a burrito.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Izana muttered, bundled up to his chin.

 

“You’re cute when you pout.”

 

“I will end you.”

 

Takemichi draped his own blanket over his shoulders and scooted closer, arms brushing.

 

"You always act like you're unlovable," he said. "But you’re just someone who never got the right kind of love.”

 

Izana stiffened. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

 

Takemichi shrugged, unbothered. “Can’t help it. It’s my quirk.”

 

“You don’t have a quirk. You’re not in a manga.”

 

“Don’t ruin my fantasy.”

 

Izana exhaled. The wind picked up, stirring Takemichi’s hair. For a second, Izana reached out—hesitated—then pushed it back gently.

 

“You're warm,” he said absently, like it surprised him.

 

Takemichi smirked. “I could keep you warmer.”

 

“That sounds indecent.”

 

“It’s a suggestion. Not a threat.”

 

Izana turned his face away, but not before Takemichi caught the faint blush creeping up his neck.

 

“Oh?” Takemichi drawled. “Is the mighty Izana shy?”

 

“Get off my porch.”

 

“You’re not even moving.”

 

“I will. Eventually.”

 

Takemichi grinned. “No, you won’t. You like having me here.”

 

“Maybe I do.”

 

The words hung between them. Soft. Vulnerable. Honest.

 

Izana looked at him again, eyes unreadable. Then, to Takemichi’s surprise, he shifted slightly—leaning in. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”

 

Takemichi’s breath caught. “Only if you wanted me to.”

 

“I might,” Izana whispered.

 

Their lips met.

 

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t thunder. It was quiet—tender, even. The kind of kiss that came after late-night talks and near-forgotten smiles. Izana leaned in like he was unsure of the world, unsure of himself, but not unsure of Takemichi.

 

Takemichi deepened the kiss slightly, one hand moving to cradle the back of Izana’s neck, thumb brushing against damp strands of white hair. Izana didn’t pull away. He sighed into it, like the tension in his chest had been waiting for someone to pry it open.

 

When they finally parted, Takemichi rested their foreheads together.

 

"That okay?" he murmured.

 

Izana's voice was low. "Too okay."

 

Takemichi chuckled, breath brushing Izana's cheek. "Do you always get flustered after one kiss? Or is it just my magical soggy sock powers?"

 

Izana shoved him lightly. "Don’t ruin it."

 

"Can’t help it. I’m charming and annoying. It’s part of the package."

 

"You’re a menace."

 

"But your menace."

 

Izana was quiet for a beat, then whispered, "Maybe."

 

They moved inside eventually, storm rolling heavier outside. Takemichi pulled off his soaked hoodie, revealing a simple black tank underneath. Izana's eyes drifted but returned quickly to his tea.

 

"Like what you see?" Takemichi teased, stretching deliberately.

 

"You're unbelievable."

 

Takemichi sat beside him again, this time curling close. "You can touch, you know. I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

 

Izana side-eyed him, cheeks slightly pink. "You're shameless."

 

"You're blushing."

 

"You're not helping."

 

Takemichi leaned in, voice softer, lower. "You ever been touched by someone who actually wanted you to feel safe? Wanted you to feel wanted?"

 

Izana's lips parted slightly. He didn't speak.

 

Takemichi's fingers found Izana's hand, tracing the back of it. "Let me be that person."

 

A long silence. Then, barely audible: "Okay."

 

The rest of the night passed in hushed tones and slow touches. Takemichi never rushed him. Never demanded more. He just stayed close, grounding Izana with warmth, kisses that lingered, and hands that memorized every inch of scarred skin with reverence.

 

When Izana finally allowed himself to relax—to lean back into Takemichi’s arms on the couch, his head resting against the other’s chest—it felt like something sacred.

 

"You’re dangerous too, you know," Izana murmured.

 

"Me?"

 

"Yeah. You make me want things."

 

Takemichi kissed the top of his head. "Good. Want them. Want me. Because I’m not going anywhere."

 

And in the lull of thunder and steady heartbeat, Izana believed him.

 

Chapter 31: Tangled Wires and Blushing Engines [Draken]

The garage smelled like oil, metal, and a little bit like Draken’s cologne—which was really unfair, honestly. That smell had no business being that good. Takemichi leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, doing his best not to stare too hard at the tall, shirtless mechanic currently bent over a bike engine.

 

Keyword: trying.

 

Draken wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, dragging a smear of grease across his temple. His tattoo peeked out from the sweat-damp strands of hair falling to one side.

 

"Something wrong?" Draken asked without looking up, his deep voice rumbling like a low gear.

 

Takemichi straightened up. “Nope! Just, uh... appreciating the craftsmanship. Of the bike. And... you know, the biceps holding the wrench.”

 

Draken gave him a long side glance, the kind that felt like it could burn a hole right through a guy. “You’re not being subtle at all.”

 

“Good,” Takemichi said, flashing a grin he only half-felt brave enough to wear. “I gave up subtlety when I realized you only listen when I flirt like I mean it.”

 

“You flirting with me is like a puppy trying to pick a fight with a bear.”

 

“A very charming, determined puppy,” Takemichi corrected, stepping closer. “With absolutely no sense of self-preservation, but amazing hair.”

 

Draken finally turned toward him, towel slung over one shoulder. “You’re dripping confidence today.”

 

“Yeah? Well, it’s only fair I get to drip something around here. You’ve been leaking testosterone since you picked up that wrench.”

 

Draken let out a short laugh, wiping his hands on the towel. “What are you even doing here, Takemichi?”

 

“I missed you,” Takemichi said, shrugging. “And also, I had a very important question.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Are your arms open for visitors? Preferably flirty ones?”

 

“You’re such a dumbass.”

 

“Only for you.”

 

Draken rolled his eyes but there was the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You know, you used to be too nervous to even make eye contact.”

 

“Yeah, well, trauma builds character,” Takemichi said brightly. “And so do years of pining.”

 

“Pining?”

 

“Painfully,” he added, mock solemn. “It was agonizing. Watching you walk around all hot and shirtless and growly. You might as well have just kicked me in the feelings every time you winked at someone else.”

 

“I don’t wink.”

 

“You do, it’s just with your whole body.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“You don’t make any sense,” Takemichi shot back.

 

“Touché.”

 

They stood there for a second, heat simmering between them in the faint hum of the fan overhead. Draken’s gaze dipped lower, just for a second—Takemichi swore he caught it—and Takemichi stepped forward, closing the distance.

 

“You gonna kick me out?” he asked softly.

 

“That depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

“On whether you’re just here to mess with me again or if you’re actually planning to do something with all this talk.”

 

Takemichi’s heart did something stupid. Like a little cartwheel and a crash landing. But he didn’t back down. Not today.

 

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you since before I knew what kissing really meant,” he said.

 

Draken blinked. “That’s... a long time.”

 

“Yeah.” Takemichi scratched the back of his head, now visibly flustered. “You were always this... big, untouchable thing. Like, the cool guy with a heart no one got to see. And I kept thinking... Maybe, if I said the right thing, I’d make you laugh. Or smile. Or maybe you’d look at me like I wasn’t just the crybaby you had to babysit.”

 

Draken’s eyes softened. His voice was quieter now. “I’ve never thought you were just a crybaby.”

 

“You didn’t?”

 

“No.” Draken stepped closer. “You’ve got more guts than half of Toman ever did. And you... you care, Takemichi. Like, really care. That’s rare.”

 

Takemichi opened his mouth. Closed it. “Okay,” he said finally, “but also—have you seen your jawline? That’s not fair. I’ve had to deal with that and my feelings at the same time.”

 

That earned a full chuckle, and Takemichi’s stomach fluttered like he just unlocked a secret ending in a video game.

 

“You’re such a dork,” Draken said.

 

“And you’re way too hot for my blood pressure. We all have our crosses to bear.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Say it again,” Draken said.

 

Takemichi tilted his head. “Say what?”

 

“That you missed me.”

 

Takemichi blinked. Then grinned slowly. “I missed you like hell, Ken. Like, you-have-no-idea kind of missing.”

 

Draken’s throat worked in a slow swallow. “You’re serious.”

 

Takemichi nodded. “Terrifyingly so.”

 

Draken stared at him for a second longer—then reached up and brushed a thumb against his cheek. Takemichi froze, practically vibrating in place.

 

“You’re still a mess,” Draken said.

 

“But a lovable one?”

 

Draken didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in slowly, and Takemichi had just enough time to let out a stunned little “oh” before their lips brushed.

 

It wasn’t rough or demanding. It was careful, like Draken was testing the waters, making sure this wasn’t another joke. Takemichi, to his credit, responded like someone who’d been waiting since forever. He leaned into it, fingers curling into Draken’s shirtless shoulder, pulse thudding hard.

 

When they broke apart, Takemichi’s voice was a breathless whisper. “Holy crap.”

 

Draken smirked. “Yeah?”

 

“I think I just saw heaven. And it has tattoos and a wrench.”

 

“You always talk this much when you’re turned on?”

 

Takemichi let out a choked sound. “Draken!”

 

“Just asking.”

 

“I’m flustered, okay?! That was not in my simulation script!”

 

“You have a simulation script?”

 

“Don’t act surprised! You’re built like a forbidden Greek statue and you fix bikes while sweating—of course I planned some fantasy material!”

 

Draken barked a laugh and pulled him into a loose hug. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“And you’re lucky I love that about you.”

 

That made Draken pause. Takemichi felt it in the way the hug froze for a second.

 

“You love me?”

 

Takemichi pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Yeah. I think I’ve always loved you. Even when I didn’t know what that meant. Even when I was just the idiot tagging along, getting punched in the face.”

 

Draken’s hand cupped the back of his neck. “You’re not an idiot.”

 

“Then why did it take me this long to say something?”

 

Draken leaned their foreheads together. “Because I’m an idiot too.”

 

Takemichi laughed quietly. “Well, now we’re two idiots in love.”

 

“And one of them flirts like he’s trying to win an award.”

 

“I should get an award. Do you have any medals I can steal? Maybe pin to my shirt while I whisper sweet nothings?”

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“Only to resist.”

 

They stood there for a moment, wrapped in engine heat and unspoken feelings that didn’t need to be chased anymore. Eventually, Draken tugged him closer and murmured, “You staying the night?”

 

Takemichi’s eyes widened. “Is that an invitation?”

 

“Depends,” Draken said, teasing. “Are you gonna behave?”

 

“I make no promises,” Takemichi said, grinning. “But I do make great coffee in the morning. And I can keep flirting until you beg me to shut up.”

 

Draken smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

 

As Draken leaned in for another kiss, Takemichi whispered against his lips, “You know I’m yours, right?”

 

“I know,” Draken replied, voice low and rough. “Always have been.”

 

Chapter 32: Under Pressure [Taiju]

Takemichi didn’t mean to find himself in Taiju Shiba’s orbit again.

 

But apparently, fate had a really messed up sense of humor.

 

It was supposed to be a quick drop-off at the rebuilt church—a favor for Hakkai, who was out of town and needed someone to deliver a box of supplies to his brother. Easy. Simple. In and out.

 

Except nothing was ever simple where Taiju was concerned.

 

And especially not when he opened the door shirtless, sweat slicking the line of his collarbone as he wiped his hands off on a rag, eyes narrowing in that dangerous, devastating way.

 

Takemichi froze on the spot like a deer in headlights.

 

Then immediately looked down. Then looked up. Then back down again.

 

“Hanagaki,” Taiju rumbled, stepping aside. “You’re late.”

 

“I’m also dying,” Takemichi muttered under his breath.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Nothing!” he squeaked. “I just said you look... threatening. In a very impressive, Greek-statue-who-skips-leg-day kind of way.”

 

Taiju raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

 

“Only if you like compliments from guys who have no self-preservation instinct.”

 

Taiju didn’t laugh—but his mouth twitched slightly. That was probably the closest to amusement he ever got without someone ending up in a chokehold.

 

Takemichi stepped inside the dimly lit church hall, still very aware of the sheer size of the man walking behind him. It was like being stalked by a panther in human form.

 

“I didn’t know you were still working here,” Takemichi said, placing the box on a pew.

 

“I own it,” Taiju said simply. “Renovated the whole building.”

 

“Oh, well—nice job. Very... holy. Sanctified. Full of sinful thoughts now, though. My bad.”

 

Taiju turned his head sharply. “You’re rambling.”

 

“I do that when I’m nervous.”

 

“You’re nervous around me?”

 

Takemichi shot him a sideways grin. “You make it hard to think straight, Taiju. Which is impressive considering I already don’t think straight.”

 

Taiju blinked once.

 

Then again.

 

And then—a smirk. Just a little one. But on him, it was like watching a thunderstorm flirt with sunlight.

 

“You flirting with me, Hanagaki?” Taiju asked, voice low.

 

“Depends,” Takemichi said, voice suddenly steadier than it should’ve been. “You stopping me?”

 

Taiju stepped closer. Slowly. Like a man giving a warning before the ground vanished beneath your feet.

 

“I don’t play games.”

 

“Who said this was a game?” Takemichi’s heart was absolutely in his throat, but damn it, he was already this far in. “Maybe I just really like tall, terrifying men who could throw me across the room but choose to lean in instead.”

 

Taiju’s expression darkened, but not in a bad way. His eyes glinted like a warning and a dare all at once.

 

“You’ve got guts.”

 

“Guts and horrible timing,” Takemichi added. “But also maybe a thing for danger. Especially the kind with scars and biblical metaphors.”

 

Taiju’s voice dropped. “You really want to test me, don’t you?”

 

Takemichi took a breath and stepped in, chest nearly brushing Taiju’s.

 

“No,” he said. “I want to know you. And yeah, I flirt like an idiot. But I see you, Taiju. Not just the guy with the fists and the temper. I see someone who’s trying to rebuild something broken. Who’s not just terrifying, but honest. And real.”

 

Taiju stared at him, unreadable.

 

And then something cracked. Just slightly. In the set of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders.

 

“You think you understand me?”

 

“No,” Takemichi admitted. “But I want to try. And if I get punched in the process... worth it.”

 

Taiju stepped even closer, their noses almost brushing.

 

“You’re reckless.”

 

“You’re irresistible.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Takemichi grinned. “Make me.”

 

It wasn’t a kiss—not quite. But Taiju’s hand suddenly gripped Takemichi’s wrist, pulling him flush, chest to chest. Takemichi sucked in a breath, wide-eyed.

 

“I could break you,” Taiju warned, voice barely audible.

 

“Then be careful with me,” Takemichi whispered. “I’m not asking you to be someone you’re not. I’m asking you to choose.”

 

There was a long beat of silence. The air thick with heat and tension. Takemichi’s pulse pounded.

 

Taiju let go—but not fully. His fingers dragged down the side of Takemichi’s wrist, slow and thoughtful.

 

“You’re the only one stupid enough to say that to my face,” he muttered.

 

“Don’t worry,” Takemichi said breathlessly. “It’s part of my charm.”

 

Another twitch at the corner of Taiju’s mouth. “Still running that mouth, huh?”

 

“Usually when I’m nervous or trying to seduce someone.”

 

“Which is this?”

 

Takemichi leaned in and said, “Why not both?”

 

Taiju let out a sound—something between a groan and a laugh—and shoved a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

 

“I’ll make it worth it.”

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“And yet, you haven’t kicked me out.”

 

Taiju gave him a long, smoldering look. “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

 

The conversation shifted after that.

 

Takemichi lingered. Helped unpack the supplies. Teased Taiju every time he scowled too hard or flexed his jaw for no reason. Taiju, for his part, didn’t flirt back—he loomed. He stared. He challenged. But he didn’t leave.

 

And when Takemichi grabbed his coat to leave, Taiju caught his arm.

 

“Come back tomorrow,” he said simply.

 

Takemichi blinked. “Really?”

 

“I don’t repeat myself.”

 

“No, you just threaten people into submission.”

 

Taiju leaned down until their lips were dangerously close again.

 

“I don’t need to threaten you, do I?”

 

Takemichi smiled, wild and wide.

 

“Not unless it’s a kinky thing.”

 

Taiju groaned. “Get out.”

 

“Tomorrow?” Takemichi asked, walking backward toward the door.

 

“Ten sharp.”

 

“I’ll bring coffee and lower standards.”

 

“You’ll bring silence.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

And then he was gone—heart racing, face flushed, and thoughts spiraling like wildfire. But he had a date with danger now. And he’d never felt so alive.

Chapter 33: Brass Knuckles and Blushes [South]

Notes:

I went on a spree of ideas last night..so enjoy these 💜🤭 also my first south oneshot!

The scent of sweat and rubber lingered in the air, the kind of smell that clung to the walls of every half-lit gym in Tokyo. Heavy bags swayed from rusted chains, and an old stereo played a grainy salsa beat that didn’t match the cracked floorboards or the man leaning against them.

 

South Terano stood at the center of it all — shirt damp with sweat, hair pulled back, expression unreadable.

 

Takemichi Hanagaki, all five-foot-nothing of him, leaned against the entrance door with a water bottle in hand and the most irritatingly charming smile South had seen in a while.

 

“You lost in here, little man?” South asked, tilting his head. “This ain’t the flower shop.”

 

“Didn’t take you for a comedian,” Takemichi said, walking in with slow steps. “Guess that’s one more surprise tonight.”

 

South huffed a laugh. “Most people flinch when I joke.”

 

“I’m not most people,” Takemichi replied, and his tone carried that weight — the kind of quiet storm that made even titans pause.

 

South narrowed his eyes. “No. You’re not.”

 

Takemichi tossed him the water bottle. South caught it effortlessly, raising a brow. “You stalking me now, Hanagaki?”

 

“I don’t stalk,” Takemichi said. “I linger with intent.”

 

South choked. “What kind of pickup line is that?”

 

“The honest kind,” Takemichi said, stepping closer. “Unless you prefer the classics. I can do those too. ‘Did it hurt when you fell from—’”

 

South held up a massive hand. “Finish that and I’ll throw you out.”

 

Takemichi just grinned. “Knew I liked you.”

 

South tried to scoff, but the edge of a smile twitched at his lips. He hadn’t had many people flirt with him. Threaten him? Sure. Worship him? Occasionally. But flirt?

 

That was new.

 

“You got a reason for being here?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

 

“Yeah,” Takemichi said, voice softer now. “I wanted to see you. Talk to you.”

 

“You could’ve called.”

 

“I could’ve. But I thought showing up in person might get more of your attention.” His eyes dropped — slowly — down South’s sweat-slicked chest. “Judging by the view, I wasn’t wrong.”

 

South coughed again, genuinely caught off guard. “You... really say that stuff with a straight face?”

 

“I say what I mean.” Takemichi smiled, all teeth. “You’re ridiculously attractive. Also slightly terrifying. Which, I’ll admit, is kind of my thing.”

 

South let out a slow breath, the edge of tension leaving his frame. “Why me?”

 

Takemichi shrugged. “You’re loud. You’re dangerous. You walk into a room like you own it, but your eyes always look like you’re somewhere else.” He stepped closer. “You’re interesting.”

 

South blinked, lips parting. “You think you’ve got me figured out?”

 

“No.” Takemichi’s voice lowered. “But I want to.”

 

That silence stretched between them, not awkward — charged.

 

“You’re either the dumbest guy I’ve ever met,” South said slowly, “or the ballsiest.”

 

Takemichi smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

 

South laughed — a real, belly-deep thing that echoed through the gym. It surprised both of them.

 

“You’re insane,” he muttered, shaking his head.

 

“And yet here you are,” Takemichi said, now only a breath away.

 

South could’ve stepped back. He didn’t.

 

“You know I could break you,” South said, voice low. “One wrong move.”

 

“You won’t,” Takemichi replied, looking up at him. “You’re not nearly as cruel as you pretend to be.”

 

There it was — that shift.

 

Because for all of South’s power, for all the violence stitched into his muscles, there was a quiet ache beneath it. A loneliness he didn’t talk about. And Takemichi saw it.

 

And South hated how much he wanted to be seen.

 

“...You always this smooth?” South muttered.

 

Takemichi chuckled. “Only when I’m scared out of my mind.”

 

South raised a brow. “You’re scared?”

 

“Are you kidding?” Takemichi waved a hand at him. “You’re six-foot-five, built like a brick wall, and your idea of a good time involves breaking ribs.”

 

South blinked.

 

“And yet I’m still here,” Takemichi added, voice soft. “Still flirting with you. Still wanting more.”

 

South swallowed.

 

He’d been chased before — by power-hungry idiots, by rival gangs, by cops. But this? This was the first time someone chased him with care.

 

And that scared him more than any gang war.

 

“You should hate me,” South said. “I’ve done things—”

 

“We all have,” Takemichi interrupted gently. “But that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

 

South sat down on the bench, running a hand down his face. “You’re making this really hard, you know.”

 

“Am I?” Takemichi followed, sitting beside him. “Or am I making it really easy to let go for once?”

 

South turned his head. Takemichi was right there. And he was so small. So deceptively gentle. And yet... he made South feel more vulnerable than a thousand guns pointed at his chest.

 

Takemichi nudged him with an elbow. “Want to tell me why you’re looking at me like I’m a puzzle you can’t solve?”

 

“Because I don’t get it,” South admitted. “I don’t get you.”

 

“Good,” Takemichi said, smiling again. “Keeps things interesting.”

 

Another pause. This one heavier.

 

“You want to kiss me?” Takemichi asked suddenly, and South nearly choked again.

 

“What?!”

 

“I mean, I could be wrong,” Takemichi added, fake-thoughtfully. “But the glances, the way your breath hitched two minutes ago, the fact that you haven’t moved away—”

 

South groaned. “You’re impossible.”

 

Takemichi turned, expression sincere. “But do you?”

 

South stared at him. “Do you want me to?”

 

Takemichi didn’t answer with words.

 

He leaned in, gently brushing his fingers along South’s jaw. The touch was light — reverent, almost. And when he leaned closer, it wasn’t a power move. It wasn’t dominance. It was trust.

 

“Do it,” Takemichi whispered, lips nearly touching South’s. “Unless you’re scared.”

 

South scoffed. “I don’t get scared.”

 

“Then prove it.”

 

So South did.

 

The kiss was slow, heavy with unsaid things. South’s hands were hesitant, one bracing against the bench, the other barely touching Takemichi’s waist. And Takemichi... he kissed like he knew every crack in South’s armor. Like he wanted to kiss the pain right out of him.

 

When they pulled apart, South’s voice was rough. “You’re dangerous, Hanagaki.”

 

“Only in all the right ways,” Takemichi whispered.

 

They didn’t leave the gym for another hour.

 

Takemichi sat between South’s legs on the bench, back pressed to his chest, both of them drinking water and occasionally passing the same bottle back and forth like they weren’t sharing something intimate.

 

South’s arms circled him loosely.

 

“This doesn’t make sense,” South muttered.

 

“Most good things don’t.”

 

“You’re trouble.”

 

“I’m worth it.”

 

“You really think I’m attractive?”

 

Takemichi tilted his head back against South’s shoulder. “I think you’re beautiful.”

 

South scoffed, hiding a blush. “You know I could crush you like a soda can, right?”

 

Takemichi grinned. “Only if I asked nicely.”

 

South let out a strangled laugh.

 

As the night wore on, the air between them shifted from flirtation to something quieter. South hadn’t let himself feel this way in years. Takemichi made it look easy — like loving someone complicated wasn’t hard.

 

And that terrified him.

 

But when Takemichi gently held his hand and said, “You don’t have to say anything. Just let me stay,” South did.

 

And for the first time in a long while...

 

He didn’t feel alone.

Chapter 34: Three beats and one game [Ran & Rin]

Notes:

The haitanis are so AUGHHHH

The air shimmered with neon haze and the subtle throb of city bass. Roppongi nights never truly slept, only shifted from one shade of thrill to another. On the rooftop of a private club — some exclusive place Rindou claimed was "impossible to get into without blood or blackmail" — Takemichi stood with a drink in hand, lips curled into the beginnings of a smirk.

 

He never used to be like this. A stammering mess, too shy to meet his own shadow. But time — and pain — shaped people. He’d seen the world burn and rebuilt it with his bare hands. And now, standing beside the Haitani brothers, Takemichi didn’t feel small. He felt... dangerous.

 

Ran leaned lazily against the railing, a lollipop between his lips like some ironic homage to innocence. His shirt was open just enough to tease, not tell. Rindou, sitting cross-legged on one of the lounge chairs, had his phone half-out, half-in his pocket, fingers drumming against his thigh to some beat only he heard.

 

"You didn’t have to come all this way for us, Hanagaki," Rindou said, voice dipped in a challenge. “Or are you looking for something more... thrilling?”

 

Takemichi turned toward him, head slightly tilted, confidence blooming behind his usual soft gaze. “What if I said I was?”

 

Ran’s lollipop fell from his mouth with an audible click. “Bold,” he said, chuckling low. “Didn’t know the crybaby had grown fangs.”

 

“I stopped crying a long time ago,” Takemichi replied. He stepped closer to Ran, slow and deliberate. “But I can still make others tear up… in all the best ways.”

 

Rindou raised a brow, somewhere between impressed and intrigued. Ran? He simply whistled. “Someone’s been practicing their lines.”

 

“It’s not practice if I mean it.”

 

Takemichi’s voice wasn’t a growl, wasn’t a whisper. It sat right in that sweet spot where sincerity met heat. And it landed. Rindou leaned forward, amused. “So what’s your angle, Hanagaki? You here to play games?”

 

Takemichi stepped between them, folding his arms. “Only if I win something worth it.”

 

The moment cracked with heat. Ran laughed, head tipping back, loose strands of hair falling over one eye. “And what do you think is worth it?”

 

Takemichi’s eyes flicked between them. Ran’s teasing smile. Rindou’s calculating gaze. “A night with two of the most dangerous men in Tokyo,” he said plainly. “That seems like a gamble worth my time.”

 

For once, neither Haitani had a clever response.

 

**

 

“Let’s make it interesting,” Rindou offered after a few more minutes of tension-charged silence. The brothers were seated now, Takemichi across from them, drink untouched. “One question each. Personal, flirty, doesn’t matter. You answer truthfully. You lie, you lose a layer.”

 

Takemichi’s brow raised. “Clothes or confidence?”

 

Ran grinned. “Both.”

 

“Alright,” Takemichi said, leaning back like he owned the place. “I’ll start.”

 

His eyes met Ran’s. “You ever think about kissing someone just because they irritated you that much?”

 

Ran blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

 

“All the time,” he admitted after a beat, licking his bottom lip. “Usually ends with me doing it. You?”

 

“Only when they have lips that won’t shut up,” Takemichi said, gaze lingering on Ran’s mouth.

 

A crackle passed between them.

 

Rindou whistled. “Okay, okay. My turn.”

 

He leaned forward. “You ever fantasized about one of us?”

 

Takemichi’s reply came too fast to be false. “Both.”

 

Ran coughed. Rindou stared. “Wait—what?”

 

“I’m not shy anymore,” Takemichi shrugged, running a hand through his now slightly longer hair. “Besides, who hasn’t?”

 

Ran chuckled. “You just lumped us into the same fantasy, huh? Efficient.”

 

“I like efficiency,” Takemichi said, eyeing them both. “But variety’s nice, too.”

 

**

 

The night grew darker, city lights below blurring into a sea of stars. The rooftop felt like another world. More questions. More flirting. Takemichi wasn’t playing defense. He was playing them.

 

“Favorite spot to be kissed?” he asked.

 

“Mouth,” Ran said. “Classic.”

 

“Throat,” Rindou added. “Sensitive.”

 

Takemichi smirked. “I’d have guessed jawline for you, Ran. That tension there...” His fingers gestured lightly. “Looks like it aches for pressure.”

 

Ran blinked again. “Are you trying to seduce me, Hanagaki?”

 

Takemichi took another step forward, now fully between the brothers. “Would it work if I was?”

 

“I don’t think you realize what you’re asking for,” Rindou warned, voice low. “We don’t do gentle.”

 

“I’m not asking for gentle,” Takemichi whispered, and for the first time, they were the ones caught off-guard.

 

The silence that followed was thick. Tense. Tantalizing.

 

Ran stood slowly, facing Takemichi with only a breath of space between them. “You’ve changed.”

 

“You haven’t,” Takemichi murmured. “Still cocky. Still hiding something behind the teasing.”

 

Ran’s eyes narrowed in interest. “And what do you think I’m hiding?”

 

“Doubt,” Takemichi said, then turned to Rindou. “Same with you. You watch too closely. You calculate too much. Like you’re waiting for someone to outplay you.”

 

Rindou chuckled dryly. “And you think that someone’s you?”

 

“No,” Takemichi said softly. “I know it’s me.”

 

**

 

By midnight, the rooftop lights had dimmed, and the heat between them had reached its slow-boil peak. Not loud. Not messy. But dense. Charged.

 

Ran leaned against a post, arms crossed. “So, what now? You gonna kiss us or keep throwing verbal foreplay around like a tease?”

 

Takemichi’s smile returned. He stepped into Ran’s space, eyes locked, slow, intentional. “I don’t tease unless I’m ready to deliver.”

 

Ran’s breath hitched.

 

And then Takemichi leaned in — not fast, not needy — and kissed him. A brush first, then firmer. Ran gripped his jacket instinctively. When they broke apart, Takemichi turned — without missing a beat — to Rindou.

 

Rindou didn’t speak. Didn’t challenge. Just stepped forward and met him halfway. The kiss was different. Sharper. Hungrier. Rindou bit his lip slightly when they parted.

 

“You came here to start something,” Ran said, his voice quieter now. “But what if we don’t let you leave?”

 

Takemichi looked between them. “Then I guess I stay.”

 

**

 

There was no desperate scramble. No stripping. Just... presence. Fingers brushing hands. Glances heavy with intent. Rindou lit a cigarette and didn’t smoke it — just let it burn, forgotten.

 

“Why us?” he asked finally. “You could have anyone.”

 

Takemichi shrugged. “You’re not ‘anyone.’ You’re Ran and Rindou Haitani. Beautiful. Dangerous. Addictive.”

 

Ran looked at him like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kiss him again.

 

“And because I wanted to see if I could,” Takemichi added.

 

“That’s it?” Rindou asked, frowning.

 

Takemichi’s voice dropped an octave. “I wanted to see if you’d let me make you feel something real.”

 

That silenced them. Because no one ever said that to them. Not like that.

 

**

 

The rest of the night blurred into something tender, hot, and undefined. No labels. No promises. Just tension slowly unraveling into something more intimate.

 

Takemichi wasn’t the lost boy anymore. He was the storm in their calm. The risk they didn’t expect to crave.

 

And as dawn cracked over Tokyo’s skyline, the three of them remained — tangled in conversation, breath, and the electric afterglow of a night that started with a flirtation and ended with a connection none of them could name.

 

But they didn’t need names.

 

Not yet.

Chapter 35: When the Light Breaks Through [Mikey, Chifuyu & Inupi]

Notes:

My first 3 characters!

Takemichi stood in the doorway of the derelict hideout, the wind sneaking through broken windows, brushing over the blood-slick floor. Everything smelled like rust and regret. He clenched his fists, knuckles pale. This wasn’t what he came back for. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

 

Chifuyu sat on the counter, an old towel pressed to his bleeding side, face tight with pain. Inupi paced by the door like a wolf caged, and Mikey—Mikey was still, back turned, staring into the dark corner as though it might swallow him up.

 

"You didn't have to do that," Chifuyu said, breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse, his usual snark buried under layers of exhaustion.

 

Takemichi gave a broken smile. "What? Save you? I make a habit of doing dumb things for people I care about."

 

"That was reckless, even for you," Inupi muttered.

 

"Maybe," Takemichi said, taking a step forward, but he winced. His leg gave out slightly from the slash it had taken, deep enough to leave a trail. Still, he smiled. "But you're here. And that's what matters."

 

Mikey finally spoke, voice low and hollow. "What matters is that you keep throwing yourself in front of knives like your life doesn't mean anything."

 

"Doesn't it?" Takemichi asked, more softly than before.

 

That silence again. The uncomfortable kind. The kind that settled in bones like rot.

 

"You ever feel like you're the ghost of your own body?" he asked. "Like you're watching everyone else live and you're just... passing through?"

 

Inupi turned away. Chifuyu looked down at the blood-stained towel.

 

Mikey didn't move.

 

Takemichi laughed softly, bitter. "I used to think if I saved enough people, fixed enough timelines, it would all make sense. But all I've done is bleed for people who keep breaking anyway."

 

"You're not alone in that," Chifuyu said, his voice suddenly fierce.

 

"I know. But I feel like I am. Every day."

 

He sat down against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest. The movement stretched the cut on his leg, but he didn’t care. Not tonight.

 

"You ever think about not coming back?" Takemichi asked the room.

 

Chifuyu looked up, eyes wide.

 

"Takemichi—"

 

"Not in a dramatic way," he added quickly. "Just... in that quiet way. Where you think, 'Maybe if I just disappeared, things would be better.' Maybe if I wasn't here, none of you would have gotten hurt tonight."

 

Mikey turned slowly. His eyes were dull. Empty.

 

"Don’t say that," he whispered. It came out like a plea.

 

Takemichi met his gaze. "You think I haven't watched you think the same thing, Mikey? The only difference is, you’re better at hiding it."

 

Inupi dropped into a crouch by Takemichi, his hand gently pressing a rag against his leg.

 

"You bleed too easily for people who don’t know how to stop," he said, quietly. "You shouldn’t have to fix everyone."

 

"I don’t want to fix them," Takemichi murmured. "I want to hold them. Even if they're sharp and broken. Even if it cuts me."

 

Chifuyu limped over and dropped beside them with a heavy sigh. "That's either the most romantic or the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

 

Takemichi laughed, raw and real. "Why not both?"

 

There was silence. Then Mikey moved.

 

He walked over and crouched in front of Takemichi, those dark eyes burning into his.

 

"You want to carry all our pain?"

 

Takemichi shrugged. "I already do. Might as well do it with style."

 

Mikey reached out, fingers brushing Takemichi’s cheek, gentle. Reverent.

 

"You keep flirting like that, I might fall in love with you," he whispered.

 

Takemichi smirked. "Then fall. I’ll catch you."

 

Chifuyu made a gagging noise. "Gross. I’m bleeding out and you two are writing a tragic romance."

 

Inupi snorted. "You’re just mad no one’s flirting with you."

 

"Don’t tempt me," Takemichi said, flashing Chifuyu a wink.

 

"You flirt with anything that breathes," Chifuyu muttered, half-amused.

 

"Only the ones I care about," Takemichi corrected. "Lucky for you, you’re all cursed enough to qualify."

 

The laughter that followed wasn’t loud. Wasn’t long. But it was real. And in that ruined place, it felt like sunlight.

 

Takemichi leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. He was tired. So tired. But for the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like a weight. It felt like warmth.

 

"I love you guys," he mumbled.

 

Chifuyu sighed. "We know."

 

Inupi nodded. "Even if you’re a reckless idiot."

 

Mikey leaned closer. "Even if you’re broken."

 

Takemichi smiled, tears slipping down his cheeks unnoticed.

 

"Then maybe," he whispered, "I can keep going."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, while they bandaged wounds and argued over who had the worst injuries, Chifuyu jabbed at Takemichi with a stick he found in the debris. "Next time you flirt with Mikey, at least wait until I'm not losing blood."

 

"Jealous?" Takemichi teased.

 

"Of Mikey? Pfft. Only of the attention."

 

"Then come here, I'll flirt with you too."

 

"God help us," Inupi muttered, but there was the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

 

They weren’t fixed. None of them were whole. But maybe, just maybe, they didn’t need to be.

 

And for Takemichi—the boy who kept diving into hell for the ones he loved—that was enough for now.

 

 

Chapter 36: The Quiet Between Heartbeats.

The world didn’t end in fire or screaming. It ended in silence.

 

Takemichi’s fingers trembled as he stared at them—blood trailing down his wrist like a ribbon unraveling from a gift. Funny, how it didn’t even hurt anymore. He could hear the city outside: cars, laughter, someone arguing over spilled beer. Life. Unaware. Unbothered.

 

His apartment smelled like antiseptic, cigarettes, and stale instant noodles. The clock blinked 3:21 AM. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of himself he didn’t recognize—eyes ringed dark, knuckles bruised, a cut blooming red across his collarbone like a second mouth.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

 

“I fixed everything,” he whispered to the silence. “Didn’t I?”

 

He laughed. A dry, ugly thing. The kind of laugh people only hear at the end of something. He slumped against the bathtub, tile cold against his back, and stared at the ceiling as if it held answers. Or maybe it was waiting for him to join it.

 

But the ceiling said nothing.

 

The first time Takemichi ever considered dying wasn’t during a gang war. It wasn’t when someone put a knife through his ribs. It was in a convenience store aisle, looking at canned coffee, thinking, No one would even notice if I disappeared.

 

And that thought scared him more than any blade ever had.

 

He wore his pain like a uniform now. Thin scars around his wrists. A hip that ached when it rained. Bruises that never fully healed because they weren’t just on skin. They were in him.

 

Time travel was supposed to be a miracle. A second chance. But every loop left a little more of him behind. Memories stacked like corpses in his mind—deaths he couldn’t undo, screams he couldn’t forget.

 

Draken's lifeless eyes. Mikey's bloodied hands. Emma's broken body.

 

Even now, in a timeline where most of them lived, he still woke up screaming.

 

He hid it well. With laughter. With clumsy jokes. With promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Everyone called him strong. Reliable. A hero.

 

None of them saw the blade under his bed. Just in case.

 

Tonight had been the worst in weeks.

 

He’d passed by the old hideout. Empty. Silent. Like a grave. The ghosts there whispered in his ear—Why couldn’t you save us?—until he stumbled home, drank something that tasted like rubbing alcohol, and opened his kit.

 

He didn’t plan to do it. Not fully.

 

He just wanted to feel something.

 

The cut was shallow. A kiss of red. Nothing fatal. But it unlocked something in him, something primal and awful and real. Like scratching at a scab not because you want to bleed, but because you want to know you’re still under there somewhere.

 

And that terrified him.

 

“Stupid,” he whispered, pressing a wet cloth to the wound. "So stupid."

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

Takemichi froze. His pulse stuttered.

 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to answer.

 

The knock came again. Louder. Then:

 

“Oi, Hanagaki. I know you're in there.”

 

Mikey.

 

Takemichi cursed under his breath. He stumbled to the door, threw on a sweatshirt, and cracked it open just enough to peek through.

 

Mikey stood there, hoodie half-zipped, hair windblown, holding a bag of takeout.

 

“I brought soba. You looked like you hadn’t eaten in days last time I saw you.”

 

Takemichi blinked. “It’s three in the morning.”

 

“Exactly. Perfect soba time.”

 

He didn’t wait to be invited. He walked in.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Mikey said, digging into noodles.

 

Takemichi blinked at him from across the table. “What?”

 

“You didn’t answer your phone. Didn’t show at the usual place. I even checked the riverside. Thought maybe you finally swan-dived into traffic.”

 

Takemichi tried to laugh. It came out strangled. Mikey paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

 

“Hey... Takemichi.”

 

He looked up.

 

Mikey stared at him, eyes sharp. “You didn’t, right?”

 

There it was. The question. No pretense.

 

Takemichi thought about lying. Thought about smiling and saying, “Of course not, don’t be silly.” But the lie caught in his throat.

 

He dropped his gaze.

 

“Not this time,” he whispered.

 

Mikey said nothing for a long while.

 

Then he stood up, walked around the table, and sat beside him.

 

“Don’t do it,” he said.

 

Takemichi clenched his fists. “I wasn’t going to—”

 

“Don’t lie to me.”

 

And somehow, that was what broke him. Not the worry. Not the concern. But Mikey’s voice—tired and honest.

 

“I just wanted the noise to stop,” Takemichi said, voice trembling. “The pressure. The faces. The timelines. I wanted to breathe. And I didn’t know how else to do it.”

 

Mikey rested his head on Takemichi’s shoulder.

 

“You saved me so many times,” he murmured. “Let me save you back.”

 

Takemichi laughed, wet and ugly. “You’re the last person who should be saving people.”

 

“I know.”

 

They sat like that for a while.

 

Takemichi eventually asked, “Do you ever think we’re already dead? Like, the versions of us that lived through everything—the real us—they died years ago, and we’re just shadows.”

 

Mikey didn’t answer right away.

 

Then he said, “Yeah. All the time.”

 

“Cool,” Takemichi muttered. “Glad we’re both insane.”

 

Mikey nudged him. “At least I didn’t try to flirt with a vending machine when I was drunk.”

 

Takemichi snorted. “It was a very persuasive vending machine.”

 

Silence. Then laughter.

 

Not happy laughter. But real.

 

And that was enough.

 

Later, when Mikey was asleep on the couch and the soba was cold, Takemichi sat by the bathroom mirror again.

 

He looked at himself.

 

Still broken. Still bleeding.

 

But not alone.

 

He picked up the blade. Considered it.

 

Then slowly, deliberately, dropped it in the trash.

 

Not tonight.

 

He had promises to keep.

 

And maybe, just maybe, someone to flirt with who wasn’t a vending machine.

 

The trash bin sat quietly in the corner, the razor blade barely visible beneath crumpled tissues and the red-spotted cloth. Takemichi stared at it from the doorway, a sick knot turning in his stomach.

 

He should’ve felt better. He had chosen life. He had let Mikey in. He had laughed.

 

So why did it still hurt so much?

 

Mikey was still asleep on the couch, limbs twisted, breathing slow and shallow. His face looked peaceful for once. And that scared Takemichi even more.

 

Peace never lasted with them. Not really.

 

Takemichi turned away and went to the sink. Washed his hands. Watched the pink-tinged water spiral down the drain like a tiny storm.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered to himself.

 

But even he didn’t believe it.

 

The next morning, Mikey was gone.

 

No note. No message. Just the faint scent of soba and that ghostly heaviness that followed him everywhere.

 

Takemichi checked his phone. Dozens of unread messages. Chifuyu, Inupi, even Hakkai. All asking if he was alright. If he was showing up to the meeting. If he was alive.

 

He didn’t reply.

 

Instead, he stared at the photo pinned to his wall.

 

All of them. Together. Smiling.

 

Baji. Emma. Draken. Smiles fossilized in a past that didn’t exist anymore.

 

Takemichi tore the photo down and dropped it into the trash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He went for a walk.

 

The sun was too bright. The wind too sharp. Every sound grated against his nerves. Laughter from a park bench made his teeth grind. A baby crying sent a spike of pain through his head.

 

He wandered toward the river. The same one he’d thought about jumping into years ago.

 

It looked peaceful today.

 

He sat on the ledge. Let his feet dangle. Tried not to think.

 

But the thoughts came anyway.

 

You tried. You failed. They all died anyway. Even the ones you saved are broken. Mikey’s still haunted. Baji’s still dead. You’re a ghost in your own body.

 

“Shut up,” he muttered.

 

The river didn’t listen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, he visited the old Toman grave site.

 

It wasn’t official. Just a small shrine someone had put together. Pictures. Candles. A few personal tokens.

 

Takemichi lit a candle for Baji.

 

And for Draken.

 

And for Emma.

 

And finally, for himself.

 

Because even if his heart still beat, the person he was had died somewhere between timelines. Rewritten. Erased.

 

He knelt there for hours. Praying for silence.

 

When the candle finally burned low, Takemichi reached into his jacket and pulled out the blade he hadn’t thrown away. The one he had hidden in the lining, just in case.

 

He pressed it to his skin.

 

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mikey found him two hours later. Too late.

 

The rain had started. It washed the blood into the dirt, thinned it until it looked like watercolor paint.

 

Takemichi’s body was curled around the base of the shrine, eyes half-closed, mouth parted as if he had something left to say.

 

Mikey dropped to his knees, shaking.

 

“Why,” he whispered. “You promised me. You promised.”

 

He pulled Takemichi’s body into his lap. Cradled him like something fragile. His hands left red smears on the other’s face.

 

He didn’t cry. Just rocked back and forth, lips brushing against Takemichi’s forehead.

 

“You were supposed to make it.”

 

He laughed, but it was hollow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Guess we’re all liars now.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Takemichi’s funeral was small.

 

Most of the old gang came. Chifuyu didn’t speak the entire time. Inupi punched a wall until his knuckles shattered. Mikey didn’t attend. He stood on the hill nearby, watching from a distance.

 

The world kept turning.

 

The vending machines still lit up at night.

 

But no one ever heard Takemichi laugh again.

 

And in the quiet between heartbeats, the city forgot his name.

 

Mikey stood on the edge of the hill, looking down at the funeral below. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, nails digging into his palms until the sting kept him grounded.

 

They were burying Takemichi.

 

The one person who never gave up on him. The one person who kept jumping through time and blood and hell just to save people like him.

 

Gone.

 

Because he couldn’t save himself.

 

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Mikey hadn’t stopped moving either. He didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t cry.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Crying meant admitting it happened.

 

Crying meant the ghost in his chest, the one that whispered “you failed him” wasn’t just his imagination.

 

He lit a cigarette. The smoke curled in the air, sharp and bitter.

 

“Idiot,” he muttered.

 

But his voice cracked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night.

 

The city lights blinked like dying stars. Mikey wandered the streets, hollow-eyed. Every alley reminded him of fights. Every corner of laughter. Every crosswalk of a time when Takemichi would shout his name like it meant something.

 

He hadn’t slept since the funeral.

 

He tried.

 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Takemichi at the shrine.

 

Curled up. Bleeding out. Alone.

 

“Why didn’t I stay?” Mikey whispered.

 

No answer.

 

Just the buzz of neon. The taste of regret.

 

He ended up at Draken’s old shop.

 

Boarded up. Dusty.

 

He kicked the door in anyway.

 

Inside, he sat where the old bike used to be. Pulled out the same blade Takemichi had used.

 

He could still see the dried rust-colored stain near the base.

 

Was this his punishment?

 

To live?

 

To carry every ghost?

 

“Takemitchy…” Mikey whispered. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

 

His voice shook.

 

“You lied.”

 

He stayed like that all night. Blade in hand. Staring. Not blinking.

 

But he didn’t use it.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Because if he did, Takemichi’s death would mean nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weeks passed.

 

Mikey started sending letters.

 

To Takemichi’s empty apartment.

 

To the shrine.

 

To no one.

 

 

 

“I miss you.”

 

 

 

“I still hear your laugh.”

 

 

 

“I think I’m going insane without you.”

 

 

 

“Do you hate me?”

 

 

 

“I hate me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Months.

 

The world forgot. But Mikey didn’t.

 

He visited the grave every Tuesday. Brought milk tea. Told stories like Takemichi was still there.

 

Sometimes he was.

 

In dreams.

 

In hallucinations.

 

In that soft laugh that echoed just before Mikey woke up screaming.

 

Mikey never healed.

 

Some people don’t.

 

Some holes are too deep. Some ghosts too loud.

 

But he kept living.

 

Because that’s what Takemichi would’ve wanted.

 

Even if Mikey hated him for it.

 

Even if every breath felt like betrayal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day, years later, he left a final note at the grave:

 

“You saved me. But I didn’t save you. I don’t know how to forgive myself for that. But I’m still trying. I’m still here. For you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I want to make a cooking oneshot with Kakucho.

Chapter 37: The broken hourglass

Notes:

I'm awake and decided to write this. I base some of this to my actual experience

Takemichi Hanagaki hadn’t slept in 72 hours.

 

Not properly.

 

Sleep meant dreams. Dreams meant him.

 

A warped version of himself stared at him in every nightmare now—his face split down the middle, one eye milky white and the other dripping a black ichor. Skin peeled like scorched paper. Fingers too long. Voice like shattered glass scraping across stone.

 

“Why did you come back?” the monster would whisper. “Why didn’t you stay dead?”

 

He always woke up screaming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daylight.

 

It offered no comfort.

 

The world outside was a blur of too-bright signs and fake laughter. His head buzzed constantly. Not from drugs. Just… the static of being.

 

He sat at the corner of a train platform, hands trembling. People passed him by like he wasn’t real. Maybe he wasn’t.

 

A kid passed and gasped.

 

“Mom, what’s wrong with that man’s face?”

 

Takemichi flinched.

 

He touched his cheek. Still smooth. Still intact.

 

But he could feel the cracks beneath the skin.

 

Like something rotten trying to burst out.

 

He remembered one day—just last week—catching his reflection in a shop window and seeing something smiling back that wasn't him.

 

Teeth too sharp. Jaw too wide.

 

It winked.

 

He didn't look again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mirror.

 

He smashed it a week ago.

 

Couldn’t bear the sight of himself.

 

The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises. His hair was falling out in clumps. His ribs jutted out. Skin too pale. Like a corpse halfway remembered.

 

He started wrapping his arms in gauze. No wounds. Not yet. But something inside wanted to claw its way out.

 

At night, he’d feel his spine twist. Hear something whispering in the bones.

 

“You’re not supposed to exist anymore.”

 

He’d vomit until there was nothing left.

 

Then crawl to the bathtub and let the water scald him.

 

He never felt clean.

 

Chifuyu called.

 

Thirty times.

 

Takemichi let them ring out.

 

He couldn’t face him. Or anyone.

 

He kept seeing ghosts.

 

A hand brushing his shoulder in an empty room.

 

Draken’s voice in his ear when he was alone.

 

Naoto’s eyes staring through him like Takemichi had failed everyone all over again.

 

And maybe he had.

 

Every life he saved was unraveling behind him, threads loose and frayed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He woke up to blood in the sink.

 

His fingernails were cracked and blackened.

 

Something had erupted beneath his shoulder blade. It pulsed.

 

He tore off his shirt and saw it—a patch of skin that looked more like bark than flesh. Veins glowing faintly. Moving.

 

He screamed.

 

Nobody heard.

 

He sat on the floor, shaking. Wrapped his arms around his knees.

 

“I’m not real,” he whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m just a mistake.”

 

He began trying to cut the patch out.

 

It didn’t bleed.

 

It writhed.

 

Like it enjoyed the pain.

 

He passed out on the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The journal.

 

He began writing.

 

In case someone found him.

 

Each entry ended the same:

 

“If you’re reading this, don’t try to save me. I’m already gone.”

 

He taped pictures of everyone he loved to the walls. Faces smiling. Frozen in moments he couldn’t get back.

 

“Sorry,” he wrote under each one.

 

Except Mikey.

 

Under Mikey’s photo, he just wrote:

 

“I should’ve saved you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The final nightmare.

 

He was back at the shrine. Blood on the floor. His own body hanging by threads of light, suspended like a broken puppet.

 

The monster version of himself stood over him.

 

“You died already,” it said. “Let me take over.”

 

Takemichi looked at his own heart in the thing’s hands.

 

Still beating.

 

But barely.

 

“You’re not real,” Takemichi said.

 

“I’m the only real part of you left.”

 

He woke up biting into his own hand, trying not to scream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reality.

 

He woke up in a hospital.

 

IV in his arm. Wires on his chest.

 

Chifuyu sat in the corner, eyes red.

 

“You tried to tear your back open with a mirror shard,” he whispered.

 

Takemichi blinked. Couldn’t speak.

 

Chifuyu held his hand.

 

“You’re not alone.”

 

But Takemichi didn’t believe him.

 

Not yet.

 

Maybe not ever.

 

They kept him for 14 days.

 

They didn’t call it suicide watch, but it was.

 

A nurse sat outside his room. Chifuyu visited every day.

 

So did Hina. Even Kisaki, once.

 

He stood at the door, never stepped in.

 

Takemichi watched him through the window.

 

He looked like a ghost.

 

They mirrored each other. Two halves of something ruined.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recovery wasn’t a straight line.

 

Some days, Takemichi could walk to the window and feel sunlight.

 

Other days, he hallucinated his own body unraveling into smoke.

 

He started drawing the monster version of himself. Over and over.

 

Chifuyu found one and cried.

 

“You’re not that thing,” he said.

 

Takemichi didn’t respond.

 

He wasn’t sure.

 

The scar stayed.

 

He’d never be whole again.

 

But he was alive.

 

And that would have to be enough—for now.

 

He watched the sunrise from the rooftop of the hospital.

 

It didn’t burn his eyes the way it used to.

 

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” he said aloud.

 

The wind didn’t answer.

 

But it didn’t feel hostile either.

 

He picked up a pen again.

 

This time not to say goodbye.

 

But to write a letter:

 

“To whoever I become tomorrow: I hope you’re proud of me. Even if I break again. Even if I fall. I’ll keep standing up. Because that’s what Takemichi Hanagaki does, right?”

 

He folded it. Slipped it into his pocket.

 

Tomorrow, he’d try.

 

Even if the monster waited.

 

Even if the hourglass cracked again.

 

He’d try.

 

 

Chapter 38: Out of Character [TOMAN + HINA]

Notes:

what's this? me posting?

The evening was humming with the leftover tension of Toman’s meeting.
The core members had spilled out onto the wide stone steps outside their usual hideout — a corner lot that always smelled faintly of oil and takoyaki from the food stalls across the street.

Mikey sat dead center on the top step, legs spread lazily, his chin tilted toward the stars like he was searching for a sign to justify staying awake. Draken leaned against the rusted railing, arms folded, scanning the street out of habit. Mitsuya and Chifuyu had claimed the middle steps, exchanging bits of conversation between idle glances at the group.

Baji was unwrapping his second yakisoba bread, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk as he talked with his mouth full. Kazutora sat cross-legged beside him, idly twisting the silver ring on his finger and smirking at whatever chaos might unfold.

Hinata was perched lower down, almost in her own quiet space, but close enough to hear the way their laughter bounced in the cool night air. She was used to the noise of Toman, used to the way boys her age acted around each other — loud, competitive, careless with their words.

And then there was Takemichi.

Usually, he’d be in the background. Laughing nervously at Mikey’s jokes. Stammering if Hinata so much as tucked her hair behind her ear. Red-faced if Baji teased him. But tonight…

Something was different.

He was leaning back against the railing, one ankle crossed over the other, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. Not the bashful, unsure smile they all knew — this one was slower, heavier. And his eyes… were scanning the group in a way that made people feel like they were being read.

“Oi, Takemitchy,” Baji called from mid-bite, squinting at him. “Why the hell do you look like that? You plannin’ something? You never look this smug.”

Takemichi’s eyes slid over to him, then to Kazutora, then — deliberately — to Hinata. “Maybe I am,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something sharper. “Or maybe I’m just noticing things I haven’t before.”

A ripple of unease — or curiosity — passed through the group.

Mikey tilted his head lazily. “You drunk?”

“No.” Takemichi’s answer was immediate. His voice dipped just enough to turn the sentence into something intimate. “But I am wondering…” — his gaze fixed entirely on Hinata now — “…how someone as gorgeous as Hina puts up with all of us idiots.”

Hinata froze, lips parting slightly. The blush on her cheeks was so quick it made Mitsuya look away politely.

Draken chuckled under his breath. “The hell? Did you hit your head?”

Takemichi didn’t look away. He pushed off the railing and moved down the steps toward Hinata, every step unhurried. The rest of Toman followed him with their eyes like spectators watching a scene they didn’t know they’d bought tickets for.

He crouched in front of her, arms resting loosely on his knees, just close enough for her to feel the faint brush of his breath when he spoke. “Seriously, Hina,” he murmured, “you’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Baji made a choking noise halfway through his bread. “Oi! In public?!”

Kazutora grinned, clearly entertained. “Guess our boy finally grew a spine.”

Hinata’s hands tightened on her skirt, her voice barely above a whisper. “T-Takemichi…”

“What?” he said, smiling faintly. “I can’t compliment my girlfriend in front of my friends? Maybe I should just show you how much I mean it—”

Chifuyu nearly jumped out of his skin. “WOAH, okay! Dude, I’ve known you for years and this is… this is not normal!”

Takemichi only tilted his head at him. “Maybe normal’s overrated.” Then, without breaking eye contact with Hinata, he let his thumb brush over her knee. Slow. Intentional. Enough to make her inhale sharply.

Mitsuya cleared his throat. “Takemichi, there are a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“Let them look,” Takemichi said simply.

Even Mikey, who rarely showed more than mild interest in interpersonal drama, sat forward, his brows slightly raised. “You’re either possessed… or I like this version of you better.”

The comment got a round of low laughter, but nobody missed the fact that Takemichi still hadn’t stepped back.

 

Notes:

Your parents spoiling you today.

Chapter 39: Sketch [SENJU]

The rooftop of the old arcade was nothing glamorous — cracked cement, a dented vending machine humming against the wall, and a set of stairs that creaked every time someone climbed them. But for Takemichi and Senju, it had become something like a sanctuary.

From up here, you could still hear Shibuya — the murmur of late-night crowds, the occasional blare of a car horn — but it all felt distant, like the city was content to keep its noise below them.

Takemichi sat with his back against the railing, his bag beside him. Senju was on the opposite side of the roof, leaning against the wall with her knees pulled up. They’d been talking for over an hour. Well, she had been talking; Takemichi mostly listened. Senju had this way of speaking where one story bled into another without pause, her energy filling the space between them.

“…and then Haruchiyo swore he could eat three bowls of ramen in under five minutes, so I bet him dessert for a week. Guess who’s enjoying free taiyaki now?” she said with a smirk.

Takemichi chuckled. “You’re terrifying when you’re competitive.”

She grinned, leaning her head back against the wall. “That’s the point.”

It wasn’t until the conversation lulled that he noticed her eyelids growing heavier, her words slowing. She’d been training earlier that day — he could tell from the faint smudge of dust on her jacket sleeves and the scuff marks on her sneakers.

She let out a small sigh and, without warning, her head tilted forward. The short strands of her hair brushed her cheek, hiding her expression as her breathing evened out.

Takemichi stared for a moment, almost in disbelief. Senju Kawaragi — leader of Brahman, unpredictable, unstoppable — was asleep, and not in the “pretend nap” way she sometimes did to avoid boring conversations. This was real.

He should’ve let her rest. That’s what a normal person would do. But instead, his hand drifted toward his bag.

The sketchpad wasn’t much — dog-eared from use, the spiral slightly bent — but it was familiar, like a secret hobby he’d never really shown anyone. He flipped to a blank page and pulled out his pencil.

His first lines were tentative, a rough outline of her profile. But as the minutes passed, his strokes grew more confident. He mapped the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose, the slight part in her lips. He shaded the softness in her cheeks, the way the dim light hit the edges of her hair.

He found himself slowing down, adding details no one else would notice — the faint crease at the corner of her mouth, the stray strand of hair falling over her temple. Every line was deliberate, almost reverent.

A low whistle broke his concentration.

Takemichi jumped, clutching the pad like it was evidence of a crime. “Chifuyu—!”

The blond crouched beside him, peering at the page. “Wow. That’s… actually really good. Who knew you could draw?”

Takemichi’s ears burned. “It’s nothing. I was just—”

“Drawing your friend while she’s sleeping?” Chifuyu smirked. “Real smooth, Takemitchy.”

“It’s not like that!”

Chifuyu raised a brow. “Right. Totally not like that. Anyway, you better hope she doesn’t wake up and see you staring at her like you’re planning to frame her for your next art exhibit.”

“Can you not—”

But Chifuyu was already walking away, hands in his pockets, grinning to himself.

Takemichi looked back at the sketch. He told himself it was just a way to pass the time. Just… something to do. But deep down, he knew the truth: he hadn’t wanted to miss this moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three days later, Takemichi realized too late that he’d made a mistake.

He was at the Toman hideout, sorting through his bag for some receipts Mitsuya needed. The room was half-empty, most of the gang out on errands. That’s when he noticed the weight of his bag was wrong — lighter.

The sketchpad was gone.

Panic shot through him. He checked the corners of the room, the table, even under the couch cushions, muttering curses under his breath. That sketch wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not by anyone, and definitely not—

“Looking for this?”

He froze.

Senju was leaning against the doorway, her jacket slung over one shoulder, holding the sketchpad loosely in her hand. Her expression was unreadable — not teasing, not stern — just… quiet.

Takemichi’s mouth went dry. “I— where did you—”

“It was in the corner by the vending machine. I thought it was Chifuyu’s, but…” She flipped the pad open, and there it was — her sleeping face, captured in pencil. The lines were crisp, the shading careful.

“You drew me,” she said simply.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. You fell asleep, and I… I didn’t mean for it to be creepy, I swear. I just… you looked…”

“Peaceful?” she offered.

He nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Peaceful. And strong. Somehow both at once. I don’t know how you do that.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the vending machine downstairs. Senju stepped into the room, closing the distance between them. She was close enough now that he could catch the faint scent of shampoo in her hair.

“You’re good,” she said finally. “Like… actually good. You should’ve shown me.”

“I didn’t want you to think—”

“That you were weird?” she finished, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Takemichi, you fight gang leaders for a living. Weird’s already part of the package.”

He laughed nervously, but the air between them had shifted. Her gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching.

“You know,” she said, her voice soft but edged with something daring, “if you wanted to draw me again… you wouldn’t have to wait until I’m asleep.”

Takemichi blinked. “…You mean—?”

“I mean,” she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, “I’d let you. Maybe I’d even pose for you. Might make it harder to concentrate, though.”

The words sent heat straight to his chest. He wasn’t sure if she was joking, but the spark in her eyes told him she wasn’t entirely bluffing.

“I—uh… I’ll keep that in mind,” he stammered.

Senju chuckled, pressing the sketchpad against his chest. “Do that. And Takemichi?”

“Y-Yeah?”

Her smile softened, just slightly. “Thanks for seeing me like that.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, the sound of her boots fading down the hall. Takemichi stared after her, the sketchpad still warm in his hands, wondering how the hell he was supposed to draw her again without losing his mind completely.

Chapter 40: Between floors [SMILEY]

The city was a sea of glass and steel outside the skyscraper’s windows, shimmering in the late evening haze.
Takemichi had only come here to deliver some documents for a friend — he hadn’t expected to be sharing an elevator ride with Nahoya Kawata.

Smiley.
The man was impossible to mistake — wild orange hair tied back, that ever-present grin. He looked like he belonged in the chaos of Shibuya’s streets, not in a tailored black jacket and slacks.

Takemichi stepped inside, pressing the button for the 18th floor. Nahoya’s hand casually hit the 30th.
The doors slid shut with a soft chime.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Takemitchy,” Smiley said, leaning against the wall. “Business meeting? Or just lost?”

“Delivering paperwork,” Takemichi muttered. “You?”

“Same. But with more… fun,” Smiley replied, his grin deepening.

The elevator hummed as it rose. Then — without warning — it jolted violently. The lights flickered, and a low grinding noise filled the space before it shuddered to a complete stop.

Takemichi grabbed the handrail to steady himself. “What the hell—”

Smiley pressed the emergency button. A distorted voice crackled over the speaker: “Elevator malfunction. Please remain calm. Technicians are on the way.”

Takemichi exhaled, slumping against the wall. “Great. Just great.”

Smiley glanced at him, still smiling, but something in his eyes was sharper now — like he’d just been handed an opportunity.
“So… looks like we’ve got time to kill.”

At first, they spoke about harmless things — work, the city, the heat outside. But as the minutes dragged on, the conversation shifted.

“I heard you’ve been keeping your distance,” Smiley said suddenly. “Avoiding me.”

Takemichi stiffened. “It’s not… like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Smiley tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “You think I don’t notice? The way you look away when we pass each other? Or how you leave early when I show up?”

Takemichi’s chest tightened. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Smiley echoed, stepping closer. “You mean forbidden, right?”

Takemichi swallowed hard. Smiley wasn’t wrong. Whatever this was between them — the lingering glances, the conversations that lasted too long — it wasn’t supposed to happen. Their circles didn’t mix like that. Too many people would have something to say. Too many bridges could burn.

But in the small, dim space of the elevator, that logic felt far away.

Smiley leaned in, his voice lower now, losing some of its playful edge. “You can keep pretending you don’t want this, Takemitchy. But we’re stuck here. No running this time.”

Takemichi’s pulse was loud in his ears. The flickering light caught on Smiley’s sharp cheekbones, the way his grin softened just enough to be dangerous.

“I’m not…” Takemichi began, but his words faltered when Smiley’s hand brushed his.

It was a light touch, almost accidental — except it lingered.

“You are,” Smiley said quietly. “And so am I.”

The air between them tightened. For a moment, Takemichi thought he might step back, put the distance back where it belonged.
Instead, he stayed.

Smiley’s grin widened again, but this time it wasn’t for show. “Guess the elevator breaking down was the best thing to happen today.”

Somewhere above them, the sound of tools clanged against metal — the promise of rescue. But neither of them moved away.

The elevator groaned back to life with a sudden lurch. Takemichi stumbled, catching himself on the rail. Smiley didn’t move, still standing just a fraction too close, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

The car ascended smoothly now, the floor numbers blinking overhead. Takemichi’s heartbeat refused to slow.

When the doors finally slid open, a pair of building technicians stood outside, apologizing for the delay. Takemichi muttered a quick “Thanks” and stepped out, eager for space — yet strangely reluctant to leave the cramped world they’d just shared.

Smiley followed at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets.

They walked side by side through the marble-floored lobby. Takemichi could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing between them.

“You’re heading out?” Smiley asked.

“Yeah,” Takemichi replied. “Delivery’s done. No reason to stay.”

Smiley tilted his head, his ever-present grin curling just enough to make Takemichi’s stomach tighten. “No reason? I can think of one.”

Takemichi froze at the exit. “Smiley, we can’t—”

“That’s exactly why we should.”

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the cool rush of evening air. Outside, the city glittered like a thousand temptations. Smiley stepped past him, but not before brushing his fingers against Takemichi’s hand — quick, subtle, but intentional.

Takemichi hesitated, glancing around. The lobby was still busy — businessmen on phones, a couple waiting for a cab — anyone could see.

“You’re insane,” Takemichi whispered.

Smiley’s grin widened, but his voice dropped low, meant for Takemichi alone. “Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t care what they think.”

It was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of thing that could unravel too many threads if anyone found out.

Takemichi should’ve walked away. He should’ve taken the subway home and buried this moment under routine and reason.

But when Smiley paused at the curb, glancing over his shoulder with a look that dared him to follow, Takemichi’s feet moved before his mind could stop them.

They ended up in a café tucked between neon-lit buildings, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. Smiley ordered two coffees without asking what Takemichi wanted.

When the cups hit the table, Smiley leaned forward on his elbows, finally letting the grin fade into something more raw.

“You know why this feels like a bad idea?” he asked.

Takemichi swallowed. “…Because it is.”

“Yeah,” Smiley said. “And because it’s the only thing I’ve wanted in weeks.”

Takemichi looked down at his coffee, fingers tightening around the mug. “If anyone knew—”

“They won’t,” Smiley interrupted. “Unless you want them to.”

The words hung between them, thick with possibility.

Takemichi met his gaze. And for once, Smiley wasn’t hiding behind his trademark expression — no mask, no mischief. Just honesty.

 

It was dangerous.

 

It was wrong.

 

It was everything Takemichi wanted.

Chapter 41: THE END.

Finally, after several timelines…

 

I, Hanagaki Takemichi, managed to save everyone.

 

The weight I carried—those countless failures, the endless cries, the faces of friends I lost again and again—lifted like a storm finally breaking into sunlight. For the first time, there was no blood staining the future. No graves waiting for the people I loved.

 

Draken stood tall beside Mikey, no shadows in his eyes this time. Emma was smiling, alive, holding his hand like she always should have. Hina’s laughter rang out, soft and warm, wrapping around me like the home I had always longed for. Even Kisaki… even he no longer cast a chain of tragedies that strangled us all.

 

I looked at their faces, each one alive, each one free, and it felt unreal. My chest tightened. For years—no, for timelines uncountable—I had lived with regret. With guilt. With fear. Every time I thought I’d done enough, fate reminded me I was still too weak. Every time I swore I’d protect them, someone slipped away.

 

But not this time.

 

This time, the loop had ended.

 

I could breathe without that crushing weight pressing on my lungs. I could laugh without fear of what tomorrow would take. My hands trembled, not from despair, but because I didn’t know what to do with joy so heavy it almost hurt.

 

Mikey clapped me on the shoulder, grinning the way he used to, back when everything was simple. “You did it, Takemitchy. You really did it.”

 

The words hit harder than any punch I’d ever taken. I couldn’t stop the tears. My knees gave out, and I laughed through sobs that tore out of me, shameless and raw. For once, I wasn’t crying because I had failed—I was crying because I had finally, finally won.

 

After several timelines, after countless mistakes, after losing and fighting and stumbling over and over…

 

I saved everyone.

 

And that… was enough.

 

 

Chapter 42: Author's note.

Hi, it’s me—Keith0.

 

I just want to thank all of you for the love and support you’ve given this series. It honestly means the world to me. Unfortunately, I don’t have the motivation to continue this one any further.

 

But! Don’t worry—it’s not the end of the road. I’ll be working on a new series in another fandom, something similar in spirit but with a fresh start. Instead of just oneshots, I’m planning to write stories that can also serve as ideas for you guys to build your own series from. Think of it as me laying the groundwork, and you taking it wherever your imagination leads.

 

Thank you again for sticking with me through this journey. I hope you’ll join me for the next one too.

 

– Keith0