Chapter Text
Ichiro dreamed, sometimes, of an old and distant home. It was not cluttered, but nor were its wide spaces empty. Everywhere were there tiny signs of life, the mark of an owner in the shoes left in the entrance and the proof of a family amongst the pots and pans stacked to dry on the rack above the sink.
Ichiro had known those halls well, once upon a time. He’d walked them as if he’d belonged, memorized their nicks and corners and quirks with the unconscious clarity of someone who’d never truly thought they’d have to leave.
If he caught a wisp of scent, the faintest hint of a familiar fragrance he wouldn’t put name to, for a brilliant moment he’d be thrown back years in the past, towards the nostalgic days he’d spent in it. If he closed his eyes, he could still see it clear as day- the bed he’d slept on, the cutlery drawer with everything set neat in its place, his shoes, his pair of house slippers left by the entrance to faithfully await his next visit.
No, thought Ichiro. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t been a visitor.
Nor had it really been his home.
But, thought Ichiro, blinking awake to the sight of the old, dirty tiles from where he’d fallen asleep atop the couch, still seeing the phantom cracks of a ceiling that had once been more familiar to him than that of even the orphanage- the Aohitsugi house had certainly been something to him.
Looking back, Ichiro was sure that Samatoki had loved him. As a friend, as a partner, like a brother. He wasn’t kind to others- cordial certainly, though anything but unnecessarily cruel to those whose good graces he cared to keep- and yet Ichiro knew just how often Samatoki went out of his way to accommodate him.
He’d met his fair share of underworld pillars and the crawlers that wove in and out of the fabric of their world- for the most part, he was one of them. Shaking a man down for the interest on the loan he’d taken out of desperation was as familiar a story to Ichiro as back alley brawls turned rap battles and the endless push and pull of territory, an old war with a new name.
Meeting Samatoki had been no different.
But everything that had followed- the respect, the admiration, the hope that had consumed him with a fire he’d never known to melt the frigid exterior he’d been so resolved to show the world- that had been different.
He wasn’t a bad person. He’d staked his claim in the underworld but he wasn’t rotten like so many others whose paths Ichiro had crossed. The proof came in the simple ways, the things Ichiro never had to ask for. How Samatoki made sure to ask after Jiro and Saburo every once and a while after he’d pulled it from Ichiro why he’d needed money, or how his words of praise never seemed to be means to an end, never a false kindness to keep him in line. How he kept Ichiro to his promise of finishing out high school. How he said Ichiro’s name as if it meant something. As if Ichiro meant something.
(How, like a magic spell with a softer name, he made Ichiro believe it.)
When they fought on opposite sides, it was explosive in its intensity. When they fought together, they razed the earth before them and toppled all those who’d dare stand in their way. They bled confidence from their words and rebellion from their postures- because when Samatoki stood at his back, Ichiro dared, just dared, to think that he might be invincible. And before he knew he was doing it- before he could even so much as process why- he’d started to care.
Because he wasn’t corrupt. He was like Ichiro.
(More than he ever could have dreamed, at first.)
The first time Ichiro met Aohitsugi Nemu, it was because she wanted to join them for dinner. She’d gone out with friends but they’d parted before eating; upon finding out that Samatoki was dining out, she’d insisted on coming to join them. She’d also convinced Samatoki to upgrade them from ramen to yakiniku, which meant that Ichiro’s first impression of her was that she was the most brilliant person he’d ever met in his life- even if she’d just been a faint voice on the other end of a phone call. And then she’d talked Samatoki into extending their time at the table while flashing him a wink, and Ichiro had been sold.
The second time he met Aohitsugi Nemu- and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth- it was because Samatoki had brought him home for dinner. Nemu and Samatoki were both fearsome cooks, even if Nemu leaned over and whispered in his ear after a round of Samatoki’s boasting that the only things he was consistently good at without a recipe were fried rice and coffee. But Ichiro didn’t care- couldn’t find it in himself to protest or tease when sitting around a table and laughing like this was something he’d thought he lost. A family dinner. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like.
As the days passed around that table they spoke of their futures- of Nemu’s worries, of Samatoki’s plans for this crooked world’s demise- and of Ichiro, too.
And though he knew not why, for the first time he spilled it all, the words torn from him in a fervor that he called not desperation but determination. About Jiro and Saburo, about the money he needed, about all he’d done to collect it. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. His parents, his crimes, all the things he’d numbed himself to- it all came tumbling out over that quiet table, a sad story he’d never wanted them to hear.
“Ichiro…” said Nemu, soft with a hand clenched gently atop the table, as if stifling the urge to reach out. And Ichiro hesitated- he shouldn’t have said that. Never had he wanted their pity. Never had he wanted them to see him as something less. But in one moment of weakness he knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself, he’d gone and ruined it all.
But what she’d said wasn’t laced with pity. It was, with something in her gaze that Ichiro would later learn to call admiration- “Ichiro, that’s amazing! You’re amazing. Working that hard for something… You’re incredible. I wish I had something I believed in that much.”
“No, it’s… I’m not… I have a long way to go,” Ichiro muttered, trying to look anywhere but the two of them and settling on the half-eaten plate before him. He’d forgotten about it when he’d started telling his story. He speared a piece of asparagus and shoved it in his mouth, just to fill the silence of his uncertain words. But then-
“You’ll make it,” Samatoki told him, with a certainty that only someone who had could possess. Ichiro’s gaze snapped back up, summoned by the sound, and in an instant Samatoki had pinned him with that gaze. It was the one that had convinced Ichiro to throw it all away and follow him to the ends of the earth or to hell or wherever Samatoki might lead, full of certainty and something so very, very kind-
And Ichiro had believed him.
They sat together on a park bench, sidetracked from their walk back from a local restaurant by Ichiro and Nemu’s combined insistence that Samatoki buy them something to drink. They’d really been angling for ice cream from the convenience store on the corner, but Samatoki had insisted they’d eaten enough of his wallet for the night and bargained them down to drinks instead. The night was warm, the mood between them equally so; Ichiro leaned back and thought, staring up at the sky with stars all drowned out by the city lights surrounding-
I wish I didn’t have to go back.
It wasn’t that he regretted his choice to take care of his brothers- even if he was powerless to do it now. It wasn’t that he regretted his means of doing it, even if in another world they wouldn’t have been his first choice. It wasn’t that he intentionally wanted to cause anyone worry with his absence. But.
Nemu looked over at him; only then did Ichiro realize that he’d spoken at least part of that aloud on his sigh. “If you don’t want to go back, then just stay with us!”
“It’s not that simple.”
He’d never be able to leave Jiro and Saburo alone for so long- even if it still seemed that more days than not they didn’t want to have anything to do with him. And how could he blame them? It was as open a secret as it got. Yamada Ichiro, partnered up with the yakuza. Yamada Ichiro, good for nothing but the leg work of companies where decency went to die. Yamada Ichiro, another good-for-nothing kid in a long line of them.
Even climbing his way to the top of Ikebukuro had done nothing. Violent. A bad influence on his brothers. If he keeps going down that road, he’ll be dead before he hits twenty.
Nemu kicked her feet against the ground, collecting her words a moment. But the pause wasn’t awkward. Around her and Samatoki both, they rarely ever were. “Why not? You’re already family. And this way, I could show you how to make all the things Samatoki likes.”
Ichiro nodded, then paused, shaking his head at the way Nemu’s eyes gleamed with easy humor that Ichiro very much didn’t understand. “Wait, why would I need to do that?”
Nemu laughed and the echoing sound seemed to illuminate the park around them. The twilight was fading; the lingering light around them more due to the lampposts scattered around than the setting sun. But it did seem so very bright in his memory still.
“You’re cute, Ichiro.”
“Huh? Huh?”
“But I mean it,” Nemu continued while Ichiro was still very much lost, scrambling to figure out what exactly she’d meant. “It’s okay if you want to stay with us sometimes, Ichiro. All of us know what it feels like to not want to go home.”
Ichiro stared at her, searching. Samatoki had told him the story, once. His words had been laced with a casual sort of anger, a dismissal made possible only by the years between the past and the present. A history that couldn’t be changed; a future that mustn’t be repeated. A good for nothing father. A deeply pained mother. A boy left to forge his own way through the unforgiving world, clawing his way through the dark for the sake of the sister he sheltered at his side. Old wounds, spoken as truths that had become nothing but scars.
Ichiro wondered if he’d ever quite get there.
But to Nemu, now, he said- “That’s not the same thing.”
“Does it matter? We like having you here, Ichiro.”
“Yeah,” came a voice, low over his shoulder, and the way Ichiro started had nothing to do with how a cold bottle of cola was pressed to his neck. “Stay. Damn pain to get you back there anyway.”
“I can get back on my own,” Ichiro muttered, and snatched the bottle from Samatoki’s hand, hardly sparing a thought to how he’d shaken it before fumbling open the cap. It didn’t foam over- though it was a close thing, and he jolted forwards to hold it out over the grass before it got on his pants, or even worse, Nemu’s skirt, much to the amusement of the siblings behind him.
He glared, but it had no bite; Samatoki passed Nemu her juice with a much gentler hand and she tried valiantly not to giggle as she accepted. Samatoki, on the other hand, had no reservations about grinning down at him with a sharp amusement that spoke volumes about how Ichiro would’ve gotten exactly what he deserved, there.
“I’m leaving,” Ichiro said, glancing between them with a playful sort of defiance, a mockery of anger he wasn’t sure he could ever feel towards them.
Samatoki huffed out a laugh and flipped the tab on his canned coffee with one hand, waving Ichiro off with the other. “Then leave. But it’s a long walk from here to there.”
“Not that far,” Ichiro said, mostly into the bottle as he stifled his words with a gulp. And it was true- it wasn’t far enough that Ichiro couldn’t make it back. He’d done it before, he could do it again.
But he didn’t want to. Especially not alone. So with the sweet taste of soda to wash away the bitter aftertaste and the warmth of old smoke surrounding-
Ichiro stayed.
They found other allies- each with their own territories and own way of fighting- or rather they collided head-on, territory nudging up against the Shinjuku borderline and earning the ire of its rulers. Eventually- after a battle well-deserved- came their trust, too. Their team grew, gained a rear guard and set their sights on the last few untamed pieces of Shibuya beyond. If everything had been in their sights when it was just him and Samatoki, then now it was all in their grasp- because despite the way they bickered and brawled, they laughed and they savored their ambitions more than anything.
And though Ichiro could trust the both of them to have his back, though they spoiled him and mentored him in all the same ways he was slowly growing used to, he didn’t confide in them the same way it was becoming so easy to do with Samatoki. Not that Ichiro dared do it often, and rarely in a way so concrete as words. He couldn’t have his worries be mistaken for weakness. He wanted Samatoki’s attention, and his kindness, and his acknowledgement that the things Ichiro had done to get himself this far weren’t wrong. He wanted that warmth at his side as they traded words, their quick banter as they bounced between each other in the midst of battle, the way he turned to Ichiro with pride as they claimed their victory-
Even just his presence would do.
The time they spent together only increased; since Nemu and Samatoki had extended their invitation with no sign of it being rescinded, Ichiro felt no shame in seeking them out as he pleased. Ramuda like to laugh, to say he was chasing Samatoki like a dog, pleased to see its master come back after a few hours away.
“‘M not a dog,” he’d protested, fairly sure that it was an insult. Though coming from Ramuda, Ichiro didn’t think there was actually a way to be sure. Regardless, Ichiro thought, glancing to his side- to Samatoki idly flipping through a stapled set of papers he was probably better off not knowing the contents of, Ramuda might have been right. But it wasn’t his fault. Because they had to see it too- the way Samatoki lit up a room, the way he stole all the attention on a stage. Even Ichiro’s, pulled away from the crowd before them to the man at his side.
Ramuda waved a dismissive hand and laughed bright and raucous. “Don’t get mad, Ichiro! It’s cute! Cute!”
Ichiro still wasn’t sure that was a compliment. In fact, this time he knew he was being teased. He straightened his back, ready to defend himself (though with what words, he wasn’t yet sure)- but to those accusations Samatoki just laughed and said- “You haven’t seen him when he wants to bite.”
Ramuda blinked. “Huh? He does that in battles, though! I’ve seen it lots!”
“Not like he used to. Didn’t think I’d ever get the kid to smile, the way he sulked everywhere. Should’ve seen him.” Samatoki barked out a laugh; Ichiro thought he could dare to call it a little nostalgic.
“I wasn’t that bad,” Ichiro muttered, though the skeptical look Samatoki shot him reminded him otherwise.
(Before he’d met Samatoki and Nemu, when was the last time he’d laughed? He didn’t remember. He wasn’t sure he wanted to put it to a number in the first place. Not when it would only remind him of all the things he’d lost- all the things he was yet to regain.)
He didn’t know when he’d changed, but he didn’t have time to think on it, either. Samatoki’s palm landed hard atop his head and ruffled through his hair, only clamping down harder with each wild shift Ichiro made to try and throw it off. “Samatoki-san! Samatoki-san, cut it out!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Samatoki said, and slowly lifted his hand. And Ichiro forced himself not to miss it. If only for the sake of his pride, unused to being treated so childishly- he tried not to wish it had stayed.
What had changed?
Ichiro was starting to wonder what hadn’t changed. Once he put thought to it, he found it hard to find things that had stagnated in days before he’d joined Samatoki. Even Jiro and Saburo had warmed up to him, if only a little. Then again, he no longer felt so guilty being around them now that the money in his hands came from prizes and people he trusted. He went back to them more often, now- though the Aohitsugi house always had a place for him.
There were only two beds, but Ichiro knew full well that the spare futon had been moved permanently into Samatoki’s room. It was more common for him to come home trailing after Samatoki and stay the night rather than be sent home in an expensive car driven by the exact sort of people everyone thought Ichiro was with- or, on the more frequent days he could bargain his way into it, climb on the back of Samatoki’s bike, arms wrapped tight around his waist and be escorted back.
Like that- the rush of the wind around them, the thick scent of Samatoki’s hair gel and the perpetual warmth of old smoke and cologne embedded into the padding of the helmet- like that, something in Ichiro felt like it had settled.
Ichiro couldn’t explain it. Not what had found its place, no longer floating amongst the unrest of him. Not where this sense of safety came from, this assurance, this confidence- or why it only seemed to culminate into its softest form around Samatoki.
I don’t want to go back.
An old thought; a new context.
He couldn’t explain it. But he could try and find out.
“Spit it out,” Samatoki said, and Ichiro started, pulled from his trance by Samatoki turning on the couch to look at him.
“Huh? What?”
“The reason you’ve been staring a hole through me all day. Spit it out,” Samatoki said, and Ichiro floundered, trying and failing to get over the shock of being caught- or rather, being called out when Samatoki had never seemed to care before.
“Earrings,” Ichiro blurted out, because they caught the light when Samatoki turned and it was the easiest excuse to give, “Your, uh, earrings. They’re really cool.”
It wasn’t even a lie. Everything about Samatoki was impressive- his rap, his demeanor, the way he dressed and the way he caught Ichiro’s attention so immediately whenever he caught sight of him, a spotlight that drowned out the rest to shadow. After a split second of introspection, Ichiro decided that extended to his earrings, too.
Samatoki stared back at him. Ichiro could feel the flush in his cheeks, the embarrassment at having said something so stupid drenching him like typhoon rains. The silences between him and Samatoki had never been awkward, Ichiro thought, until, perhaps, just now. It stretched out a little longer, the look in Samatoki’s eyes softening from skeptical to considering. Then- finally, slowly- “Didn’t know you were interested.”
“I uh, yeah. Kuko had a bunch of those too! Piercings. Ear piercings.”
Samatoki lifted an eyebrow. Ichiro tried very hard to pretend as if he hadn’t just shoved his foot into his mouth. He was more eloquent than this; he and Samatoki knew that best of all.
“Uh-huh. I’ve got a good shop down in Yokohama, if you’re that interested. I could take you one day.”
“I was thinking maybe you could do it?” The words left him confident, finished in a hesitant trail. He hadn’t meant to say that. Though it didn’t make it any less true. He’d never much been interested in getting his own piercings, but if Samatoki was the one who pierced him, then...
With deft fingers did Samatoki undo one of his earrings, the hoops that Ichiro had never seen him without, and for a split second Ichiro panicked- there was no way Samatoki was going to do it now, he wasn’t prepared, and shit, didn’t you need a special tool for that? A needle, at the very least..? If he actually walked out of here tonight with Samatoki’s earrings hanging off his ear, then… Shit.
(Ichiro felt the flush that ran through him in the heat on his cheeks, the sudden jolt of his heart, the shudder that ran down his spine despite not an inch of chill in him anywhere. Shit.)
Samatoki held the earring up beside Ichiro’s ear, tilted his head as if to take in the view. Ichiro had never felt quite so exposed as he had then. Not for a long time had he cared about someone’s opinion as much as he valued Samatoki’s approval. He stayed still as he could- didn’t dare to move, words and air both caught in his throat. He wouldn’t have had the will to breathe even if he had the presence of mind to realize that he wasn’t, caught waiting for Samatoki’s judgement.
“Huh. Not bad. Might have to give them to you, if you’re that interested.”
Ichiro let out a tiny breath and searched Samatoki’s face for any hint of teasing, of smugness- any sign that he wasn’t being serious. He found nothing but intent. A serious offer. If Ichiro were to just reach out and take it, then it would all be his.
“I…”
But here was the thing- the first word that came to mind upon seeing the earrings were beautiful. The second was expensive. Something that Ichiro could afford at the cost of all the savings he’d amassed, but not a single yen less.
Kindness was not something that Ichiro was conditioned to accept. Harsh words and cutting jokes were more his style. Couldn’t be offended if there was nothing that held him dear enough to care about his distance. Mother, Father, brothers both- but maybe, just maybe, not brothers all.
But Samatoki wouldn’t hear his hesitations. “Then I’ll cut you a deal. The first time we win? They’ll be your victory present. And we’ll make it a real fight. Not some punks thinking they can get an easy one over on you.”
Samatoki’s smirk was pure, arrogant confidence. Ichiro couldn’t help but be swept away. “That a challenge? You’re on.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Samatoki had warned with faux gravitas, curling the earring back into his palm and knocking Ichiro gently aside the head- a playful gesture that turned fast to a hand ruffling through his hair- the way that Ichiro had grown to love despite his protests. This time, he made no attempt to bat it away.
Instead he said, smirking up at Samatoki still- “You’re just scared to hand them over.”
“Who the fuck’s scared?”
“The guy about to lose his earrings,” returned Ichiro with as big a shit-eating grin he could manage when Samatoki was still pushing his head down.
Samatoki clicked his tongue and drew his arm back to throw around Ichiro’s shoulders, drawing him in closer. Not quite close enough to press them side by side, but close enough that if Ichiro closed his eyes, he knew he’d sleep soundly.
“You’re not denying it.”
“Ah, shut up a minute.”
Because what they’d both known, even caught up in each other, was that there was no way they’d ever lose. It didn’t matter how strong the enemy that stood before them. They’d always overcome. Ichiro really did close his eyes then, trying to imagine the sight- but what he saw wasn’t victory. It wasn’t even battle.
And oh, thought Ichiro, still lingering mesmerized on the way Samatoki’s eyes had gleamed with soft pride as he’d looked down at him- oh.
(If he could keep that gaze on him always- if somehow that warmth could deepen, if he could fill Samatoki’s thoughts the way Samatoki so often filled his, if is place one day became not the futon spread out across the floor but side by side up on that bed-
If the home that Ichiro built one day could include not only Jiro and Saburo, but Samatoki and Nemu, too-
But he still had a long way to go before he could do that. Money and time, money and time. All he needed was a little more of both. Just a little more. And then, once he’d done what he’d set out to do, once he’d made it to where Samatoki had always believed he could-
Then he’d turn back and say, meaning it will all his heart-)
It didn’t, of course, take long for them to take their first victory. It came in a burst of adrenaline and pride as Samatoki pushed him forward to take the final verse. As Samatoki trusted him to finish this off right. From somewhere distant behind came Ramuda and Jakurai’s voices, shouting him encouragement over the pulse of the beat in his veins and the words he knew would lead them to glory. The feeling of Samatoki’s hand on his back propelled him forwards, lingered all through the verse, held him up like a beacon through every rhyme- and before the beat had faded, before he’d thought to turn off his mic, the very moment their opponents had hit the ground, Ichiro turned back to Samatoki and said, a grin he couldn’t so much as think to suppress- “You owe me.”
“Yeah,” said Samatoki, dropping a hand to ruffle through Ichiro’s hair, “Guess I do.”
Ichiro sat before the bag atop the kitchen table, staring down at it with mild curiosity as Samatoki rifled through. The piercer and disinfectant he recognized clearly; what intrigued him was the small box Samatoki drew out with it. Answering his unspoken question, Samatoki waved it at him and said- “Your reward.”
“I thought you were giving me yours?”
Samatoki laughed- a low, rumbling thing that swept through his chest and left Ichiro thinking that money and time could be damned if that laughter could be his.
“Maybe when we’re at the top.”
The thought of it was intoxicating- standing living legends at the summit of the world, Ramuda and Jakurai at his back and Samatoki at his side. Everything in the palm of their hands and the hollows of their throats as they stood shoulder to shoulder at the top.
“That a promise?”
“You think I’m the kind of man who goes back on his word?”
And Ichiro grinned wide, because that was an opening if he’d ever seen one. “I dunno. Think you still owe me ramen from when I kicked your ass last week.”
Samatoki snorted. Ichiro had just enough audacity to think it embarrassed beneath the thin veil of offense. “You didn’t kick my ass.”
“Yeah, just knocked you back on it.”
“Fuckin’ brat,” said Samatoki with no bite as he leaned down, “Get ready.”
And Ichiro had been overtaken by a terrible impulse, a rising refrain that assured him that this was it, that there was no point in waiting when he could have all he wanted close enough. That damn getting there on his own, because Samatoki had never done anything but support him.
Do it. Just do it. You’re not gonna regret it-
If Ichiro had risen up and kissed him then, wrapped an arm around Samatoki’s neck and dragged him down to meet him, then maybe things might not have ended. Maybe they would have only ended earlier, torn apart with a shove and scorn and a rejection that even time wouldn’t have healed.
But he’d never know, because he hadn’t done any of that.
He’d let Samatoki lean over and set the piercer against his skin and waited for the cold touch of the needle. He’d held his breath- not because he’d thought it would hurt, because he’d more than known that it wouldn’t- but because there seemed to be a spell on the moment, binding as when he’d realized what he felt around Samatoki was an unquestionable stability.
Once, twice. The pinch of the needle had been secondary to the sight of Samatoki focusing so intently on him, the only thing that told him this wasn’t a dream- though it might as well have been a scene from one, the way Ichiro saw it so often still.
(Did he regret it? It was hard to say. Samatoki had never known how Ichiro felt. It wasn’t that Ichiro had never found the spine to tell him- but rather that he’d been waiting for a day that he hadn’t known would never come. One where Samatoki wouldn’t just acknowledge him, proud of him as someone he was looking after like a brother- but as a man in his own right. As someone who could be his equal on all fronts. As someone, some distant future day, he could make a home with.)
What he had done was say, just a strange touch nervous beneath the certainty that Samatoki wouldn’t have picked wrong- “How do I look?”
“Damn good.”
Samatoki held up the mirror- Nemu’s, black with flowers painted all across the back- to let Ichiro see his reflection. In practice, very little had changed. The earrings Samatoki had picked weren’t any form of gaudy- just pinpricks of gently sparkling color. He touched one of them gently, marvelling at the red. Their shared color, almost as striking as Samatoki’s gaze on him now. And as he’d met it, as he said something he wouldn’t remember nearly two years down the line, he’d thought, not daring but utterly enamored-
I’m in love with you.
And he had been. He really, truly, had been.
Ichiro rolled the earrings in his palm and thought, and thought, and thought. Nemu had always said she’d admired the goals he was working towards. Samatoki had left him behind the second their means had differed. He’d looked down at Ichiro, close as he’d ever come to begging, holding tight to his leg like the last tattered scraps of love and respect- and he’d still tried to go where Ichiro wouldn’t follow.
Cold as a stranger.
(And the worst part was, Ichiro still didn’t know why.)
Ichiro watched as they gleamed a deep red almost black under the white lights of the Chuuou sky like the memory of a promise turned sour. He shouldn’t have brought them here. Not when the time and place only stirred up bad memories of a person he’d once adored so strongly it had turned to love that chased him even now. If he could hate Samatoki the same way Samatoki hated him, then things would be easier. But he’d tried that, once upon a time, in the days immediately after the fallout. It hadn’t worked. He’d known it wouldn’t.
(There were a dozen places those earrings belonged, and none of them were here. They belonged at home, tucked away in a box in his closet that Ichiro would never admit to keeping careful and precious amongst scraps of an old bandanna and red sweater he could no longer bring himself to wear.
They belonged tucked under his pillow where he’d fallen asleep with them tucked in his fist, drowning in memories of some of the happiest days of his life.
If they couldn’t sit proud on his ear as a mark of the one person he’d ever loved- then they belonged at home.)
But Samatoki had always let him pay his debts in worth rather than wealth. They’d made a partnership out of letting him prove himself, charging ahead reckless and brash, assured that Samatoki would have his back if he happened to stumble. If Samatoki would no longer acknowledge him, then all Ichiro had to do was make him. Like back then, in the days he was loved- like a friend, like a partner, like a brother- he’d find the Samatoki that once cared about him and make him see.
He curled the earrings in his fist and set his sights out the window, towards the arena that would be their stage come morning.
Get ready, Samatoki. We’re not done yet.