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“Fuckin’ finally! Took you two long enough!” Kuko exclaims, promptly throwing himself out of the corner he was squatting in and launching himself at Ichiro. “’m begging here, Ichiro—” Kuko looks over Ichiro’s shoulders after carelessly wrapping his arms around him, “Samatoki-san, please stop leaving me with that clown Sasara!”
“Excuse you! You ain’t the best company yourself, y’know!” Sasara protests behind them, uncrossing his arms. Collectedly, he peels himself off the wall he was leaning on, and approaches Samatoki. “Look, I get that it’s a fun strategy to try for Mad Comic Dialogue, this whole… arrangement, but Samatoki, can we switch back?”
Samatoki shakes his head, both in amusement at Kuko’s fake politeness and to dismiss Sasara’s plea.
Sasara purses his lips. “Listen, I’m ‘bout to bust my back being partnered up with this brat—”
“—Brat? Look who’s bein’ bad company now!” Kuko barks indignantly, right in Ichiro’s ear. Naturally, Ichiro recoils, and once the elation and relief from not having to be alone with Sasara and his deadbeat dad jokes for any longer dies down, Kuko lets Ichiro go and finally has a good look at him.
Kuko can’t be sure if it’s from the roughness of his exaggerated welcome hug or what, but Ichiro is all roughed up: his hair though still short is a huge matted mess, his gakuran despite its size has slipped off one of his shoulders, and the top zipper of his hoodie is open down to his chest—it would be open all the way to expose Ichiro’s tight black undershirt if the zippers didn’t break off in the middle for no godforsaken reason.
Kuko raises his eyebrows, lifting a hand to hold his chin and inspect Ichiro more closely, leaning in. Too close for comfort, in Ichiro’s opinion. “Hmmm.”
“W-What?” Ichiro stutters impatiently, when Kuko suddenly takes a step back.
“Oh, oh no, Ichiro…” Kuko tsks condescendingly, bringing the hand on his chin up to put a palm to his cheek, eye peeking through his fingers. “You really gonna make me say it?”
Ichiro takes Kuko’s wrist and tugs it away from his face to meet his eyes properly. “What on earth are you talking ‘bout, Kuko…?”
“You…” Kuko glances at Samatoki, to confirm he’s in the same state more or less: leather of his jacket crumpled and white bangs falling to his forehead. Kuko tries not to smile when he comes out with it, but he can’t help it— a wicked grin stretches across his face, one Ichiro recognizes but can do nothing about, and Kuko frees his wrist from Ichiro to gesture widely at him and Samatoki, “What exactly have you two been doing?! You look all fucked out!”
Samatoki, similar to Kuko beyond the fondness for piercings, for better or for worse, smirks at that—see, he can’t help it either. As Ichiro thinks better of replying and entertaining Kuko’s twisted humor, Samatoki waves a finger at Sasara for a cigarette and a lighter, and takes his time taking the first drag once he’s lit one. Then, puffing out smoke in rings, he cocks his chin at Kuko happily. “Whaddya expect? Me and Ichiro have been going at it literally all day. Ichiro’s got so much energy thanks to bein’ so young that we just had to go another round before coming here, sorry we’re late.”
Kuko laughs in response, keeping Ichiro from straightening his clothes out yet by slapping his shoulders repeatedly. “My baby boy’s all grown up, goin’ to town with a big bad gangster!! ’m so jealous!”
Ichiro waves Kuko off a little less than gently, only slightly amused by the overly-done praise. Zipping his hoodie up, he mutters to him, “If you’re so jealous, go do it with Sasara-san.”
“Me and Sasara? Well, if that ain’t a great idea.” Kuko nods, pretend-thoughtfully, before shrugging. “Dunno who’s gonna break first, though, kinda scared it’ll be me.”
Ichiro takes his gakuran off entirely and holds it out to Kuko while reasoning with him: “What’s that now? You think Sasara-san can do you in? Doesn’t that mean you respect Sasara-san after all?”
“I acknowledge him, that’s different,” Kuko argues, “Miss me with his clown-assery.” He takes Ichiro’s gakuran and starts helping him dust if off. “Anyway, you’ve got a pretty good dynamic going on with Samatoki, bet that’s exciting.”
“’f course,” Samatoki answers proudly, puffing his chest out for effect. “Ichiro couldn’t bore me if he tried.”
“Oh? Do tell me more~” Kuko sings, annoyingly fakely dreamily.
Samatoki pauses for thought, mulling over something out there and outrageous to say. After a moment, he takes another drag and blows it out gruffly with a comeback, “Kid’s pretty good with his mouth.”
There’s a beat of silence between him and Samatoki before Kuko bursts out cackling, “Hyahaha! Did I hear that right?! Ichiro, you fox!”
Ichiro’s laugh comes sheepishly in contrast, though not as a protest to anything Samatoki’s said or to how Kuko’s dropped his gakuran on the ground to grab his shoulders again to shake him violently. He’s learned to live with the vulgarity, and this era’s taught them to become at least moderately thick-skinned if they want to survive.
Though Sasara, who’s been watching the exchange unenthusiastically, finally chimes in: “‘Kay ‘kay, let’s knock it off here, shit’s getting too weird.” He waits for Samatoki’s chuckling to simmer down before moving to bitterly light his own cigarette instead of going in for a cigarette kiss with him. “So you can play along with evil monkey boy’s jokes but not mine? Really feelin’ the love here, Samatoki.”
“Aw now don’t be jealous, Sasara-san,” Kuko cuts in, picking up the gakuran and dusting it off all over again. Makes a show of it as if egging a mad bull on. “It’s not my fault I’m funnier than you, I must’ve been blessed with this gift, it must be my destiny!”
“You aren’t, you weren’t, it isn’t,” Sasara corrects lowly, calmly ignoring the provocation. “Samatoki’s just got a soft spot for you two ‘cause your his sister’s age. Wanna hear what happened the last time Samatoki didn’t laugh at Nemu’s jokes? Now that was a tragic comedy if I ever saw one.”
Samatoki stiffens at that, almost accidentally bending his cigarette in the fist he shakes in his direction. “Sasara, you bastard—”
“—A-ny-way,” Sasara muses, “Good to see you still got some kind of funny bone in ya, Mr. Hardcore.” He tilts his head at him, fondly. “Honestly, I’m glad. Maybe banging the kid’s done you some good.” He finally lets himself grin along, “Right, Kuko-kun?”
Kuko’s helping Ichiro back into his gakuran now, and even when he’s feigning focus on redressing his friend he has enough of himself to hum back: “Mhm, mhm~”
Samatoki tchs. “The only banging me and Ichiro are doing is banging losers’ heads into dirty back alley walls,” he says, with some semblance of sincerity this time, that proud smirk still perfectly in place. “Me and Ichiro make a hella bangin’ team’s all!”
It’s a tone Ichiro recognizes, Samatoki’s confidence, his resolve, the sheer faith he has in their budding partnership; once they’ve accepted (though begrudgingly) that they’re more similar to each other than sensible— in complicated circumstance that’s taught them life is not fair, in rap whose intensity comes from the vitality and resilience of their hearts, and even in taste for good ol’ konbini melon pan and straight facts about saunas— it became easy to settle their differences in favor of teaming up and being each other’s power crossfaders, soul resonators. When their rap resounds it’s the combination of everything they’ve ever been through, things that didn’t kill them but made them stronger, and everything they’re working towards together, every wall both literal and metaphorical that they want to break. It’s the mightiest combination Ikebukuro’s seen nowhere else, and it’s a relationship they can’t have with just anyone else either; it’s special, and necessary, and reassuring, and much, much appreciated. But it’s also very difficult to name or put into words, this feeling—for once in the last three years of his life, Ichiro feels like he’s finally gotten something right.
Though, Ichiro supposes, it’s totally fair to chalk all of that up to hella bangin’. On top of all it does for his peace of mind, he has to admit the rush of it is thrilling too, kind of addicting, almost therapeutic, and Samatoki’s graciously given him all of this free of charge. Their teammates have conceded this, too. And the crude joking around that comes inevitably with moaning about the ecstasy of a hypnosis battle is… a small price to pay.
As would be the smoke in his face when Samatoki strides towards him contentedly, the heaviness of an arm draping tightly over the back of his neck or the pain of a boot to his ass, because Samatoki’s affection carries the weight of his trust in and respect for Ichiro, and he likes to make damn sure the brat feels it.
Ichiro uselessly braces himself for impact, eyes closing when the nicotine reaches him and irritates his nose, but he doesn’t make any move to avoid Samatoki’s advances. He welcomes it, nothing he isn’t used to by now, and he readies himself too for Kuko’s impending wisecrack about Samatoki making it so Ichiro can’t walk right, or Samatoki bringing Ichiro to his knees, just more obscenities deliberately translated from the typicalities of being a duo of hypnosis mic wielders in case they haven’t had enough.
But then all Ichiro’s non-resistance meets is something completely unexpected and unfamiliar— a hand on his head, fingers ruffling through his hair.
Ichiro’s too surprised to jerk or jolt, he can hardly speak around the lump that forms in his throat at the gesture, but he forces it down past the warmth pooling in his chest and clears his throat. With some hesitation, he speaks up: “Samatoki-san, what… are you doing…”
Samatoki’s expression instantaneously falls flat, his voice following suit: “Huh? The fuck’s it look like I’m doing? Patting your head, brat.”
“Why.”
“What do you mean why.” Samatoki’s tempted to pull his hand back and throw it into Ichiro’s jaw for asking such a stupid question, but the closer he checks the less mocking Ichiro seems. Ichiro only looks disoriented if anything, and at that Samatoki chooses to instead bounce Ichiro’s head down for emphasis, “All our hypnosis today catch up to you and get to your brain or shit? I’m doing it ‘cause I can.”
“H-Huh.”
Samatoki watches Ichiro blink, the corners of his mouth wavering as if he can’t decide if he’s going to smile or not. But the blood rushes to his cheeks and tinges them pink, beating him to the realization that he very much likes this, it looks like it’s practically bliss to him. Samatoki’s taken aback—this is all it takes? For all the profanity they’ve spouted till now, it’s this that turns Ichiro red up to his ears? Samatoki would think it’s kind of adorable and indulge him more just to see if Ichiro would giggle like Nemu does (and he has a passing thought to admit Sasara was right, he does have a soft spot for him partly for his age resemblance to his own little sister) if he didn’t feel judgmental gazes intruding on what could be a tender moment if Samatoki pushed it.
Kuko’s elbowed Sasara and together now they’re watching Samatoki slip up expressing endearment, and it’s unbearably heartwarming— the two share a look and in a rare moment of agreement decide they could call this heartburn-inducing at best, out loud. But they’re cut off by Samatoki starting,
“I mean.” Samatoki wills the inexplicable panic away and retracts his hand from Ichiro’s hair, only to hold him by the cheeks and squeeze, “Ichiro-kun likes it real rough, so this is just something sweet for a change.”
Now Ichiro is flustered, uncharacteristically awkwardly scrambling away from Samatoki and attempting to scrub the embarrassment out of his face with nervous fingers, “S-Samatoki-san…!”
Then Kuko is in absolute hysterics. He’s doubled over, alternating between pounding his fist into the ground and hitting Sasara’s shin with his wrist, laugh-yelling like a hyena and only managing to get words out in between gasps, “I—cannot fucking—believe this, Ichiro—!!”
Sasara kicks Kuko away to make him cut it out, though he’s holding his cigarette away, biting his lip to keep from laughing as well. “Samatoki, man… you are whipped.”
“Shut up!” Ichiro and Samatoki retort in unison. Ichiro turns around and coughs awkwardly while Kuko is losing his mind, and Samatoki steps forward to grab Sasara’s tie to threaten him into not saying whatever the fuck else he could say about this situation.
Sasara drops his cigarette and raises his palms in surrender. “A~ah, I told you guys to knock it off already. Leave the clowning around to me next time and this won’t happen!”
“Not a chance!” Kuko shouts after rolling over and getting his own jacket dirty, hands to his stomach from laughing too much. As he shuffles back to his feet, he swipes tears from the corners of his eyes and huffs, “This is the funniest shit ever, please never stop banging it out, Ichiro, Samatoki!”
When Samatoki lets go of him to grab Kuko’s collar next, Sasara scoots away and crushes his cigarette into the ground with the sole of his shoe. “You lot oughta get your act together and wash your mouths out with soap before our next territory claim!” He checks the time on his watch and taps the ash off his shoe. “We’re already late, who knows if the gang’s still there to beat… Agh, I ain’t gonna tell you twice!” He tucks his tie back into his suit and starts walking off. “Let’s go, Evil Monk!”
“Yup, yup, Tragic Comedy!” Kuko, ever fearless, maneuvers away from Samatoki and, despite his earlier complaints, trails after Sasara eagerly. He folds his arms behind him and throws a look over his shoulder, “You comin’, Mr. Hardcore?”
“Yeah.” Samatoki puts out his cigarette too, and follows, just out of spite.
Kuko looks beyond Samatoki to see Ichiro still pacing back and forth by himself. He doesn’t hold back when he calls to him: “What about you, MC Baby Boy?”
Ichiro stumbles, hissing, “Kuko, you…!”
“Hyahaha!!” Kuko howls; Ikebukuro’s strongest four are also the most insane, and Kuko is having the time of his life. “I love this friggin’ team!”
Sasara, Samatoki, and Ichiro shoot back all together, “Speak for yourself!”