Chapter Text
A couple hours after Draken’s heart stops beating and then starts back up again, Takemichi finds himself considering, in no particular order: Nagano. A small town in the countryside where no one knows who he is. The possible consequences of identity theft. A life with no association to the Tokyo Manji gang and the shoujo-esque romcom drama that comes with it.
Then he promptly remembers that, well, been there, done that, zero stars, would not recommend, and the train of thought sort of loses its appeal. Nagano still sounds nice, though. He never did make it out of Tokyo, where even someone like him was able to secure a stable job, shitty as it might be. Moreover, leaving the city would’ve meant leaving behind all the things he knows, and when it comes down to it, Takemichi has never been one for leaps of faith. He’s too much of a coward for that.
“Your friends told me you got your ass kicked.”
Ah, yes. Case in point: two in the morning, a shitty diner in the middle of Ebisu, and Sano Manjirou, more commonly known as Mikey. Respectively, that’s the time, where Takemichi is, and who he’s with. He’s equally confused about all of those things.
Ebisu is nice this time of year, though Takemichi has never been anywhere near it quite as late as it is right now. If Shibuya is the commercial heart of the Tokyo metropolitan area, Ebisu is its very, very hungry stomach; there’s an average of about two restaurants per square meter, and statistically speaking you’re never more than a few steps away from a ramen shop or an izakaya around the corner. Though those statistics are provided by Yamagishi-kun, self-proclaimed delinquent expert and bearer of the matter-of-fact gait reserved only for the truly stupid, so it’s a hard pass if they’re actually accurate or not. It sure feels like it, but at least the sheer amount of restaurants means that nowhere you walk into is that crowded. Having one of the most respected gang leaders in Tokyo as company doesn’t exactly hurt, either.
It will hurt his wallet if Mikey decides to make Takemichi responsible for their bill, though. He’s not paying for that milkshake. Or the waffles. He might chip in on the fries, since they’re sharing, but his generosity has bounds and so does his patience. The painkillers they’d given him for his wound at the hospital started to wear off about half an hour ago, and the adrenaline crash is enough to give him a headache, on top of the ache in his hand. He’s trying very, very hard not to look as miserable as he feels.
Takemichi sighs, using a fry to mix ketchup and mustard on his plate. “Well,” he says, grandly, “that’s hardly news.”
He sounds as miserable as he feels, then. Oh well. He’s been awake for thirty-one hours, got the shit beat out of him twice, and is currently recovering from a stab wound. Forgive him for being cranky.
Mikey lets out a startled laugh, not bothering to cover his mouthful of food as he giggles. Gross. Teenagers are gross. Takemichi is tired. “Well, look at that,” Mikey says, probably. It comes out a bit more muffled due to him being gross, but he’s not going to argue right now. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for self-deprecating humor, Takemitchy. The whole wide-eyed bambi routine you got going on is more like I can’t understand sarcasm than nihilism.”
Takemichi points the fry at him. “After the day I’ve had, I think I’m warranted some nihilism.”
“Point.”
God, this entire night feels like a fever dream. Bantering with Mikey just makes Takemichi feel it more keenly.
They’re not really friends. Sure, Mikey said they were when they met, but he said it in the same breath he called Takemichi his bitch, which still stings even a couple months down the line. He can’t even say they’re colleagues or whatever it is members of the same gang call each other — associates? Partners? — because Takemichi isn’t even a part of Toman. He’s in too deep without being bound to it, which some would consider a privilege, but he knows the things that tie him to these people have little to do with being assigned a division or owning a uniform with the Manji symbol. He can’t extricate himself from the Tokyo Manji Gang any more than he would be able to kill Hinata with his own hands.
And Mikey is a conundrum. Every time Takemichi sees him, which is more often than he’d thought it would actually be in the beginning, it’s like he’s seeing something different. Not someone different; Mikey doesn’t shed his skin and play different parts. He’s a bit like a funhouse mirror, in that what you see in him depends on where you’re standing: just by the entrance and it’s the invincible Mikey, Toman leader; a few steps further, and it’s the Mikey that placed his forehead against Peh-yan’s and reminded him that they were family; step even further and it’s Mikey the kid that falls asleep after meals, that leans into touch like he’s starved for it, that smiles with all his teeth and laughs at his own jokes. Takemichi isn’t really sure where he’s standing, but he knows he can sort of see all of those, at the same time. It should make Mikey hard to look at, but in the end, it just makes him impossible to look away from.
Sometimes he wonders what Mikey sees in him to warrant letting Takemichi as close as he does. Most times, Takemichi has bigger things to worry about.
“Anyways, like I was saying,” Mikey continues after taking a long sip of his chocolate milkshake, “one of your friends came up to me before we left the hospital — Atsushi? I don’t even know the guy, but he was worried what being involved in the fight might mean for the gang. Had some balls walking up to me and saying it to my face, too.”
“Akkun is like that,” Takemichi says, smiling slightly. It pulls at a cut in his lip, so he stops. “He worries a lot. That’s not a problem, though, is it?”
Mikey hums. “I don’t see why it would be,” he answers. “First, that brawl wasn’t a proper fight. If two gangs want to fight, that needs to be agreed to beforehand. Those guys jumped us.” The following sip he takes echoes through the dinner, which is nearly deserted, and Mikey frowns at his empty cup and calls a waiter for seconds. As he watches the drink arrive, Takemichi wishes goodbye to his savings. “Second,” Mikey says, when he’s got his hands on it again, “those guys aren’t Toman members, so it’s fine. We’re not responsible for what they do.” He scrunches up his nose. “Makes me wonder why they were there in the first place.”
“They’re my friends,” Takemichi answers. “They were there for me. I told them to run, but they didn’t listen.”
Mikey smiles at that. “They’re good friends.”
It doesn’t sound like a question. “The best,” Takemichi answers anyways.
The night before Takemichi had jumped back to the past to solve the Draken Problem — self-coined, capital letters included — Naoto had looked him in the eye and told him that he couldn’t let the longing and want to repair long-lost friendships get in the way of doing what actually needed to be done. Takemichi had started to tear up, and in turn, Naoto had panicked and given him his portion of soba, which was so nice it’d made Takemichi start to cry in earnest. They have this weird sort of relationship where they both want the same thing more than anyone else in the world — saving Hina — but Naoto still treats him like some estranged and deeply pathetic second cousin. Which is fair. Takemichi doesn’t even care, because they’ve been working together on this for long enough that Naoto doesn’t look embarrassed of him when Takemichi cries in public anymore, and instead awkwardly pats his back until he calms down.
He’d forgotten what having friends as an adult is like. Well, it’s more that he never knew it in the first place; Takemichi knows childhood friends, and friends you have when you’re fifteen and the future is still far away. He remembers how all-encompassing it is, how the world feels like it’s made for you and them and you can know each other without being afraid. And he’s sure that, for many people, friendships like those last. Hell, for most people, even — anything lasts if you put in the work and don’t run away. But Takemichi decided to do it the wrong way around, and walked into his mid-twenties without having exchanged a word with Akkun or Yamagishi or Takuya in years.
Ojii-chan fought on the wrong side of the war. Ojii-chan fought on the only side of the war he could, because he was born in the slums of Okinawa and the Japanese army gave him a bed to sleep in and food three times a day. He was a man of many morality lessons, as people like him often are, and his seemingly favorite one to teach was: Want something to chase you? Run. Run as damn hard as your legs will take you and don’t look back.
Takemichi did that for years. Then he looked over his shoulder, because that was a lesson and not a promise, and found out that Ojii-chan was a little bit of a liar.
Naoto, he’d answered, looking at the creases in the kotatsu of Naoto’s house instead of anywhere else. I’ll never get another chance to get it right. Not other than this.
And Naoto hummed something that was sort of like an agreement. Probably because Takemichi had sounded pathetic, but maybe because he doesn’t want him to also be miserable. Just like an estranged second cousin would have.
Takemichi shivers a little, curling up on his side of the table. The diner Mikey picked is an American-themed one; Takemichi isn’t sure if the air-conditioner cranked up to max is also an American thing, but it’s certainly a thing in here. The goosebumps running up and down his arms are almost enough to make him uncomfortable, and the plastic booth he’s sitting on doesn’t retain heat at all. He gets that it’s mid-August and warm outside, but he’d also not like to get a cold, thanks.
At the very least he can be glad he’d opted out of traditional wear for the festival earlier. Not that a T-shirt and shorts are helping his case, but they’re way less thin than a yukata. Also, Takemichi looks ridiculous in it, which is why he only ever wears it at New Year’s, when it’s more likely he won’t be the only ridiculous teeneger with bleached hair that’s extremely uncomfortable.
On his part, Mikey barely looks bothered, even though he’s in pretty much the same predicament, with clothes that look more like a set of pajamas than anything else. Takemichi chalks it up to Mikey being weird.
There were other places he could’ve gone after leaving the hospital. Home, for example. The doctor that tended to him looked honestly surprised, as she stated that he did not, in fact, have a concussion, and the nausea and dizziness he’d been feeling was just due to blood loss. He’d been given a telling to ( Stab wound, the nurse had murmured in amazement to himself as he’d stitched up Takemichi’s hand, looking entirely done with life), a bottle of painkillers, and instructions to come back for a follow up-session in ten days. The doctor had taken one look at the people he’d come with and not even bothered to contact his parents, which, like, hey, but also entirely fair. Takemichi has parents, of course, but the less he has to interact with them in this timeline, the less uncomfortable he’ll feel. There’s a reason why they hadn’t even known about it when he nearly died in the future.
But his mother is away and at thirteen he’d only seen his father once a semester, so he could’ve gone back home. After the surgeons gave them all updates on Draken’s status — coded twice but held on, should be out of the woods now, if he takes care of the wound it shouldn’t be such a prolonged recovery —, most of them had dispersed: Mitsuya-kun made sure everyone who’d been on the waiting room was okay or at least able to fool him before rushing home to his little sisters, Peh-yan on his tail, and Emma-chan wrestled bedside-sitting rights from Mikey’s hands with a fierceness that had Takemichi taking a few steps back and deciding to never, ever get on her bad side. Mikey excused himself to the restroom shortly after Takemichi’s friends left (wanting to get the last train home before the subway closed for the night), and Takemichi had found himself alone with Hina.
Things like that are still a novelty to him. The years had dulled memories of Tachibana Hinata into something golden-warm and rose-tinted, shy smiles and clumsy chaste kisses on playgrounds. He’d remembered how once Hina scraped her knee at school, and he’d made a point to sit her down on a bench, rinse the cut and bandage it, feeling the quiet joy that comes with taking care of someone. He’d remembered that, but he couldn’t remember the exact tone of her voice when she scolded him for being silly, or the color of her bedroom wall, and all the things Takemichi figured he’d never get the chance to know again. He’d loved her as a kid. Had loved her still, as an adult, if the way news of her death were a tipping point for him is anything to go by. And he might not be sure if he’s in love with her, but he thinks he might even get the chance to figure that out.
(“Takemichi-kun,” she says to him in the waiting room, arms crossed and leaning against the wall of the corridor leading to where Draken is. “Are you going back home?”
“Probably,” he answers, looking over his shoulder. Mikey isn’t back yet. “It doesn’t feel right to just leave without saying anything. I think I’ll wait a bit more.”
“You’ll miss the train.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Silence. The waiting room is near the head nurse’s office; from the inside, he can hear the ticking of a clock. Everything smells like antiseptic.
Takemichi has never been too fond of hospitals. He’s been to Ebisu General more times than he’d like: a broken arm at age nine, Aunt Noriko’s stomach surgery, his little cousin’s birth, Ojii-chan’s death. He can at least be glad that having mostly absent parents meant he was usually spared of yearly checkups, which he now knows as an adult are important, but honestly gave him the creeps until he was seventeen. Now he isn’t scared, just uneasy. Hospitals aren’t happy places, especially not in the ER and trauma sections. Today is just another show of that.
Hina shifts the weight on her legs. The edges of her pink yukata are muddy and torn. “I’m staying, too. My parents let me sleep at Emma-chan’s today. I thought — well. I think I should stay with her.”
Yeah, Takemichi thinks. And I think I should stay with—
“Takemitchy.”
Mikey’s voice is quiet and he’d made no noise to indicate he was back, but it’s enough to make the both of them snap their eyes back at him. He smiles, though there’s no heart in it, and tells Takemichi to meet him outside in a little bit. They’re going home together. Then, he turns around and makes a beeline for the elevator.
Takemichi and Hina exchange a glance. I can’t say no to him, he tries to tell her. Her eyes reply, with no accusation in them, As if you’d want to.
A minute passes. If he strains his ears, he can hear Emma murmuring something inside Draken’s room — a prayer or a confession. Either way, it’s none of his business. Hina shifts her weight again, grasping at the opposite sleeves on her arms, and he knows what an adrenaline crash looks like when he sees one.
“Your hands are like my heart sometimes,” Takemichi blurts out before he can stop himself, because it doesn’t feel like the time to wish her goodnight just yet. Hina looks at him like she always does: like she can’t for the life of her figure him out, but she only finds it half as weird as she finds it endearing. This girl, really.
She humors him. “And what’s that like?”
“They’re shaking.”
It comes out softer and sadder than he intended. Hina’s yukata doesn’t have any pockets, so she can’t hide it, and Takemichi can’t miss it; with the amount of time he’s spent staring at her while trying to convince himself this is all real, he doesn’t think he’d be able to miss a slight of her eyebrow.
“You’re shaking too, Takemichi-kun,” Hina tells him, not unkindly. “Go home. I’ll be alright. No one’ll hurt me in here.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I’m not worried about you getting hurt,” he only half lies. “You helped save the life of the vice-president of Toman. They’re in your debt now.”
Takemichi is expecting a smile in response, but what he gets instead is a sad little frown. “I worry sometimes,” Hina says, “that you’re part of a world where saving someone for nothing in return seems unthinkable.” She tilts her head at him. “I hope you never forget that, Takemichi-kun. That saving people is the why, not the because.”
His eyes sting.
What Takemichi knows of death can fit in his mouth: someone who used to breathe and does not anymore, someone that will never feel warm or cold or anything ever again. He’s not the kind to keep wallowing on ghosts and promises, shoulds or shouldn’ts — death is a fact. It’s the only fact. And Draken came really, really damn close to it tonight.
It’s not going to happen again, not to anyone Takemichi gives a shit about. Not if he has any say in it. Every time he comes back here he finds more people to protect, more kids he’d give his life for without a second thought, more people whose futures aren’t set in stone yet. And fuck, this is what Naoto warned him about — The point of it all is Hina, we’re doing this for Hina, if you can string more people alone that’s fine, but keep in mind that this is about Hina, don’t get sidetracked.
He’s not getting sidetracked. He’s going to save Hina, and the next person, and the next, and nothing like this is going to happen, ever again. He’s not sure he’ll be able to live with himself if it does.
Takemichi tells Hina Take care instead of Goodnight and she tells him Be careful instead of See you later, and he finds Mikey in the hospital lobby, red-eyed and messy-haired. He smiles when he sees Takemichi, and leads him down the street by the wrist, looking back over his shoulder every few steps like a little kid, as if making sure of something Takemichi doesn’t know of.
Mikey looks like there’s a niche part of his chest where a heart would fit perfectly. Maybe Draken is that heart. Or maybe Mikey is still waiting to grow one.
It’s not like Takemichi blames him, regardless of what it is. Hearts are heavy things. They take a while.
He’ll make sure he has the time for it.)
“Takemitchy,” Mikey says, brightly, “you’re paying, aren’t you?”
Takemichi knew it was coming, but he still winces. “Sure,” he answers, cautiously, “but please, Mikey-kun, don’t order anything else, or I won’t be able to.”
Mikey nods hard enough that his hair bounces above his shoulders. “Aye, aye.”
Takemichi has to smile at that. This is better, he finds. Better than going back to a house with all its lights turned off and heating up leftover curry-rice and miso soup, than not saying a word until the next morning because he doesn’t like the way his voice echoes when he’s alone. That’s a habit he didn’t have the first time around: he used to talk all the time when there was no one else home as a teenager, chattering to himself about homework and his friends and Hina, singing along to the radio and laughing loudly at television shows as if trying to prove to someone he doesn’t mind being alone.
But this time Takemichi has had his fair share of pretending, so while he doesn’t cower when he steps inside his house, he takes up space in quiet, methodical ways. The TV is always slightly facing the dining table, and the radio is always on; he rearranged the dishes in a way that makes sense to him, and every Sunday when he’s off-school he tries his hand at cooking again, always making enough to last him a week. It doesn’t even matter all that much, because if reliving the solitude of his teenage years is the price he has to pay to make a better future, then it’s barely even a choice.
And he didn’t have Mikey before. Not Mikey, not Draken, not Mitsuya, not Emma — and he knows that if things keep going like this, if he has to keep coming back and diving headfirst into the Tokyo delinquent scene, he’s going to find even more wonderful people he’ll get the chance to know. He knows it’s a disaster waiting to happen, but then again, that’s the story of his life. Like the lights of the train rushing straight at him on the subway tracks, he can’t look away.
He knows, now, what it’s like to be without. It’s made him greedy with things that are important.
“Oh, shit,” one of the waiters calls out from the hallway leading to the restrooms, followed by what sounds like a high-pitched cry and a door slamming shut. The head that peeks out in response from the kitchen looks like it hasn’t slept in weeks. “Hiiro-san, Momoe-san is crying in the women’s bathroom without taking her break again. ”
The head peeking out — Hiiro-san, apparently — is entirely unimpressed. “They don’t pay me to care about that,” they say, and disappear into the kitchen again.
What’s presumably Momoe-san’s voice comes from the hallway, shrieking so loudly it makes the waiter coming back startle and drop a plastic tray. “Yeah, they fucking don’t! I cry on company time! They don’t pay me to be sad off the goddamn clock, and I am not letting them win!”
Takemichi stifles a laugh with a mouthful of soggy fries. He’s been every single one of these people, at different points in his life, and it’s oddly entertaining to be on the other side of things again. Mikey hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings, but he sees Takemichi smiling and smiles back. He looks tired, but happy to be here.
They’ve both had shitty nights. He feels awful, but it was Mikey who’d nearly lost someone he considers a brother today. As much as Takemichi considers Draken a friend, when it comes down to it, they’ve known each other for barely over three months; pain isn’t a competition, but Takemichi has enough presence of mind to know that whatever he’s feeling isn’t half as bad as Mikey is.
The waiter walks up to them but stops a few feet short, eyeing them a bit sadly. What he’s seeing is pretty obvious: two teenagers eating junk food at a quarter past three in the morning instead of being at home, dirty-clothed and bruised. Takemichi still has dried blood on his face he hadn’t been able to wash off at the hospital. Even seemingly distracted, Mikey is keeping watch of the exits and how many people are in the restaurant with them. Since rediscovering toner and wrestling his bleached hair into a more agreeable shade of blond, the two of them could pass as relatives, to the unsuspecting eye. Takemichi knows all that by the way the guy leaves and comes back a few minutes later with another helping of fries and a murmur of On the house, before leaving them alone.
He’s worked the graveyard shift in Shibuya before. A story like that is as common as the sky is blue.
Mikey digs into the food as if he hasn’t eaten in days, and Takemichi lets him. The painkillers made him queasy before, and even though they’ve worn off by now he doesn’t think he can stomach too much.
It’s silent for a little bit other than noises from the city outside and Mikey’s messy eating before he speaks again, chin shiny with grease. “Oh, and I was wondering. I told you to make sure Ken-chin was okay, but I mean — I was sort of busy and I couldn’t see how you got him away. So riddle me this, Takemitchy.” Mikey’s eyes glint. “Did you or did you not carry Ken-chin to safety in bridal style, so I can give him shit about it for the rest of his life?”
His shit-eating grin makes Takemichi laugh in spite of himself, face warm. “I think you’re overestimating how strong I am, Mikey-kun,” he answers airily.
“Aw, come on,” Mikey whines, making grabby hands. “You didn’t? You went with the fireman’s carry, didn’t you? That’s lame.”
“Firemen aren’t lame,” Takemichi says. “I wanted to be a fireman when I was a kid! They’re better than cops.”
Mikey points a fry dripping with ketchup at his face. “Can’t argue with that. Firemen actually make a fucking difference.” Then he adds, as an afterthought, “And you’d be a horrible fireman, Takemitchy. You’re a wimp.”
“I’d take offense to that,” Takemichi tells him, “but I can’t, because I couldn’t even get Draken-kun up in a fireman’s carry, so I just put him on my back and prayed for the best. I piggybacked him to safety, if you will.”
Maybe it’s the way Takemichi says it, but that makes Mikey laugh so hard he nearly slides out of the booth. There’s a tiny fucking hell from the kitchen, which means his cackles likely woke Hiiro-san up from their sitting-up nap by the frier. Takemichi knows the drill.
“I can imagine that,” Mikey wheezes, leaning forward against the table. “Oh my God, Ken-chin is so huge. You’re so small. Takemitchy, how did you even do it? I can take him down if I make him lose his footing when we spar, but the guy’s built like a brick shithouse. He’s heavy.”
“Honestly?” Takemichi hunches up his shoulders in a minute shrug. “It’s a bit of a blur. But I mean, it’s — he wasn’t heavy. He’s…”
He trails off, unsure of what he was going to say next. Being in the past like this makes his memories overlap, sometimes — his childhood was both twenty years ago and five years ago, something he barely remembers and can see like it’s still happening. Sometimes he says things that remind him of things, and then he’s left staggering with a wave of nostalgia so big it tastes slightly sweet. Takemichi is unsure of what he wants to tell Mikey, but he’s sure of what he knows.
It goes like this: when he was a kid, some odd twenty years ago, there used to be this song that played on the radio all the time. His mother made sure to spend weekends at home even when she went on business trips then, but her presence on weekdays was growing more and more sparse; she’d taught him how to turn their small, early-90’s radio on and off, to keep him entertained while she was away. Their TV was too shitty to do much good; it was before she got that big promotion and they’d been able to move to a nicer part of Hiroo.
But there was this song. It talked about a road that was long and a brother that had to be carried. The singer kept saying that the brother wasn’t heavy; he was, simply, his brother. And Takemichi’s an only child — has always been an only child, alone at home cooking meals for one since age nine. Back then, the word brother meant as much to him as, say, the word moon: it’s a thing that exists, and he knows where to find it, but he doesn’t have it.
That line in the song repeated again and again, in his head. He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother. Takemichi knows that childhood memories are untrustworthy at best — he used to cherish all the times he and his grandfather went to the shopping district together, you see; Ojii-chan would buy him ice cream and hold his hand as Takemichi leaped over puddles on the sidewalk, then carry him on his shoulders when his little kid brain eventually crashed from the sugar. Takemichi used to think that was their tradition, a special thing they had. And of course it was special. But when he brought it up to Ojii-chan, in a lifetime before Toman, he’d only gotten a strange look.
We only ever did that once, sprout, Ojii-chan had told him. He’d been very old, then; his voice was as stained as his hands. Because your grandmother and I were moving back to the countryside she’s from, and we wouldn’t see you and your mother as much. We went down to Takeshita Street and I got you some sweets, and then…
It was jarring, in a way, even if Takemichi isn’t the wallowing kind, and thinking about being a kid is oftentimes too depressing to justify it. Still, though. In his mind, the memory stretches across days and weeks and seasons, sunny and yellowed with time. But it was just a day that never happened again.
That’s why Takemichi isn’t really sure if he used to hear that song on the radio every day, or if it just stuck with him so much he can still recall it all this time later — six years and then fourteen more, both of his lives overlapping: dusty kitchen counter, red radio case, his legs swinging too high on a stool. The song: he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. Something about the words getting caught on the back of Takemichi’s throat, making it sort of hard to swallow.
He didn’t know, then, at six or seven, what that really meant. He had nothing to apply that knowledge to; if you carried someone other than yourself, surely it would be heavy, wouldn’t it? Heavier than it would be if you just kept going down the road alone.
Takemichi shouldered the whole six-foot-two of Draken draped across his back for what felt like miles, already beaten black and blue and listing sideways as he moved in the slick concrete, panic giving him tunnel vision. But now, sitting in the hard colored plastic of this shitty dinner as he tries to resist the urge to clench his injured hand, he thinks he sort of gets it. His friend wasn’t heavy at all. And even if he had been, it wouldn’t have mattered. Takemichi would have carried him through the rain anyway.
“I don’t know,” is what he says, in the end. “I was running on adrenaline, I guess. I barely even felt it.”
Mikey raises an eyebrow at him. “Right.”
Takemichi is as bad a liar as he is a friend. He’s infinitely lucky no one is ever going to look at him and think time-traveller, or else he’d be done for.
They’ll just think you’re weird or something, Naoto had assured him. Trust me.
Trust me. Ten seasons of that British alien TV show and the guy thinks he’s a time travel specialist. Naoto is a great metaphorical man on the chair if Takemichi is a metaphorical Spider Man, but he’s also a dork.
One of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling above him flickers a couple times before going out entirely, making the rest of the place just a shade darker. The red plastic booths and checkered floor look washed out, with the neon light from outside the door ( Open 24 hours, it reads) casting a dim red glow through the glass panes. At this time of night, being in places like these is a bit like peering into an alternate dimension, where everything’s too quiet and too empty, and the lights are too bright and make weird buzzing noises when you’re not looking. Takemichi has only ever experienced this as a retail worker, taking graveyard shifts at grocery stores during his college years and cleaning up office buildings after the salarymen had gone home for the day. He’s never been there with a friend.
“Are you done?” he asks Mikey, a while after he’s stopped eating. Mikey nods, but it’s sullen.
“I wanted dorayaki,” Mikey declares. “But they don’t serve dorayaki here, and looking for it somewhere else is too much work.”
“Well, this is an American restaurant,” Takemichi says. “It makes sense that they don’t have dorayaki.”
Mikey lays his head on his arms, crossed on top of the table. “It’s always like this. Every time one of us gets injured I can never find dorayaki. One time I went to a dorayaki shop and they’d run out of red bean paste. How does that even happen?”
“Correlation doesn’t necessarily equal causation,” Takemichi comments, absently. Mikey gives him a strange look, and Takemichi is reminded that he’s supposed to be thirteen and stupid.
He slips up sometimes, okay? He’s no genius, but he did pass enough high school entrance exams that he could pick which one he’d rather go to, and it was a nice school. A tad bit lonely, though. All his friends ended up in different districts. He and Hina hadn’t been a thing for a few months, then.
Bad train of thought to follow. If he does things right, maybe teenage him won’t be alone this time around. He only hopes it doesn’t come down to him having to take the exams again, though. He can deal with middle school, but he’s dumber at twenty-six than he was at fifteen when it came to academics.
Mikey is still looking at him. “Sure,” he says, seemingly taking Takemichi’s words in stride. “In this case, maybe. A hard maybe.”
“I mean, things just happen,” Takemichi continues, knowing he has to die on this hill now. “Correlation and causation is why we have things like superstitions. Someone stepped on a crack on the sidewalk and their mother died, so stepping on cracks means someone’s mother is gonna die. It’s a logical fallacy. Things do just happen.”
“I don’t know what those words mean and I don’t know why you know them,” Mikey says, “but okay. Also, are you sure?”
Takemichi flicks a crumpled up straw paper across the table. “Are you superstitious, Mikey-kun?”
He doesn’t often consider the question. Superstitions are old people things — if you knock over salt during a meal, throw some over your shoulder to keep evil at bay; knock on wood three times, slap a hand over your mouth so the thing you said won’t come true. Don’t test the gods, because they’re all too willing to test you first. The Japanese are an unsurprisingly superstitious bunch, a coworker at the grocery store he worked at in his late teens once told him. She was a foreigner, her accent slow like molasses. We’re traditional, Takemichi had told her in turn. And she’d answered, Tradition and superstition are two words for the same thing, aren’t they? It’s all just not wanting to piss off old ghosts.
Takemichi doesn’t believe in ghosts, because a ghost is someone who supposedly sticks around even after death to either torment or keep company. He doesn’t think he’s ever made enough of a mark anywhere to get someone to stay, regardless of what for.
Then again, he was usually the one to run first. Regret is the thing stained under his nails, alongside the blood and mud from falling to the ground one too many times earlier.
Mikey looks at him with those bottomless eyes of his again. Ever since he jumped back to the past for the first time, that’s the thing Takemichi has noticed more than anything: the way people look at him. He doesn’t remember ever being so aware of it as a teenager, which is a bit of a conundrum, because at the bottom of every teenager’s wants is the need to be paid attention to. Of course he has that — he hadn’t bleached his hair for nothing, and he doesn’t talk loudly for nothing, and he didn’t decide to become a delinquent just for kicks. But most of Takemichi’s teenage years consisted of getting people to look at him instead of seeing him; he’d wanted to be a memory someone might look upon with fondness in the future, and little else.
Now that he’s had a spare decade of being virtually invisible, the way cities like Tokyo swallow people like Takemichi up until they disappear, he’s… more aware of it, in a way. The way Hina’s eyes always grow wide when she sees him. How Draken started to walk on Mikey’s right side instead of his left, because that’s where Takemichi unconsciously always made a beeline to. How Mikey always looks at him the way he is right now: chin leaning on his hand, expression unguarded, like Takemichi is something he’s committing to memory.
Mikey shoots the question back instead of answering. “Are you?”
Takemichi drums his fingers on the sticky tabletop, the reddish sheen from the neon sign making his skin look almost pink. “Not really,” he answers. “Takes too much work to be properly superstitious.”
“Hm.” Mikey tilts his head, blinking sleepily. “I think,” he says, “that it’s best not to take any chances.”
Takemichi half smiles. “That’s superstitious talk.”
“It’s worked out for me so far.” Mikey looks around, then moves the empty plates so they’re stacked on top of each other. It’s almost uncharacteristically thoughtful of him, but leave the invincible Mikey to be more considerate of grad students working the graveyard shift than middle-aged waiters in restaurants that think themselves fancy. He only speaks again when the waiter has gathered the dishes and left. “But you believe in those good luck charms, don’t you? Hina-chan mentioned you got her one before middle school entrance exams.”
Takemichi’s neck prickles. For him, that was over twelve years ago. “Well,” he starts, “we weren’t together then. I was courting her.”
“Courting her,” Mikey echoes. “Are you a maiden from the thirteenth century?”
“First of, she’d be the maiden in this scenario,” Takemichi says. “Second of all, it’s romantic, and girls like it when you give them gifts.”
“ I like it when people give me gifts,” Mikey points out. “That’s not a girl thing, that’s a materialistic thing.”
“That’s a big word, Mikey-kun.”
“I’ll skin you alive with my teeth.”
Takemichi laughs, a bit fuzzy at the edges. Being tired has always made his filter go out the window, and by the way Mikey is grinning at him, he can probably tell. Mikey is a nice person to go out in the middle of the night with, Takemichi decides. He’s never had a friend that’s good at that. Akkun is too responsible, and Yamagishi is too loud. Hina won’t leave her house after midnight, because she’s not insane. But Mikey is easy to be around, and he’s safe. Only half of that has to do with how he’d be able to beat up anyone who tries to fuck with them.
He leans slightly against the cool glass of the window, ignoring how likely disgusting it is. He’s happy, for some odd reason.
Happy is an adult word, though. You don’t have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind — it’s much easier to let it blow all over you. And here’s the thing; at the bottom of Takemichi’s convoluted, impossible, and mildly pathetic existence, there’s something very simple and very true: he’s a child adult, and he’s a grownup kid. He’s neither. He’s both. He can’t find his footing, regardless of what he is or is not.
Nobody feels like an adult. That’s the world’s dirtiest secret. He wonders if he’ll be able to talk about it with Mikey, in the future. Hopes he’ll get the chance to.
Mikey pulls his legs up to his chest. At some point during the night he lost his hair tie, so the half of his hair that’s usually tied up is falling in damp clumps that frame his face. “Ken-chin really believes in those good luck charms,” he says. Takemichi must look bewildered, because he laughs. “I know, it doesn’t look like his kind of thing. But he was raised by people who couldn’t really afford to give birthday gifts, you know? So they always gave him good luck charms instead, because temples always have some to spare. And Ken-chin has some money now, because of the gang and all, and he takes shifts at — nevermind. But even though he can afford something else, he always gives me a charm on my birthday. Says it has to be luck that I made it another year without getting myself killed, and he’s not gonna be the one to end the streak.” His grip tightens around his ankles. “Ken-chin likes to be given things, even if he doesn’t say. So I always bought him something if I could afford it. But I never gave him any good luck charms, because I wanted the things I gave him to be special. Anyone could’ve given him a charm, but I’d give something else.”
Ah. Takemichi knows where this is going. He almost wants Mikey to stop talking; almost wants to say, You can put your strength down. I’m right here. You don’t have to say anything.
Mikey’s eyes aren’t red-rimmed, and his voice isn’t rough, but Takemichi knows someone who’s holding back tears when he sees one. “Takemitchy,” Mikey says. “If I’d given Ken-chin a good luck charm instead, do you think maybe today wouldn’t have happened?”
Now, there are many things Takemichi could say to that. He could be logical: Draken being targeted today had nothing to do with what Mikey did or didn’t do, but rather everything to do with the people that targeted him. It had to do with Pah-chin’s arrest, Peh-yan’s pain, and Kyomasa’s vengeful streak. Even farther, it had to do with the guys from Moebius that strung up Pah-chin’s friends and made him walk into that warehouse that day to get his payback. It’s not Mikey’s fault, because it has nothing to do with him.
Except that wouldn’t make Mikey feel better. Takemichi knows a thing or two about regret.
“I think,” Takemichi answers, after a few moments weighing his words, “that even if it had made a difference, you shouldn’t regret doing something that made Draken-kun happy. I think that he never once wished you gave him a charm like everyone else. I think it made a difference, for him, that you went out of your way.” He doesn’t look Mikey in the eye, because there’s a shred of decency and respect still left in him. “Don’t regret being kind, Mikey-kun. You should only regret failing that.”
Mikey is quiet for a few long, long minutes. Then he chuckles, running a hand through his mess of a hair. “Jeez, Takemitchy,” he says, mouth the sketch of a smile. “You almost sounded wise.”
“Believe me,” Takemichi mutters, half to himself. “I’ve had my fair share of being a coward.”
Mikey doesn’t let him get away with it, because of course he doesn’t. He leans forward on his elbows until he’s halfway across the table. “What does kindness have to do with cowardice?”
He’s two years older than Takemichi, but Takemichi still has twelve years of experience over him. Questions like that just make him keenly aware of it, because not being kind has everything to do with not being brave.
Takemichi knows regret. And what he regrets the most are his failures of courage, whether it’s the courage to be kinder, to show up, to say how he feels, to set boundaries, to be good to himself. And for that reason, regret can be the birthplace of empathy. Now, when he thinks of times when he wasn’t being kind or generous — when he chose being liked over defending someone or something that deserved defending — he’s regretful, the kind of regretful that gnaws at his stomach and pokes its thumbs into his eyes. But he’s also learned something: regret is what taught him that living outside his values is not tenable for him. It’s the most cowardly, shameful way he has ever lied to himself.
Regret about not taking chances has made him braver. Regrets about shaming or blaming people he cares about has made him more thoughtful. Sometimes the most uncomfortable learning is the most powerful, and God, does Takemichi know that intimately. He harbors enough regret for a couple lifetimes.
The catch is, of course, that sometimes regretting means nothing. So the person he didn’t protect now hates him, and the chances he didn’t take let him down a life in which he’s alone, helplessly alone, crushingly alone, a loneliness that keeps him awake at night as it moves backwards and forwards, creaking on the old rocking chair Ojii-chan left for Takemichi after he died. He let Hina go because he couldn’t make himself keep her; the only friends he’d ever had made other friends and he didn’t, because at his best, Takemichi has always been a coward. That’s his life.
Only Takemichi has a failsafe. He has something other people with regrets might never get: a second chance, if only one more. And he’s not going to be a coward this time, because being afraid hurts much, much less than being alone.
To Mikey, he says, “I feel worse about not being kind when I could have than I’ll ever feel about losing a fight.”
Mikey looks at Takemichi, once more, like he has no idea what to do with him. Then he cracks a smile. “‘And so I try to be kind to everything I see,’ huh? From which shounen manga did you pull that from?”
Takemichi feels his face redden, and leans back on the booth so that he’s more half laying down than fully sitting up. “I could ask you the same question,” he mumbles.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mikey replies. “Just a good story.”
A good story is never nothing, Takemichi thinks, but ultimately doesn’t say.
The buzzing from the lights overhead is growing louder, or maybe Takemichi is just too tired. A part of him never wants to leave this diner, and the other is afraid he’ll get stuck here if he doesn’t.
He knows what he has to do. Draken didn’t die, and that should have fixed what needed fixing in the future, so his next order of business is finding past-Naoto so he can go back — or forward — time travel is confusing. He can sort of understand, now, why Toman went so wrong in a timeline where Draken wasn’t there; he’s the kindest part of Mikey, and losing the thing that made him kind would have meant losing himself entirely. Takemichi isn’t sure what his past self is going to do when Takemichi leaves, but a selfish part of him hopes he doesn’t fuck this up. Hopes that, when he opens his eyes twelve years from now, he’ll have unread texts from Mikey on his phone, and plans to go out drinking with Draken on the weekend.
A part of him is sad that this is over so soon. His memories don’t get overwritten like Naoto’s do, for some reason, so whatever time teenage Takemichi spends with these people will be something adult Takemichi doesn’t remember.
Ah, well. Who needs memories, when he has the future to look forward to?
Mikey yawns, stretching his arms over his head. There’s smudges of ketchup on his T-shirt, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. “I’m beat,” he announces. “I suppose I can’t bully you into carrying me home, can I, Takemitchy?”
“Please don’t,” Takemichi says. “I’m injured, remember?”
“Excuses, excuses,” Mikey says, “but I’ll let you have this one.” He points a finger at Takemichi’s face, close enough that he goes cross-eyed staring at it. “Because it’s your first time getting a serious injury, and I’m a good leader. It’s not because I have a soft spot for you. I’m not soft.”
“Okay, Mikey-kun,” Takemichi answers.
“Next time you get stabbed, get the fuck up and deal with it like a man.”
“Okay, Mikey-kun.” A beat. Then: “Wait, next time?”
Mikey laughs brightly, his whole face lighting up as he does so. It’s hard to be mad at someone with a laugh like that, so Takemichi doesn’t even try.
He pays for their meal out of his own pocket, and the waiter tells them to be safe before they leave. Outside, it’s a nice night: at the height of Summer, it’s warm even hours before the sun comes up, and all of Ebisu smells like deep-fried food and smoke. Not the kind of smoke you get in a busy avenue, but the slightly sweet smell you only get way after sundown, that makes him want to keep taking deep breaths just for the sake of feeling it. As a kid, he’d told his mother he could tell whether it was night or day just by breathing, because only night time ever smells like this. She’d told him That’s nice, dear, and cranked up the volume of the car radio so they wouldn’t have to talk anymore.
It’s not a long walk back to Takemichi’s place, but he’s not sure where Mikey lives. He’d said they were going home together, whatever that meant — are they going to Takemichi’s or Mikey’s? Does Mikey even have parents? What are they going to think about Takemichi?
Mikey makes the decision for him by starting down the street without saying a word, jumping over cracks on the sidewalk while barely even looking down at them. Takemichi is only a few steps behind, hands deep in his pockets. Streets at night have never been kind to him, and Mikey or not, it’s hard to shake the habit of looking over his shoulder every time they pass under a streetlight and he thinks he sees a shadow.
They’re going home, Takemichi notes, about two blocks later. Takemichi’s house, even though it’s Mikey leading the way. He can recognize the ramen shops by their awnings in nearly every corner — they’d kept him fed through exam season before college, when he was too tired and busy to cook for himself. The few izakaya they pass by on the way cast a soft orange glow onto the otherwise deserted streets; more than once, Takemichi thinks Mikey is going to insist they walk into one to grab a drink, although they’re middle schoolers and that’s so illegal it had never even crossed Takemichi’s mind. But Mikey doesn’t: he just keeps a couple paces ahead and hums softly under his breath, tilting his head back at the sky every so often like he’s trying to count stars. He’s not going to find any, not in Tokyo. You need to be far from here to do that.
Takemichi’s hand throbs, unexpectedly enough to make him hiss and stumble, cradling it to his chest. Man, getting stabbed hurts. Fuck, is that blood on his bandages? Is he bleeding again? Is it—
“Takemitchy,” Mikey calls out. He’d thought Mikey wasn’t paying attention, but really, he should know better. Those dark eyes are boring into him again. “You okay?”
He goes to press the heel of a palm against his eyes — he’s not tearing up —, but his fingers on the injured hand twitch and he winces again. He can’t exactly touch the gauze without making the pain worse, so he just sort of grips his opposite elbow with his good hand, trying to distract himself. This isn’t the worst thing that happened to him tonight, and he’s fine. It’s fine. It’s nothing.
Getting stabbed is a pretty big fucking something, Takemitchy, Draken had murmured to him, half-delirious before while being loaded into the ambulance. Don’t be a try hard.
“Painkillers wore off,” Takemichi says, keeping his voice steady. “I have more, but I’m not supposed to take it without a four hour break between doses.”
“That’s bullshit,” Mikey says. It doesn’t feel like he’s all that serious. He closes the gap between them, taking Takemichi’s arm as if to examine the injury. There’s a small red stain on the palm, which means he probably bled through the gauze again. It might be more due to the stitches than the actual wound, though.
Mikey’s touch is unexpectedly gentle, especially when Takemichi flinches again as another wave of tingling pain climbs all the way up to his shoulder. His fingers are still greasy from the food, but they’re warm. He pulls them a few feet forward so they’re standing under a streetlight, eyes still on Takemichi’s hand like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. In this light, he looks a little less young. The shadows make him harsher, his pale face more sunken.
Mikey places a finger over where Takemichi’s blood has seeped over, soft enough that he barely even feels it. “Isn’t this a problem? Do you have to change the bandages?”
“It’s just a bit of blood,” Takemichi says. “I was going to do it in the morning, probably.”
“With only one hand?” Mikey asks.
Takemichi says nothing. Mikey’s eyes say, Got you. “I’d figure something out,” he answers eventually.
“Right,” Mikey answers, the way he does when he’s not buying it. “Let’s get to your place and I’ll do it for you. Don’t,” he warns, before Takemichi can even open his mouth, “say anything. That’s an order from your leader.”
“I’m not even in Toman,” Takemichi mumbles as Mikey drags him down the last four blocks, and then laughs along with him, because they both know that doesn’t mean anything.
His place is right where Hiroo bleeds from residential buildings into something resembling a suburb, but not quite; there’s nothing but one and two-story houses for about three blocks at most, right in the ass-crack of Shibuya ward, a leftover from when the city wasn’t as urbanized as it is now. It’s little taken care of, even if it’s a nicer side of the neighborhood than the shoebox-sized apartment Takemichi grew up in — the cracks on the concrete are big enough to house a litter of kittens (like the one near Yabuko-jisan’s house), roots of the sparse amount of trees on his street have overturned the sidewalk in places, and whatever grass grows between houses is yellowed and cracked in the summer. Takemichi’s has a small green space, which is nice. The adult part of his brain that would’ve loved the possibility of being self-sufficient to save up money sort of wants to start a vegetable garden.
He doesn’t have time for that. And this life isn’t really his, anyways.
The door opens without a sound, darkened hallway bleeding into a darkened living room. There’s no shoes at the shoe cabinet, because his mother isn’t home and Takemichi only ever wears the same beat-up red Converse he got for his twelfth birthday. He steps inside and makes way for Mikey to come in, turning the lights on as he peers around curiously.
“I’ve been to your place but I didn’t come inside,” Mikey comments, toeing off his sandals and taking the slippers Takemichi offers. “Bit sparse, isn’t it?”
Takemichi knows he’s talking about the off-white walls and the lack of signs of human life. “We’re minimalistic,” he says, flatly. “Make yourself comfortable, Mikey-kun. I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
Mikey crosses his arms like a petulant child. “You make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
Takemichi blinks. “That’s the complete opposite of what I just said. You don’t even know where the first aid kit is.”
Mikey narrows his eyes. “Go sit on the couch, Takemitchy.”
Takemichi goes.
In all honesty, he’s not really used to being in the living room. He usually takes his meals either upstairs or in the kitchen, where the dining table is, and the promise of early-2000’s TV shows isn’t as appealing at twenty-six as it was when he was thirteen. His bedroom is the most lived-in place in this house, with the posters on the walls and the bright comforter, the pillows on the ground always in disarray ‘cause it’s never been too long a time since one friend or two have been there. Between the couch that still smells new and the television still making static noises (and isn’t that a trip down nostalgia lane), Takemichi grabs a pillow and sits down on the floor with his back against the arm of the sofa. He’s much more acquainted with the green carpet, which they brought from their old apartment.
To Takemichi’s immense surprise, Mikey comes back not five minutes later with the first aid kit in hands and a triumphant expression on his face. He flops down in front of him and sets about opening up the box and setting aside what he needs: gauze, disinfectant, cotton, bandages. Takemichi is responsible for keeping it well-stocked; his mother probably doesn’t even know it exists.
“Okay,” Mikey says, placing his hands over each knee as he sits cross legged. Bewilderingly, he bows his head a little. “Gimme your hand. I’ll say sorry when I’m done.”
Takemichi only whimpers somewhat, but Mikey is also careful with this. It makes sense that he is, Takemichi thinks, as he watches the way Mikey soaks a cotton ball in baby oil — something he’d found off his own volition in the bathroom — to weaken the adhesive of the bandages before removing them entirely. He’s probably done this before.
He averts his gaze through the next steps, counting the threads on the carpet to distract himself from the pain. He doesn’t have a weak stomach, but stitched up skin is his last straw.
Between dressing the wound with gauze and rolling out clean bandages, Mikey says, “So, Takemitchy. I wanted to ask you something.” Takemichi tilts his head in silent permission, but it’s still a few minutes until Mikey speaks again. He doesn’t lift his gaze. “I,” Mikey starts. Stops. Falters, which is something Takemichi didn’t think he was capable of. “My sister always says I need to stop torturing myself with things like these,” he settles on. “Like, what’s the point of knowing it if it’s just gonna make you feel like crap? But she’s not here and she doesn’t have to know, so I’m going to ask.”
Takemichi hums in acknowledgement. He hadn’t known Mikey had a sister, but it sort of makes sense. Only children have this sort of air to them, with how they move through the world, and Mikey doesn’t — he feels like a little brother. “What is it?”
“You were in the ambulance with Ken-chin,” Mikey says. He begins wrapping the bandages around Takemichi’s hand. “The doctors said he coded there. That his heart stopped. Because he moved suddenly and tried to talk, and that was too much stress.” He looks up, then, black holes for eyes. Takemichi shoulders the gaze. “He talked to you.”
“He did,” Takemichi answers softly. The good arm that’s wrapped around the pillow he’d picked up clenches around it. He already knows what the question is, but he lets Mikey ask it anyway.
“What did he say?”
Takemichi looks at this boy in front of him — his friend, really even if they won’t say it out loud. And he’s just a boy because he isn’t Toman’s leader sitting on the floor of Takemichi’s house at four in the morning, not when there’s still tear tracks cutting through the dirt in his face he hadn’t wiped away, not when the hem of his shorts is stained from his chocolate milkshake. Takemichi hadn’t understood it in the head of the moment, when Draken grabbed his hand in the ambulance: why would Mikey need protection? He’s the invincible Mikey. His name is enough to make entire gangs second-guess their chances; the impulse of his bike, to Toman members, means We’re safe now. Mikey’s here. Why would he need to be taken care of?
Takemichi knows, now, that that isn’t fair to Mikey. He’s a leader through and through, and a formidable fighter, but right now Takemichi is struggling to see anything other than a tired kid.
Take care of Mikey for me, Draken had said, thinking those were his last words, and the easy trust now makes Takemichi’s eyes sting. He can’t say no to something like that and forgive himself. He’s in the thick of it now.
Of course I will.
“He talked about you,” Takemichi replies, simply. “You’re his brother. Why would he talk about anything else?”
Mikey’s eyes widen just a fraction, the way they do when he’s caught off guard. It’s his only tell; he doesn’t even twitch, and his hands don’t pause as he finishes up bandaging Takemichi’s wound. “Takemitchy,” he says, too lightly, something that could almost pass for fondness running through his voice. “You always say things in the weirdest ways.”
Takemichi smiles. “It’s a gift.”
“Well,” Mikey says, leaning back to admire his work. It looks almost professional: tight but not too tight, no failed attempts with the edges, and looks like it’ll be easier to come off the next time. “I’m done. Sorry if it hurt, Takemitchy.”
“Didn’t hurt worse than getting stabbed, that’s for sure and certain,” Takemichi answers. His hand is still placed on Mikey’s knee, bandaged palm down. Neither of them make a move to remove it. “Thanks, Mikey-kun.”
“First battle scar,” Mikey says brightly, wiping a fake tear away with his finger. “I’m so proud. Congrats on your coming of age.”
Takemichi giggles a little. “Thank you,” he replies, because this is certainly better than having spent his coming-of-age day hungover in a restroom stall where the ceremony for his district was being held. He lets his head thump against the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling. He only turned on the lampshades and not the overhead lights, so the glow they cast is yellowish and dim enough to not give him a headache. “I’m glad this is over,” Takemichi mutters. “I’m glad Draken-kun is alive and no one else got hurt.”
“You got hurt,” Mikey points out. When Takemichi looks askance at him, he’s leaning back on his hands, but not moving away much more than that. “Don’t downplay your injuries. You’ll get killed.”
Takemichi wonders what’ll happen to him if he dies in the past. Will he just appear in the first timeline again, with Naoto walking into the infirmary and declaring that twelve years ago Takemichi had saved his life, and now he needs to help save Hina’s, too? Will he cease to exist? Create a wormhole?
Ah, whatever. He’s too dumb and sleep deprived for this. “I won’t die,” he tells Mikey, because that feels perfectly reasonable.
Mikey smiles. “Sure, Takemitchy.”
(Here’s the thing: Mikey hasn’t believed a lie like that ever since he was twelve years old, which feels like a lifetime ago. Here’s the thing: people die, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Here’s the thing: Mikey used to be a little brother and a big brother and now he’s only one of those things. Shinichiro once told him he was going to live forever. Here’s the thing: big brothers lie. Little brothers believe them. Shinichiro taught him both of those things.
Sometimes he feels like he’s not solid. He’s hollow. There’s nothing behind his eyes. He’s a negative of a person. He can’t exactly describe how it is, but it’s not quite right. And it leaves him cold.
Ken-chin got hurt but didn’t die. Takemitchy got hurt but didn’t die. Those are truths.
Here’s the thing — there are people Mikey loves and he failed to protect them. Or, to put it another way: he likes to call himself a weapon, but he will answer to wound.
Takemitchy smiles that big, dumb smile of his. It’s warm, in this huge house only one person lives in.)
Takemichi checks the clock hanging from the wall above the unused shrine they keep on the opposite side of the room. It’s nearly five, and he’s distantly glad he doesn’t have school today, even if no one would’ve gotten in his case for missing class after getting stabbed. Man, he’s going to be milking the shit out of that excuse.
He flicks his gaze over to Mikey, whose eye bags are nothing to sneeze at. “It’s pretty late,” he says, haltingly. “I mean, pretty early. I have a spare futon, if you want to nap until later, Mikey-kun. Or you can take my bed.”
Mikey yawns, jaw cracking open. “You take the bed. Futon’s good. We keep it Japanese style at home, too, so I’m used to it.” Takemichi hums. Opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again. Mikey watches him squirm for all of two minutes before sighing loudly. “Out with it, Takemitchy.”
“What you said,” Takemichi says, weighing each word as he does. This has been bothering him. “About next time. Is it — this is over. The conflict with Moebius, I mean. They lost.”
Mikey sighs again. “You’re new at this, Takemitchy,” he says in lieu of an answer. His demeanor is just slightly soft, like it is when he’s Mikey and not Toman’s leader, but his eyes are as inscrutable as ever, the loneliest part of his face. “So let me tell you something every gang member out there knows: never finish a war without starting another. That keeps everyone on their toes.” He uncrosses his legs, then, sitting up into seiza position. Takemichi’s hand drops, and he sort of misses the warmth. “This isn’t the first conflict Toman’s been through,” Mikey continues. “It won’t be the last. The only time it’ll be the last is when we’re done for good, and that won’t happen until I say so.”
His words are matter-of-fact, the easy confidence of someone who’s considered one of the strongest people in Tokyo. World-wise, world-weary. Mikey is a fifteen year old kid. He should be neither.
Still, for some reason, that makes Takemichi’s shaky heart settle in his chest. The thing about Mikey is that Takemichi believes in him. It’s kind of hard not to.
“Okay, then,” Takemichi says.
“Just like that?” Mikey asks. “You’re simple-minded, aren’t you?”
“Ha!” Takemichi exclaims. “That sounds like an insult, and I will not answer to it.”
Mikey laughs, standing up in a fluid motion before looking around and nodding to himself. “Alright,” he says. “I’m going to take a bath. Do you have clothes I can borrow?”
Invincible Mikey is gonna wear Takemichi’s clothes. Of course. “Maybe?” Takemichi says, dragging out the word. “Laundry day is tomorrow, so there’s not a wide variety, but — oh, yeah! Hina-chan left the top and bottom she wears to sleep here last week and I washed it. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind it if I said you wore it.”
Mikey blinks. “Why did Hina-chan leave her sleeping clothes here?”
“I have an explanation as to why that happened,” Takemichi says.
“What is it?”
“I’m coming up with an explanation,” Takemichi amends. “I haven’t thought of one yet, but I’m going to come up with one and it’s going to be good.”
The corners of Mikey’s mouth twitch. “Are you trying to cheer me up or something?”
“Is it working?” Takemichi asks, a little too earnestly.
“No,” Mikey answers. “It’s cute, though. You’re trying.”
Takemichi categorically ignores Mikey using the word cute in reference to him. “I’ll show you how to use the bath.”
“It’s not exactly rocket science, Takemitchy,” Mikey says, just to be difficult. It’s the same tone he uses with Draken when he wants to piss him off.
Takemichi sighs, put upon. “For God’s sake, Mikey-kun, let me do something for you, please?”
Mikey’s eyes widen again. Takemichi wonders if he’s really this easily surprised, or if he’d assumed Takemichi was someone else entirely. His neck flushes, this time, and he kicks lightly at the floor with the front of his slippers, almost sheepish. “Okay.”
“Alright.”
He offers a hand to help Takemichi up, and Takemichi forces himself to only let his gaze linger for a second. A part of him expects the telltale thrum of moving through time to run up his body, expects to blink and open his eyes twelve years from now to an older Mikey’s face, a Mikey who turned out differently than the future Takemichi is from. That’s a dumb thought, though. The situation with Naoto is already ridiculous enough without another time travel trigger coming into account.
Takemichi offers Mikey a nervous smile. Mikey smiles back.
“Lead the way, Takemitchy,” he says.
(It’s the first time he says it, but it won’t be the last. He’ll say it on the worst day of his life and in the string of awful things that come afterwards, Toman’s numbers growing like the spread of rot, people betraying them, people dying, people being stopped from dying or killing, people being saved. Those last ones will always have something to do with Hanagaki Takemichi, worming his way into every single issue and digging his heels into the dirt with restless abandon, inextricable from everything. Mikey will see him do many things — cry, scream, bleed, be afraid, laugh, live. But he will never, ever see him falter.
Once, Mikey swore to bring upon a new age for delinquents. Now, for months and years down the line, he’ll keep saying this:
Lead the way, Takemitchy. Like you always do.)