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as the one i caught when i saw your
fingers dimming the lights
like you're used to being told that you're trouble
and i spent all night stuck on the puzzle
“Don’t tell Shin about this . . .” his brow crept up slowly where you trailed off, only to interrupt yourself with an awkward cough. “He’ll freak out.”
Wakasa said nothing, about to clean the cut on your cheekbone with a washcloth, and you leaned back out of irritation. Sitting on the floor with him, you still attempted to put up a bluster of stubbornness, but your injuries didn’t let you, wearily slumping you back against the wall.
That didn’t mean you didn’t have your wild eyes on. You probably didn’t mean to look so dangerous – just a last, exasperated aftereffect from the heat of that scuffle earlier – but you fought for his attention. He’s a bit convinced you’d even claw for it.
“Imaushi-san.”
He thought you’re in no position to make demands, though you framed his name in the tone of an earnest request, so he’d shrug, maybe threaten another second more.
Maybe Shinichiro had rubbed off on him, scraping away the edges that made him ruthless, unchallenged.
But then again, it wasn’t like you cared who challenged you. Even that monster Tobe.
“Stay still.”
This time, he dabbed the washcloth on your cut without warning, though he made sure to not press too hard, which baffled you with a blink.
“I won’t tell him,” said Wakasa, and your mouth no longer hung open in protest, resigning to a sigh instead, as you angled your face for him in compliance the moment he began to wipe the streak of dried blood that ran down the side of your face.
You observed him, but whenever your gazes met, you’d pore your attention on something else.
Christmas in Ginza was rather eventful.
Wakasa thought about the gang fight they had with the Roppongi Blue Devils earlier, and then back to you, ambushed right after.
“What do you have against Tobe anyway?”
“He had a score to settle with me,” you shrugged, but you didn’t elaborate further. “You know him?”
“He used to be a member of Kodo Rengo,” Wakasa answered, pausing to linger on a reflective, “before I . . .”
“Black Dragons,” you finished with a nod, and then you scratched the back of your neck, eyes lowered down bashfully. “Oh. Um, sorry?”
He faltered in his ministrations for an interval, hand hovering above your wrist, waiting.
“He must’ve been your friend, I guess. I sort of dislocated his shoulder,” you explained, as if he wasn’t with you to witness it all himself. You’re mangled now, but you didn’t really need his help back there. “I don’t regret it. I mean, he did some damage on me too, but well . . .”
Wakasa huffed out a chuckle, resuming to apply salve on the hideous gash on your right forearm, and you tensed from the brush of his fingertips, more from his reaction than the mild sting of the antiseptic.
Even so, he took it upon himself to be gentle on the raw skin from the jut of your elbow; in his opinion, a tad indulgent from the last swipe there, though you didn’t comment on it nor did he on the manner your throat bobbed, swallowing on nothing. He assumed that you’re just mulling over his slip earlier, and then proceeded rolling the gauze around your forearm.
“That’s between the two of you,” Wakasa replied, bearing no ill will, as he tied a knot on your palm. “It’s none of my business.”
“Thank you,” you murmured after he’s done treating your wounds.
“Sure.”
Your fingers lightly touched the bandage patch on your cheek, and Wakasa tried not to dwell on the warmth of your skin, almost close to burning. He thought of abrasion, and then back to your gaze wandering around his room until it was fixed on the trophies gathering dust on the mounted shelf above his study table.
“You competed,” you said in awed realization, even though he was indifferent about it nowadays when the last time he joined in any of those martial arts tournaments was before he got himself thrown in juvie. “Explains a lot. The way you fight.”
“So you trained too?” He didn’t exactly take up karate, but he recognized the form in your kick.
“Yeah, back then. At the Sano family dojo.”
“Sano, huh. Why does he still suck at fighting then?”
“Beats me. He always bailed training,” you recalled, lips curving up in nostalgia. “Said he’d rather go off be a delinquent.”
There’s a question that sat quietly between his lips, but he figured it’d be too obvious and there wasn’t anything much to pursue about it now.
Wakasa reclined back against the wall next to you and pulled out a lollipop from his pocket, which you stared at intently.
“Do you have more of those?”
“What for?”
“I gotta bribe my niece.” When he regarded you with confusion, you tilted your head at him, tacking on a question. “No little sister?”
“No. What does bribing have to do with that?”
You lifted a shrug. “Easier to talk to girls.”
Now that intrigued him. Perhaps, in a curious sense whether you had more of a shot with them than your best friend because he wasn’t going to be that surprised if you did have a few admirers.
Maybe if you’re reputation didn’t precede you and that you could tone down the harsh reservation you built around you like a cold wall. Like right now, offhanded and inquisitive, and even though you still acted like a stiff, you looked more like you could breathe a little better, smile a little wider.
Wakasa wondered if Shin was actually trying to hoard this side of you all for himself.
“And they’re better at keeping secrets.” Then your voice was softer, more than you’d probably admit: “Me and my niece have a pact, you see. Gotta honor that.”
Wakasa snorted. “Over candy?”
“Keiko has a sweet tooth,” you reasoned. “She’s also the one who unlocks the door for me when I sneak out this late.”
Then your hand slid in your pocket, rummaging for something. “I’ll pay up, if you want.”
Although Wakasa already repaid you for backing him up from the previous fight, he humored you anyway when he fished out his least favorite lollipop from his desk drawer. Sure, he found you amusing now, but you weren’t worth losing any of his lemon lime and sour apple ones.
You bartered two sticks of gum and a fifty yen coin.
Wakasa considered it with a wry glance before just taking the gum in exchange of a lollipop.
Unwrapping one, he stuck it on his mouth. Spearmint. "Fifty yen can't buy you shit."
You shrugged. "Not when you have another fifty."
"Might as well give me a hundred then."
"Too late. You chose the gum."
Well. It wasn't like he was planning to give it back.
Arashi Keizo was easier to read.
For all their disparities and long-standing disputes, they were delinquents through and through.
Wakasa could say the same for someone who had the capacity to be both clever and bullheaded like Takeomi, and to an extent, Shinichiro, even if he’d been an enigma more than anything.
Then beside him was you, and as astute as he was in his observations, he couldn’t quite figure out where you exactly fall under when everyone else held a different kind of disaster to them. It wasn’t like you weren't, though he couldn't fathom why you wanted that part of you to be subdued.
It's what made you into such a walking contradiction.
You didn't look like a delinquent but you felt like one. You’re also determined to amend that in the manner you spoke and the way you dressed.
Though it would only take a glimpse of your torn knuckles, the jut of your chin, and the insolence that had one charging forward with a raised fist, wild and half-crazed from adrenaline.
There’s a ferocity to you that no one saw closely. Perhaps, Shin had but that's just how he was, and Wakasa wondered if this was what intrigued him about you, framed behind your glasses.
He didn't like them the first time.
It's what got him fooled about you. They’re fake and you wore them for some reason. He wouldn't tell you that they never suited you; a second too distracted with the clarity that you looked more like yourself without them.
After he had crushed them under his heel.
Even he'd admit now that was a dick move at the time. Though he returned to this memory with a rather dull realization that you weren't upset of him because he stepped on your glasses.
It didn't exactly hit him at first. More like kick.
On the same, sore place he'd sent Sano Shinichiro to the hospital that day.
After all that, Wakasa wouldn't have thought that he could still find a place in the Black Dragons. Like how you did in your persistence to be set apart from them.
“Here,” you said behind him, and he nodded before parking at the side of the path.
Your house was smaller than Shin’s, ordinary and conforming within an equally ordinary and conforming neighborhood. It's a little far-off from what he’d known in the city, too quiet for his liking. However, something about the potted plants at the front of your place set off a kind of sweetness from the others. It looked more lived-in, modest but in a charming way. He wasn’t sure where he drew that out from though he wondered if it revealed something about you. He couldn’t quite see you as the type that watered geraniums in the morning.
You dismounted from his motorbike, making a poor attempt to appear unaffected by your wounds. Then unclipping the chain strap, you returned back his helmet, which he accepted but wouldn’t wear on his ride back. “Thank you again, Imaushi-san.”
Wakasa drawled out your name, lacking an honorific for emphasis. “Told ya to not be so formal.”
You considered it for a long moment. It made him a little impatient.
“Okay. Just don’t tell about tonight, all right?”
“Thought you and Shin-chan were close. Why’re you keeping things from him?”
You shrugged. “He doesn’t always have to know everything.”
That didn’t really answer why you’re so hellbent on hiding it.
“But I’d know.”
A soft pause. “Yeah, you’d know.”
And that’s how this friendship began between both of you.
It’s uncalled for, and Wakasa still thought of you more like a case study for acting the way you did around him.
You grinned at how perplexed he was about this. There's a hint of blood on the slits of your teeth. You looked messed-up, and he’d like to think there’s just some stale gum stuck on his molars when he felt a tug from the corner of his mouth.
"Oi. Aren't we minors?"
Wakasa figured you'd be the kind of person to bring up something like that after going through the trouble stealing beer and snacks from a shop owner in Shinjuku, who to everyone's disgust and indignation owned child porn.
No one had qualms roughing him up and raiding his shop. The bastard deserved it anyway.
Yet for some unspoken reason, Wakasa could tell that everyone in the room had seen worse.
"Go be an uptight ass somewhere else," retorted Takeomi.
"Want me to kick yours?" you returned back.
“Bet I can—”
"All right! You two, cut that out."
Shinichiro would intervene as usual.
Wakasa wondered how long Shinichiro had been putting up with this shitshow – when those two likely occupied a space in his heart for the longest time, any fool would notice – and although he really wasn’t that sentimental, it rewound glimpses of another time. It wasn't that long ago, just a year or so, and it wasn't pretty like this either, not that this garage should be with all this clutter and camaraderie.
There were boxes of junk and a poster of a Yamaha FZR1000R EXUP bedecked on the wall like a shrine. There's a garden outside that Shinichiro's grandfather tended to with such great care and everyone was still mindful enough to not step on shrubs or flick away cigarette butts like they'd been scolded little kids, scared shitless of the delicate mundanity of something they weren't apart of. Something Shin welcomed them in because he'd been that guy to just stomp his foot stubbornly and say, why the hell not?
Wakasa wanted that kind of simplicity for himself or perhaps had lost it because the gutter of city streets wasn't suburbia and between survival and criminality, those two often blurred if you didn't give a damn. Turf wars only brought out the worst in people; each vendetta brutal and blood-soaked just to best the other until nothing else mattered anymore.
How amusing, he thought anyway, calmly sitting side by side with his one and only rival in Shinichiro’s garage.
"Just take the beer," Benkei cut in, reaching a bottle to you. "Or not."
You blew out a sigh, accepting the beer, but Wakasa was the one that got the brunt of your temper.
The truth was he didn't mind at all. He'd rather you be like that.
"This ain't a show."
Wakasa shrugged. "I beg to differ."
Then you opened a bag of chips, helping yourself with a mouthful, and then you offered it to him as to make up for snapping back earlier. His hand stretched forward to reach.
You aspired to be a boring person.
Shinichiro would mock your resolve by unintentionally sabotaging you from that path in life. Takeomi settled with just calling you both dumbasses. Benkei would still puzzle over your words, still coming out blank, though Wakasa thought that anyone who made a promise out of them must be the most miserable people for making themselves appear more interesting than they actually were.
He was right, of course.
Because as it turned out, you were just weird.
Shinichiro laughed at that. Must've known deep down that anyone who was close friends with him was in some way.
For one, you wanted to look like a valedictorian, but you're lousy with algebra equations. Wakasa was no better when he hardly remembered anything in his classes or had attended them in awhile. Though he couldn't help but watch you when he caught you finishing it before a meeting. It looked doomed from the start, but you’re studious when you'd get it right after three flustered attempts and a bottle of roasted barley tea. He rewarded you with Mitarashi dango from the stall he frequented in Ameyoko, and you ate the rest of it even though he would learn later on from Shin that you disliked dangos.
You’re unfairly good at memorization. You read a lot too, but that’s because you preferred short stories over novels. You didn't have much patience for the latter, as you did with most things.
He knew you liked that book about a psychiatric patient meeting kappa people because you thought it's bizarre – in a comforting way, like reading your first ghost story. You had a small collection of Akutagawa's works, and you liked manga that was similar to Junji Ito's, with the exception of Ranma ½.
Your sister got you into it. That's the only time you spoke about your family, albeit everyone knowing who your brother was.
The slightest mention of him had people shuddering the moment you were there within earshot because your brother was a delinquent from a fearsome generation, and if he was still anything like the stories, then mouths were better off shut – unless they'd be sealed for good, six feet under.
You, however, didn't waver like them. The mere thought of him always made you livid like a bruise, angry and aching.
Wakasa never knew what happened, and perhaps, it's for the best that the past remained unearthed in lieu of the mildness Shinichiro had brought out of you.
You shared everything with him: childhood, cigarettes, and all.
There's really something between the two of you that no one could put into words.
The worst one that had ever been mustered up was from a snide remark about him sucking you off so you could win his fights for him and the unfortunate bastard was battered up so bad he coughed blood and teeth. Shinichiro had to stop you himself.
Both of you were open about the fact that you didn't even see each other that way.
You're more vocal about it and other things about him.
Like going on a tangent about being a firm believer that Shinichiro must've been a single auntie in a past life because he doted on little kids, he always had candy that he gave away, and he gossiped a lot more than any other teenage boy. His cooking was below average, but he made sure no one ever starved around him. He was warm.
It wasn't as if Wakasa didn't believe you, but there's a deep fondness in your eyes whenever you spoke about Shin; eyes that were intense and strong and vivid with emotion; eyes that were looking at him.
He wondered what you saw.
"You're more like a bird than a big cat."
Benkei guffawed.
That earned him a kick on the shin, and he retaliated with a swing of his arm before chuckling under his breath. "Fucking big cat, I swear. Why's he a bird then, eh?"
Wakasa sent you a stare that dared you, and you stared back unfalteringly with a smile.
"I've never seen anyone kick as high as that. Looks more like he's flying."
"Well, would you look at that. You're being praised, birdie."
With a block, Benkei dodged the following kick. It's slower than the last time.
Wakasa didn't break eye contact with you, but he didn't say a word.
The only time he did was when you were finally alone with him.
"You," Wakasa said. "What else?"
"Huh?"
"What else do you have to say about me?"
"Look, I'm not mocking you when I compared you to a bird, but I meant what I said. You really do look like you're flying," you clarified before opening up again, more passionate about it this time, "it's cool. You're cool."
There's something else stuck inside your mouth. It lingered in the silence; your eyes averted, abashed.
Wakasa wanted to tug it out of you, but he found himself too fixated over your words. Something about them made him want to soar.
"I think you're cool too," he told you this with an honesty that had taken him aback more than you had. It lacked the usual, lackluster drawl in place of something softer, close to a whisper, but he figured you'd be the only one who got to hear it. He'd rather it just be you.
“You don't mean that," you replied, making him raise a brow at you.
"What makes you think so?"
"You're just being nice," you sighed with an uncertain gaze. "I don't know why. But you're always nice."
"I'm not,” said Wakasa. He and Benkei just beat up an entire gang; the leader had his jaw broken from the force of his foot. You covered for him so he could go for the finishing blow, even though you took more damage from it. All of you probably weren’t nice, though that didn’t matter to him. “But I meant it."
Then he threw back your words at you with a sly bend of his lips.
"You don't have to fly to make me say that."
“You look like you’ve just woken up.”
You were about to wave your hand at him, though it stopped midway only for your arm to fall back and prop against the leg that’s crossed against the other, palm bent by your chin, shoulders slouched.
There’s a soft languidness in your stare, but that didn’t make you any less awake, peeved, after huffing a little. “You’re not wrong.”
Wakasa stared at the coffee can beside you, and then back to your face, the slight ruffle of your hair.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” he asked.
“Still in the wash,” you slurred a bit after a yawn. “I kind of forgot we had a meeting today. Told Shin I should just skip it, but he insisted.”
You're in a t-shirt and a pair of joggers, though what really caught his attention was the sandals and the inked head of a dragon slithering on your right ankle, partially hidden under the cuff of your pants. If you weren’t so discreet about it, everyone would've known by now that your tattoo spiraled up to the length of your calf. Honestly, why get one if you're just going to hide it in the first place?
“You should’ve worn something warmer,” scolded Wakasa, starting to unbutton his gang jacket. “It’s cold out.”
You quirked a brow at him at first before abiding with a shrug, standing up to put it on you but somewhere along the way, your hands must’ve missed and his acted on their own when he draped it on you.
There’s an obscure point where your shoulders eased and his thumb brushed on your collarbone.
Wakasa wondered if he’s crossed the line, though he was quiet and distracted when he watched you slip your arms into the sleeves of his jacket.
Then you sent him a funny look in return when you stared at his sweatshirt paired with his boots and boiler pants, and found how terribly mismatched both of you were, like a myriad of complicated things trying to figure each other out, and he thought that it wasn’t that farfetched.
“Shouldn’t you be in uniform? You’re a captain.”
Didn’t make him any less, so he shrugged, hand on his pocket. Perhaps from negligence, there’s still a candy wrapper inside; his idle fingers clutching onto it, not knowing whether it’s a gum or a lollipop one.
“You know,” you smiled. “Keep this up, and he’ll start to think I’m gonna replace him.”
It’d just been a casual joke. Even if it wasn’t, Wakasa doubted that, but he still asked.
“You think so?”
You didn’t exactly give an answer, but you weren’t looking at him anymore. “Can anyone really replace him?”
Then his eyes followed after yours, on the stone platform where Shinichiro made his grand entrance.
Everyone stood upright from his presence alone. The meeting was about to commence.
His lips curled up. “Guess not.”
Both of your gazes weren’t without respect and admiration for him from this distance; the solemn flap of his gang jacket spreading out behind him like the cowl of the night, emblazoned in gold.
Even though Wakasa agreed with you that it probably hadn’t been washed and it stunk of cigarettes. Benkei chided the two of you after clearing his throat, which suspiciously sounded more like a snort of amusement than anything else.
“I like yours better, though,” you whispered, still clad in his jacket, and a little lost from your words, Wakasa didn’t tell you that you shouldn’t forget yours next time.
But next time had become your last when you made the decision to quit the Black Dragons.
Posture proud and rigid and arms tucked behind your back, you bowed at them to your waist, with the final, flaming blaze of the sunset falling over your shoulder. Some would like to believe it was the early twilight of an era when your shadow had appeared taller that day.
“Thank you for having me!”
Wakasa couldn’t even find it in himself to badger you for the formality.
Later down the line, Shinichiro would disband the gang and the few remnants would take over after them, like the passing of another day, and whenever Wakasa returned back to it now, his commander had eyes set at looking forward, even if the brighter times must come to an end.
“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t hang out,” said Shinichiro, resolute as ever.
“Didn’t think I was so missed,” a handful of snorts, and then you sighed. “All of you didn’t have to scare off my seniors, though.”
“That’d be Benkei’s ugly mug.”
“You’re the one who threatened the teacher!”
“He was pissin’ me off,” Wakasa said insouciantly before twirling the lollipop in his mouth. “How’s cram school by the way?”
“Boring.” You frowned with a hand under your chin, no longer telling them that you’d also been occupied prepping up for college entrance exams for weeks. “Well, seems more like I’m the one that missed out. What are you all up to?”
“We put some punks from Kichijoji in their place for trying to mess with us,” Takeomi bragged. “Ain’t that right, Shin?”
“Yeah, yeah, anyway,” dismissed Shinichiro with a wave, and something about his disinterest hurt Takeomi a little. “I’m doing part-time for the summer. Yoneda-san’s gonna have me in his motor shop.”
Shinichiro was excited about it because everyone knew how dedicated he was over motorcycles. He was already somewhat of a mechanic in a way when he'd volunteer to fix their bikes if they broke down, wrecked, and he'd tinker on a dead engine for hours on end. It's one of those moments where his passion shined through when he really didn't seem to have as much motivation being in school and whatever it offered there.
All of them were aware that Benkei had been taking odd jobs here and there. He worked in a small gym in Koenji this time, though what surprised them was that Wakasa had been referred by him to fill in an opening. Shrugging, he planned to start next week.
Takeomi was blatant about wanting to be rich a long time ago, maybe own a club in the future.
Talks of dreams and stories went about over pizza. They were drinking Coca Cola awhile ago until someone snuck alcohol in there, mixing it in their glasses in small doses.
They were careful to never let it anywhere near Mikey who joined for pizza slices and listened in the conversation with curious eyes. The moment he drifted away to watch TV back in the house was when all the recklessness began after the suggestion of beer pong because first, there was no beer; second, one of them brought up the psychotic idea to let the loser down a cocktail of Coca Cola, gin, and hot sauce; third, it devolved into chaos when it turned into a competition.
Backs were stabbed, curses were thrown. Benkei flipped a stool. You slipped on an ice cube. Takeomi accidentally spilled gin on Wakasa's hoodie. Shinichiro was probably crying at some point. Everyone was getting sick of junk food. There's a mess on the floor of the garage. It was just two in the morning.
It was stupid fun.
Despite it all, you're the first one to pass out. Not really from the alcohol, but you’re quick to doze off after you still had the stomach to finish the leftover pizza. Everyone stared at you curled up on the floor, mumbling in your sleep.
Shinichiro would speak on your behalf that you were probably tired, but Wakasa was already on the move to carry you to the bedroom once he began lifting you up, unconcerned whether he roused you awake. He’d rather you be, but you’d always been such a heavy sleeper.
There’s something off about how Shinichiro assessed this, however.
Perhaps, he was just a little stunned that he hadn’t done it first – or someone else had done it for you – though he nodded it off, instructing him where the extra futons were in the house, and simply smiled. It’s too smooth, lacking that playful crookedness, when he noticed your arm resting on his shoulder.
His eyes lingered a second too long just before Takeomi pulled him into his stride with a rag, doing something responsible for once.
Benkei watched them, but he didn’t ask him if he needed help with you, concerning himself with a trash bag.
When you were settled on the bed, it’s starting to dawn on him why you thought he’d overreact on certain things – were you aware or were you just as oblivious? – and while Wakasa couldn’t brush aside the way Shinichiro looked at you, he couldn’t help but feel selfish about this, like he’s trespassing on something that he shouldn’t.
Like he’s trampling it all down, and he’d done it before without remorse to enemies, to weaker people, but he liked Shin.
Then he stared at you and sighed.
Wakasa gently removed your glasses, untucking a few strands, and he would brush them back from your face, soft from sleep and the subtle, ambient glow of a lamplight from the window, passing through the blinds. Both of you were striped in white against the indigo shadows of the room, and there’s a part of him that thought it’s nice that you two almost looked the same.
He felt like he could reach you like this. He wondered if he could. If he should.
Tender from the pads of his fingers.
The glint of silver helix studs distracted him, twin stars on your ear.
Wakasa remembered complimenting you, searching for the expression of your face. The day was an October gray, and the wind was harsher on your hair, tousling it all over the place. He couldn’t take you seriously when you gave up keeping it still until it compelled his hand, pushing them back behind the curve of your ear.
Nice piercings, he told you back then, and something about your hair and words tangled from that, lips slightly agape. He leaned closer for a better look.
There’s a strand at the corner of your mouth, though a name curled along there now, barely a whisper, and he didn’t want to know whose it was. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to know at all.
"I kissed someone," you said in the middle of the crossing. "It didn't feel right."
Silence fell for a long, stagnant moment yet both of you kept moving, and so did the words that didn't make sense to him.
"No one gets it right the first time," was the only thing he offered, and as your eyes wandered to the madding crowd, a little disheartened, it's all what he could think about that afternoon.
“You’re moving to Nagoya,” Wakasa repeated, letting the thought sink down and drown him.
“Yeah . . .” you said as if you’re still taking it all in yourself; your smile thin, but you’re sucking on sour candy and he thought he understood you with his own, slowly starting to unravel behind his teeth.
"Meidai's a good university," you made it sound like you're trying to convince yourself that, and he went silent for a minute. Something awful dangled on his mouth.
“That’s pretty far,” he mused, drawing in another breath.
“Not that far.” But far.
“How did Shin-chan take it?”
“Well, I guess,” you lowered down to a pensive mumble.
There’s a stillness to both of your hands; not meeting to touch but close.
“Then—” Wakasa caught himself before the words slipped, cloying and sour on his tongue.
Don’t go.
“I’m happy for you.”
All five of you gathered at Shibuya Station.
Shinichiro insisted, though it was Benkei who swooped you up for a hug, making you breathe out a surprised laugh.
Benkei would always charge forward with how he expressed himself, whether from a fight or fondness, and it nearly had you in mid-air but you weren't one to back down either, clinging back to him.
Then an exchange of encouraging words and a few dad jokes, and that kicked off a trend that had all of you making such a small scene in public. Even so, they didn't care if they were.
Takeomi only relented after Shinichiro pushed him and he began to uncross his arms, sighing from his nose. The hug was stiff and awkward that it had the rest of them grunting out a chuckle at the sight.
Takeomi had too much pride to show affection, but he did make an effort with a lean and three pats on your back. The moment his hair splayed on your face, you jolted back petulantly. "Cut your damn hair."
"Fuck off," retorted Takeomi.
You were grinning at each other, all harmless profanity instead of best wishes.
Then you walked up to him. You still had your glasses on, but there’s a meaningful look in your eyes.
Before Wakasa could take a step forward, you didn't wait for him as you wrapped your arms on his sides. He froze at first, though something about your warmth thawed his initial shock from the embrace, and he felt himself loosen for a long, wistful moment where he could slide his arms around you, nestling his chin on the curve of your shoulder.
You harbored so much brutal strength though you felt delicate, bird-boned. He wanted to trace out your wings with a fingertip.
You likened him to a bird once, but you were the one that was about to take flight and disappear.
Wakasa was uncertain whether he wanted this to last or not, though he was sure that this was the only time he'd hold you like this. He whispered your name and you whispered his back, unspoken words lost to each other's hair, but the sentiment was all soft and well-meaning, quieter than a farewell. The two of you were a little older now to understand what this meant.
Then he lingered for a heartbeat before he unwound himself, thinking this was enough.
“Okay, that's about it,” you stated.
“Oi.”
“Bye, Shin.”
Then his hand hooked on the hood of your jacket. You let him drag you back to him like an idiot.
That’s right. Both of you were idiots, and Wakasa smiled.
You tilted your head at him. “What? No tears for me?”
Then Shinichiro embraced you, like he could engulf you within his arms.
You looked like you’re about to give in to a cry.
“You're gonna come back anyway,” he said stubbornly, sniffling. You didn’t complain that you’d get snot on your collar.
Shinichiro held you tighter, half-buried in your hair. He had a place in the space where your jaw met your throat, perhaps warm with tears.
You stared at all of them from his shoulder, but you were smiling sadly for him.
You didn’t want to let go of him the most.
“Take care of him.”
Shinichiro cared so much about you.
He wouldn’t admit it, but he didn’t have to.
He searched for you in gazes, in the vacant seat next to him, in every little, insignificant thing. He’d always try to bring you up in conversations, as if to keep your presence near and important, and recount how you were based from your calls and messages. However, the following months took a toll on him when you got busier, more distant now than ever.
Because there’s this miserable truth about him.
Shinichiro was open to talks, to friendships, to shedding his tears for the smallest of reasons, though for someone so ardent and emotional, he didn’t let himself truly be vulnerable around anyone. Except for you.
But you weren’t here. Wakasa wished you were, melancholic over your absence and the gap it left between them.
“You could trust me,” he said; the last trace of sour-sweetness on his lollipop stick was an afterthought, and bereft, he still tried, “Shin, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t tell anyone . . .” Shinichiro sighed, and it felt as if you never left.
“We’ll all hang out together again someday,” Wakasa reassured him, even after being weighed down over what he knew for the longest time.
He wasn’t in school anymore, but the feeling was awfully similar, like how one passed notes in class, all the while carrying the sentiment that he was in on the secret that wasn’t much of a secret at all.
Senju wasn’t all what he expected as Takeomi’s little sister.
There’s a fierceness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen anywhere else.
“Fight me!”
Bullheaded too, like her brother.
Who had apparently shirked his responsibilities as one for spending the rest of the night in Kabukicho.
Wakasa couldn’t remember when he had agreed to babysit a demanding child, though Benkei was opposed to leaving her alone with a hungover Takeomi back at home. He also couldn’t remember when he began to enjoy his sessions with said demanding child, who’d been exuberant in her potential, her high kicks unmatched in the training grounds. He never doubted that she would soon be a force to be reckoned with.
He could say the same for Mikey but he liked Senju more.
Instead of sweets, Wakasa traded tact and blows in the gym. He’s better at this than he thought.
Guess we have a pact now.
“—hey, don’t hang up just yet!”
Shinichiro exclaimed from a private room of the motor shop, making Seishu raise his head a bit from his corner, and Wakasa and Benkei mirrored the boy with as much inquisitiveness.
Then he barreled downstairs with a broad grin. He looked younger again, hollering out your name.
“Benkei and Waka are here. Greet ‘em,” said Shinichiro, gesturing them to come closer. Then he reached out the phone, waiting on his palm.
Benkei nodded off to Wakasa to take it, and regarding his friend with mild annoyance, he did with a sigh.
Reluctantly. “Hi.”
Then a second of static.
“Oh. Hi Waka,” you said. You almost sounded like a stranger at first, but you got his name right.
Wakasa would say yours back, not meaning for it to roll off a little foreign out of his mouth. He hoped you could hear that he was smiling, though there’s no way of telling on the other line.
“How are you?”