Chapter Text
Sano Shinichiro was the type of child to spend all day in the corn fields trying to get abducted by aliens simply to verify they existed in order to prove he was the winner of an argument. He had thrown a full-on tantrum in the middle of the school canteen when they weren’t serving melon bread on a Wednesday like usual (thrice), and on more than one occasion used pollen blinding him as an excuse to grope the buoyant bust he could never hide he was ogling - and then punched kids half his age for trying the same trick. Inaba had seen him spend a week’s worth of wages trying to outdo his three Captains at silly fairground games and lose every single time. He was childish, bratty when he didn’t get his way, audaciously perverted, and if their lives depended on it, his friends would commit to the group decision of hauling his ass off before he could make a bet with anyone outside of them because it always landed them in the shit as a collective. He was a horrendously bad gambler, even after spending so much time with crooks like his neighbour, Inaba Ruriko and Akash Takeomi's perpetual hook-up, Usui Yohko - both of which had no qualms in cheating at cards, twisting bets, or five-finger-discounting whatever they pleased.
Inaba also knew he’d once left his prized bike in the middle of another gang’s turf when he’d run out of gas in order to pick her up after she missed the last train home on the other side of town. And how he gave pocket change to some of the lesser fortunate kids who hung around his grandfather’s dojo when everyone else was able to buy ice cream from the passing vendor in the summer months. How he’d taken on the task of trying to pull his non-blood-related brother out of a tar pit with no reward for himself. How he’d - even with his almighty struggle of it - help the local middle-aged women with their heavy groceries and offer to fix leaking pipes.
Sano Shinichiro no doubt got into some dubious situations in the pursuit of his aspirations but nobody could ever call him a bad guy. Even while heading Kanto’s top gang as a high school student, he would never refuse to help anyone - sometimes even when they were adamant they did not need his meddling.
Which is why, on August 22nd 2003, people lined up down the streets to pay their respects to his family and closest friends; why young men who’d committed heinous crimes wept on the sidewalks and shook hands with their blood-bound enemies out of shared admiration for their collective loss. Why, after two years of not sitting in a room together, his six closest friends hovered in a morose air at a low table in the mourning hall, each of them weighing up their pride against the fondest of memories they had with the man snuffed out by what was apparently an accident.