Chapter Text
the love he can't have
it’s quiet in the entirety of bonten’s headquarters for once.
the brothers had long-since left to check on one of their clubs, more to find someone to warm their bed than to oversee transactions. mochi clocked out soon after, followed by sanzu with a glock in his hand and his car’s keys in the other. naturally, takeomi trailed after his narcotic brother, a wave for goodnight as he departed. lastly, kakucho called it a night following mikey’s permission, ever the subordinate offering his boss a ride home.
only the treasurer and number one remained in the building.
a simple glance at his calendar made mikey’s stomach churn. out of nervousness? dread? he’ll never know. the date ridiculed him from its place on the wall, february twenty-ninth. it’s a leap year, meaning at around three in the morning, when everyone’s left, kokonoi knocks on his door four times.
laptop and manila folder tucked under one arm, a bottle of wine on the other.
mikey doesn’t bother to greet his executive. he never does on nights like these. nights where phantoms dig around his ribcage for whatever semblance of a heart he’s got left. february twenty-ninth, the date on which kokonoi and manjiro do a little digging into their past regrets.
“seems ryuguji owns the bike shop now, they both work with him now.” kokonoi takes a seat, busying himself with opening the bottle of liquor. “would’ve never guessed they were interested in working as a mechanic.”
you never were. in fact, mikey can recall endless afternoons where you’d whine over whatever the fuck a muffler was. the only time your interest aligned with tuning his bike was to brand the manji symbol on it.
artistic doesn’t line up with engineer, but neither do his past aspirations and the tattoo on the back of his head. you reap what you sow.
mikey turned to face kokonoi, exhausted stare settling on the folder. a brief thought crosses his mind, something about cats and their unfortunate deaths when indulging in curiosity. too bad he cared too little. manjiro made a move to open the folder, but was stopped by another hand. hajime slid him a glass of wine—maybe curiosity killed the cat, maybe the cat just needed a drink.
“inupi’s name is on the lease along with ryuguji’s,” had he had a heart, mikey would empathize with the burning ache seishu’s name left on koko’s mouth. one finger taps the pictures inside the folder. it's you, dash of grease adorning your cheek. “they aren’t formally employed though, i checked the records.”
mikey stared at the close-up images inside the folder, golden ring on your finger blinding him enough to drown out the treasurer's words.
twelve years ago, mikey made an oath to himself. a promise to safeguard the future of everyone he’s ever loved and cared for. twelve years ago, mikey also gave up on the only person who’s managed to quell the murk lurking within. around a hundred and forty-four months have passed since sano manjiro gave up on his other half.
shinichiro would ruffle his hair, of all people he would know there’s always more fish in the sea. emma would call the eldest sano stupid. true love is prized—meant to be, despite the hardships.
both of his siblings could argue endlessly over love and whether it’s best to chase after it or move on. yet, surprisingly, it was manjiro who knew the best out of the three.
he couldn’t be selfish, not when he chose to pave this path himself. not when you cried, screamed in absolute terror the day he pummeled every single ex-toman member. not when that fateful evening, mikey saw you flinch away from him, in fear you were next.
be as it may, it hurts. twists his organs and drowns his trachea with a knot of flowers. it hurts because he has tokyo within his palm (probably a few other cities in his wallet, too), and yet he can’t have who he truly desires.
why can’t he just have one thing?
sano manjiro was a wretched criminal with a bleeding heart. daffodil chokehold, never-ending february.
the next picture in the folder made his void of a mind stop for a moment. subsequent, mikey finally nursed the glass to his lips, sipping domaine romanée conti’s finest glasses of wine. once, twice, thrice, until the bottle was no more.
he can’t be selfish to allow himself to love, he reflects while closing the folder. and it’s okay, because you and kenchin had cute kids anyway.