Chapter Text
Ichiro winced when the blinds in his room were suddenly torn all the way up, letting in a sharp blade of light that slashed at his squinted-shut eyes. He sat up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face until his bleary eyes deigned to focus on whoever the hell had just barged uninvited into his apartment.
"Yamada."
"…Jyuto?"
Huh. Ichiro couldn't have said he'd been expecting that.
Iruma Jyuto. Boxing promoter. He'd never worked with Ichiro directly, but Ichiro knew him well enough; Jyuto was married to one of his closest friends and fiercest rivals, after all.
Well, former rival.
Ichiro didn't have much of a right to be calling anyone his rival anymore.
"Did Rio send you?" Ichiro cracked a yawn and gave his whole face another scrub, grimacing as he found some patchy stubble around his jaw. He hadn't looked in a mirror in… at least a few days, probably.
He must have looked like hell.
Jyuto didn't answer right away. He seemed too busy taking in the state of Ichiro's apartment, with a critical and, frankly, disgusted look in his eyes.
Fair enough.
There were dishes in the kitchen sink, clothes spilling out of the hamper at the foot of Ichiro's bed, and even an old pizza box sitting open on the coffee table. Ichiro would have been pretty appalled by the state of his place as well, if he'd been in any condition to be feeling anything at all.
"No," Jyuto said in the end. He shoved open the window by Ichiro's bed with a bang, then moved through the apartment to throw open every other window as well. "He has every faith you'll find the strength to return to the world of the living once you've had some more time to recuperate."
Ichiro felt his lips twist with a wry smile. "Kind of him."
"Yes, he's sometimes so optimistic it veers on foolish," Jyuto snapped. "But even I'd hoped to find you in a better state than this, Yamada Ichiro. When was the last time you set foot outside?"
Ichiro looked away and mumbled, "I go outside."
"When did you last get out of bed, even? When was your last shower? Your last proper meal?"
Ichiro hadn't planned on answering any more questions, but at the mere suggestion of food, his stomach gave a traitorous little growl.
"For fuck's sake," Jyuto muttered under his breath. "Do you think your brothers would be happy to see you like this?"
"Guess it's a good thing they were both bright enough to send themselves overseas for college."
"Oh, please. The middle one is just very good at kicking a little ball around."
"Hey." Ichiro's eyes took on a glint of real anger for the first time since he opened them to find Jyuto standing over his bed. "Diss me as much as you want, but you can see yourself the hell out if you're gonna talk shit about my brothers."
Jyuto narrowed his own eyes and glowered right back, before abruptly dropping the animosity and lifting both hands. "My apologies, that was uncalled for. I'm not here for a fight."
"What are you here for, Jyuto?"
"I've been asked to bring you an offer. A job offer."
Ichiro snorted. "What kind of job could a boxing promoter have for a former boxer? I'm retired, in case you missed the memo."
"I don't believe anyone in the entire world of augmented boxing missed that memo," Jyuto remarked dryly, not hesitating to answer Ichiro's sarcasm with his own. "Rinka certainly didn't."
Jyuto said the name like it was one Ichiro should recognize, and it did ring something of a bell at the back of Ichiro's mind. Ichiro had to furrow his brows and think for a moment before it clicked.
Rinka, the boy wonder of Katen Athletics. An up-and-coming boxer who fought using only exoskeleton gear, just like Ichiro had. Champion of last year's U-20 tournament, and favorite to win this year's as well.
Jyuto worked mostly with boxers from Katen Athletics, and Rio belonged to that gym as well. It was no surprise they knew Rinka; Rio probably trained with him.
But what business could a promising young fighter like Rinka have with a crippled has-been like Ichiro?
"Does he want me as his trainer or something?" Ichiro asked, finally climbing out of bed and trudging into the kitchen to see if he had anything for coffee. His life as he knew it may have ended three months ago, but that wasn't any excuse for him to be such a piss-poor host. "I've never coached before. His gym can probably offer him better."
"They can, and they do," Jyuto agreed. "I told him as much—"
"Thanks," Ichiro snarked.
"—but he insisted it has to be you." Jyuto tailed Ichiro into the kitchen, hovering over his shoulder like he thought Ichiro might not even be able to handle putting on a pot of coffee on his own. "He wants only you. Not as a trainer, though."
Ichiro set the kettle on the stove to boil, then rummaged through his cabinets until he found a canister of coffee beans. He cracked open the lid and gave the contents a sniff—stale, go figure. Ichiro only kept coffee around for guests, and he hadn't been in any condition to have company over since his attack.
Jyuto would simply have to cope.
Ichiro plucked one coffee bean from the canister and flicked it at Jyuto's forehead to get him to back off a bit. "What's he want, then?"
"Childish," Jyuto muttered, huffing a curt, pissy sigh as he reached down the front of his suit jacket to fish out the offending bean from where it had fallen. "He wants you to work on his gear."
Ichiro's brow furrowed again, deeper and for longer this time. He stilled with a finger over the button of the electric grinder he'd just plugged in, wondering if he'd actually heard Jyuto right.
Work on his gear?
"As a technician?" Ichiro asked. His voice was full of disbelief, even a touch of amusement.
It had to be a joke.
Maybe, maybe, he could teach a younger boxer a thing or two as a trainer, with all his years of experience in the ring. Several gyms had reached out to him with job offers already, and he was considering a few. He had to get back to work sooner or later, after all, and he wasn't exactly qualified to work in any field but boxing.
But gear technicians needed more than boxing knowledge and expertise. They were engineers; even the ones who worked only on exo gear had to have at least one or two fancy college degrees to their name.
Ichiro, meanwhile, hadn't even gone to high school.
"He knows I'm about as educated as a stray dog, right?" Ichiro joked, before finally starting up the grinder.
Jyuto waited for the obnoxiously loud whirring to stop before heaving another sigh. "I told him that as well, yes. But he simply repeated that it has to be you."
"Why?"
Jyuto shrugged. "He won't tell me, but it's rather obvious, isn't it? He must admire you. Look up to you. All these kids who insist on fighting with exo gear do. You're like a legend to them, you know that."
Ichiro didn't try to play modest. In recent years, he had been one of the only boxers to fight in major tournaments, to make it as far as the finals of Metalonia, with two flesh and blood arms. With how quickly biometal prosthetics had advanced, nearly all rookie boxers were choosing to amputate one or both arms in favor of biometal gear.
Those who held out, who chose to fight the 'old-fashioned' way, often cited Ichiro as their inspiration.
But that was all the more reason for Ichiro to say no.
"He's gonna have an uphill battle ahead of him if he sticks with an exoskeleton," Ichiro said. "No reason to make it harder on himself with a shitty tech. Tell him—"
"Tell him yourself," Jyuto interrupted. "Perhaps he'll change his mind if he hears it from you."
"Jyuto…"
"What?" Jyuto gave him an arch, skeptical look over the thin rim of his glasses. "Do you plan on rotting in here for the rest of your life? Going nowhere, doing nothing? You're retired, not dead. This is no way for a living man to behave."
Ichiro couldn't exactly argue with that. Most days, when he woke and found himself utterly incapable of climbing out of bed, he stared up at the ceiling and gave himself the exact same lecture in his head. But it was so damn hard to do anything when the only thing he'd ever known how to do had been hacked away from him.
He'd been boxing for half his life, from thirteen to twenty-six. How was he supposed to know what he would do, who he would be, outside the ring? How was he supposed to even start to figure that out?
Maybe someone would tell him.
Maybe in his snappish and abrasive way, Jyuto was trying to tell him. To help him.
"…fine," Ichiro said, as the kettle he'd put on started to whistle and steam. "Guess I can meet him, at least. When?"
Jyuto checked his watch, then took out his phone to make a call. "No time like the present."
Before they set out, Jyuto ordered Ichiro into the bathroom with stern instructions to shower and shave.
"I absolutely refuse to be seen in public with such an… unkempt person," he stated flatly. "Besides, Rinka is already distraught over the thought of never being able to face you in an official match. You wouldn't wish to disappoint him even further, hm?"
Ichiro wasn't sure if he cared much about that, but he did get himself looking presentable in case they saw Rio at the gym. Rio was a great guy, an honest guy. Honest to a fault, really. If Ichiro turned up at the gym looking pathetic enough to make him worry, there was no chance he wouldn't call up Ichiro's brothers to voice his concerns. And if Ichiro's brothers started worrying, nothing would stop them from ditching school to fly straight back to Tokyo.
By the time Ichiro stepped back out, showered and clean-shaven and looking at least alive if not lively, Jyuto had finished making the coffee and started a load of laundry.
A takeout bag from the sandwich place downstairs had even appeared on the kitchen table.
Ichiro managed to muster up a more or less genuine smile, and an earnest word of thanks. They often bickered like it was their job, him and Jyuto, but Jyuto wasn't really only his good friend's husband.
Jyuto was a good friend, too.
While Ichiro ate, Jyuto took a few work calls in the living room. The laundry was still going when Ichiro dusted the last few crumbs from the corners of his mouth; he would have to remember to hang everything up when he got home.
When it was about time to go, Jyuto cleared his throat and asked, "Do you need…?"
Ichiro looked up after pulling on some reasonably clean clothes. Nothing fancy like the tailored suit Jyuto wore. Just a big, comfortable hoodie that wouldn't aggravate the tender scarring around his shoulder and a pair of jeans that didn't reek. He followed Jyuto's line of sight to the sling he'd left tossed over the back of the couch at some point.
"Ah." Ichiro rolled his shoulders and winced as a dull ache, as familiar now as an old friend, ran down his right side. "Guess I should take it along, just in case."
His pain was never at zero these days, but he no longer needed to wear the sling at all times. He'd been diligent about keeping up with his physical therapy; the doctors had said his only hope of ever regaining full use of his arm would be to follow their PT plan to the letter, never slacking off or overexerting himself for even one day.
But his recovery, though going well, was very much still an ongoing thing. His arm still hurt like it was prepared to fall clean off if he was ever on his feet for too long.
So he did take the sling along, balling it up and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans. Better safe than sorry, he figured, even if he was sure this meeting wouldn't take long.
Once they met, Rinka would see he was nothing special.
He was nothing at all.
Katen Athletics was one of the bigger names in augmented boxing. Not the biggest, but far from unknown. They'd only ever produced one Metalonia champion—none other than Busujima Mason Rio—but had a few fighters in the Top 16 every year. These days, they were one of the last gyms to let their boxers choose freely between exo and biometal gear.
Of course, there was no gym that explicitly required all its fighters to opt for biometal. But biometal gear was now 'strongly recommended' by nearly all trainers, and boxers who stuck to exo gear often found themselves scheduled for fewer and fewer fights, until they were dropped by their gyms entirely, no matter how well they performed in the ring.
Katen's main training facility was situated in the heart of Yokohama. Ichiro used to visit for practice fights at least a few times a year, so it wasn't long after they reached Yokohama that he realized they were going the wrong way.
"Rinka prefers a quieter environment when he trains," Jyuto explained when Ichiro made an inquisitive sound from the passenger seat of his car. "He and Rio share a smaller gym these days. Fewer distractions there, they say."
Ichiro hummed with a faint note of approval. The main gym, as he remembered it, was always noisy with fans loitering around the training rings. If he wanted to get away from all that, Rinka must have been really serious about the sport.
Not that that came as a surprise. He would've had to be serious to take the U-20 belt with only exo gear for support.
"We're here," Jyuto announced as he slowed the car to a stop.
Ichiro frowned out at the building they'd pulled up to. He was pretty sure—no, he was certain he'd never been here before. It didn't look like a Katen Athletics gym, not even one of their smaller ones. In fact, from outside, it didn't look much like a gym at all.
The building looked more like a rundown old warehouse, and was even situated in a sketchy-looking part of the port.
"Here?" Ichiro echoed as he stepped out of the car. "Are we here to meet a boxer or harvest my organs?"
"Let's find out," Jyuto deadpanned.
He led them inside, and Ichiro saw right away that this definitely was a gym after all. Inside, it looked like one, smelled like one. A regulation-size training ring stood at the center of the open space. Exercise mats, weights, punching bags—everything a boxer could want stood neatly arranged on one side of the room. An old television, a whiteboard, and a couple chairs filled up the space on the other side of the ring. Two doors in the back seemed to lead to other rooms, and a fully-stocked coffee station stood between those doors.
Although Ichiro had never set foot inside that building before, it felt a lot like home. His own gym had been as simple as this. It was only the hint of sea-foam in the air, wafting in through the cracked open windows high up on the walls, that reminded Ichiro he was quite a ways away from home.
Two heads turned towards them when they entered. Rio, and the fighter Ichiro recognized as Rinka. They weren't in the ring when Ichiro and Jyuto arrived; they had been hunched over something by the whiteboard, maybe a tablet with footage of their morning drills.
That had been Ichiro's routine, at least. Morning drills, always recorded, followed by a review of his form. There was no such thing as getting too good to study your own moves.
"As promised, young master." Jyuto presented Ichiro with a flippant, disinterested wave. "The man, the myth, the legend himself—Ichi-niisan, the boxer who'll have you down faster than you can count ichi, ni, san."
Ichiro grimaced. He didn't actually hate his ring name; he'd let Jiro and Saburo choose it when they were all just kids, and it wound up sticking. But he didn't love all the cheesy taglines and catchphrases it had spawned when he started climbing the ranks.
He was used to Jyuto taking the piss about that sort of thing, though. What really caught his attention…
"Young master?" he whispered.
Jyuto rolled his eyes skywards and didn't bother answering. "I'm going to make myself some real coffee. Do try to be normal."
"I'm normal," Ichiro grumbled.
"I was talking to the other one."
The 'other one' in question had started making his way over to them, approaching at a brisk walk but with the gait of someone who clearly wanted to be sprinting instead.
Ichiro couldn't help but feel a bit flattered. Was the kid really that eager to meet him?
Maybe he wasn't actually looking for a new gear technician. Maybe he was just a fan, looking for an excuse to meet Ichiro. Maybe all he really wanted was Ichiro's autograph.
Not that it was worth much anymore.
As soon as Rinka stopped before him, Ichiro gave him a once-over, like he would when faced with any prospective opponent. It was instinct for a boxer; he could see Rinka do the same to him.
They were about of a height, Rinka maybe just a skosh taller. Augmented boxing was an openweight sport, but if it had had traditional boxing's weight classes, Rinka looked like he would've just barely eked into the welterweight class. He was considerably leaner than Ichiro, and after taking in his figure, Ichiro suddenly remembered him—and a few vivid highlights from his fights—much more clearly.
Rinka was fast and strong; he worked his slimmer frame to his advantage. With a little more experience, he would've grown into a fighter who could give Ichiro a run for his money.
Ichiro felt a pang of… something.
Or maybe he felt like he was supposed to feel a pang of something.
Longing. Regret. Anger, even, over the future that could have been, one which was lost to him now.
Was that what he felt?
"Jyuto said you would say no," Rinka blurted out. "So, are you? Saying no?"
Ichiro blinked, coming back from the fog in his mind. He found Rinka's eyes boring into his own, the younger fighter's gaze fierce and determined. It was plain to see how Jyuto had been convinced to drop by Ichiro's place and drag him out here. This kid wasn't the type to give up easily once he'd set his mind on something.
And, apparently, he'd set his mind on Ichiro.
"Listen…" Ichiro shoved both hands into the pocket at the front of his hoodie, giving his right arm a bit of support with his left. "I'm flattered, really. But you need a pro on your team. An exoskeleton probably doesn't seem as complex as biometal gear or a car or a spaceship, or whatever, but it's still a delicate piece of machinery that needs a proper mechanic, a trained technician, to keep it working right. You can't just have some random guy tinkering with it. That's especially true of the newer models."
Ichiro wasn't finished, but Rinka was already shaking his head. He'd started shaking it practically as soon as Ichiro started talking, like he'd already heard all those arguments before.
The second Ichiro paused to draw a breath, Rinka twisted his head around to sneak a glance at Jyuto. It seemed that whatever he had to say, he didn't want anyone else to hear. Even when he saw Jyuto and Rio chatting at the coffee station, clear on the other side of the gym, he turned back to Ichiro with a cagey, antsy look in his eyes.
Rinka jerked his chin at the exit behind Ichiro. "Can I talk to you outside?"
Ichiro blinked, then nodded. He didn't see much harm in it.
It was pretty cold for late October, the air chilled by the nearby sea. Ichiro followed Rinka across the paved road in front of the warehouse, stepping over a crumbling old curb to reach a grassy area on the other side.
Rinka plopped himself down on the grass, then nodded in a silent invitation for Ichiro to do the same. It was almost like he knew it would be easier on Ichiro's arm for Ichiro to sit, to be able to let it rest in his lap rather than hang at his side.
He probably did know.
After all, there wasn't a single boxer who didn't know what had happened to Ichiro three months ago, just days before he had been due to climb into the ring to fight for the Metalonia belt.
Ichiro took that silent offer to sit, even managing to scrounge up a grateful smile. But Rinka looked away, perhaps not wanting Ichiro to feel like his injury was getting any unwanted attention.
Nice kid.
"I know all that," Rinka said, absently running one hand through the grass. "I know you never worked as a gear tech, I know Jyuto thinks I'm out of my mind, I know Old Man Katen would never approve. But, for me, it's gotta be you."
There was an urgency in his voice that held Ichiro's attention captive, making him really want to know, and to understand, why Rinka was so set on having him work on his gear.
It had to be more than simple admiration.
"Why?" Ichiro asked. "Why do you want me to be your gear technician? Jyuto said you wouldn't tell him. Would you tell me?"
Rinka dropped his gaze and curled his fingers in the grass. He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn't sure if the truth or a lie would be more likely to get him what he wanted. Like he wasn't above lying to get his way.
In the end, he lifted his head and looked Ichiro in the eye again, to answer, without a trace of deception in his eyes or his voice—
"I have your gear."
Ichiro blinked.
"I didn't have anything to do with the bastards who jumped you!" Rinka added hastily. "They confessed to selling it off as a trophy, yeah? But when the cops tracked down the chick who bought it, she didn't have it. They figured she must've gotten nervous. Must've broken it down, sold it as scrap. So… I went looking.
"Junkyards, pawn shops, wherever. Pretty sure I managed to buy it all. Every last piece. Might need a couple new screws and bits, but it would still be your gear. The gear you fought with, the gear you would've won with. The gear you should've won with. If we put it back together—"
"Rinka." Ichiro breathed a laugh, a little blown away by the kid's intensity. "Easy, man. Take your time, take a breath. I'm not going anywhere."
"Do you swear?"
Ichiro opened his mouth. It was right at the tip of his tongue, a promise that could have spilled forth so easily—
Yeah, of course.
But it wasn't hard to tell that Rinka wasn't only asking him to swear to see this conversation through to the end.
The heat in his eyes vowed to engulf far more than that.
"How about you tell me why this is so important for you," Ichiro said instead. "I think I get it. Half of it, at least. You have… my gear. And you want me to be the one to work on it, to put it back together, because I know my gear better than anyone. Right?"
Rinka hesitated for a beat, then bobbed his head. A quick, curt up and down. "More or less, yeah."
"That's probably true," Ichiro agreed. "I did my own maintenance for most of my career, and newer techs might not know how to work with my gear. It's pretty old."
"I know that," Rinka mumbled. "I know everything about you."
Bit creepy, that. But maybe just a bit flattering as well.
"Why do you want it put back together in the first place, though?" Ichiro went on. "You can't fight with it. Even if it isn't busted beyond repair, it's never gonna hold a candle to the models you can get today. Whatever gear you're using now is bound to be better."
"But it would be yours." Rinka tore his hand from the grass and shoved it through his hair, breathing a huff of frustration as a scowl came over his face. He glowered down at his own knees, as though pissed at himself for failing to articulate exactly why that was so important to him. "Ichi…"
He trailed off with a little twitch of his nose, clearly reluctant to call Ichiro by that dorky ring name of his.
Ichiro found himself laughing again, surprising himself with how easy and honest it felt. In the months since his attack, there had been more than a few days when he'd wondered if he would ever again remember how to breathe a real laugh.
"Ichiro. You can just call me Ichiro."
Rinka drew a deep breath, long and slow, then surged to his feet, casting a veil of shade over Ichiro's face. His own face was half-hidden in shadow, but the determination that burned in his eyes was perfectly clear.
Those eyes carried a fire that burned even brighter than the sun.
"Then you should call me Samatoki," he declared. "My name is Aohitsugi Samatoki, and I want to fight—no, I will fight with your gear.
"I'll fight with it, and I'll win Metalonia. With your gear."