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The first kiss happened on a Thursday—or maybe a Tuesday. Time bent oddly when your lungs forgot how to inflate. Takemichi would later recall it in fragments: the chalk-dust smell of their shared classroom, the way Chifuyu’s blazer sleeve had ridden up to reveal a faded scar from their gang days, the click of the fluorescent lights overhead like a metronome counting down to ruin.
They’d been sparring in the empty hallway after school, a habit leftover from their delinquent years. Chifuyu’s laugh bounced off the lockers, sharp and bright, as he pinned Takemichi against the wall. “Still slow,” he’d teased, breath warm against the shell of Takemichi’s ear. But then—silence. A hitch. A tilt of the chin.
Takemichi didn’t remember who moved first.
Only the almost.
The millimeters between their lips, charged like the air before a downpour. The way Chifuyu’s fingers tensed against his wrists, as if deciding whether to push or pull.
Then the bell rang.
They’d sprung apart, twin statues of denial.
Now, weeks later, Takemichi sat in the cafeteria tracing the scar on his knuckle—a souvenir from the night they’d defended their old gang’s turf. Chifuyu lounged across from him, kicking his chair back on two legs. Golden afternoon light sliced through the grimy windows, gilding the dust motes swirling around his hair. He looked like a Renaissance painting gone feral: all sharp angles and restless energy, the kind of boy who’d carve his initials into a church pew just to see if God was paying attention.
“I hate school,” Chifuyu announced, apropos of nothing.
Takemichi didn’t glance up from The Tale of Genji. The book was a prop, really—a shield against conversations that might veer toward things like feelings or that day by the lockers. “You hate math. And biology. And the vending machine that stole your 500 yen last week.”
“And the way Kawasaki-sensei sniffs her tea like it’s a crime scene.”
“That’s not school. That’s just Kawasaki-sensei.”
Chifuyu’s chair slammed down. “You’re missing the point.”
Am I? Takemichi wondered. The point felt like a live wire these days. The point was Chifuyu’s knee brushing his under the table. The point was the way he’d started rolling his sleeves like a man preparing for battle, exposing forearms that made Takemichi’s throat go dry.
“Your book’s upside down,” Chifuyu said casually, plucking a pickled plum from Takemichi’s untouched lunchbox.
Shit.
He flipped the novel without looking up, cheeks burning. Chifuyu’s laugh was a low rumble, the kind that used to precede a street brawl. Now it just made Takemichi’s pulse stutter.
A group of first-years shuffled past, trays trembling in their hands. Their eyes darted to Chifuyu’s faded tattoo peeking above his collar—a relic from Toman—before scurrying away. Takemichi’s jaw tightened. They’d promised to leave that life behind. Yet here they sat: two ex-delinquents playing house in a world of starched uniforms and standardized tests.
Chifuyu leaned forward abruptly, chair legs slamming against linoleum. “Hey.”
“What?”
“You’ve got…” His thumb brushed the corner of Takemichi’s mouth, swift and clinical. “Ink. From your cheap-ass pen.”
The touch lingered half a heartbeat too long.
Takemichi dropped his book.
Across the room, the vending machine hummed like a living thing. Chifuyu examined his thumb as if the smudge of blue held arcane secrets. “Remember when we stole one of these?” he said, nodding toward the machine. “That conbini in Shinjuku?”
Of course he remembers. How could Takemichi forget? Chifuyu had split his lip laughing as they’d fled with armfuls of Pocari Sweat, the cashier’s shouts chasing them into the neon night. Now here he was, dutifully tucking his shirt in for exams.
“We were idiots,” Takemichi muttered, retrieving his book.
“You were. I was brilliant.”
“Brilliantly concussed, maybe.”
Chifuyu kicked his shin under the table—a familiar assault—but didn’t remove his foot. The pressure burned through Takemichi’s slacks.
A sudden commotion erupted by the condiment station. Two third-years shoved each other over soy sauce packets, their shouts echoing off the steel rafters. Chifuyu’s posture shifted instantly: shoulders rolling forward, fingers flexing like he was gripping an invisible switchblade. Old instincts, carved deep.
Takemichi pressed his knee harder against Chifuyu’s shoe. Stay. Please stay.
Slowly, muscle by muscle, Chifuyu relaxed. His foot slid away, taking the warmth with it.
“They’re not worth it,” Takemichi said quietly.
“Neither was that convenience store cashier.”
“But here we are.”
A beat. The fight fizzled as teachers intervened. Chifuyu picked at his rice, grains clinging to his fingertips like snow. “Here we are,” he echoed.
When the bell rang, Chifuyu left his lunchbox behind—half-eaten octopus wieners staring mournfully at the ceiling. Takemichi pocketed the abandoned plum, its salt lingering on his tongue through afternoon classes.
-♡-
The ants were back.
Takemichi watched them march single-file along the windowsill, tiny soldiers navigating a wasteland of eraser shavings and pencil lead. He envied their certainty. Their world was binary: follow the pheromone trail, or die. No paralyzing what-ifs. No kissing-adjacent disasters.
“Hanagaki.”
He jerked upright. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward him.
Kawasaki-sensei loomed at the blackboard, chalk poised like a dagger. “Care to explain Heian-era courtship rituals?”
Heat crawled up his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chifuyu smother a grin with his fist. Traitor.
“It’s, uh… letters. Poetry. Lots of… um. Moon metaphors?”
The class tittered. Kawasaki-sensei’s nostrils flared—a prelude to one of her legendary tirades—but then the bell rang. Salvation.
“You’re hopeless,” Chifuyu said later, slinging an arm around his shoulders as they shuffled into the hall. His touch burned through the thin cotton of Takemichi’s shirt.
'You have no idea', he thought.
-♡-
The arcade smelled like regret and fried dough. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting a feverish glow over rows of dented cabinets, their screens flickering with pixelated ghosts of races and shootouts long lost. Takemichi’s sneakers stuck to the floor with every step—too much soda spilled, not enough mopping—as Baji dragged him toward the Mario Kart machine like a predator hauling prey.
“You’re gonna regret that win,” Baji growled, slamming a fist on the cabinet hard enough to rattle the joystick. His grin was all teeth, the kind that used to make rival gang members piss themselves. Now, it just made salarymen edge away, clutching their briefcases.
Takemichi slumped into the cracked plastic seat, fingers trembling. “It was one race—”
“Three,” Kazutora corrected, materializing behind them with a Melon Fanta in hand. Condensation dripped down the can, pooling on the floor like sweat. “Baji’s ego’s in critical care. Look at him.” He gestured to Baji’s thunderous expression. “Practically frothing.”
Chifuyu dropped a half-eaten fries carton onto the machine, grease soaking into Takemichi’s sleeve. “Don’t bait him. The last time he got like this, Hakkai’s scooter ended up in the Tama River.”
Baji jabbed a finger at Chifuyu. “That thing was a death trap anyway!”
Takemichi’s palms slicked the joystick. The starting countdown blared, tinny and shrill. For two laps, he clung to second place—play it safe, don’t provoke him—until Kazutora leaned over his shoulder, breath reeking of citrus soda.
“Bet he’ll cry if you win again.”
Takemichi’s thumb twitched. A rogue green shell blasted Baji’s kart into oblivion.
The victory jingle sounded like a funeral dirge.
Baji’s chair screeched back. “Bullshit! You—”
“Reflexes, old man,” Takemichi blurted, scrambling sideways as Baji lunged. His hip collided with a passing salaryman, sending a briefcase skidding across the floor. “S-Sorry! So sorry, I—”
Chifuyu hooked a finger in Takemichi’s collar, yanking him toward the prize counter. “Save the groveling for Kawasaki-sensei. She’ll make you scrub chalkboards barehanded if you bomb the lit quiz.”
“Don’t remind me,” Takemichi groaned, eyeing the pitiful stack of tickets in his hand. The raccoon keychain Kazutora wanted glared at him from behind smudged glass, its fur matted, and one eye dangling by a thread. It looked like it had survived a back-alley brawl.
“Trade those in,” Kazutora said, dumping his own tickets into Takemichi’s arms. “That raccoon’s got my name on it.”
Chifuyu snorted. “More like a trash compactor’s.”
“Matches Baji’s face,” Kazutora said, grinning as Baji flipped him off across the room.
Takemichi counted the tickets—487. He stared at the raccoon’s price tag—500—and felt his shoulders slump.
A hand slid another fistful of tickets across the counter.
“Don’t cry,” Chifuyu said, not looking up from his phone. “Your tears’ll short-circuit the machine.”
Takemichi blinked at the sudden windfall. “I wasn’t—”
“Careful, Fuyu,” Baji drawled, looming behind them with a fresh Melon Pan. “He’ll think you’ve got a heart.”
Chifuyu kicked Baji’s shin. “Says the guy who sobbed at Pochi’s goldfish funeral.”
Baji’s cheeks flushed crimson. “He was a warrior!”
Kazutora clipped the raccoon to his belt loop, its lone eye staring mournfully at the floor. “There, there,” he muttered, patting its head. “We’re all a little broken here.”
The walk home smelled of rain and exhaust. Streetlights hummed as Chifuyu fell into step beside Takemichi, their shoulders brushing with every other stride.
“You’re buying me new fries,” Chifuyu said, flicking a fry fragment from Takemichi’s hair. “Those were my lunch.”
“Since when do you eat lunch?”
“Since you started mooching off my ticket stash.”
Ahead, Baji and Kazutora argued over the raccoon’s name—Banjiko vs. Trash Panda Supreme. Takemichi watched them, the knot in his chest easing. This was the closest thing to peace they’d ever known: a stolen afternoon in a grimy arcade, laughter sharp enough to draw blood, and the unspoken promise that no one would let go.
Not yet.
-♡-
Hinata sipped her coffee, steam fogging her glasses. “You’re staring at your phone again.”
Takemichi jerked, nearly spilling his drink. The screen glared back at him—no new messages. “Am not.”
“Liar.” She bumped his shoulder, gentle but firm. “It’s been three days.”
“Three days since what?”
“Since you last invented an excuse to visit Chifuyu’s konbini shift.”
The coffee turned to battery acid in his throat. “I don’t—we’re just—”
“Friends?” Hinata arched a brow, the way she did when catching him sneaking answers during exams. “Friends don’t memorize each other’s work schedules. Or buy out entire stocks of melon bread because someone mentioned liking them once.”
Takemichi’s cheeks burned. Across the park, a stray cat batted at a soda can. Chifuyu would’ve fed it by now, he thought, then hated himself for thinking it.
-♡-
Rain lashed against the single-pane window, distorting the glow of the konbini sign below into something spectral. Chifuyu’s apartment was a museum of half-lived things: bike chains coiled like sleeping snakes on the kitchen counter, a cracked aquarium repurposed as a tool bin, and a single bed perpetually dented on the left side—the side Takemichi had claimed years ago during late-night strategy sessions that always dissolved into laughter. Now, the room felt too small, the air thick with the musk of wet denim and unspoken words.
Chifuyu lobbed the towel without looking up from his phone, its screen casting his face in a blue pallor. “Dry your hair. You’ll catch a cold.”
Takemichi fumbled the catch. The towel slapped the floor, its edges splayed like the wings of a downed bird. “S-Sorry, I—”
“Idiot.” Chifuyu surged forward, snatching the towel with the same practiced ease he’d once used to steal wallets from drunk salarymen. His hands were calloused but precise as he scrubbed at Takemichi’s sopping bangs, the friction sparking a heat that had nothing to do with dryness. Up close, Takemichi could map the constellations of Chifuyu’s flaws—the scar bisecting his right eyebrow (a souvenir from Moebius), the chapped lower lip he’d chewed raw during exams, the faint tremor in his left hand that only appeared when he was tired. Or angry. Or something else.
“You’re worse than Peke J,” Chifuyu muttered, his breath warm against Takemichi’s temple. The reference to his cat was a landmine, detonating memories of nights spent huddled under this same roof, nursing split knuckles and sharing stolen beer. Back then, Chifuyu’s hands had been steady.
Takemichi stiffened, not from the rough ministrations, but from the way Chifuyu’s knees caged his thighs against the futon’s edge. The frayed hem of Chifuyu’s sweatshirt—Takemichi’s sweatshirt, stolen three winters ago—brushed the inside of his wrist, a phantom touch that left trails of fire.
“Should’ve let you walk home soaked...”, Chifuyu, voice low, edged with something brittle
“You offered!” Forcing a laugh that cracked like old pavement
“And you accepted?” A beat. The towel stilled. “Since when do you make good decisions?”
It was a joke. A deflection. A truth sharp enough to draw blood.
Takemichi’s gaze drifted to the shelf above Chifuyu’s shoulder, where a framed photo mocked him: two boys, fifteen and invincible, flipping off the camera outside a ramen stand. Chifuyu’s arm had been slung around his neck, fingers tangled in Takemichi’s sun-bleached hair. Now, those same fingers gripped the towel like a lifeline, knuckles white.
The radiator hissed, its rattling groan syncopated with the stutter of Takemichi’s pulse. Chifuyu hadn’t moved back. His thumb grazed the shell of Takemichi’s ear, a whisper of contact that could’ve been accidental if not for the hitch in his breath—a barely-there fracture in his composure.
“Chifuyu—”
The lights flickered.
Chifuyu recoiled as if electrocuted, the towel slipping from his hands. He stood abruptly, the bed springs screaming in protest.
“Power’s gonna cut. Help me find candles.”
He missed a chance.
-♡-
Sangenjaya Park hummed with the lethargic buzz of late summer, cicadas screaming their grievances from the trees. The air clung thick with humidity, heavy enough to drown in, as a beleaguered charcoal grill coughed smoke into the cloudless sky. Its uneven legs wobbled under a mound of dubious meats, the flames licking at a burger patty blackened beyond recognition.
Baji Keisuke squatted beside the grill, wielding a spork like a samurai sword. His hair, perpetually wild, stuck to his neck with sweat as he stabbed at the charred remains. “It’s charred,” he declared, flicking a cinder off the patty. “Adds character.”
Mitsuya leaned back on his palms, his self-designed shirt at odds with the crumpled soda cans littering the grass. “That’s not character,” he said, squinting through the smoke. “That’s a Class-A carcinogen.”
Takemichi hovered nearby, clutching a bag of buns like a shield. “Shouldn’t we call the fire department? Or… a priest?”
Kazutora snorted, lobbing a peanut at Smiley’s head. The younger boy caught it midair, grinning like a feral cat. “Relax,” Kazutora drawled, his gold-capped tooth glinting. “Last summer, Baji grilled a literal shoe. We’re evolving.”
A chorus of “shoe?” erupted. Baji jabbed the spork toward Kazutora, his grin sharp. “Hazardous experiment. For science.”
Chifuyu materialized like a disgruntled specter, fire extinguisher in hand. “For arson,” he corrected, kicking the grill’s rusted leg. “If you burn down the park, I’m not bailing you out.”
The scene devolved predictably.
Angry, ever the silent instigator, hurled a marshmallow at Smiley. It sailed through the air, a sticky missile, before smacking Kazutora square in the forehead.
“Oops,” Smiley said, batting his lashes. “Gravity malfunction.”
Kazutora peeled the marshmallow off with a grimace. “You’re a menace.”
“He’s twelve,” Angry intoned, deadpan as ever.
Smiley stole a fistful of chips from Baji’s stash. “Twelve and a half. Show respect.”
Chifuyu snatched the marshmallow bag, his patience fraying. “If I wanted to babysit gremlins, I’d work at a daycare.”
“You’d cry,” Smiley shot back, stealing the bag with a sleight of hand Hakkai would envy. “Daycares don’t have free melon bread.”
Takemichi, ever the accidental pyromaniac, dropped a napkin too close to the grill. It caught fire instantly, a tiny inferno dancing atop the burger’s grave. Baji whooped, clapping as Mitsuya sighed and doused it with his iced tea.
“We used to run Tokyo,” Mitsuya muttered, shaking the empty bottle. “Now we’re failing at picnics.”
Kazutora raised a juice box, the straw bent at a tragic angle. “To mediocrity.”
“To arson,” Baji countered, stealing Angry’s soda.
Chifuyu squinted at the smoke plume now threading into the sky. “To jail. We’re going to jail.”
Takemichi coughed, waving a hand through the haze. “S-Sorry—”
Baji slapped his back hard enough to bruise. “Never apologize for chaos,” he barked, grinning. “It’s art.”
As the sun dipped low, staining the sky burnt orange, they sprawled on the grass—a tangle of scars, stolen snacks, and half-hearted shoves. The stray dog that had been circling all afternoon finally seized its chance, darting in to claim Baji’s charcoal masterpiece. No one stopped it.
Kazutora watched the dog retreat, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Remember when we thought we’d die at eighteen?”
Chifuyu chucked a fry at his head. “Speak for yourself. I have retirement plans when I turn 60"
“Liar,” Baji snorted, stealing Angry’s sunglasses. “You still think ‘401k’ is a robot model.”
Takemichi stared at his grass-stained sneakers, the ones Chifuyu had nagged him to replace for months. “…This is better,” he said quietly.
A beat passed—a rare, fragile silence.
Then Smiley belched the alphabet.
The stray dog arrived first—a scruffy mutt with one ear chewed raw—sniffing at Baji’s charcoal masterpiece. Then came the footsteps.
“Huh,” said a voice like velvet and rust. “I leave you guys alone for five minutes, and this is what you do with your freedom?”
Mikey stood at the edge of the clearing, licking a vanilla soft-serve, his smile a blade sheathed in sunlight. Behind him, Draken loomed like a monument, a konbini bag dangling from his scarred fist.
Baji’s spork froze mid-flip. “Look who’s back from the dead! Here to lecture us about fire safety, Ken-chin?”
Draken tossed the bag to Mitsuya. “Here to save your stomachs. Even prison food smelled better than that.”
Mitsuya peeked inside—actual edible sausages—and sighed like a man granted divine intervention.
Mikey sank onto the grass, stealing a chip from Angry’s stash. His presence was a live wire—familiar yet altered, like a song played in a minor key.
Mikey, nodding at the stray dog now gnawing Baji’s burger, “New recruit?”
Kazutora snorted. “More like Baji’s sous-chef.”
“Promote him. He’s got standards.”
Chifuyu side-eyed Draken, who was quietly rearranging the grill’s charcoal into something less apocalyptic.
“You just… happened to be in the neighborhood?”
Draken nodded. “Heard Baji was grilling. Figured someone needed to prevent manslaughter.”
Baji, who was flipping a sausage with lethal intent, “Rude. I’ll have you know I—”
The sausage slipped, landing in the dirt.
“…Case in point.”
Takemichi hovered, unsure where to look—Mikey’s eerily calm demeanor? Draken’s new tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves? The way Smiley was now balancing a sausage on his nose?
Mikey catches him. “Relax, Takemitchy. We’re not here to recruit you.” A beat. “Unless Baji’s cooking counts as a hate crime.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Kidding. Mostly.”
Draken rolled his eyes, thrusting a skewer into Takemichi’s hand. “Eat. Before he traumatizes you again.”
Mikey tossed it another scrap, the corner of his mouth lifting when the dog nudched his knee in thanks.
He scratched behind its ears. “You’ve got taste,” he murmured, voice lazy but fond. Then, with a pointed glance at the others, he added, “Unlike these morons.”
Baji shot him a mock glare across the fire, his hair glinting gold in the firelight.
“Traitor,” he declared, though the smirk tugging at his lips ruined any threat.
On the opposite side, Draken leaned slightly closer to Mitsuya, his voice dropping as if afraid of disturbing the fragile peace. “They’re… good?” he asked, a rare note of cautious hope threading through the words.
Mitsuya followed his gaze. A few feet away, Chifuyu and Takemichi were locked in a melodramatic argument, each wielding a charred marshmallow like a weapon. The two looked ridiculous—Takemichi with his frantic gestures, Chifuyu acting personally betrayed by the universe’s inability to roast sugar properly—but there was something comforting about it. Something real.
Mitsuya’s mouth softened. “Getting there,” he said.
A sudden, echoing belch shattered the moment. Smiley stood proudly with a fist on his hip, having just performed what could only be described as an aggressively patriotic version of the national anthem—without any actual singing. Angry immediately facepalmed beside him, muttering into his palms while Kazutora stoically toasted the chaos with a juice box, as if it were champagne at a royal gala.
Laughter erupted, raw and unburdened, as the smoke curled into the twilight. Somewhere beyond the park, the city pulsed on, but here, under the dying sun and the weight of a thousand shared disasters, they were just boys. Broken, brilliant, alive.
-♡-
They reached the water and paused. The river whispered against the rocks, moonlight bending with the current.
Takemichi sat on a smooth stone. “It’s peaceful.”
Chifuyu sat beside him. “Yeah.”
A beat passed.
“You’ve been quieter lately,” Chifuyu said.
Takemichi looked down at his hands. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
Takemichi exhaled. “About everything. Everyone. How fast things change. How fast they could break again.”
Chifuyu’s expression softened. “You don’t have to hold all of that alone.”
Takemichi looked at him. Really looked at him.
Chifuyu raised his chin slightly, like he knew Takemichi needed a reason to breathe steady.
Takemichi swallowed.
“Sometimes,” he whispered, “you make it really easy not to feel alone.”
Chifuyu’s breath hitched.
Before he could respond, a distant shout echoed,
“WOOD CHECK! YOU GUYS DEAD YET?”
It was Baji.
They stood up, brushing off their pants.
But the silence between them had changed—denser, charged, waiting.
-♡-
You two,” Mikey, pointing a skewer at them. “You’re weird.”
Takemichi sputtered.
Chifuyu crossed his arms. “Define weird.”
Mikey blinked lazily. “You orbit each other.”
Takemichi choked on his own spit.
Chifuyu went entirely still.
Mikey shrugged. “Just don’t be dumb about it.”
Neither of them knew what he meant.
Or maybe they did.
They just weren’t ready to admit it.
-♡-
They sat close—closer than necessary—watching embers sink into themselves.
The silence was companionable, yet trembling around the edges.
After a long, slow breath, Chifuyu said, “Hey.”
Takemichi hummed.
Chifuyu’s voice lowered. “Do you ever think about… how fragile everything is?”
Takemichi turned to him. “Yeah. Every day.”
Chifuyu nodded. “Me too.”
It should’ve ended there.
But Takemichi leaned in slightly.
And Chifuyu didn’t pull away.
“Chifuyu…”
Chifuyu looked at him fully.
In that moment, there were no jokes. No masks. No fear pretending to be bravado.
Just two boys who had survived too much and learned too little about letting themselves want something gentle.
Takemichi’s thoughts tangled into a single thread:
If I look away now, I’ll regret it.
He reached out—hesitant—and brushed a piece of ash from Chifuyu’s hair.
Chifuyu froze.
Then he whispered, “You’re going to make me think this means something.”
Takemichi’s heartbeat thrashed.
“It does,” he breathed.
Chifuyu’s lips parted. “Takemichi…”
There was the line.
Thin. Trembling.
Drawn between fear and truth.
And without thinking—without daring to reconsider—Takemichi crossed it.
He leaned his forehead against Chifuyu’s.
Not a kiss.
Not a confession.
But a touch that cut deeper than either.
Chifuyu sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering shut. His hand came up to grip the back of Takemichi’s hoodie—an anchor, a plea, a surrender.
“I was scared,” Chifuyu admitted in a whisper. “I thought if I wanted this… I’d ruin everything.”
Takemichi’s breath shook. “Me too.”
Chifuyu laughed weakly, pressing closer. “You idiot.”
“You love idiots,” Takemichi replied before he could stop himself.
Chifuyu didn’t deny it.
Their breaths mingled.
Their hands trembled but didn’t let go.
The line was gone now.
Crossed.
Left behind.
And for once, neither tried to run from it.