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People are diverse.
Sure — that’s the kind of line you’d find on a motivational poster taped to a dentist’s waiting room wall. But let’s be real: diversity isn’t just about “different sizes” or “different hobbies.” It’s about standing in a crowd and realizing half the people there could bench press a small car, while the other half can’t even open a jar of pickles without crying. It’s about skin tones that glow like sunset over the ocean, and then there’s yours — the color of day-old rice. It’s about personalities that light up a room, and personalities that make the room quietly evacuate. Status, strengths, weaknesses, heights that range from “can’t reach the top shelf” to “ducks through doorways” — the list goes on longer than a middle schooler’s anime marathon.
Hanagaki Takemichi had made peace with all this at 26. He’d come to terms with being the human equivalent of white bread: perfectly fine, completely unremarkable, and the first thing people overlook when there’s anything more interesting in the basket. “I’m the most average of average guys,” he’d tell himself, and honestly? It was a generous self-assessment.
But that mediocrity hit him like a freight train full of dumbbells the day he got sent back 12 years to middle school. There, he was surrounded by hulking, grumpy kids who looked like they’d been raised on a diet of protein shakes and pure rage — the kind of teens who’d punch you for looking like you were about to ask a question. Takemichi, meanwhile, was so small he could probably fit in their backpacks. He’d become the resident walking punching bag faster than you could say “delinquent gang,” and more than once he’d stared at their tree-trunk arms and grumbled to himself,
'Did their moms replace their milk with steroids?'
It was during one of these post-beating slumps — slumped against a wall, nursing a black eye that made him look like a sad, lopsided panda — that he showed up. Draken. The tallest, meanest, most impossibly cool kid in the whole damn city, with a dragon tattoo crawling up his temple and a scowl that could curdle milk from ten feet away. Takemichi’s first instinct was to shrink into the wall so far he’d become part of the paint.
He was built like a brick house — no, scratch that, like a whole apartment building. Shoulders so wide they made the alley look narrow, arms that looked like they could snap a baseball bat in two (unfortunately for him Draken did break his baseball bat) without breaking a sweat. His jacket was too tight across the back (like every jacket he owned was too tight) and when he shifted his weight, Takemichi could see the outline of muscles under his shirt that looked like they’d been carved out of granite. Even his hands were huge — fingers thick as sausages, knuckles scraped and scarred from god knows how many fights.
He walked like he owned the place, too — each step heavy enough to make the ground shake a little, head held high so everyone could see that dragon tattoo winding up his temple and disappearing into his hair. His hair was cut short on the sides, longer on top, and even that looked perfectly messy in a way that made Takemichi want to cry (since he could barely get his own hair to lie flat in the morning).
And that scowl? Jesus. It was like he’d woken up and decided the whole world had personally offended him. But when his eyes landed on Takemichi slumped against the wall, something shifted — just for a second. The scowl softened into something that looked almost like annoyance, but not the “I’m gonna punch you” kind. More like the “why do I keep finding you in stupid situations” kind.
Instead, Draken stopped right in front of him, crossed his tree-trunk arms (seriously, Takemichi still hadn’t figured out the concrete diet thing), and said, “You look like you got hit by a bus. A tiny bus. Like, the kind that drives old ladies to the grocery store.”
Takemichi blinked. Was… was that a joke? From Draken? He stammered out something that sounded like “I… pickles… jar… ” — which made absolutely no sense, but his brain had checked out the second those dark eyes landed on him.
Draken snorted, and to Takemichi’s absolute horror, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “C’mon, bread boy. Let’s get you some ice before your face swells up so big you can’t see to walk into more walls.”
And that’s how Takemichi found himself sitting on a park bench next to the scariest delinquent in Shibuya, ice pack pressed to his eye, while Draken ranted about how “stupid” it was that people picked on someone who couldn’t even open a pickle jar. “I mean, really,” he huffed, kicking at a pebble. “If you’re gonna fight someone, at least pick someone who can fight back. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at Takemichi’s entire 5’4” frame.
Takemichi’s heart did a weird little flip that had nothing to do with the concussive force of being punched earlier. “Hey,” he said, a little bolder than he felt. “At least I’m consistently average. You’re so tall you hit your head on every doorway in school. That’s, like, a permanent inconvenience.”
Draken’s smile widened — actually widened — and he knocked his shoulder against Takemichi’s (gently, surprisingly). “Yeah, well. At least I can reach the top shelf. Someone’s gotta get your pickles for you, right?”
Takemichi’s face burned so hot he could’ve melted the ice pack. Oh no. Oh hell no. He’d been sent back in time to save his ex-girlfriend, not to develop a crush on the resident gang vice-leader who looked like he could bench press two small cars. This was not part of the plan. This was not part of any plan. It was, in fact, the most un-average thing that had ever happened to him — and as Draken started talking about his favorite ramen shop and asked if Takemichi wanted to come along, he realized he didn’t even mind.
The ramen shop was a tiny, cramped hole-in-the-wall that smelled like garlic and joy. Takemichi squeezed into a booth across from Draken, who had to hunch so far over the table his dragon tattoo was practically in the miso soup.
“See?” Takemichi said, trying not to stare at the way Draken’s jaw worked when he chewed. “Inconvenient. You’re gonna get a hunchback by 18.”
Draken shot him a look, but there was no bite in it. “Better a hunchback than someone who orders chicken ramen at the best tonkotsu place in town. What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s… safe!” Takemichi defended, clutching his chopsticks like they were a weapon. “I’m an average guy, I eat average food—”
“Boring food,” Draken corrected, then without warning, he slid his bowl across the table. “Try mine. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat your sad chicken slop.”
Takemichi’s hands shook as he lifted the chopsticks to his mouth. The broth was rich and creamy and so good he almost cried — which, given his track record with pickle jars, wasn’t exactly out of character. He looked up to find Draken watching him, a soft look in his eyes that made Takemichi’s stomach do flip-flops.
Then, of course, everything went to hell.
A group of other delinquents burst through the door, loud and rowdy, and one of them spotted Draken. “Oi! Dragon Boy! Heard you’ve been hanging with a little mouse — is that him?” He pointed at Takemichi, who promptly dropped his chopsticks in the soup.
Before Takemichi could even think about hiding under the table, Draken stood up — and hit his head on the overhead light fixture with a loud CLANG. The whole shop went quiet. Draken stood there for a second, hand on his forehead, face turning bright red.
Takemichi couldn’t help it. He started laughing. Hard. So hard he snort-laughed, which made the delinquents snicker too — until Draken shot them a glare that could freeze fire.
“Anyone got something to say?” he growled, even as he sat back down and muttered to Takemichi, “Shut up, bread boy, or I’ll make you carry my ramen next time.”
But his ears were still red, and when Takemichi handed him a napkin to dab at his forehead, their fingers brushed — and suddenly the laughter died in Takemichi’s throat. The air between them felt thick, charged, like a thunderstorm was about to break. The delinquents had long since slunk away, but neither of them moved.
“Um,” Takemichi said, his voice barely a whisper. “Your head… does it hurt?”
Draken’s gaze dropped to Takemichi’s lips, then back up. “Not as much as it did a second ago.”
Just then, the waiter dropped off the bill with a knowing smile, and Takemichi practically jumped out of his skin. “I-I’ll pay!” he blurted, fumbling for his wallet — only to realize he’d left it in his middle school backpack. Which was, of course, still at school. “Oh. Oh no. I’m… I’m broke.”
Draken shook his head, but he was smiling again — that soft, secret smile that made Takemichi’s heart race. “Figures. C’mon, mouse. I’ll pay. But you owe me. And not with sad chicken ramen this time.”
He didn’t say what Takemichi did owe him. But as they walked out of the shop, Draken’s hand brushed against Takemichi’s every few steps, and Takemichi found himself hoping it was something that involved more ramen. And more of that smile.
It was supposed to be a 'Toman strategy meeting'. In reality, it was seven grown-ass captains (plus Takemichi, the acting president) crammed into Mitsuya’s tiny apartment, eating takeout and arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
“Absolutely not,” Baji snarled, pointing a slice at Chifuyu. “Fruit doesn’t go on pizza! That’s an abomination! Next you’ll be putting grapes on fried chicken!”
Chifuyu grumbled, clutching his pineapple slice like a shield. “But it’s sweet and savory! Takemichi, tell him it’s good!”
Everyone turned to Takemichi, who was sitting on the floor (the only spot left) next to Draken, trying to balance a soda can on his head. “Huh? Oh — uh, it’s… fine? I mean, I’m average, so I like average pizza. Which is just cheese. Maybe pepperoni.”
Mikey, who’d already eaten three slices and stolen Mitsuya’s last taiyaki, perked up. “That’s why you’re perfect for the job, Takemitchy!”
“Thanks?” Takemichi said, just as the soda can toppled over and spilled on Draken’s jeans. “Oh shit — I’m so sorry!”
Draken just sighed, grabbing a towel. “It’s cool. At least it’s not pickle juice this time.”
“Hey, that was a manufacturing defect!” Takemichi protested. “The label said ‘easy open’! Easy for who? Superman?”
Mitsuya rolled his eyes, tidying up a pile of fabric scraps from his latest design. “Can we get back to actual strategy? We have a battle next week, and we need to make sure—”
“—that we have enough pizza,” Mikey finished. “No pineapple. Takemitchy said so.”
Baji high-fived Mikey. “Now that’s a strategy I can get behind!”
Takemichi was sitting on the edge of the rooftop, swinging his legs and staring at the city below. It was his new favorite spot — quiet, away from the delinquents who liked to pick on him, and high enough that he could almost pretend he was tall.
He heard the door slam open behind him, and tensed — until he heard that deep, rough voice.
“Figured I’d find you here.”
Draken walked over and sat down next to him — or tried to, anyway. His shoulders were so wide he had to sit a little apart, but even so, Takemichi could feel the heat coming off him. He was carrying a plastic bag, which he set between them.
“Brought you something,” Draken said, pulling out a can of soda — already open, of course. “And these.”
He pulled out a bag of pickles. Pre-opened.
Takemichi stared. “You… you opened them for me?”
“Duh,” Draken said, looking away like he was suddenly very interested in the skyline. “Can’t have you crying on the rooftop ‘cause you can’t get your snack fix. People might think I pushed you.”
Takemichi laughed — a real, genuine laugh. “Thanks. That’s… actually really nice.”
They sat in silence for a while, sipping soda and eating pickles. The sun was setting, painting the sky pink and orange — the kind of sunset Takemichi had written about in his old journal back in the future.
“Hey,” Draken said, breaking the silence. “About that speech you gave the other day. The one to Hanma.”
“Yeah?” Takemichi said, trying not to sound too nervous.
“It was stupid,” Draken said. Takemichi’s heart sank — until Draken added, “But it was also… pretty cool. Stupid cool.”
Takemichi smiled. “Thanks. I think.”
Draken looked at him then, and his expression was soft — softer than Takemichi had ever seen it. “You know you don’t have to act so tough, right? Even if you’re the acting president. It’s okay to be the guy who can’t open a jar. That’s what I’m here for.”
Takemichi felt his throat get tight. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Draken said, and he reached over — slowly, like he was worried he’d scare him — and put his arm around Takemichi’s shoulders. He was so big he completely swallowed Takemichi, but it felt… right. Like they were supposed to fit together.
“I mean,” Draken said, trying to play it cool but failing miserably — his ears were bright red. “Someone’s gotta look out for the average guy. Keeps me from getting bored.”
Takemichi smiled. “I’m glad it’s you.”
Draken’s face too, broke into a smile — a real one, not just a little tug at the corner of his mouth. “Me too, bread boy. Me too.”
They sat there as the sun went down, hudfled together, watching the city light up. Takemichi thought about his old life — the average 26-year-old who nobody noticed. Now he was sitting on a rooftop with the scariest, tallest, most amazing guy in Tokyo, eating pre-opened pickles.
This was definitely not part of the plan. But as Draken leaned his shoulder against his, Takemichi realized he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Takemichi was sitting on a stool in the corner of Draken’s part-time-job-in-a bike-shop, watching him work on a beat-up motorcycle. Draken had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and Takemichi couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles flexed when he tightened a bolt or lifted a heavy part.
“Stop staring,” Draken said, without looking up.
“I’m not staring!” Takemichi yelped, turning bright red.
Draken looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Sure. You’re just… admiring the bike.”
“Exactly!” Takemichi said, even though he’d been looking at anything but the bike.
Draken shook his head, then wiped his hands on a rag and walked over. He was covered in grease — there was a smudge on his cheek, and another on his forehead. Takemichi found himself wanting to wipe it off.
“Want to try?” Draken said, gesturing to the motorcycle.
“Me? Work on a bike?” Takemichi said. “I can barely change a lightbulb.”
“Just hold this,” Draken said, handing him a wrench. It was so heavy Takemichi almost dropped it. “Now, turn it to the left.”
Takemichi tried — grunting, straining, his face turning red. The wrench didn’t move an inch.
“Here,” Draken said, standing behind him. He wrapped his arms around Takemichi’s waist, placing his hands over Takemichi’s on the wrench. His chest was pressed against Takemichi’s back, and Takemichi could feel his heart beating.
“Now,” Draken said, his voice low in Takemichi’s ear. “Turn it.”
Together, they turned the wrench — and it moved, easy as anything. Takemichi’s knees went weak.
“See?” Draken said. “You just needed a little help.”
He didn’t let go right away. They stood there for a second, Draken’s arms around him, breathing the same air. Then Draken pulled back, and Takemichi had to fight the urge to pull him back.
“Thanks,” Takemichi said, his voice barely a whisper.
“No problem,” Draken said, then pointed at Takemichi’s face. “You got grease on your cheek.”
Before Takemichi could react, Draken reached out and wiped it off with his thumb. His touch was soft, gentle — nothing like the tough delinquent everyone was scared of.
“Now you look like a real bike mechanic,” Draken said, grinning.
Takemichi touched his cheek, still feeling the ghost of Draken’s finger. “Yeah. A real average one.”
Draken laughed — that deep, rumbling laugh that made Takemichi’s stomach flip. “Average my ass. You’re the only guy I’d let touch my bikes. And the only guy I’d open pickles for.”
That was as close to a confession as they’d gotten. And as Takemichi looked at Draken — covered in grease, smiling at him like he was the only person in the world — he knew that whatever was growing between them, it was anything but average.
The rain was coming down in sheets, soaking everything in sight. Takemichi was huddled under the awning of a convenience store, shivering — he’d forgotten his umbrella, and his jacket was so thin it might as well have been made of tissue paper.
“Hey, pipsqueek. You gonna stand there all day and turn into a puddle?”
He looked up to see Draken riding up on his motorcycle, wearing a giant yellow raincoat that looked ridiculous on his giant frame. He pulled up next to the awning, kicking down the stand.
“Get on,” Draken said, holding out an extra rain poncho. It was way too big for Takemichi — it would probably swallow him whole.
“I don’t wanna get your bike wet,” Takemichi said, even as he reached for the poncho.
“Bikes are made to get wet,” Draken said, rolling his eyes. “You’re made to turn into a sad, soggy piece of white bread. Now get on before I come over there and carry you.”
Takemichi climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around Draken’s waist. Even through the raincoat, he could feel how solid and big Draken was — like holding onto a human anchor.
“Hold on tight,” Draken said, and then they were moving, cutting through the rain. Takemichi pressed his face against Draken’s back to keep the rain out of his eyes, and he could smell rain, motor oil, and something uniquely Draken — like woodsmoke and cinnamon.
They pulled up in front of Takemichi’s house, and Draken killed the engine. The rain was still pouring.
“Thanks,” Takemichi said, not wanting to let go. “For the ride.”
“Anytime,” Draken said. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out something — a small, blue umbrella. “Here. So you don’t get stuck in the rain again.”
It was way too small for Draken, but perfect for Takemichi. “You bought this for me?”
“Found it in the store,” Draken said, looking away. “Figured the average guy needs an average umbrella. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
But Takemichi was already smiling so big his face hurt. “I love it. Thank you.”
Draken looked back at him, and his expression was soft. “Yeah, well. Don’t lose it. Or I’ll have to carry you everywhere.”
As Takemichi climbed off the bike and opened the umbrella, he thought — he’d never lose this umbrella. Not in a million years.
The Toman crew had decided to check out the haunted house at Mitsuya’s school festival. Baji was acting tough, saying he wasn’t scared of anything, while Chifuyu was already hiding behind Mitsuya.
“I’m not going in there,” Takemichi said, eyeing the dark entrance. “Haunted houses are scary. Average people get scared of haunted houses.”
“C’mon, Takemitchy!” Mikey said, pulling on his arm. “It’ll be fun!”
“I’ll go with you,” Draken said, stepping next to him. “If you get scared, you can hold my hand. Or hide behind me. I’m big enough to block all the ghosts.”
Takemichi’s face burned. “I’m not gonna get scared.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was clinging to Draken’s arm like his life depended on it, eyes squeezed shut. A “ghost” had jumped out at them, and Takemichi had almost screamed so loud he’d woken the dead.
“See? Told you you’d get scared,” Draken said, but he was smiling, and he’d wrapped his arm around Takemichi’s shoulders to pull him close.
“I’m not scared,” Takemichi mumbled, still not opening his eyes. “I’m just… emotionally overwhelmed by fake ghosts.”
Draken laughed. “Sure. Emotionally overwhelmed. That’s what we’ll call it.”
They made it through the rest of the haunted house with Takemichi hiding behind Draken’s giant frame the whole time. When they finally stepped back into the sunlight, Takemichi let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Draken said, still keeping his arm around Takemichi’s shoulders.
“It was terrible,” Takemichi said, but he was smiling. “Never again.”
“Sure,” Draken said. “But if you change your mind, I’ll still be here to block the ghosts.”
As the rest of the crew started walking toward the food stalls, Draken didn’t move his arm. Takemichi didn’t ask him to. They walked together, slow and easy, and for the first time all day, Takemichi didn’t feel average at all — he felt safe.
It was almost midnight, and they were still sitting on the same park bench where Draken had first found Takemichi with a black eye. Takemichi was leaning against Draken’s side, and Draken had his arm draped over the back of the bench — close enough that his fingers brushed against Takemichi’s shoulder every so often.
“I was thinking about the future,” Takemichi said, staring up at the stars. “12 years into the future. I had a boring job, a small apartment, and nobody really noticed me.”
Draken looked down at him. “That sounds lonely.”
“It was,” Takemichi said. “But now… now I have you guys. I have you.”
He said it so quietly he wasn’t sure Draken heard. But then Draken’s fingers wrapped around his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“You’ve got me,” Draken said, his voice soft. “Always. Even if you’re still the guy who can’t open a jar when we’re 30.”
Takemichi laughed. “Hey, maybe by then I’ll have figured it out.”
“Doubt it,” Draken said, but he was smiling. “I’ll probably still be opening them for you. It’s become a habit.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars. Then Draken said, “What’s it like? The future?”
Takemichi thought for a second. “It’s… average. Just like me. But it’s better now that I know I can change it.”
“Change it how?”
“By making sure you guys are all okay,” Takemichi said, turning to look at him. “By making sure… you’re okay.”
Draken’s eyes softened. He leaned in a little, and Takemichi’s heart started racing. “I’m okay,” Draken said, his voice barely a whisper. “Because of you.”
They were so close their noses almost touched. Takemichi could feel Draken’s breath on his face, and he wanted to lean in the rest of the way — but then a cat ran across the grass, making them both jump.
“Stupid cat,” Draken muttered, making Takemichi laugh.
“Hey, at least it didn’t scare me as much as the haunted house ghost,” Takemichi said.
Draken rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you home before another cat attacks us.”
As they stood up, Draken’s hand slid down from his shoulder to his hand — lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as they walked out of the park, hands held tight, Takemichi knew that whatever the future held, it wouldn’t be average anymore.
It was Draken’s 16th birthday, and the Toman crew had thrown him a small party in Mitsuya’s apartment. There was a cake (Mikey had already snuck three slices), streamers that were mostly falling off the walls, and a pile of presents.
Takemichi was holding his present behind his back, nervous as hell. It was nothing fancy — just a new tool set for the bike shop, and a small jar of pickles he’d tried to open himself (he’d failed, so he’d asked Mitsuya to do it for him).
“Alright, who’s next?” Mikey said, mouth full of cake.
Takemichi took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Uh, this is for you, Draken.”
Draken took the present, unwrapping it carefully. When he saw the tool set, his eyes lit up — the first time Takemichi had ever seen him look that excited about something that wasn’t a bike or a fight.
“Dude,” Draken said, running his hand over the tools. “This is perfect. How did you know I needed new ones?”
“I heard you complaining about your old ones breaking,” Takemichi said, then held out the jar of pickles. “And this… well. I tried to open it myself. For practice. But I couldn’t. So Mitsuya helped. But I wanted to give you something you’d actually use.”
Draken looked at the jar, then at Takemichi — and then he pulled him into a hug. It was a tight hug, and Takemichi could feel how big and strong Draken was, but it was also gentle.
“Thank you,” Draken said, his voice muffled against Takemichi’s hair. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”
Takemichi’s face burned. “Really? It’s just tools and pickles.”
“Really,” Draken said, pulling back to look at him. “Nobody’s ever paid that much attention to what I need before. Except maybe Mikey, but he only pays attention to taiyaki.”
Mikey looked up from his cake. “Hey! Taiyaki is important!”
Everyone laughed, and as the party continued — Baji trying to light the candles again, Chifuyu taking photos of everyone, Mitsuya trying to keep things from getting too messy — Draken stayed close to Takemichi. Every so often, he’d reach over and squeeze Takemichi’s hand, or brush his shoulder, and each time, Takemichi’s heart would flip.
Later that night, as they were walking home, Draken said, “Hey, bread boy. Want to help me test out my new tools tomorrow? At the bike shop?”
“Really?” Takemichi said.
“Sure,” Draken said, grinning. “I’ll even teach you how to tighten a bolt. And I’ll open all the pickles you want.”
Takemichi smiled. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
It was the night of the city’s annual light festival — thousands of lights strung up across the skyline, turning Tokyo into a sea of color. Takemichi had convinced Draken to come with him to the observation tower, saying it was “average people stuff” (he’d actually been planning this for weeks, trying to work up the courage).
They stood at the glass wall, looking down at the lights below. The tower was high enough that the city looked like a tiny, glowing map. Draken was standing so close his arm was brushing against Takemichi’s, and every time he shifted his weight, Takemichi could feel the heat radiating off his giant frame.
“Never been up here before,” Draken said, his voice quiet — quieter than Takemichi had ever heard it. “It’s… not bad.”
“Told you,” Takemichi said, trying to sound casual even though his heart was pounding so hard he was sure Draken could hear it. “Average people know all the best spots.”
Draken looked at him, and in the glow of the festival lights, his eyes looked darker, softer. “You keep saying you’re average. But you’re not. Not to me.”
Takemichi felt his throat tighten. They’d danced around this for weeks — the hand-holding, the soft touches, the way they’d look at each other when nobody was watching. But they’d never said it out loud. Not really.
“What am I to you, then?” Takemichi asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Draken was quiet for a long time. Then he turned to face him fully, and Takemichi had to tilt his head back just to meet his eyes. Even up here, with the whole city stretching out below them, Draken still made the space feel small — in the best way.
“You’re the first person who’s ever looked at me and didn’t just see a giant delinquent,” Draken said, his voice rough with emotion. “You see the guy who can’t fit through doorways, who burns his toast every morning, who gets flustered when you smile at him.”
He reached out and took Takemichi’s hand, lacing their fingers together — his hand so big it made Takemichi’s feel tiny, but so gentle it made his chest ache.
“You’re the guy who brings me pickles even though you can’t open them yourself,” Draken continued. “The guy who laughs at my stupid jokes, who hides behind me in haunted houses, who makes me want to be better. Not a better gang member — just… better.”
Takemichi’s eyes were filled with tears now. He’d spent so long feeling like he didn’t matter, like he was just white bread in a basket of better things. But standing here with Draken, hearing him say all this…
“I’ve been scared,” Takemichi said, his voice breaking a little. “Scared that if I say how I feel, you’ll realize I’m just average after all. Scared that I’m not good enough for you.”
Draken pulled him closer, until their chests were almost touching. “You’re more than good enough. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect, average, pickle-obsessed bread boy. And I… ” He took a deep breath, like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you since the day I found you slumped against that alley wall looking like a sad panda.”
The words hit Takemichi like a wave — warm, overwhelming, perfect. He’d dreamed of this moment, but never thought it would actually happen.
“I love you too,” he said, and it came out as a sob of joy. “I love you so much. Even though you hit your head on every doorway.”
Draken laughed — that deep, rumbling laugh that made Takemichi’s stomach flip — and wiped away a tear from Takemichi’s cheek with his thumb. “Even though you can’t open a jar.”
They leaned in at the same time, and their lips met — not soft and gentle this time, but deep and hungry, like they’d been waiting for this their whole lives. The festival lights glowed around them, the city hummed below, but in that moment, there was nothing but them. Draken’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight against his solid chest, and Takemichi melted into it — feeling small and safe and loved, all at once.
When they pulled apart, they were both breathing hard. Draken rested his forehead against Takemichi’s, and they just looked at each other, smiling like idiots.
“Hey,” Draken said, grinning. “Want to go get ramen? My treat. And I’ll open all the pickles you want. For the rest of my life.”
Takemichi laughed, wiping away the last of his tears. “For the rest of your life? That’s a long time to be opening pickles for me.”
“Worth it,” Draken said, kissing his forehead. “Every single second.”
They stood there for a little longer, holding hands, watching the lights. The city stretched out below them, full of possibilities — a future that was no longer average, no longer scary, no longer something Takemichi had to face alone.
It was just them. Together. And that was more than enough. It was everything.
[As they walked down from the tower, Draken’s hand never left Takemichi’s. The festival lights lit up their path, and for the first time in either of their lives, they both knew exactly where they were going — right beside each other.]