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Life was a lot like a board game.
There were certain paths one could take, provided that they made the right decisions, and there were paths that one ended up on on account of the decisions they did make. Whether or not you made good or bad ones, you still ended up on a path that would sooner or later lead you to success or to failure. Those who strived for perfection could still land in the doghouse. Those who ignored the possibility of doing what you wished could still be at the top of the ladder, bathing in riches and praise.
It is a delicate matter to address—the idea of failure. No one wants to lose. No one likes to be behind. The temptation to do anything to succeed is what drives people forward to commit whatever acts necessary. Cheating. Sabotage. Persuasion. Whatever it took. Whatever you could manage. So long as you succeeded, the means to get there become irrelevant. Much unlike a board game where you must get to the end before anyone else. Some games require rules to be followed, the status quo maintained, so whether your play is good or not, if you begin to fall, all that can save you is your own quick intuition. Other games are lax, letting you choose the playing field.
They are often ripe with distaste. Cheaters. Sabotagers. Those who use coercion to get what they want. In games like these, one must be cautious, always looking over your shoulder, always maintaining an air of confidence so no one knows how far you are from breaking down. Your win streak could end at any moment in this game. It is best afforded that you keep your guard up and your emotions low.
When he compares his life to something so filled with variety, all that can come to mind is that he is being sabotaged. All the right moves. All the perfect plays. Not a single strand of hair out of place and yet—and yet—, he cannot get to the end as easily as his peers. He cannot win, always falling behind, always gathering himself up from a loss that wasn't supposed to happen because he was a genius, the best of the best, a natural born leader who had the cards to deal as much damage as possible but was beaten by some kid that wasn't even using them right, pouring all his energy into things that didn't matter, that made no sense, that were utterly ridiculous as a concept to even consider.
And yet, the kid wins, eagerly so, beaming like the fucking sun as he clambers up the precarious rubble of a submerged building, hopping from platform to platform, yanking himself from curtain canopy to curtain canopy, scraping his hands on rusty nails and cutting tears into his pants from broken railings.
He finally reaches him at the very top, huffing and puffing like he's run a marathon, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple, sliding down his neck. Bracelets dangle from his wrists, clacking together whenever he moves. He grins down, holding up two fingers in a peace sign, glasses askew on his face. "I told you I could do it!" Chest puffed up in pride, Tomoro acts like he's the best thing since sliced bread.
"Yeah," he says, "after tripping into the water twice that I had to drag you out of it. What a fucking loser."
And the way Tomoro's face crumples makes it all the worthwhile for Raito to make up these stupid, dumb competitions that determine whether or not Raito will stay and offer the bespectacled boy his company or get on Rhamphomon and fly off, leaving Tomoro alone to get back to his Cleaner base without even a smidgen of help. It'd do the boy some good to build up his stamina and muscle if he wants to keep up with Raito. If he wants to keep Raito around for more then the few minutes at a time that he has before they part ways again, never to see each other until they come across the same bounty or Raito is feeling the need to crush Tomoro's spirit and watch him crumple up so he can build it back together again.
He'd never leave him too roughed up. Bruises and skinned feelings aside, Tomoro is like a doll—porcelain and small. His skin is like paper, sometimes, and a single fall might tear him apart, making him ooze until there's nothing left. Raito only likes skinning away Tomoro's too sunny exterior when he knows he's got the first aid kit ready to patch it all up. Otherwise, there's no point, no reason, and definitely no joy in the way Tomoro's face falls when Raito stands up and whistles, the sound of wings beating against the air echoing in his ears.
People might say he's being unfair—that he's doing too much, playing with Tomoro like this, toying about with his emotions, but they hadn't been accosted by the younger teen like Raito had been. They hadn't been stared in the eyes and told that they'd be saved, no matter what, no matter when, no matter how. They hadn't been held back from storming off to stare into big sunset colored eyes while their own heart threatened to burst from their chest. No, all of that had been Raito's burden to bear, and such a heavy burden it is that it's only logical that Raito makes Tomoro share it too—that encompassing fear of never seeing the other again, of being one step closer only for it to be ripped away, of being too late and having to contend with the fact that not everything is something you can win.
If Raito must carry it, heart heavy in his chest while his mind replays moments where what if plays in his thoughts like a mantra then so too does Tomoro, whose eyes pop and burst when the flapping of Rhaphomon's wings come closer, whose bottom lip wobbles and his body sways a little too close to the edge of the broken roof, towards the churning water below that Raito had to fish Tomoro out of like a meal ready to be cooked on the stove.
"What? Do you want me to stay? You think I'll never come back?" Cat and mouse—this game they play. Tomoro chases after him even as Raito leaves traps and deception in his wake. He heard once, huddled underneath the window of that bar Glowing Dawn frequent so much, that Sakuya thinks he's no good, that even though they've all deflected, Raito is the most uneasy of them all. Tomoro rebuffed, always one to argue the case as if Raito hadn't slapped him to get him to stop being so stupid. He, of course, doesn't mention this to Sakuya. He hardly ever mentions how their encounters really go. It's always one way and never the other. To Tomoro, all they did was see who could jump across the platforms without falling into the water as if Raito hadn't led him on with the idea that he'd stay only to leave before he could get a word out.
Clandestine meetings they were—only for their eyes and ears alone, the subjects always altered to the outside eye. If he comes across Hotaruko, then the bruise on his cheek is from smacking into a wall and not wrestling with an angry Tomoro who thought it unfair that Raito was being such an asshole.
(Ironically, it's the only time he's ever laughed when being hit by someone else.)
He thinks, perhaps, the same must be for Tomoro. If they see his mussed hair, do they think the wind did it? If they take notice of the increasing amount of bandages on him, do they believe him clumsy, not even fathoming that he climbs up destroyed buildings just to grab onto something he shouldn't be able to reach? When Tomoro cries over nothing, because everything reminds him of Raito and Raito alone, do they deem him emotional and confusing, citing that he's gotta get a grip?
Raito has no one to ask about why he wears extra gauze around his arms and legs (because Tomoro likes to wrestle on unstable ground), has no one to notice that sometimes his bandanna is askew on his head (because it's always the first thing to get grabbed, to be yanked and pulled to gain an advantage), and he certainly has never gotten someone to sit him down and say that Tomoro's not okay and he should be careful as if Raito doesn't seek out all of it and more. As if he doesn't purposely stand near the edge, wondering if Tomoro will get angry enough to tackle him and get them both fighting in the shallow water. It'd be good practice fighting someone whose slippery from rain.
"Uhm…" Tomoro scrubs at his face, sniffing, trying to drag the leaking snot back into his nose. "I got something to ask you."
He blinks, leaning forward despite his reservations. Something to tell him. Tomoro never has something to tell him. It is always fists and screams and blubbering words that always end in them sprawled out on the rubble, tangled up in each other, shaded by Rhamphomon's shadow as he flies above.
Tomoro sways. Raito has half a mind to break this dance they're doing to make sure the boy didn't accidentally break something. Their spars are fun, and all, but not when serious danger is afoot, when Tomoro is at the risk of collapse or Raito can only see Naito's disappointed face before getting a fist to his own. Those days, they spit insults and battle with their digimon, e-pulses flaring bright and wild until Azhdarmon says he's had enough and Raito calls it quits, panting, head spinning, staring at a kneeling Tomoro, vomiting whatever he ate, and cursing everyone he knows that he ever agreed to this teaching method. What a fucking joke.
"Come on," he says, snapping his fingers, "ain't got all day, Tenma." His accent slips out unbidden, nose wrinkling as he places a hand on his hip, the past of a countryside boy who liked to run in the wheat fields and play with the pigs in the stables and the chickens in the coop draping over his shoulders.
(Now, he stands at attention when people say his name, hands by his side, head held high. He speaks with proper pronunciation and doesn't talk about pigs and cows and the process of creating bread.)
Tomoro huffs, wiping at his nose. Snot clings to the back of his hand that he flicks off with another sniff. "Don't rush me, fucking asshole," he hisses, bristling, "there's just… I wanted to…." he trails off, scuffing his already beaten up crocs against the rubble. "Canwehangouttogether?"
In a rush, the words spill out, congealed together like molasses. Raito blinks once, twice, then snorts and hiccups, clapping his hand over his mouth as he tosses his head back. "You're lucky I'm a genius, Tenma!" He spits the words out with a cackle. "You wanna do that with me, huh? Not that friend of yours from your school? You know the one, Hi-something?" He digs one finger into his ear when he speaks, using his other hand to wave at the air, and Tomoro scowls at him, face all pink.
"It's Hitomi and no!"
"So defensive for a girl you don't even care for. Jeez Louis, and people call me dramatic. What's in it for me, huh? Why would I ever wanna be seen in public with your twiggy, four eyed, Victorian child self?"
As he expects, Tomoro's face goes crimson, the perfect shade on him if Raito has anything to say about it, and he kicks off the ground with a lunge that Raito is all but prepared to counter, if only the boy hadn't ducked mid run and slammed into Raito's stomach, sending them careening off the roof and crashing into the water with a splash.
Raito resurfaces spitting and hiccuping, coughing up water that slid into his mouth and down his throat and Tomoro grabs at him, ducking him under even as Raito's nails dig into his wrists and tug. "Hey! Mmph—!"
He grabs a handful of the boy's shirt to yank him down, but all he does is make Raito the recepient of being trapped underneath the other, who stares him down with water dripping from his messy hair and his shirt completely soaked, sticking to him like glue. His glasses are askew on his face. "Dumbass," Tomoro pants out, cuts on his arms and one oozing blood across his cheek that Raito reaches up to wipe off with his thumb, feeling Tomoro flinch at the sting when Raito presses his finger down onto the cut, saltwater eating away at the wound.
"Takes one to know one," he shoots back, his bandanna hanging around his neck, hair a mess and soaking wet in the water, splayed out behind him. "When do you wanna do this?"
"Two weeks."
Neither of them are moving.
"Time?"
His heart pounds in his ribcage, making his chest ache as Tomoro's eyes linger on him like he's afraid Raito might disappear if he doesn't.
"The arcade opens at ten in the morning but everything starts around one in the afternoon regardless but if you wanna get tickets and get in early—mmph!"
Tomoro is cold. He's always cold. The water makes him freezing as Raito holds a hand over his mouth. "Tenma," he says, slowly pulling his hand away and then using the heel of his palm to wipe away the dirty pinkish water dripping from his cheek before sliding his hand under Tomoro's chin, letting the boy lean into his palm, fingers cradling his face, pressing into the fat of his cheeks.
"Do me a favor," Raito starts, "and shut the fuck up."
When he lets go, fingers removing themself one by one, Tomoro moves the second his hand falls away and the water splashes like it's trying to embrace and drag them under.
Raito concludes this game won as he buries his face into vanilla scented hair and feels legs that are growing meat on them (thank god) tangle with his own.