Eden
Eleclua
Summary:
When a desperate attempt to retrieve a friend-turned-foe results in his untimely demise, Takemichi wakes up in the past – shell-shocked, but nonetheless willing to start over one more time. There is only one issue.
He is back to 1999, and a certain 10-year-old Shiba Taiju really wants to beat his ass.
Or: Takemichi dies during the battle against Kanto Manji Gang, goes back in time, and allies himself with an unexpected figure.
Notes:
just a bit of TaiTake for the soul
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prologue
The chapel was peaceful.
Shy flames flickered and wavered, spilling wax on the candlesticks. The walls were splashed with misshapen shadows, twirling in a rhythmic, humble dance of red, black, and grey. The air of piety lingered among the aisles, an after-image of a faithful congregation.
He cleared his throat, awkwardly halting his steps as he crossed the threshold. He came a bit late – certainly later than closing hours – but he knew that the priest was still inside. The man took great care of the church as if it were his offspring, and it was a known fact that he oftentimes stayed way past midnight.
Udagawa Christian Church was a rather small house of prayer, supervised by a tiny selected bunch.
No one showed up to greet him, but he could tell that he wasn't alone. A wooden confessional stood at the farthest end of the aisle, near the pulpit, which he entered, softly closing the door behind him. His coat sleeve got stuck in the slit between the door and the doorframe, and he wasted a precious minute to pull it out, almost tearing his clothing apart. His body jolted, and his elbow hit a narrow ledge, somehow striking an elusive nerve that sent a wave of numbness down his limb.
He hissed. Why didn't he just reopen the door?
He wasn't very smart at times. He would like to excuse his mindless actions with fatigue, but maybe he just enjoyed zoning out – detaching himself from the reality that was both kind and cruel to him.
He waited a little, taking his time to gather his thoughts. He was supposed to kneel, but his bony knees hurt after a while, so he sat cross-legged instead. He hoped God wouldn't mind.
A presence took a seat on the opposite side of the thin screen, and an indistinct silhouette appeared behind the minuscule faceted window. The priest's shadow was impressive, radiating authority and dignity, and he felt infinitely small in such proximity, sensing the priest's sharp eyes on him (or whatever blurry blob the window presented). He hadn't cowered in fear for a really long time, but trepidation bubbled up in his veins, a foreign, partially forgotten sentiment.
"What brings you here?" a low, rough voice asked, but the tone was attentive, sincere. A visitor this late at night must have been a surprise for him, but he sounded willing to listen.
The guest smiled. The realisation that his smile would remain unseen came a bit late.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
He hoped he didn't mess this one up. He didn't want to come across as impolite and ignorant, but, being lazy, had only idly thumbed through the steps.
"How long has it been since your last confession?"
He scratched at the skin of his nape. The tattoo that sat there was old, but it still itched sometimes.
"I've never done this before," he chuckled shyly.
The shadow of the priest didn't shift.
"Fear not. I will listen to anything you have to say."
He spoke as though he knew that his guest wasn't a believer. As though he knew that his guest didn't arrive to ask for God's forgiveness.
And he was right.
"It's weird, honestly. I feel like I have a lot to say, but I can't find the words to give my thoughts meaning. They sound alright in my head, but every time I open my mouth, they just seem like a mess."
"Speak as you see fit. I shall do my best to understand."
The priest sounded tired. Even understanding came at a price, it seemed.
He inhaled a deep noseful. The booth smelled nice, lacquered wood and soft velvet – and a bit like spices, though he could be imagining things. After all, he ran away from a chic banquet where such a thing as a chocolate fountain was the least bizarre luxury. He wouldn't be surprised if plenty of odd smells clung to his skin.
"When do you think you sinned?" The priest asked as the silence dragged on.
He couldn't help a sigh.
"If I were to pinpoint the time... My whole life, I'd say."
"What kind of life are you leading, if I may ask?"
This question, truly, came too early. He would like to prolong the introduction a bit more.
He fisted the looseness of his pants – a very old habit of his. It left unsightly creases on the expensive material, and if his secretary (and unofficial babysitter) saw him right now, he would probably go off the deep end.
"Father, you see… I'm a very bad person."
"Why do you think so?"
"Like I've said, I'm a sinner. I roamed over this city, I was lost, and I refused to be found. I betrayed and witnessed betrayal, and I abandoned many things that I used to hold dear. I'm but a foolish man who knows of his sin, but persistently turns a blind eye."
A hum followed.
"Why would you do that? Was there a reason for you to resort to that?"
The creases on his pants deepened.
"It was the only way, Father. The only sacrifice I could afford. Actually, I don't think I'm here to confess. I'd rather… tell you a story."
He could feel the confusion on the other side of the screen – a well-masked one, at that. The priest was too kind. He had every right to kick him out – or was he misinterpreting things?
Maybe he should have gone to church more often.
"Feel free to tell me, if it can lift the burden off your soul."
"Oh, but it's going to be quite long. I'm afraid we might stay here until dawn."
"So be it."
His shoulders already felt lighter, and he hadn't even begun.
The most important part was about to unfold, and his palms got sweaty.
"Thank you, Father. Now then… Where should I start…?"
Notes:
This chapterlet is more or less meaningless right now, but it'll come into play later.
I tweaked the work skin a bit, hide Creator's Style if the formatting starts acting funny on your device. Also, keep in mind that English isn't my first language, and please let me know if you find something unreadable.
Notes:
Be warned that this chapter contains blood and violence. If you saw the final battle in the manga, you should know what to expect. Naturally, beware of manga spoilers!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 1. Last Train Home
"You think you can scare me, huh?! My cause is bigger than any of your excuses!"
With the angriest shout Takemichi'd ever heard from him, Chifuyu delivered a heavy punch to his opponent, causing Mochi to plummet to the ground. If Takemichi stood any closer, he would surely hear the crack of a nasal bone. Mochizuki Kanji, a fighter he had the horrific luxury to see in combat before, now lay motionless, like a doll with cut strings. Sparing a second to look around, Takemichi discovered that a similar fate befell the infamous Haitani brothers. Hakkai and Mitsuya, both dirty, bruised, and unable to hide their satisfaction, exchanged high-fives. Adoration and pride unfurled in his heart.
If he asked them to continue fighting, they would jump back to action without a complaint, but Takemichi decided to let them rest. They'd already done more than he could ever ask for, following him to this godforsaken train station, and Takemichi swore to make sure that they never regretted their decision. He made it his goal – not a primary one, but still – to stand up for himself and his gang and to be the pillar supporting Toman. It was a show of his gratitude for the times when they supported him.
Don't worry, guys. I'll claim victory for us all.
He was unanimously chosen as their commander, and protecting each and every member that entrusted their lives to him was his duty. This was why he couldn't suppress a surge of worry when he failed to spot Inupi, Senju, and Pah-chin. Takemichi had faith in their fighting prowess and loyalty, but an eerie feeling nested deep inside his chest and refused to withdraw.
He glanced at the mountain of containers – or rather, at the leader of the rival gang sitting at the very top. Mikey's face was impassive, like a blank canvas that Takemichi saw in his high school's art club. His lack of interest in the battle could be a good thing, since no one had fallen victim to his inhuman strength, but it was also an alarming sign. He watched his former allies, clad in the black uniforms he'd personally chosen, desperately fight or get beaten without an ounce of sympathy.
The premonition in Takemichi's chest intensified. Anxiety from a known threat (like fighting your ex-commander at some dilapidated train station, for example) was one thing, but anxiety from the unknown was a completely different, unrivalled sort of fearfulness, and Takemichi's brain began to short-circuit.
What was he missing? What was about to happen? What–
"Focus!" Kakucho's husky voice rang dangerously close, and before he knew it, Takemichi's cheek flared up in pain. A solid hit, as expected from Tenjiku's former Heavenly King, sent him flying until he gracelessly landed at the farthest end of the station, right beside the rusted rails. He ended up on the periphery of the battle, concealed from the eyes of his allies.
True to Kakucho's demand, Takemichi was supposed to fight him and not goggle around. Kakucho wasn't holding back, and Takemichi couldn't help a sense of thrill of getting to see him like this. That being said, he wouldn't last long at this rate, so he had to put an end to their duel as fast as possible. There was someone else he absolutely needed to fight tonight.
The approaching thumps of Kakucho's gait helped sober him up. Grunting, Takemichi got up on his fours and blindly felt the ground. His fingers touched something cold, smooth, and sturdy, relatively thin and long. Something like cold metal, so icy, so burning hot, so stable, so shaking like an actual earthquake, so screeching, and agonizingly loud, and drowning the screams of utter terror, and–
Looking up, Takemichi watched Hell descend on Earth.
A train dashed before his eyes, and Takemichi wasn't sure if he drew his hand back in time or not. He couldn't find the strength to check if his fingers were still intact. His body refused to move.
Hollers of horror broke out around him, and countless shadows hared off from their positions. That's right, if they got away from the rails, they would be fine–
The train crashed into the piles of containers on its way.
Benumbed, Takemichi helplessly witnessed the ghastly scene. People dispersed and darted from one side to another, bumping into each other in their frantic search of safety. The ground itself shook as the containers tumbled down, like heavy rocks descending from a cliffy mountain, bursting into thunderclaps as they kissed the ground — squashing the bodies that were perishing one by one, unable to escape the corroded jungle their leaders chose as the site of the dispute.
Every single person that came to the station was brutally killed.
A few moments later, the cacophony mutated into a sinister lull.
Takemichi sat alone by the rails, his breathing hectic, uneven, too shallow to absorb oxygen, bitter tears pricking his eyes. He felt like someone caught him by the neck – it was too tight, he couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe, just a single gasp of air – and he was too terrified, too paralysed to bother checking if someone truly stood behind him.
"No…" he weakly cried, unblinking, as he stared at the bloodbath before his eyes.
Someone was still standing. Someone was walking.
Someone – Mikey.
Mikey proceeded to the centre at an unnatural, robotic pace. He'd never seemed smaller, and the commander's tailcoat was all but devouring his sagged frame. Somehow, he made it out unscathed, yet his gaze, previously emotionless, was feverish with fright and disbelief. A few blood drops sat on his cheek, and the hem of his white clothing was soaked in wet crimson. Mikey's wide eyes were trained on several bodies which Takemichi regretted looking at.
The first one he noticed was Mitsuya. Only his head and shoulders could be seen beneath a navy blue container. His face remained miraculously scratchless, but his half-lidded eyes were vacant like dull gemstones. Hakkai must have been the one next to him. Takemichi could recognize his big calloused hand peeking out from under the rubble, and if he traced it up to his body, he would definitely puke.
Chifuyu's limbs were folded at the angles Takemichi initially reckoned improbable. His face was averted, but the visible patches of his maimed features spoke of his morose demise. Nearby, Takemichi made out someone's bright hair that was suspiciously reminiscent of Senju's. No doubt, Pah-chin, Inupi, Koko, every member of the revived Tokyo Manji Gang and everybody from Kanto Manji Gang, including the Haitani brothers, Mochizuki, Kakucho – were dead.
The only survivors were Takemichi, who happened to be too far from the containers to get crushed,
Mikey, who lived for the same reason,
And the person who'd disappeared from Takemichi's radar at the very start of the battle – the person who now stood by his side, grinning widely as two old scars at each corner of his mouth contorted into crescents. Sanzu Haruchiyo was laughing, assessing the massacre. His pale irises gleamed with exhilaration.
Torn between blacking out and the need to vomit, Takemichi barely found his voice and whimpered, "Why...?"
"Hm?" Sanzu's grin could pass for an innocent one, if it weren't for his words. "Why did I kill everyone, you mean?"
The last of Takemichi's hopes were mercilessly shattered. He could only nod, trying his damnedest best to gulp down the lump in his throat.
Sanzu cackled.
"Pfft. They were only obstacles. Only my King deserves to live. The others do nothing but get in his way."
By the way his gaze hardened, it was clear – Takemichi also wasn't going to live much longer.
But… did it actually matter?
The bruises left by Kakucho hardly ached anymore, and maybe Takemichi should spring to his feet to flee. Maybe he should get to Mikey, lead him away to safety, and maybe–
Maybe what?
Nothing.
He became the commander of Tokyo Manji Gang, Mikey's gang, to save everyone. He wanted to rescue Mikey from whatever personal hell he'd chosen, to reunite the group they all had once been, to avoid any more sacrifices. He swore that Draken was the last friend they outlived.
Everyone had futures, be it Chifuyu and Kazutora's pet shop, Pah-chin's wedding, or Mitsuya's and Hakkai's brilliant careers. Everyone was supposed to survive, to see their happy endings; the last future he visited was the happiest, the safest, the most harmonious, and he ruined it all by coming back when everybody told him to stay, to give up on Mikey, to think about the others, to–
Despite feeling like a taut string, Takemichi didn't flinch at the light tap on his shoulder. Absent-mindedly, looking but not seeing, he glanced up.
Kakucho's mismatched eyes stared back.
"What's wrong? You challenged me yourself. Get up."
Takemichi blinked several times. It clicked like a switch, and he almost cried from the intensity of the sound as the world resumed singing into his ears. The containers were still piled up in seemingly stable towers, and no train of doom was in sight.
Dread in his stomach staled as Takemichi's body recognized a familiar sting, as if he'd just channelled electricity. It was an ominously familiar experience, like when he'd seen Senju get shot or himself bump into a poor cafeteria worker.
Another vision.
Relief washed over him as his lungs let the air inside. Stricken by tremors, Takemichi finally stood back up. Without thinking twice, he galloped along the railway, his heart loudly and hopelessly headbutting his ribcage.
Where? Where is he? How much time do I have?
Before he could exit the station and enter a broad open tunnel, a painful tug at his collar made him jolt and choke on air. Scowling, Kakucho hoisted him up and regarded him with a stern look.
"What do you think you are doing? Is this how a commander is supposed to behave?"
In any other circumstances, Takemichi would have been grateful: Kakucho could have used his retreat to claim victory, but instead gave him a chance to preserve his honour (he'd always been too responsible for his own good). This time, however, he quaked in panic. Takemichi yanked Kakucho's hand off himself and granted him a pleading look, praying to convey everything he needed.
"I'm sorry, Kaku-chan," he heaved, summoning all the determination he could. "But right now, I have more important matters to take care of! If I don't do that right now… everyone here will die."
Kakucho's eyes rounded.
"What...? How do you know that?"
"I don't have time to explain!" Takemichi bolted away again, but Kakucho's hand grabbed him by the shoulder. His hold became softer, and his eyes studied him with concern, his dark brows furrowing in perplexity.
"Kaku-chan, please! I have to save everyone! I know it sounds insane, but–"
"I believe you." When Takemichi clammed his mouth shut and gawked, Kakucho squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "I know you wouldn't lie about something like that. And I can see it in your eyes. Whatever you're talking about must be urgent and serious."
Still reluctant, Takemichi nodded.
"Great. I'll explain later. For now, let's postpone our duel. Please get away as far as–" He didn't get to finish as Kakucho moved forward, pulling him along by the sleeve. "What are you doing?"
"You were heading down the railway, right? I'm going with you."
"You… what?"
"You know, for an amateur commander, you like to take way too much burden upon yourself." Kakucho smiled, his face distorting into something feral – an expression that he, no doubt, adopted from Izana and hadn't exhibited since his death. "I suggest we call a temporary truce until we deal with the bigger problem."
Takemichi still tarried, stunned, and he nudged him, "Come on. I'll help you out."
"Kaku-chan…" His eyes traitorously watered, but Takemichi bit his lip to hold back the tears. "Okay. Let's go!"
As much as he feared involving anyone more than he already did, he couldn't deny that he felt calmer with someone else by his side – especially someone like Kakucho. Once inseparable, they were now split up by years of treading different paths, but he knew for sure that Kakucho hadn't changed. He was still the friend that Takemichi remembered, someone he could only respect for his devotion and sensibility. On the way, Takemichi briefed him on the upcoming catastrophe, and though Kakucho was visibly bemused, he took it in stride.
They sprinted the rest of the way. The sounds of the brawl eventually faded out into distant echoes. The quietness stretched and settled, only disrupted by the drumming of their rushed footsteps.
It took them about a minute to see an outline of a driver's cab. Through the dusted window, Takemichi spotted a person fiddling with what was supposed to be a control panel.
Kakucho gaped, "Holy shit. You were right."
Sanzu's head perked up upon their approach. He froze for a moment, possibly pondering who would go after him and why, and looked out from the cab door.
"Hanagaki," he uttered, and then his eyes landed on Kakucho. "Huh. A traitor in our midst."
"What the hell is going on here, Sanzu?" Kakucho inquired harshly. "Are you seriously planning to control this thing?"
Sanzu huffed and jumped to the ground. His left hand held a long elegant katana – in his haste, Takemichi had totally forgotten about it.
"Not before I get rid of you two."
Leaving the sheath, the metal tinkled. Takemichi tensed and noticed Kakucho do the same – the viciousness of Sanzu's murderous intent was almost palpable. Overcome by another shiver, Takemichi frantically stormed through various ideas, grasping at everything he could think of.
What to do now? How to defeat him? All he knew was that he absolutely had to render him incapable of going back to that cab. As if on cue, the bruises on his body throbbed, reminding him that he, unlike Sanzu, wasn't in his best shape anymore. His once broken arm, covered in plaster not too long ago, sent a wave of phantom pain that made him wince.
Just as Sanzu took a fighting stance, aiming the tip of his katana at him, Kakucho stepped forward.
"Kaku-chan?"
"I'll take care of him. You get out of his range."
"But–"
"I've clobbered you good already – you can barely stand." Gently, but resolutely, he shoved him away. "Go hide."
Takemichi wanted to protest, but he knew better than anyone that Kakucho was right on the money. If anything, he'd be a liability, so he complied and took a few steps to the side.
"Be careful."
"Done chatting?" Sanzu smirked. "It doesn't matter what order you go in. I'll kill you both either way."
"As if I'd let you," Kakucho glowered. "I don't know when you lost your last marbles, but…" The savage smile returned to his lips. "I've never liked you anyway."
Sanzu launched forward like a panther. The speed of the movement was so overwhelming that Kakucho dodged the sword's edge by a hair's breadth. Takemichi held his breath, tiptoeing closer to the train. He believed in Kakucho, he truly did, but what was the point of the power of trust when he was literally facing an armed swordsman barehanded?
Like he feared, Sanzu successfully got behind Kakucho, performed a refined spin on his heels, and grabbed the handle with both hands. He attacked faster than Takemichi blinked, and when Takemichi's eyes opened, Kakucho was grimacing, a dark stain permeating his uniform. Just as a scream rose in his throat, Takemichi pinched himself so hard that he drew blood.
His wish came true – the pain hurled him out of another vision, betrayed by a series of familiar electric pricks.
"Kaku-chan, behind you!"
Kakucho immediately tilted aside – barely enough for the katana to pierce the air a bit lower than his armpit. Whipping his entire body around, Kakucho hastily took his coat off and wrapped it around the blade. Despite his slim build, especially thin in contrast to Kakucho's exposed biceps, Sanzu managed to struggle against the other's grip and didn't let go of his weapon.
"You have no idea how much I hate you, traitors…" Sanzu muttered under his breath, his gaze growing void of sanity with each passing second. His eyes acquired a dangerous glint that Takemichi saw in his vision – it was a venomous, sinister look, the same he'd given him in the last future where he'd held him at gunpoint–
Sanzu suddenly whirled around, releasing his katana. His long legs bolted upward in a precipitous butterfly kick, as he wrenched the coat away and cast it to the side, retrieving his weapon. Positioning his feet wide and steady, he raised the katana in preparation for a fierce slash – and he did it all in four lightning-fast and surgically precise movements.
Takemichi's gut stiffened with another uncanny inkling, but the vision refused to come, no matter how desperately he begged for it. Perhaps it didn't appear because he subconsciously knew what to expect. The world stilled for a hundredth of a moment, making him realise – or rather, admit – two equally terrifying things.
First, given Sanzu's monstrous deftness, there was no way he was that talented naturally. He must have practised passionately – practised killing.
Second…
The katana reached its victim, slashing through the clothes and the flesh. It didn't take long for a big ruby spot to expand on the fabric. Kakucho gasped, and Sanzu himself expressed nonplus, but was quick to revert to excitement. Kakucho seized Takemichi by the forearms, catching him before he slumped, and leapt backward to get out of Sanzu's reach.
"Bakamichi… what the hell…?!"
Takemichi exhaled shakily, peeking down at his clothes. His Tokyo Manji Gang jacket was ruined and hung like a torn rag. His T-shirt was gradually turning from white to red, especially dark along the deep slice that ran from his shoulder to his hip. The clover-shaped necklace, his loyal lucky charm, was cut off and lay somewhere ahead, at Sanzu's feet.
All the bad omens there could possibly be.
Whipping his katana to shake the blood off, Sanzu marched forward, grinning maniacally. Cursing, Kakucho swiftly scooped Takemichi up in his arms and careered to the side, zigzagging among concrete columns and piles of rusty containers. As he finally found an area he considered safe enough to stop, he sat down, placing Takemichi in his lap.
"Why? You idiot...!"
"Sorry… It's nothing too serious, though…"
Kakucho huffed disapprovingly. Takemichi also knew he sucked at lying, especially when the amounts of blood he was losing already made his clothes soaking wet. Kakucho quickly removed his red commander sash and attempted to wrap it around his wound, murmuring something he couldn't quite make out. He avoided glancing down, knowing that the slash was nasty. He could understand that much from the hesitance of Kakucho's hands.
He did feel sorry for his distress, but he couldn't regret his decision. His body threw itself in front of Kakucho on pure instinct.
Something clanked not too far away, as if metal collided with metal. Thankfully, it was a far cry from the mayhem that the train would create. Sanzu must have struck a container with his blade to alarm them; even though it was two against one, he quickly usurped the role of the hunter in a survival game he himself had just created.
"Do you have a phone on you? Mine is left in my coat pocket," Kakucho spoke, forcing Takemichi's chin up to ensure that he wasn't losing consciousness. Takemichi shook his head.
"No… I think I dropped mine when we were fighting…"
"Fuck…"
They both flinched when a series of clanks rattled around them, drawing an invisible curve which Sanzu was treading. They held their breaths, cocking their ears like mice in hiding.
Clank, clank, clank, clank
clank, clank, clank
clank, clank, clank, clank, clank
clank...
The sounds circled the area and went silent.
Only then did they allow themselves to breathe.
"Bakamichi, are you with me?" Kakucho whispered. "Hold on just a little bit longer. I'll get you to the others, we'll call you an ambulance."
"But… the train…"
"It's still there, forget about it. You're the priority now. Plus, we can just tell everyone to run away. If they see you like this, they will understand that it's important."
Takemichi clung to his clothes, marking Kakucho's scarlet T-shirt with a darker shade of red. Kakucho squeezed his hand, wordlessly asking not to argue. His palms were slippery from all the blood, but his grip remained firm.
Takemichi was no stranger to the chilling sensation that was slowly starting to circulate in his veins, acting like a big dose of anaesthetic – the feeling of life oozing out of his body as he was struggling to breathe just a second more.
It happened… twice, if his malfunctioning brain could still calculate correctly. The only exception was that he wasn't in the future and had no one to send him back to prevent his end.
The moment screamed finality. Takemichi just didn't have the strength to inform Kakucho about it. Gasping, he could only snuggle into the warm embrace of his friend's massive arms, cradling him with the delicacy no one would expect from such a dangerous fighter. Only Takemichi knew that he was like this, a scrawny and good-natured, scarless boy still imprinted in his memory.
With dizziness came some funny thoughts. Sure, his arms are big, but were they always this big? Kakucho always wore long coats or overalls that obscured his athletic figure. The same could be said about Mikey: with his clothes on, he looked so small and fragile–
Mikey. If Kakucho brought him back, what kind of face would Mikey make? Would he react at all? Would he make the same scary face as when Draken died?
Oh God, Takemichi gulped painfully. I don't want to die. I can't go, not until I'm certain that everyone is safe and he is happy…
〘 You always keep your promises. 〙
〘 Please, help me… 〙
Fighting against the urge to burst into tears, Takemichi couldn't supress a sob. His lips were numb.
"You better go, Kaku-chan. Before he finds you…" You can still save everyone. I know I can trust you with that. The option of passing such a mission to someone else didn't sit right with him, but it wasn't like Takemichi had a choice.
"I'm not leaving you here. You are not dying on me! He won't–"
They both froze and stared into each other's eyes, confirming that they simultaneously asked themselves the same question.
Where was Sanzu?
The rattle disappeared in the distance, but why abandon his prey when he most likely saw where they headed?
Takemichi's breath hitched in panic.
"He tricked us. He...!"
A loud siren cut him off mid-sentence – deafening, accompanied by a clattering crescendo. The train's wheels ground on the railways as the machine came back to life. Takemichi could feel the distant tremble of earth as the train drove past them, accelerating.
"No… no no no no no!!!" Takemichi wailed, hiccuping on his tears. "Please, Kaku-chan, let's go, your phone, we can still call the others, we can still warn them...!"
Clank, clank, clank
A familiar, taunting sound tolled not too far to their left, savouring its entrance. Takemichi could only berate himself for being so stupid and guiding the carnivore right to his prey.
Kakucho went rigid, fixated on the direction of the hazard. The blade was playing a specific, mocking rhythm, but it was soon drowned out by the distant rumble. The jumble of noises erupted like thunder, as if the world itself began to end. Takemichi wouldn't be surprised if his eardrums actually burst.
Kakucho mouthed an obscene word as his hearing failed him, too. He glanced around hectically, still hoping to locate Sanzu even as his footsteps and the singing of his blade were perfectly camouflaged by the train wreck.
Screams and cries resounded farther away, and Takemichi felt his life slip away from his body.
Mitsuya must be drawing his last breath under that heavy container right now. Chifuyu must be bellowing from pain as his bones broke one by one like dry tree branches. Mikey must have started losing himself for good, sinking towards the breaking point as he was left to watch every single soul at the station get brutally murdered right in front of him.
Kakucho most likely shared his despair, because Takemichi could hear the hiccup in his heartbeat. Still, he didn't let himself recline and accept death. Not when Takemichi was in his arms – and Takemichi could only sigh in a weird mixture of relief and sorrow. In a few seconds, he wouldn't be a burden to him anymore. Maybe Kakucho would even be able to make a run for it.
I'm so sorry, everyone. Even though I was the only one who could do something, I failed. The bitterness and frustration swept over him, making the impending slumber a harsh and unwelcomed one. If there is one thing I could still wish for, I would ask for nothing but one more chance. I would do anything, give away everything, just to save you all… Just to get one more try…
Takemichi knew that miracles like this didn't exist. Even though he was given a chance to fix history once, it was more like the chance used him to meddle with said history. He felt like a passive observer, trapped in a cycle he couldn't break. If he could, he would have long saved everyone he failed to save, but it was impossible. His only option was to beg for forgiveness every time he woke up in tears.
At least he would see them in the afterlife before the Devil claimed his soul. He prayed to get enough time to properly apologise to them all. A bittersweet smile daubed on his lips, Takemichi succumbed to fatigue in the arms of his estranged childhood friend, regret and anguish following hot on his heels. The screeching of metal was reduced to muffled humming, the siren ringing its deadly song.
Takemichi closed his eyes and knew no more.
Takemichi awaited Hell, but the afterlife was surprisingly blissful.
He came to his senses enveloped in warm sheets that smelled like his childhood: grass, rose-scented fabric softener (his mother's favourite), and a tad of baby powder. Even as he aged, he still couldn't figure out why the smell adhered to his room. It didn't stink, though, so he never complained.
The clearer his mind became, the more he realised that something wasn't quite right. As if mocking him, making sure he never forgot his gruesome death, something kept ringing so loudly that he had to cover his head with a pillow. He curled into himself, taking notice of a bizarre sort of weightlessness, as if he'd lost half his body mass. The sound refused to leave him alone: it rang, and rang, and rang, and then fooled him by going silent and chiming back to life after a few tricky beats.
He rubbed his eyes and chewed on his saliva, thick after what felt like a wonderful night's sleep.
Peeping out from his improvised bed shelter, Takemichi found his own room, way before he persuaded his parents to renovate it into something more modern. The walls were painted a gentle yellow, and almost every corner and flat surface were littered with ancient action figures, comics, and a disorganised mess of his socks. The back of his old, creaky chair was draped in a red piece of cloth that rekindled a distant memory of his younger self trying to sew a superhero cape, tongue subconsciously sticking out. It cost him five pricked fingers and several broken needles (one of which he lost, earning a scolding from his dad), but he would don the cape like a royal mantle, endlessly proud and brimful of naive dreams.
How truly clueless he was. If he'd known that one of his noble endeavours would boomerang on him and so many people, would he have abandoned his pursuit of justice?
The train's siren still echoing in his ears (mostly thanks to the obnoxious ringing), Takemichi actually felt like saying yes.
He observed the room and finally discovered the source of the sound. It was a baby clock on his bedside table. He outstretched a hand to turn it off when someone knocked on his door, causing him to yelp and fall out of the bed.
"Takemichi! It's the third time your alarm is going off! Are you still asleep?"
He recognized his mother's voice. It sounded younger than he remembered. Disoriented, Takemichi reached for the clock, but his arm was too short, so he had to push himself up. When the ear-murdering symphony was dealt with, he looked around, shook in a sudden fit of wooziness, and grabbed his table to keep his footing. The room appeared big – oppressive, even – and the furniture loomed above him like an assembly of behemoths. His body didn't quite feel like his, and for a second, raising a palm to inspect his skin, Takemichi could swear that someone else was controlling it.
He all but watched someone else puppeteer his teeny limbs.
"Takemichi, do you hear me? I'm coming in!"
The handle turned, letting in a woman in her late twenties, her youthful face framed by a pretty brown bob. The woman – Hanagaki Ayaka – sighed at the sight of her son.
"You will definitely be late for school. Were you staying late or…?" Ayaka frowned. "Takemichi? What's wrong? Are you unwell?"
He wondered how he must look, pale as death, gawking at his hands as if they were made of wax. He gazed at his mother, trying to grasp what was happening, and saw nothing that could belong to a replica or a doppelgänger. His mother was just like he remembered her, dressed in a grey suit that she always wore to her job when it didn't require her to leave Japan. Simple, but elegant.
Straining his brain to manage a response, he cast a quick glance to the mirrored door of his wardrobe. He blinked once, twice, before the final bit of incomprehension dissolved in his head.
In a flash, Takemichi was practically glued to the mirror, palms pressed to the smooth surface. Tiny hands were facing his – the same size as his. His fingers responded and moved when he wanted them to, but it was impossible, right? No way in hell, right?
Takemichi touched his hair. Each strand, curly and black, almost sheening and free from a trace of cheap bleach, was pretty much real. He picked and pulled at one loose lock, and so did the boy in his reflection. Both stared at each other with wide blue eyes, and both looked like Hanagaki Takemichi, a normal boy no older than ten – except one of them was much older.
He finally realised why he was trembling. His nerves were still twitching from the shock of the electric wave that always co-occurred with his time-leaps.
Slowly, Takemichi looked at the calendar above his bed. Rows of clumsy crosses helped him identify the date easily. He screamed, and his voice was too high-pitched for the body he left behind, but natural for the 8-year-old body he was now possessing.
Today was July 30, 1999.
Notes:
I really doubt I have enough skill to manage a time-travel story, so I'd really appreciate it if you pointed out any errors and plot holes. This fic is more of a vent write to cope with some things, so I apologize in advance for possible messy writing and poor characterization.
Notes:
this fic will be divided into arcs, each covering one or two years with time-skips. I'll try not to drag them out.
The chapter's title is from Shibuya HAL's song.
tw: panic attacks
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 2. Colour of the Way Home
"You think you can scare me, huh?! My cause is bigger than any of your excuses!"
With the angriest shout Takemichi'd ever heard from him, Chifuyu delivered a heavy punch to his opponent, causing Mochi to plummet to the ground. If Takemichi stood any closer, he would surely hear the crack of a nasal bone. Mochizuki Kanji, a fighter he had the horrific luxury to see in combat before, now lay motionless, like a doll with cut strings. Sparing a second to look around, Takemichi discovered that a similar fate befell the infamous Haitani brothers. Hakkai and Mitsuya, both dirty, bruised, and unable to hide their satisfaction, exchanged high-fives. Adoration and pride unfurled in his heart.
If he asked them to continue fighting, they would jump back to action without a complaint, but Takemichi decided to let them rest. They'd already done more than he could ever ask for, following him to this godforsaken train station, and Takemichi swore to make sure that they never regretted their decision. He made it his goal – not a primary one, but still – to stand up for himself and his gang and to be the pillar supporting Toman. It was a show of his gratitude for the times when they supported him.
Don't worry, guys. I'll claim victory for us all.
It was his mission, his duty, his cause – he was their commander.
He promised to build their happy future.
If so… why did everything feel so wrong?
He was fighting Kakucho, evading his heavy punches and desperately trying to counterattack. Why did he want to scream? What did he want to scream? Something bad was about to happen, he could tell that much, but he couldn't understand why. Everything was supposed to–
Takemichi's cheek flared up in pain. A solid hit, as expected from Tenjiku's former Heavenly King, sent him flying until he gracelessly landed at the farthest end of the station, right beside the rusted rails. He ended up on the periphery of the battle, concealed from the eyes of his allies.
Trying to get up, he touched the rusted rails, and electricity shook his aching body.
That's right. The train.
The train killed everyone.
And then once again.
And again.
And again.
Takemichi remained unmoving, glued to the ground and watching everyone's demise like a movie that someone put on repeat. The scream that had been persistently climbing its way up his throat finally burst outside, and he wept and hollered until his voice lost power. The malicious train kept bulldozing through the containers over and over again; maybe it was deaf to his pleas – trains didn't have ears, after all. Or maybe it could hear him, but still murdered everyone, just to wound his scarred heart even more.
It wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to defeat Mikey, bring him back, and save him from his cruel fate. He was supposed to win.
Why was everyone dying? How did he let it happen? Should he really have stayed in the future, abandoning Mikey to his fate?
〘 He is a lost cause. Just forget about him already. 〙
〘 Hey, Takemitchy. If I told you that I love you, what would you say? 〙
He felt like someone caught him by the neck, but he was too terrified, too paralysed to bother checking if someone truly stood behind him. That someone tapped his shoulder. Takemichi's eyes shot up and met Kakucho's. The other's lips moved.
Takemichi mouthed something in response.
Electricity pricked him.
Sanzu huffed and jumped to the ground. His left hand held a long elegant katana – in his haste, Takemichi had totally forgotten about it. Leaving the sheath, the metal tinkled. Takemichi tensed and noticed Kakucho do the same – the viciousness of Sanzu's murderous intent was almost palpable. Overcome by another shiver, Takemichi frantically stormed through various ideas, grasping at everything he could think of.
That's right, the train wreck was just a cautionary vision, and he and Kakucho went to ensure that it never took place. All he had to do was to act differently, to escape another gruesome fate – but how did he know it? He'd only seen the vision once. Why did he feel like they would lose to Sanzu?
Takemichi raised an arm, hoping to find support on the train he was told to round and use as cover, but his fingers stroked air. The train was farther to the side, and Takemichi himself stood on the rails, facing Sanzu like his bruises didn't ache in the slightest.
Wait, but that wasn't right–
"Focus!" Kakucho barked out, and his voice sounded closer than Takemichi expected – remembered?
A flash of white distracted him, but by the time he managed to train his eyes on the target, Sanzu was already in front of him, grinning and swinging his katana. Dazed beyond reasoning, Takemichi screwed his eyes shut. A familiar whoosh of air, of clothes tearing and flesh being sliced, reached his ears.
It didn't hurt. He tried to breathe, and his body listened to him, very unlike the first time around. He opened his eyes and gasped, looking at Kakucho's back that somehow ended up ahead. Sanzu himself expressed nonplus, but was quick to revert to excitement.
Grunting, Kakucho wavered. A big ruby spot was expanding on his T-shirt, and blood was oozing out in generous masses, spilling on the ground with every traitorous pump of his heart.
But that – that was wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't–
Takemichi blinked just as his sob foundered in his throat. He started heaving, dumbfounded by the ringing in his ears and blinded by the blurry specs that swam before his eyes. The collar of his uniform squeezed his throat in a punishing grip, and the tips of Takemichi's fingers blenched, struck by a sharp sensation.
He had to help Kakucho – he had to–
Electricity pricked him.
Takemichi sat alone by the rails. His cheek, still throbbing from Kakucho's punch, was on fire. It was before they got to the tunnel – before Sanzu.
There was a tap on his shoulder. He flinched, looking up, and met Kakucho's mismatched eyes.
"What's wrong? You challenged me yourself. Man up."
There was no slash on his chest. Kakucho was okay.
But if they went to locate Sanzu, he wouldn't be okay.
If they went to stop Sanzu, nothing would be okay.
How did he know? He couldn't tell. He couldn't remember. He was only certain that if he wanted Kakucho to live, they absolutely had to stay put. He promised no one else would die tonight, didn't he?
He struggled to stand back up on his shaking legs and, still trembling, resumed fighting. He couldn't focus, missing hit after hit, and even Kakucho's frown betrayed perplexity at Takemichi's sudden mood change, but it was okay. As long as Kakucho got to live, it was okay–
But who else was going to be okay?
The train's siren shrieked not too far away. The ground quaked.
A train dashed before his eyes. Howls of horror broke out around him, and countless shadows hared off from their positions. The train crashed into the piles of containers on its way.
A shadow encased him in a puddle of dark, and when Takemichi looked up, he saw a massive green container descending on him. It was the last thing he could register before darkness engulfed him whole.
Electricity pricked him.
The cacophony of animalistic screams of horror and the rumbling of earth and metal still echoed around the site. He heard the painful wet crunches of bodies being buried under the rubble, the cracks of someone's bones breaking and shattering, and the screeching of the containers that got dragged by the train farther en route.
A few moments later, it morphed into a sinister lull.
Takemichi was still alive. He sat alone by the rails, breaking shakily, too shallowly to absorb oxygen. No, he couldn't breathe, it was too tight, he couldn't, he just couldn't, he needed just a single gasp of air – and his body failed him.
Bending in half, he spasmed as his stomach emptied itself.
Why? Why was he so dumb? How could he mix the visions up? What was real and what wasn't?
Why was he back there? Wasn't he supposed to die?
Where was Kakucho? Where was Mikey?
Mikey.
Mikey proceeded to the centre of the bloodbath with a slow, measured gait. He'd never seemed smaller, but his expression was that of relief – glee, even. His eyes were shrouded by a mist of white. A few blood drops sat on his cheek, and the hem of his long white coat was soaked in crimson.
A harsh clutch on his hair jerked Takemichi's head up. He heard Sanzu click his tongue.
"Disgusting."
Averting his gaze from the bodies that Takemichi could identify as Toman, Mikey turned and paced toward them, faster and livelier than before. When Takemichi attempted to crawl away, Sanzu yanked him back down. He did not unleash his katana, but something within Mikey's features murmured to Takemichi that death would be a much more merciful outcome.
Mikey squatted before him, thumbing the blood away from his face. He wore a bizarre look – not a malignant one, but rather, the look of pure excitement. Like how Mikey's older self in Manila smiled at him upon their reunion, only mixed with bitter anticipation of what was to come.
〘 I wanted us to stay together. 〙
When Mikey looked at him like that – like Takemichi's presence was enough to make him happy, Takemichi couldn't bring himself to be mad at him, and it made that variation of his dream the sickest of all.
It was dark when Takemichi awoke. No string of light peeked in the room through the thick curtains. He smelled a strong aroma of roses, hardly able to conceal the stench of dried sweat. The sheets of his childhood bed felt fresh to the touch, as if someone'd recently changed them, and calmly caressed his shivering, sticky body. His pyjamas and dump hair clung to his skin.
He gazed up, seeking the marked calendar. He couldn't make out the contents, but the shape was clearly hanging on the wall. He could guess that he was still in 1999, nine years prior to the fight between Tokyo Manji Gang and Kanto Manji Gang – the fight where he died, only to travel in time once more and to faint once he realised it. He could vaguely remember his world tilting and his mother screaming before everything went to black.
God, he must have given his mother the biggest scare in her life. In his defence, it was a surprise for him, too. He thought he was used to traversing time like an old, painfully familiar route to the DVD-rental store where he'd rotted away for years. Even when he was thrown into the most unexpected, mind-blowing circumstances possible, he had enough self-possession to remain conscious. And no, that time in the fighting ring didn't count – he passed out because he was punched in the face.
But… wasn't this time-leap different?
No one was there to shake his hand. Mikey was too far away. Even if his ability activated on its own, like when he was pushed on the train tracks, why did it happen in the first place? He died in the past. Or was it now technically the future?
His head hurt at every feeble attempt to make sense of the situation. He felt thin and fragile, like his bones could break any second. Enveloped in a thick umbra, the room appeared even more intimidating, and his brain demonstrated a metaphorical error notification as it finally dawned on him how young he was.
He commanded his body to move and lift an arm, but it didn't obey, as if seized by a nasty fit of sleep paralysis. Takemichi tried again, straining every muscle, wordlessly pronouncing the order for a better result, and still achieved nothing.
His next breath got stuck in his throat. He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't breathe!
Was he still dreaming? What if he never leapt to 1999? What if he was still imprisoned in whatever nightmare the gods had chosen for him? What if he was trapped here forever?
His eyes were dry and sore, but they had enough water left to force out another portion of tears. As he was huffing and choking on his own ragged breaths, Takemichi's sight began to deteriorate, and painful pealing resounded in his ears.
He was dying. He was dying. He was–
The door creaked, letting in a lonely shadow. The figure peeped in the room, carefully tiptoed its way inside, and stilled, leaning closer and staring at him. Then, in a flash, the shadow was by his side, scooping him in a big, warm embrace.
"Shhh, baby boy, I'm here. It's okay, you hear me?"
Such a kind, melodious voice. Soft arms gently rocked him, and he inhaled a faint fragrance of roses and homemade soup. A familiar smell, a smell of his past.
"Please do what I tell you to do. Okay?"
He wanted to say okay. He tried to wheeze his answer out, but felt like something in his head cracked at the attempt. Like corroded wheels that refused to be moved.
"There, can you feel what I'm doing? Left and right, left and right. Think about it with me. Left and right…"
The shadow kept rocking him. Left and right. Left and right. He swayed like a newborn in a crib.
It did feel nice. If he zeroed in on the sensation, he could imagine floating in the sea. Its gentle waves washed each and every of his concerns away, and cleaned his body of mud and blood, and purred into his ear, encouraging him to forget about everything.
"Left and right…"
He repeated the words in his head, trying to time them with each careful swing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadow take an unnaturally deep breath until their cheeks inflated. They exhaled, loudly releasing the air.
Ah. He was supposed to do the same.
They inhaled, and he tried inhaling with them. He felt light-headed and blew the air out first, but the shadow didn't scold him, silently prompting him to continue. He breathed in and out again.
And again.
And again.
Left and right.
Left, the shadow – his mother – tenderly rocked him. Right – he breathed, repeating an exercise that she was showing him. They were in his room. In their house. It was the late evening of July 30, 1999.
As that thought surfaced in his mind, he suddenly remembered that his body was supposed to have weight, and involuntarily went flaccid. Every overstrung nerve loosened on its own, making him slack like a pitiful ragdoll.
He felt exhausted, but his fingers twitched when he wished for them to move. It was enough for him – for now.
His body was his, nothing else mattered at the moment.
Ayaka's soft, wrinkless hand stroked his forehead, brushing his bangs away, and a kiss landed on his skin.
"How are you feeling?"
Fatigued, he wanted to say, as if he'd just run a marathon and then climbed the Everest. And also sleepy, but going back to sleep meant returning to that hellish dream, so he thought of something else.
Ayaka's palm, exploring his face to measure his temperature, felt nice. Overcome by a sudden fit of nostalgia, Takemichi nuzzled into her hand. He could hardly see her countenance in the dimness of his room, but he sensed the warmth in her dark eyes as she looked at him lovingly.
"I've made soup. Let's get you washed up and eat."
It sounded amazing, so he nodded. His mother was a rather small, fragile woman, but she carried him out of the room with ease, like he was lighter than cotton. He still felt woozy, too weak to operate his unresponsive, useless limbs, so it might even be true.
Once he dipped into a warm bath, he enjoyed the water for a few minutes, recalling the imaginary sea. He would love to stay there forever, carried away by the fluid motion of pure bliss, but he couldn't let his mother worry even more, so he pushed himself to lazily scratch away the layer of sweat. The tap produced a funny sound when he tried to add hot water to the bath, and he would giggle to himself in any other circumstances, but a picture of that goddamn train, bellowing like a dying, colossus-sized animal, still meandered in his brain.
He didn't want to think about it. Like before, he only focused on his mother – on her arms around his body as he ate, secured on her lap, or her scent that he'd almost forgotten. Half the plate already in his stomach, he eventually succumbed to sleep to the gentle, tinkling drone of his mother's voice. That time, against his disquietude, he didn't dream of anything.
He woke up in the morning, back in his bed. He might have imagined it, but something akin to another kiss lingered on his temple, and the air smelled a bit like his father's cologne.
A petite lady at the reception desk bid them goodbye with a toothy smile as they exited the clinic. The sky still exhibited a tranquil blue colour, perfectly matching the colour of Takemichi's eyes – at least, that's what the friendly doctor told him.
"Blue is a lucky colour," he stated, and joked that Takemichi's miraculous return to normal was the result of said luck. He was most likely trying to lighten the mood, since even Takemichi could admit that he looked like death – and felt no different.
"This is so weird…" Ayaka sighed. She definitely didn't expect to spend the entire day in different queues to have her son checked by every specialist in the clinic. After a thorough check-up that made Takemichi fear he was going to join the military, he was finally set free. Every doctor regarded him with a puzzled shrug because his body was confirmed to be in perfect condition, and only the neurologist suggested that his yesterday's episode must have been the case of psychogenic fever.
It was July, and the summer break had already started, but Takemichi had to go to cram school to improve his grades – his most recent obsession with street heroics caused him to seriously fall behind in studies. With no notable precedent and other source of stress to take into account, the doctor concluded that the cram school must have been putting too much pressure on him, hence his unforeseen blackout.
Of course, Takemichi knew what was the real cause, but he couldn't tell his mother about it. Heck, he still didn't have the courage to admit it himself, so he just rolled with his current predicament. Following his mother's every word proved to be quite therapeutic, even without a panic attack.
"Sorry, mom," he muttered. "It wasn't anything serious, and I still made you worry. You even lost your day off because of me…"
Ayaka smiled and patted his head.
"It's alright. I'm just glad that you are okay."
"...me too."
They headed down the street, to the bus station, with his hand comfortably enfolded by Ayaka's. His mother had already phoned his teacher, and tomorrow his father would go to the cram school to request an excused absence for him. Takemichi didn't know if he was happy about it. It would mean more freedom, but also fewer things to occupy his mind and let him procrastinate.
The warmth of Ayaka's hand now made him uneasy. Still, he didn't let go of it once, even as he plopped on the most inviting seat in the bus. Pressing his temple to the window, Takemichi watched the streets run along their ride and try to outpace them.
During one of the stops, an old lady hurried to the doors, stumbled, and nearly tripped. Ayaka's hand detached from his to help her regain her balance, and Takemichi hated the fact that he pined for her touch right away. When Ayaka made sure that the old lady exited the bus safely, she seemed to have forgotten about holding hands with him, and something stopped him from asking about it openly.
Like he feared (or maybe even worse than his fears), his brain was catching up fast. He wished he were stupid – stupider than he already was. The memories of his past – present? future? – life bloomed anew, intense and realistic. Even if he refused to acknowledge his situation, he couldn't ignore his recollections of numerous impending events.
Of the rift between him and his parents, for instance.
Truthfully, Takemichi had mixed thoughts about his parents. He knew he was biased, still affected by his misery in the very first timeline, but he couldn't help a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.
His parents' union was one of those that people liked to jokingly compare to a fairytale. Ayaka was a beautiful woman from a well-off family, one of the so-called jeunesse dorée, with a promising future lying ahead of her. No one expected or approved of her choosing someone like Hanagaki Jun'ichi, a rogue from the streets. Only her grandfather trusted her judgement and allowed Jun'ichi to join their family, and with their financial aid, the young man was able to enrol in a prestigious university, the same that Ayaka attended. He eventually got an interpreter degree to follow the same path as her.
As interpreters, his parents were often overseas. Two years before he went to middle school, they got a tempting job offer from the Japanese embassy in Abu Dhabi. Takemichi may have been naive – as a kid his age should be – but he was precocious enough when it came to many other topics, such as their household. They asked him how he would feel if they left to pursue their careers, and whether he wanted to join them or stay in Japan. They gave him a choice, and he knew that they would accept his every decision. He could even ask them to stay with him, and they would do it without a word of objection.
For some reason, he didn't.
Did he know what their departure to Abu Dhabi meant? He sure did. It wouldn't be their first trip to another country. He knew what an empty house felt like, and he was able to figure out his feelings about it, but – he said nothing.
You are too kind, someone told him once in the past – uh, in the future. Was he truly kind, though? He couldn't remember why he heartily promised his parents that he would be okay on his own. What was on his mind when he smiled at them, spitting lies like it didn't hurt him at all?
Of course, he wasn't left completely alone. The Yamamoto family frequented his house to check up on him, and he still had his aunt as his guardian. On top of that, his parents called him every day, sent him a generous allowance every month, and visited him on holidays without fail – until he ran away from home, fed up with Kiyomasa's cruelty. The rest was history.
To this day, he couldn't understand both his parents and himself.
If he let them go so easily (if he gave up first), why was he so frustrated about it? Why did he feel like they never loved him? (When did he even get it in his head?)
Why couldn't he forgive them?
(If they loved him so much, why the thought of leaving even crossed their minds?)
He wouldn't deny – after he ran away, he kept wondering how it affected them (and whether it affected them at all). Were they sad? Did they look for him? Did they ever question why he suddenly started bleaching his hair and dressing like a delinquent? They never commented on it, and he couldn't tell if they cared.
To make things easier, he stopped caring as well. He couldn't pinpoint when exactly it happened, but when the cold of the gap between them finally reached his heart, their letters had long since piled up in the corner of their house, unable to kindle a single desire to write back. His parents feigned nonchalance as they returned to celebrate Christmas or his birthday, but the coldness did not clear off, and the pleasant remembrance of his mother's warm touch now felt like a mockery.
It was a mockery, it had to be. His mother only loved him when he was young and adorable, but as he aged – as he became troublesome – she abandoned him like a pair of old shoes. In that first, humiliating timeline, Takemichi had an unhealthy habit of reciting this conclusion like a mantra, churning out more vile every time, and steadily reaching another verdict that was just as obvious: it was their fault. They never loved him, and he grew into a loveless being, remaning miserable until he died and met Mi–
In a new timeline, his parents suddenly got angry at him for taking part in Bloody Halloween. They were home at the time, and once they learned of his role in the conflict, he was given a harsh scolding.
Someone died there! It could have been you! His mother cried those words out in a broken voice, and his father looked at him with stern eyes, and they seemed genuinely upset, like he mattered.
("...Why do you act like you care?" he hissed in response.)
Needless to day, he blew up.
Subconsciously, he knew he was being unreasonable. Even Hina reprimanded him for that once he confided in her. He should have been happy. His parents finally blessed him with a nub of affection, and yet he rejected it off the bat.
If anything, he wanted to return to the future at the first opportunity. They were no longer present in his life there, at least – as an adult, he must have meant even less to them. He would be back, to his crappy, lonely apartment, and he would be able to hate them without an ounce of guilt. He wanted to trust that feeling because it was one of very few constants in his life.
Apparently, he dozed off, hypnotised by the bumpless ride.
Ayaka gently shook his shoulder and effortlessly lifted him off his seat, putting him down outside as he yawned awake. Rubbing his teary eyes, he took in his surroundings and recognized the neighbourhood – their home was just a few blocks away. Ayaka's palm found his again, and even though he suddenly wanted to slap it away, he did nothing. He might have gripped her fingers a bit too tightly, but she didn't say a thing.
He stared at her face while they were walking – it was kind and tranquil, lips curled into a half-smile as she hummed something to herself. He tried to imagine what she was thinking about. Was she busy planning their dinner? Was she happy because her son was back to normal? Was she secretly tired of him, disgruntled at the trouble he caused?
He found himself longing for the future – for any of the futures he'd seen. Even the supposedly peaceful last one, probably. He did recall an e-mail from his dad, saying that his parents would definitely be back in time to attend his wedding, and sent something neutral in reply, but that was the only visible change in their relationship. Try as he might, he couldn't remember what reaction that e-mail got out of him. Hina seemed rather concerned when she talked to him later, though.
Why was it always so hard?
He always sucked at repairing things – it was much easier to break and rebuild them from scratch, but how could he break what never existed in the first place? Despite his hatred toward their absence, Takemichi wished his parents were already away. His eyes stung. Did it mean that he was a pathetic hypocrite?
(It must have. Holding his mother's hand felt great.)
He raised his head to prevent the tears from falling. The sky beamed at him, parading a bright orange colour – the lucky blue had faded away while he'd slept. The shadows were stretching into rows of dark, bony sticks, and some of them posed like ridiculously misshapen cartoon characters. The air was stuffy, penetrated by the distant growls of cars and the incessant cries of cicadas.
The smothering atmosphere was quite deceiving. He wouldn't be surprised if he was still snoozing in that bus. The sky burned like it was on fire and nipped him with an almost tangible bite.
"Beautiful, don't you think?" Ayaka spoke, noticing his stare upward. "I like it more when it's blue, though."
"Why?"
"Because it's the eye colour of my most favourite people in the world!"
Takemichi had to blink rapidly. Those weren't the bitter tears he'd just swallowed – it must have been the sun, yes. He was never a fan of it at this time of day. Or in general.
"It's too bright. I don't like it," he grumbled and heard Ayaka laugh.
"You say that, but you always vanish outside once the sky clears out. Seriously, if the weather was nice all year round, I would probably lose my son forever."
His heart skipped a beat. Quietly toddling aside, not too far to be easily noticeable, he gulped, nervous.
"Would you… let me go?"
"Mmm?" Ayaka glanced at him curiously.
"If… if I were gone… would you just let me disappear like that? Wouldn't you even look for me?"
They halted their steps abruptly – she froze first, he followed, more on reflex than anything. The pause settled for a few excruciating moments, and just as Takemichi got ready to confirm the truth he always knew, he was unexpectedly hoisted off the ground. Small, but strong arms caught him in a tight hug – so tight, in fact, that he almost suffocated.
"What are you even saying, silly?" Ayaka tittered childishly, but her tone held something painfully sincere. "I would never let it happen."
He sucked in a raspy breath.
"But... what if I disappeared and you couldn't find me… like, for twelve years…?"
"I wouldn't stop looking, even if it took centuries, then," Ayaka audibly smooched him on the temple. "My Takemichi is my biggest treasure, after all!"
She chirruped those words like a well-memorized poem – like they were a tradition for them. When Takemichi pondered if they really used to just sing such words to each other, not a thing emerged in his memory, but the idea didn't strike him as something alien. It came across as something close to the truth, maybe too much for comfort.
Ayaka's embrace was just as warm as the rays of the evening sun, and Takemichi hated it as much as he didn't want to part with it. Lest he cried and marked her flowery dress with snot, he kept his mouth closed, and they approached their home in silence.
To his bewilderment, Ayaka didn't let him step inside. With a hand near her mouth, she grinned at him like they were partners in crime.
"I'm home!" she carolled.
Jun'ichi was still at work, so there was no one to greet her back. Did she forget? Takemichi was about to sit down and untie his shoelaces when she playfully nudged him.
Ah. He was supposed to do the same.
It did ring a bell, but the chime was too distant for him to remember anything relevant.
Clearing his throat, Takemichi uttered meekly, "I'm home…?"
Pronouncing such words was plain awkward, and he never did that when he lived alone. The echo of his voice in the hall sounded like it laughed at him.
Ayaka's smile broadened so much that her eyes knitted.
"Welcome back!"
The marigold sunrays that streamed through the windows still burned like ravenous flames, but instead of chewing on his scars, both mental and physical, they reached under his skin, causing his blood to boil, bubble up, and colour his cheeks. Something else heated up, clenching his face without mercy, and before he knew it, his tear ducts exploded like a fountain.
Like a child he was now impersonating, he wailed. As always, he cried messily, and soon, his face was all but drenched in mucus and tears.
All the musings he'd had today lost their meaning in a trice. Whether he was right or not, whether his hatred was justifiable or not, whether he still had to break something or not, he couldn't care.
Right now, more than anything else, he felt grateful.
He was back home.
Notes:
The editing of this chapter had a lot of hiccups, so please let me know if it feels too weird to read.
Notes:
A graduate thesis is like a rabbit hole: you take a week-long break to focus on it, and it ends up sucking you in for a whole month. I didn't even realise that it's been so long, sorry :(
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 3. Liar
1999 was the farthest Takemichi had ever been to the past. Accepting this fact proved to be rather difficult. Simply existing and following his mother around like a lost duckling was one thing, but actually thinking about it was – insane, truly. Thankfully, no more fevers or fainting episodes disturbed him, but he kept waking up in tears almost every night, deafened by the train's siren.
What a horrible way to die.
Takemichi was no stranger to death, but he'd never witnessed something as gruesome as that train wreck. When he found a toy train in his dresser, he threw it in the trash can without thinking twice. He doubted he would be able to get near a train station without a panic attack.
Most of his dreams depicted his death, both vaguely and in detail, but some of them were different. In those odd dreams, Takemichi normally survived long enough for Sanzu to capture him. Then, Mikey always approached, a cryptic promise embroidered on his smile, and Takemichi's gut contracted in anticipation of something terrible.
One time, however, Mikey didn't smile. He appeared lost in thought – sombre, even – and didn't look like himself at all. An intricate, puzzling glow of his eyes spoke maturity that he'd never had, not even after losing everyone he cared about.
That Mikey – if that even was Mikey – thumbed his chin.
"Back here, huh."
Takemichi opened his mouth to ask something. He couldn't remember what. Mikey's lips moved, but all that came out was static.
Electricity pricked him, and he woke up in his childhood bed. That variation of his dream never visited him again, but he couldn't forget about it for some reason.
Aside from coping with his never-ending nightmares, Takemichi's biggest challenge was to get used to his tiny body. At 8 years old, he was a small, skinny child, and it took him some time to re-learn how to operate his short limbs properly. His surroundings lost their oppressive presence after a few days, and Takemichi would often find himself acting too carelessly. At times forgetting the real age of his body, he would go from something as undeterring as failing to reach a kitchen cabinet to nearly suffering a heart attack as he tripped while skipping stair treads. Observing new bruises on his legs, he finally acknowledged how puny he was. If he'd fallen just a few steps earlier, he would have probably broken his neck, and Takemichi blenched at the thought. A curious part of him did wonder what would happen if he died again, and something vigorously convinced him to pretend that this idea never existed.
Now that he was excused from cram school, he had a lot of free time to adapt to his circumstances. Once his mind more or less shrank (or whatever it did) to fit his 8-year-old brain, though, Takemichi faced another problem.
He had no idea what to spend that time on. Quite ironic, coming from a time-leaper.
Takemichi was instructed to stay at home for the first two days since his night fever to recover. After that, as his parents deemed his condition stable enough, he was allowed to enjoy the summer break as he pleased. In the first timeline, when his adult self was especially disheartened by a bad day, Takemichi would don his most inconspicuous hoodie and mindlessly roam the streets, watching normal people go about their business. Later, he would return to his worn-down apartment, swallow a cup of tasteless instant ramen, and try to sleep his worries away.
It was a pitiful existence that he'd once sworn to erase for good. Back when Takemichi vowed to get revenge on his weak, pathetic heart, he totally didn't expect that he'd eventually revert to the state of complete flaccidity. The world kept casting daunting shadows upon him, and each flash of dark loomed above him like a beast, an umbra of morbid enjoyment in place of its teeth. The light of day made living bearable, but every time the night descended, he kept seeing things he didn't want to see.
One shadow sent him a dangerous grin, very reminiscent of Sanzu's. Another stared him down with a frown, mumbling in a monotone voice that sounded suspiciously like his manager from the DVD-rental store. The third one, a glimpse of an especially dark mirage, sobbed, pointing a gun at him like Kisaki had once done. The fourth shadow desperately grabbed his hand, dangling from the edge of the bed as if it were a multi-storey building.
The fifth shadow was the oddest of them all. It lay in his bed, comfortably positioned on the side, with one palm supporting its head. It kept silent, never averting its eyes from him, and it wasn't as hostile or miserable as the others, but it watched him with a pensive gaze, both tender and fearful. It was foreign. And it scared him the most.
Just like in the first timeline, Takemichi's solution to his problems was simple: to cocoon himself in a blanket and let the time flow without him. The only difference was that his soft shield smelled of roses and baby powder, making it easier to forget himself in the land of meaningless, empty dreams.
When his parents were home, he smiled, putting on a façade of normalcy. He would reassemble the puzzles in his room for hours just to appear unbothered and content with life. When they were away, he would finally let himself repose, all but decomposing in the confines of his room. In the evening, he would wash his shoes to make it seem as if he'd just returned from a pleasant walk – that way, he could also disguise his passivity as fatigue after an energy-consuming journey.
Takemichi felt guilty, but he couldn't help himself. At least the shadows didn't bother him in his dreams. The longer he slept, the more blurred his visions became, and eventually his nightmares blended into an incomprehensible mass with no colour.
He was just making extra sure he got all the rest he needed, Takemichi told himself. It wasn't like he had absolutely no idea what he needed to do. Given the year, everyone was supposed to be alive, and he had every chance to fix things once and for all. He didn't yet know how, but his previous time-leaps were no better. He'd have to improvise, as always.
He said that to himself one day after his return to the past. Two days after his return. Three days. Four. Five. The vacancy of his slumber, free of shadows, free of burdens, was too tempting to leave behind.
It was precisely because he knew what he had to do that he couldn't force himself to do anything.
He just needed rest, yes. (Permanently, yes. He'd already done so much.)
That last failure was awful. Anyone would be left traumatized. (Except he'd always failed. He'd always tried and failed, tried and failed, and tried and failed.)
He was just tired. (He was terrified of the possibility to start over once again.)
Safely tucked in his bed, Takemichi kept waiting without really knowing for what. Was it selfish of him, simply wanting to enjoy his childhood that he didn't realise he missed so much until recently?
It probably was.
The fifth shadow's smile grew sadder.
A week and two days passed since his return.
Groggily, Takemichi slithered from under his blanket and padded to the kitchen, lured in by an inviting smell of honey and pancakes. He found his mother at the stove, doing her magic above a small frying pan and exchanging occasional comments with her husband. Jun'ichi was seated at the table, attentive blue eyes glued to a fresh newspaper in his hands. Since it was Sunday, both had a day off.
"Mornin'…" Takemichi mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"Takemichi, good morning!" Ayaka chirped. "Breakfast is almost ready. Go brush your teeth."
Still sleepy, he somehow oriented himself in the house without fully opening his eyes. Once his face and mouth were thoroughly cleaned, he joined his parents at the table, and his father greeted him with a brief nod. Jun'ichi wasn't the most talkative of people, so the only things Takemichi inherited from him were his hair and eye colours. His motor mouth and capacious tear ducts were, no doubt, Ayaka's.
The first half of their morning routine went by rather peacefully, mostly full of discussing homely, hardly meaningful things. Takemichi let himself relax, chewing on the sweetness of his meal, when Ayaka suddenly changed the topic.
"Dear, do you have plans for today?"
If one didn't count another session of crying himself to sleep, he was as free as a bird. Still, to support the lie that he still couldn't let go of, Takemichi feigned pondering her words.
"Mhm, not really."
Ayaka beamed, "Great! What do you say about vising Fuyumi this evening?"
He blinked, hand freezing just a few inches away from his mouth. A bit of his pancake hung dejectedly.
"What…?"
"Fuyumi, my sister." Ayaka looked him in the eye, searching for a sign of recognition, and chided, "Your aunt. Don't tell me you forgot her."
"Knowing her, she most likely forgot him first," Jun'ichi added offhandedly, still absorbed by his newspaper. Ayaka jokingly threatened him with a fork.
"Hush now! She adores him." She turned back to Takemichi, "She was very worried when I told her about your illness, you know? This is why she invited us today."
Takemichi still stared, bemused. He wasn't that ignorant to forget about having an aunt – but just imagining that he would have to go outside was–
"We can ask for a rain check if you don't want to," Jun'ichi uttered. "Personally, I'd pass, too."
Ayaka massaged her forehead, exasperated, and he used the moment to steal a pancake from her plate. If there was anything about him that never failed to surprise Takemichi, it was his ability to always do such things with a straight face. When Ayaka noticed the loss, he pointed at Takemichi. Gawking, Takemichi pointed back at him, and Ayaka sighed.
"So? Do you want to go?"
If he was being honest, no, Takemichi didn't. But if he refused, his parents might suspect that he was slowly transforming into a hermit. It would be better to tag along just this once than to incriminate himself.
Reluctant, he nodded. Ayaka smiled at him, and okay – maybe the prospect of accompanying them wasn't that dreadful.
Takemichi faintly remembered his aunt's apartment, mostly because he never liked being there. It was a huge flat in a rather opulent complex, and the interior blatantly reeked of status and suppressed arrogance. His aunt's design choices were beyond him: after all, his mother somehow managed to use her family's money to make the Hanagaki household a warm and welcoming place.
Fuyumi answered the door with a smile so wide that it was almost uncanny. Her overly potent violet-scented perfume made Takemichi's head spin as soon as she breached his personal space. She caged him in a suffocating embrace that he endured more than enjoyed, and briefly murmured something pleasant to his parents before guiding them to the drawing room. The dinner table was already awaiting their presence, and Takemichi's mouth watered at the sight of the dishes atop the spotless white cloth.
In his distraction, he didn't immediately notice a boy that sat in the room by his lonesome. Said boy stood up and bowed his head in greeting, attracting Takemichi's attention and causing his blood to go cold.
"Don't be so stiff, Masaru!" Aunt Fuyumi scolded. "Your cousin's just recovered from the flu. What did I tell you to say?"
Masaru's impassive eyes landed on Takemichi's numb form. They didn't carry a spark of negativity – only plain boredom – but Takemichi had to clutch his mother's hand for his legs not to give out.
"I'm delighted to see you in good health, dear brother," Masaru recited dully. He eyed him like he was waiting for a response, and Ayaka gently nudged Takemichi, breaking him out of his stupor.
"Y-Yeah… T-Thank you."
Visibly satisfied, Fuyumi finally ushered them to take their seats. She began chatting about work and other unrelated things even before Takemichi took hold of his eating utensils, and that was a scene he'd seen too many times in the (not so) distant past. Even though his mother knew aunt Fuyumi better than them, defending her at any given time, his father was right about one thing: Fuyumi's memory was shorter than a mayfly's.
The baked tonkatsu and the miso salmon were enough to occupy Takemichi for a while, but once he filled his stomach to the brim, he needed another distraction. Ayaka and Fuyumi were immersed in their conversation and Jun'ichi silently suffered in his corner, but Masaru was nowhere to be seen – he must have sneaked away when no one was looking. Uneager to share his father's tragic fate, Takemichi soundlessly slid off his chair and crawled out of the drawing room.
He had a fragmented recollection of doing something similar whenever they visited his aunt's apartment. Normally, he'd stalk into the kitchen to help himself to some snacks, but he'd already overeaten, so it was not an option. Sidling down the hall, he reached Masaru's room and peeped inside out of curiosity. The lights were off, covering the room with a veil of the early night's darkness, but the stillness was unnatural – unalive.
Takemichi poked his puckered lip. Where was Masaru if not in his room? Did he go outdoors?
He pressed his ear to the door and listened in, catching what he assumed were curt snipping sounds. Intrigued, Takemichi creeped inside. The interior of the room was quite similar to his, except it was littered with tons of toys – the quantities made him wonder if Masaru even needed that many in the first place. Spotting something akin to a human silhouette on the balcony adjacent to the room, Takemichi made a quiet beeline there.
He discovered Masaru in the process of cutting something that looked like a notebook. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he didn't raise his head upon Takemichi's approach.
"What are you doing?"
Masaru yelped and jolted, nearly toppling over. Takemichi instantly regretted his decision – he was insanely lucky that Masaru didn't hurt himself with the scissors, still grasped firmly by his hand.
His cousin squinted at him with clear disdain, then glanced behind him. Takemichi shook his head, a wordless confirmation that he came alone. Exhaling with relief, Masaru put a finger to his lips.
"Don't scare me like that," he grumbled.
"Sorry."
Huffing, Masaru resumed destroying the notebook. Takemichi distinguished rows of letters on the pages, but it was too dark to read from his spot. Masaru didn't seem keen to answer his question, so he just lowered himself next to him and watched him torture the paper.
It was oddly lulling, blanketed by the silence and the series of repetitive snips. The stars twinkled overhead. The cut bits of paper piled up between them in a lump, and Takemichi fished out an especially big piece, bringing it close to his eyes.
"And he jumped upstream for one hundred years…" He read out loud, screwing his eyes. "Is it a poem? Do you write?"
The other tore the piece away from his hands and said nothing.
They had never been close, so even if he aspired to be a writer, Takemichi would never know. Still, as a kid, Takemichi was quite happy to have him. Knowing that at least someone from his family wasn't permanently overseas or too airheaded like aunt Fuyumi brought him a sense of comfort he always craved. Masaru would often ramble about his life over anything Takemichi had to say, but Takemichi never actually minded – Masaru's anecdotes were exciting, at times inciting his genuine jealousy. It wasn't until Takemichi turned 14 (for the first time) that he realised that Masaru's stories were fake from start to finish. Maybe bragging about non-existent things to his younger cousin was his coping mechanism, who knew.
Takemichi wouldn't be so bitter about it if Masaru's habit didn't lead him directly to Kiyomasa. The ghost of pure, unadulterated betrayal still haunted him at times.
When he was done ruining the notebook, Masaru gathered all the paper pieces and rose to his feet. Takemichi followed. Leaning on the rails, Masaru searched his pockets and pulled out a small lighter. Summoning an unsteady flame with a sharp click, he lit one piece up and released it into the air. The weather was calm, not even a breeze to ruffle their hair and clothes, so the paper spiralled down, like a shooting star from the cloudless sky, fading away and painting an orange afterglow in its wake. The sight was rather mesmerizing, a pale spark of fake life devoured by the darkness beneath.
Masaru set aflame another piece. It also descended into the abyss, softly, like a snowflake, and Takemichi considered making a wish before the unappealing smell of burning paper reached his nostrils. He cleared his throat, chasing the silly idea away.
Out of the blue, Masaru shoved the lighter into his hands.
"Your turn."
"M-My turn…?"
Masaru nodded. Hesitantly, Takemichi acquiesced, but once his fingers squeezed a piece of paper, all the final bits of his courage dissolved without a trace. The gods acknowledged its perseverance, the paper read – and what was it if not mockery?
Masaru elbowed him, "C'mon. We better hurry."
"W-We should stop."
"Why?"
Takemichi gulped. His palms trembled, moist with sweat.
"It – it's dangerous. What if it ends up in someone's apartment and starts a fire? Someone – someone might die."
"It won't," Masaru groaned, pushing him closer to the railing. "Do it already."
Takemichi's chest painfully collided with the iron fence – it was too tall for him to fall over, but the proximity of the all-engulfing murk sent a chilly ripple in his stomach.
"N-No!" he squeaked, scuffling away from Masaru's grasp. Hands clenching into fists, he accidentally crumpled the paper beyond recovery.
Masaru scoffed, "Pussy."
"It's just stupid. Why are you even doing this?"
"It's a magical ritual."
"You're lying," Takemichi said – calmly, not to accuse, but to state the obvious. That earned him a shocked gasp.
"I'm not!"
"No, you are. You are always lying to me," Takemichi puffed out a heavy, despondent breath. "I know I'm a bit dumb, but I'm not that dumb."
Masaru regarded him with a long, displeased look – he had the audacity to appear hurt. Pridefully raising his head, he swiped all the paper pieces off the ledge and stomped back into his room. Takemichi remained to watch the minuscule milky spots brave the horizon – as anticipated, their attempt never bore fruit. As the last and the most resilient piece perished in the beast's bottomless maw, Takemichi, too, left the balcony.
Masaru had already made himself comfortable on the bed, fiddling with an old toy – an action figure covered in chipped paint and sporting broken joints that someone clumsily taped back together. He didn't grace him with a single gaze, and Takemichi decided to leave him be. Now that Masaru had turned on his night lamp, Takemichi could see a pile of comic books on his bedside table and reached out to take one – regardless of the age, he always loved them.
"Don't touch them," Masaru growled. "They are mine."
"I know. I'll just take a look. May I?"
"No."
Takemichi's hand longingly hovered above the comics. Come on, he didn't even ask to take them home!
"They don't even look like someone read them." He scratched one of the books with a nail and emitted a quiet oh – it was still wrapped in a transparent package. "Why do you need so many things if you aren't going to use them?"
"Mom keeps buying them," Masaru shrugged. "I can't really throw them away."
"You can give them away to poor kids."
"Yeah, sure."
For a 9-year-old, Masaru managed to sound more sarcastic than some of the most bitter adults Takemichi had met. That was an achievement, he surmised.
Takemichi didn't recall Masaru ever raising a hand against him, but opted to play it safe and keep his distance, plopping on the floor. Pressing the soles of his feet together, he rocked his body, humming a simple tune to himself.
At first stiff and unable to hide his discomfort, Masaru eventually relaxed and started bending his action figure's limbs, sculpting various poses with an experienced touch. His current bearing was that of an innocent kid, blissfully unaware that in six years' time he would tread the path of violence. Takemichi actually couldn't remember what happened to Masaru after the disbandment of Kiyomasa's gang. Maybe he refrained from further delinquency and focused on his future, like his parents wanted. Or maybe he found a new crew to join. At fifteen, he didn't strike Takemichi as someone independent.
Aunt Fuyumi liked to fuss about her son's future, so Takemichi had no idea how she could overlook that. Not that he ever asked. After falling out with his parents, he grew distant from his other relatives as well.
Was it one of many mistakes in his life, born out of stupid stubbornness? The memory of Ayaka's soft hands or the way she sang welcome home every time his father returned from work later than her kindled something warm in his body. If there was anything Takemichi learned during his inescapable hibernation, it was that he really wanted to believe in something naïve and foolish one more time.
"Hey," he called, halting his mimicry of a pendulum. "Does aunt Fuyumi love you?"
Masaru's hand twitched, but maybe Takemichi was seeing things.
"She does."
Takemichi stared at him, but Masaru persistently kept his eyes trained on the action figure.
"Are you lying to me again?"
"Shut your mouth."
"No, but–"
"Shut up!" Masaru's eyes snapped upwards, zeroing in on Takemichi with anger. He didn't seem particularly spiteful, but irritation was evident on his face. "Why would I lie about my mom?"
Takemichi deflated, "I'm not accusing you or anything. Just curious."
"Well, maybe I'm curious, too. Does your mom love you?"
It sounded more like an attempt at ridicule, but Takemichi contemplated the question seriously. His answer remained the same.
"Dunno."
"You dunno?"
"Yeah. But I know for sure that if I don't do anything, mom and dad will leave me."
Masaru smiled unkindly, "That's because you are a pussy."
Takemichi wanted to object, but no sound left his mouth. Defending himself right now, with his body and mind spoiled by the fortress of his bed, would be blatant hypocrisy, and he wanted to at least have the courage to admit that. Met with no response, Masaru smirked, triumphant.
"Do you hate me?" Takemichi asked instead. That seemed to catch his cousin off-guard.
"Why?"
"Like you said, I'm a pussy. But I want to be better. I–" A lump in his throat closed off his airway, and he paused to take a breath. "I don't want to be alone. I want people to like me. But I want to achieve that with something other than cowardice."
Masaru fell silent. His head was inclined to the nearest wall, but Takemichi could feel his eyes on himself.
"Do you hate me?" he repeated.
"No."
"Do you want me to get hurt?"
Masaru turned pallid, "No! Mom'll kill me."
"Why do you always lie to me, then?"
Those words came out softer than he intended. Maybe he was more forgiving than he thought.
This time, Masaru looked him in the eye.
"Because you always believe me."
The room stilled. Distantly, Takemichi could hear someone's car drive into the front yard and take its place on the parking lot. Masaru returned to twisting his toy, and the surrounding lull lasted for what felt like the most excruciating minutes in Takemichi's life. The only sound to wake them up from their trance was the echo of Ayaka's voice, resounding farther down the hall.
"Takemichi, where are you? It's time to go home!"
Takemichi stole a glance at Masaru, but the other's hunched frame glowered at him, unfriendly. A part of him felt relieved, but the other, bigger part opposed to leaving just like that. A streak of light that peeped inside from the slit between the door and the floor made him think of Masaru's impromptu meteor shower.
Before turning the doorknob, Takemichi looked back.
"Don't brag about things that are not real. One day, I might end up believing you so hard that I'll get hurt, and your mom will kill you, like you said."
Masaru made an odd sound, something between a huff and a laugh.
"I'm serious." Takemichi lingered at the threshold, but couldn't think of a fitting goodbye and only added, "And I don't hate you, too."
"…liar."
His whisper was almost drowned by the creak of the opening door. You are wrong, Takemichi wanted to answer. He didn't. The door closed on its own.
Later that night, as he was undressing in his own room, Takemichi realised that he forgot to return the lighter. The piece of paper that Masaru gave him also rested securely in his pocket, and the word perseverance still sat on it, visible, almost miraculously unmarred by the creases. Takemichi lit it up – a star of his making, it burned his fingertips, eliciting a pained hiss out of him.
He made a wish this time. Instead of letting the paper float in the wind, he put it out right after that.
Takemichi decided to go back to cram school. His parents appeared torn between concern and relief, but complied to his wish nonetheless. When his father asked him why he didn't just wait until the end of the summer break, Takemichi replied with honesty: he wanted to stay true to himself. He meant it as both the last means to honour his younger self and the emergency exit for his own needs, a way to break free from his lethargy, and didn't expect his father to understand, but, to his surprise, Jun'ichi praised him – as always, without a particular emotion to colour his features, leaving his son in a state of prominent perplexity. His father was quite hard to read at times.
Still, the praise uplifted his mood the tiniest bit. That decision was a small, microscopic step to make, but it still felt like a big victory.
The first day of school didn't go as painfully as he feared, because, appearently, solving elementary school level problems was good for his self-esteem. Takemichi still had to strain more muscles than normal to force out a smile, but the effort now felt validating. He was trying. Still a pathetic excuse, but at least it was meant to propel him forward, not to conceal his sloth.
When the thrill of his small achievements faded away, the day resumed its uneventful, monochrome pace – maybe a bit less productive than ideal. Focusing on simple equations helped Takemichi get his mind off intrusive thoughts, but by the time the teacher started an interactive class – something about playing matching games – Takemichi had successfully zoned out. His classmates' faces, the textbooks, and the colourful graphs with various rules all fused into a whirlwind of distant buzzing and bland hues. He left the school even more tired than in the morning, fatigued by the extensive contemplation that didn't lead him anywhere.
Okay, step 1: returning to his 8-year-old self's routine was a success, but – then what?
Tempting as the solace of his house was, Takemichi felt like meandering about the streets – if he was going to recreate all the ugliest parts of his first timeline, he might as well put them into practice. He took a detour, rounding a random corner, and headed over to the closest residential area, blissfully ignored by the passers-by. He watched a group of teenagers fool around farther down the street, tackling each other and guffawing without a care for the judging eyes of onlookers, and couldn't resist a remembrance of Toman.
He imagined them do the same, and his heart ached.
Making sure those wide smiles never left their faces would make for quite a nice goal, wouldn't it?
To achieve that goal, he needed a plan – even a vague to-do list would be better than nothing. He doubted his ability to keep all the upcoming events in his memory, especially in a chronological order, so a mind map or anything of the like would totally come in handy. He recalled seeing a dusty whiteboard somewhere in his house; maybe his parents wouldn't mind if he borrowed it.
Okay, that was a solid step 2. Little by little, he would start over. He had to.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn't register the moment his feet brought him to a playground. The day was still young, sunny and lacking a trace of the forthcoming sunset, but Takemichi couldn't spot a single kid in the vicinity – all the swings and the slides stood desolate, not a jingle of laughter nearby–
"Get on your knees and beg!"
Oh. That was why.
Ah, his sweet, sweet childhood, when not a single day went by without him encountering a delinquent or a homicidal maniac in a child's clothing. The voice rang from behind one of the slides, conveniently hidden from the eyes of anyone who wasn't deliberately searching for the source. Takemichi sneaked over to take a peek.
A group of kids, most likely around his age, formed a circle around their victim – a boy whom Takemichi assumed to be much older, given his impressive height. He looked like a teenager, not an elementary school student, so it really was a mystery why a bunch of munchkins targeted him.
Well, if Toman taught Takemichi something, it was to never judge a book by its cover. Maybe the boy was too meek to stand up for himself, or maybe his height was deceiving and hid the weakest person on planet Earth. If someone like Mikey could be the strongest fighter in Tokyo, it should work the other way, too. Right?
The children sneered, though Takemichi was certain he didn't hear the boy respond to their demand. Maybe he spoke too quietly, only for his tormentors to hear. That poor, tortured soul – no doubt bullied into fearing the volume of his own voice. Takemichi knew that fear all too well.
"You hear that? He is kidding!"
"Bet he is a wuss! Like his brother!"
"Look at him, all big and scary! Pfft! I saw him running errands for Yamada, he isn't that scary at all!"
"Let's see how scary he'll be once we make him bow–"
"Hey you! Stop it!" Takemichi shouted, jumping out of his hiding spot. The children spun to assess him, each exhibiting a look of vexation and animosity – almost ridiculous on their pink-cheeked faces.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Leave him alone!" Takemichi placed both hands on his waist, scowling and putting his chest out. "What are you even doing, hurting someone who is weaker than you? Didn't your parents teach you that it's bad?"
One of the kids chuckled, "Oi, he is a dumbass."
"Are they friends?"
"Yea, most likely. Only a dumbass can be friends with another dumbass."
The tall boy's face grew glum.
"Hey, don't call him names!" Takemichi waved a fist, receiving several unamused looks. "Or I'll beat your asses!"
He only blurted that out in hopes to scare them off – once again, forgetting that he was a pipsqueak no taller than them. Needless to say, the kids charged at him as if by command – and he didn't beat anyone's ass.
One wild punch right into his jaw, and his world blacked out. Losing a fight against a few elementary schoolers – way to go, Takemichi.
Thankfully, he wasn't knocked out for too long – when he opened his eyes, the children were still in his line of vision, albeit sprinting away at the speed of a race car. Gingerly finding support on his elbows, Takemichi fought against a dull headache as he watched their small backs vanish from his sight.
Ha! He grinned to himself, proud. His resolve must have frightened them away.
Before he could stand, a strong force yanked him up by the collar, lifted his tiny body off the ground, and turned him around, forcing him to face the tall boy he'd tried to save. For some reason, the boy's face was contorted into a scowling grimace, something dangerous glimmering in his surprisingly sharp yellow eyes. He looked like a baby shark, ready to bite at his prey.
Takemichi could actually commend those kids for their bravery – if he were a bully, he would never cross someone who looked like that. He plastered on his friendliest smile, struggling to make it less crooked.
"T-That was close! Good thing I came in time!"
"The hell is your problem?" the boy asked with an audible snarl. His voice was higher than Takemichi would expect from someone this tall, but it didn't diminish the oozing threat.
The boy raised his arm even higher until Takemichi's feet dangled in the air. Okay, calling him tall was an understatement. He was overgrown. Gargantuan. Almost as tall as Takemichi at 14.
"Uh – what…?"
"You think it's fun, don't you?" The boy shook him, eyes narrowing. Takemichi wheezed.
"N-No, wait… Y-You misunderstood… I'm not with them…"
"Yeah, of course. They are the bad guys, and you swoop in like a damn hero to humiliate me even further. Oh look, he is so big, but he can't even protect himself! He needs a scrawny shrimp to save him! How hilarious!"
Okay, that shrimp part was totally unnecessary. Takemichi managed to grab the hand that held him, only to be tossed back down harshly. He whined, tears of pain burning his eyes.
"Ha-ha," the boy pronounced, not laughing in the slightest. It sounded like a suppressed roar. High or not, his voice was scary. "Whose idea was it?"
Caught in the pool of the other's shadow, Takemichi tasted a bizarre feeling of déjà vu. It shouldn't be anything foreign to him – he was used to getting cornered by people twice his size.
He hastily looked up.
"Listen, it's not–"
He froze, a hiccup of his heartbeat knocking at his ribs. From that angle, beneath the angered kid, he could finally see a resemblance to one specific fight from his past-slash-future – everything, save for the time and the place, was the same. Even the fear that seized his insides – or maybe that fear prevailed precisely because of how familiar it all appeared.
"T–"
"God, just how many of you do I have to beat up before you leave me alone?" The kid's eyes flared, pupils shrinking. Those eyes lacked the insatiable, almost sinisterly gleeful bloodthirst, but the ominous glow of the yellow irises was the same – maybe it was inborn.
Even at 10 years old, if Takemichi remembered his age correctly, Shiba Taiju managed to elicit unreasonable, animalistic fear from him. He didn't even need his tattoos or a bloody crimson coat to scream menace with all his being. The beating he'd just received couldn't compete with the punches that rained on him on Christmas, but waves of pain still echoed on Takemichi's face.
He parted his trembling lips, trying to croak out anything of value, but Taiju's fist was already in the air. Rolling over to the side, Takemichi miraculously evaded the hit, sprung back up to his feet and took off running before Taiju even shifted for a new attack. He heard the other dash after him, the stomps of his legs no less fearsome than the screeches of Takemichi's blood-curdling dreams.
He only stopped when his lungs threatened to give out – and, to his luck, no malevolent shadow was hot on his tail. Still, even without a dangerous presence to drive him forward, Takemichi ran again after the first desperate lungful of air.
Against his will, he started crying, heaving and gulping down every bitter teardrop.
So much for his heroic musings about small progress and whatnot. Maybe Masaru wasn't that wide off the mark.
Notes:
Not a fan of this chapter tbh. Please let me know if it feels off.
Notes:
goodness gracious, why does every chapter always end up so huge
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4. Steeped in Courage
February 10, 2006?? (curse my poor memory q_q) – Koko is kidnapped
February 22, 2006 – The Kanto Incident
Who dies: Emma, Izana, (Kisaki)
July 7, 2008 – The Battle of Three Deities
Who dies: Draken
September 9, 2008 – Tokyo Manji VS Kanto Manji, very-very bad, must prevent at all costs ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ
Who dies: everyone (supposedly)
His eyes glided up the board, following the chain of events in a reverse order. They ended up on
August 3, 2005 – Musashi Festival
Who dies: Draken (already know how to save him, but can't be too sure)
and then on
July 4, 2005 – My First Time-Travel (man, that was so long ago!!!!)
Who dies: me
Takemichi couldn't help a slight cringe as he reread the first line. He still recalled the day he had been pushed onto the train tracks vividly, as if it were yesterday, but the shock had long since dulled away. When he had spoken to Naoto on those rusty swings, he would have never guessed that countless time-leaps later, he would be listing all the deaths and tragedies within his social circle like some private investigator.
His parents didn't mind him using the whiteboard, so here he was, creating the map of all the events he had sworn to prevent. It was a bit difficult to catalogue everything from his last time-travel to his first and then stuff it all on one surface, so he settled for a brief mind map, only outlining the dates, the people, and the cause-and-effect relations.
Of course, his map included the incidents that preceded his very first time-leap. However, writing them down was a bit trickier, because he didn't have a good enough time reference.
The night between August 13 and 14, 2003 was the night of Sano Shinichiro's death in his bike shop, that much he memorised perfectly. But everything prior was mainly based on the snippets of truth that the others confided in him with, and his own clumsy calculations. Some things appeared to still be tied to him by proxy, but he, sadly, didn't know much about the events that propelled them into existence. What prompted Kazutora to think that killing the shop owner was a good idea? Why did the Inui house suddenly catch fire? Questions like these were endless, and Takemichi would be lying if he said it didn't frustrate him.
Even worse, he found himself struggling with the things that had a more direct connection to him. What date did Moebius ambush Pah-chin's friend? Was he ever told something so important? When exactly did Mikey and Draken have an argument over it? What was he doing before Bloody Halloween (not counting him meeting Chifuyu)?
It was unfair to blame himself for forgetting – after all, until recently, his mind had been occupied with much more relevant things, like managing Toman and leading the gang against Mikey. Still, Takemichi couldn't suppress a tinge of disappointment. He had spent the whole morning cooped up in his room, doing nothing but arranging and rearranging the sequence of events on the whiteboard, and the longer he remained glued to his spot, the more restless he became. He needed to do something, but the fact that he was failing at something as simple as remembering only rewarded him with an obnoxious itch under his skin.
The intrusive thoughts about yesterday would also swing by to distract him from his task. His parents had immediately noticed that he had got into a fight, and he couldn't really lie about it – his red-rimmed eyes and bruised face had spoken for themselves. Needless to say, he'd got himself a scolding and a demand to promise that he would never get into a fight again.
Phantom pains washed over his skin at the memory, and Takemichi crouched before the whiteboard, biting his lips in frustration. How was he going to change the entire past if he was chickening out at the mere thought about one of his past enemies?
How on Earth did he stand up to Taiju that night?
Imagining himself before Taiju's bulldozing presence, Takemichi sensed his lungs spasm, suddenly in need of air. Sure, he might have overheard Mitsuya telling Hakkai that he had invited Taiju to their showdown with Kanto Manji Gang, but he hadn't really reacted to the news that day – thinking back to it now, he was justifiably confused.
Was he high on something in that timeline? How could he be so straightforward and reckless?
(Confident and determined would be better words to describe that Takemichi, those qualities being the ones the current Takemichi lacked. If he refrained from enunciating them because he was both bemused and salty, it was only for him to know about.)
He felt like a stranger in someone else's body – not as someone much older trying to fit his younger self's shell, but as someone forced to live the life of a completely different person. He couldn't recognize the Takemichi that boldly opposed Taiju, didn't falter before the muzzle of Kisaki's gun and proudly stood on the steps of Musashi Shrine, wearing the red sash that had once belonged to Mikey. That Takemichi was a hero. This Takemichi felt like a fraud.
Looking up at the whiteboard, Takemichi winced at his uneven, messy handwriting. Naoto's notes had always looked so much better, neatly documenting their every step whenever Takemichi returned to the future. Chifuyu's notes were a bit more chaotic, but they had a certain artistic flair to them, divided into colourful graphs that made it easy to tell one piece of data from another.
That was right.
That Takemichi was a hero because someone else always had his back.
A weight on his heart that Takemichi hadn't realised he had clung to his chest like a dumbbell, cruelly constricting his lungs. An invisible force fisted his neck, eliciting a raspy heave from his own throat. His hands trembled.
He'd already acted on his own accord and got everyone killed. Was he really expecting to save them?
〘 What a fucked-up future. But to be honest, it makes me happy. After all, we were able to meet again. 〙
Jerking his head up, Takemichi looked around, but no one else was in his room. He blinked, his vision suddenly blurry.
He slapped his cheeks – hard. His ears hurt at the ringing that followed, and his face burned where two stinging red prints took shape. The pain sobered his hazy mind up.
Takemichi straightened his back, facing the board fully once again. Internally, he mouthed words of gratitude.
Thank you, partner. It was silly of me, but I'm fine now.
Chifuyu's voice sounded too realistic to be mere fantasy, and as long as Takemichi could still remember him say those words as if he were by his side at this very moment, he wasn't alone. It was enough.
Taking a deep breath, Takemichi reread everything he'd written once again – namely, everything before 2003 where his already limited knowledge faced its first lapse. The casualty preceding Shinichiro's death was Inupi's older sister, who was supposed to die somewhere in 2000 – he didn't know the month, but he still had at least half a year in advance, so he could do something in the meantime.
The incident closest to the current date would be the death of Kakucho's parents – if he remembered correctly, it was somewhere in the summer of 1999 when his friend had to move out.
Takemichi nodded to himself. Yeah, that would be his first goal – saving Kakucho. Pumped up by the overwhelming feeling of purpose, Takemichi ran out of his room and took off for the living room, speedily descending the stairs. He found his parents discussing something while they were sorting out a pile of work-related papers that lay atop a coffee table.
"Takemichi?" His mother noticed him first. "Is something the matter?"
Practically buzzing from excitement, he exclaimed, "I wanna play with Kaku-chan! I haven't seen him in ages!"
To be perfectly honest, he couldn't remember Kakucho's old address, so he hoped Ayaka would offer walking him there – after all, she was good friends with Kakucho's mother. He also expected his parents to laugh at his statement, claiming that it had hardly been two weeks since he'd fallen ill, or something like that.
The worried looks they exchanged were certainly unanticipated. Ayaka opened her mouth, slamming her lips shut when Jun'ichi gave her a solemn nod. They wordlessly conversed for a few more moments before Ayaka finally turned to her son with in a tentative, hesitant movement, putting her papers aside.
"Dear," she chewed on the plush of her lips, "Kaku-chan is not here anymore. You… you don't remember…?"
She must have said something else, but the rest of her words was swallowed by static.
Takemichi dropped to his knees.
Kakucho's parents were already dead.
They had died before you even leapt to the past, you confirmed it yourself. There was no way for you to save them. If Naoto were with him, he would probably say something of the like, breathing sense and logic with his bearing. It felt a bit smothering at times, but his confidence in anything and everything, even his own assumptions, was something Takemichi would pay generously to have right now.
Repeating those words to himself provided him with little consolation, but they were enough to save his spirit from breaking prematurely. Kakucho was still alive – and, if everything was going according to the previous timeline, must be befriending Izana. Takemichi really had no idea how he was supposed to communicate with Izana on his own, so it would be better to let the two bond first and then ask Kakucho to be their mediator. He made a mental note to get in touch with Kakucho someday, but he must be safe for now, hence not his top priority.
Consequently, it meant that his next mission would be saving Inui Akane. Doing so would help him protect Inupi and Koko as well, and maybe even completely erase the version of Koko that had joined Bonten, which made it a rather important step. Sadly, Takemichi had to take that step in the blind, because he knew neither the date of her death nor the Inui family's address. When he mused about something to lead him to Inupi, even the tiniest thread, he could only think of one landmark.
Sano Shinichiro's bike shop.
So, off to shop he went.
Shaken by the news about Kakucho's family, he locked himself up in his room to cry and suffer yet another panic attack, so he could guess that his parents wouldn't be too eager to let him go out. The best decision he could come up with was to fake falling asleep and then tiptoe out of the house. It was probably rather low of him, but he couldn't waste any more time – he had to get a hold of himself and start acting already. It felt like the very air outside was judging him, and his skin still itched, earning itself a series of profanities that, in short, demanded it chill out, or else.
He'd only been to the shop when Inupi had brought him there to reminisce about his past, but his legs marched down the street confidently, as if lured by a magnetic pull. While walking, Takemichi realised that he also couldn't remember when exactly Inupi became the shop's frequent: before his sister's death, out of curiosity, or after, as a means to cope with her passing? It didn't matter now, he told himself. It was still possible to confirm some things.
His heart beat faster once he turned right and finally recognized the street. Now, if he went straight forward, alongside the row of tiny shops all squeezed into one overstuffed building, he would inevitably find the place. Counting the parlours on his way, Takemichi walked faster – and ended up in front of an alley where the building's wall came to an end. He saw no bike shops.
He sprinted back, counting again. No bike shops.
Takemichi returned to the starting point and stubbornly ambled along the wall in careful, slow-paced steps, peering inside every store. He stopped in front of a massive window that, in theory, would be perfect for putting motorcycles on display, and a familiar-looking door with a tiny bell overhead. This must have been his destination.
Except – it was no bike shop. Rather, a small food store. He could see rows and rows of products through the glass, and the cashier, noticing him stare, waved with a smile, as if inviting him to buy something.
Apologetically shaking his head, Takemichi hastened to walk to away, head spinning.
The shop didn't exist yet. He thought he recalled Emma or Mikey mention the age gap between them and their brother somewhere in passing, so now, in 1999, Shinichiro must be around 19 years old, right? It only made sense that he hadn't started his business yet! Groaning, Takemichi facepalmed.
He must have done that too loudly, because several heads around snapped in his direction. Embarrassed blush covering his cheeks, he swiftly waddled away. Today was certainly a bad day for him.
Mulling over his miscalculation, Takemichi couldn't help but wonder: when exactly was Shinichiro going to open that shop? And why?
The sky had begun to adopt blushy orange hues, but Takemichi couldn't bring himself to return home with nothing to pat himself on the back for. Considering the ungodly huge piles of documents that his parents were sorting though, he still had a couple more hours to investigate before they would be free to check up on him. It wasn't his best guess, but he surmised that Inupi had to know about Shinichiro's shop from somewhere. Maybe he didn't live too far away and frequented the area – a flimsy assumption, Takemichi knew that, but he couldn't really think of anything else.
That's how he ended up on a sunlit playground, basking in the ginger evening rays. The group of delinquents, probably five or six years older than him, stared at him in confusion – some were amused, some clearly wanted him to frig off.
He tried to ignore their gazes, but his inquiry still came out in a series of incomprehensible stutters. To his surprise, he was still understood.
"No idea," the boy with a black pompadour, most likely the leader of the group, drawled while nonchalantly waving his soda can. "Better ask elsewhere, kiddo."
Takemichi deflated. The gang leader stood up and motioned for his cronies to do the same, and Takemichi let out a squeaky sound that made him wince at himself.
"Uhm…! There's something else I wanted to ask you!"
"Geez, kid, we ain't an info stand. Ask some other gang."
"Do you know who I can ask?" he breathed out, finally hopeful. To his dismay, the teenager shrugged.
"Nah. But you'll find someone eventually. Tokyo is big."
"Just go to the police or something," one of his friends huffed.
Cackling at a joke Takemichi wasn't privy to, the group retreated. Despondent, Takemichi dragged his heavy feet to the now-free swings and sat down, feeling the remains of the previous occupant's warmth.
For the past hour, he'd been wandering the streets and asking around, hoping that someone could know about the address of the Inui family or at least the local gangs that could be potentially related to Black Dragons. Sure, going to the police was an option, but how could he explain the reason for his search? Sorry, I'm a time-leaper trying to prevent the death of the Inui family's daughter?
They would never take him seriously, and he couldn't think of a more plausible excuse.
He swung in his seat, letting his feet trail on the sandy ground. The evening breeze felt quite nice, brushing his curls off his frowning face. Closing his eyes, Takemichi allowed himself to enjoy the moment of silence.
It didn't last long. Or, well, maybe it did, but he failed to notice, too absorbed by his impromptu sunbath. All he knew was that it wasn't dead silent anymore. His ears managed to detect stifled sounds that awfully reminded him of someone's sobs.
He stood up before his brain even registered what he was doing. Following the sound, Takemichi arrived to a big tree by the sidewalk, where, hidden in its massive shadow, a tiny figure was hugging its knees. A child was crying.
Takemichi clearly didn't remember spotting them on the playground, so they must have sneaked on while he was lost in his thoughts. Or maybe they didn't notice him, too overcome with the cause of their tears.
Either way, the sound of their broken, pained voice was heartbreaking, and Takemichi padded over, carefully kneeling beside the kid. Somehow still unnoticed, he gently patted their shoulder.
"Hey?"
The kid yelped, flinching away from him. It was a boy around his age, with short hair and big navy blue eyes, so innocent and full of unprotected emotion that Takemichi fought the urge to hug him. The boy glanced at him warily, as if expecting him to do something bad.
Takemichi raised his hands to prove that he was harmless.
"Are you alright?"
The boy blinked at him, but his attempt to pacify him must have worked. Visibly easing up, the boy returned to his sitting position, bringing his legs back up to rest his chin on his knees. They were pointy and covered with old scratches.
He clearly hesitated to answer, but Takemichi remained patient and eventually was shown a timid shake of the other's head.
"Tell me what happened?" Takemichi suggested, plopping down by his side. The boy didn't crawl away, which was already an achievement.
After a few beats of silence, he whispered, "Promise you won't laugh?"
"I promise."
He must have said that too fast because the boy glanced at him cautiously. His dark blue eyes zeroed in on Takemichi's face, assessing something, and Takemichi tried to smile. It was crooked at best, but, thankfully, it helped.
Pouting, the boy looked away.
"I can't go home."
"Why? Are you lost? I'm not really familiar with the area, but I can–"
"It's the dog."
Takemichi, a bit thrown off by the interruption, could only stare.
"The dog?"
A shy nod.
"My neighbour's dog."
"W-What about it…?"
The boy averted his eyes to the ground, scrunching his face like a martyr.
"It scares me," he muttered in one breathy exhale, implying everything Takemichi never wanted to know. He could only stroke his back in understanding.
One of his neighbours, back when he was a bitter adult, had a cat – that little vicious thing hated Takemichi's guts and attacked him every time he passed by the door to said neighbour's apartment. At times, he would camp outside for hours before the cat's owner returned from work and restrained the beast, all the while complaining that his Fluffy was a little angel and Takemichi just loved to provoke him.
Takemichi never related to anyone so much. With a determined cry, he grabbed the boy's hands, forcing him to look up. Two confused – and, honestly speaking, distantly familiar – orbs stared at him in shock.
"I'll walk you home!" Takemichi declared. If he could do at least something useful today, he would latch onto the opportunity, no matter the cost.
The boy's eyes rounded, getting even bigger than they naturally were.
"Really?"
"Really! I'll keep that dog away, so don't worry!"
Takemichi regretted not wearing his cape today – he could have looked so much cooler! Still, the boy's eyes lit up, and he nodded energetically, clutching his hands with a bewildering amount of strength – Takemichi didn't expect such a painful grip from someone with such an innocent face. It actually hurt, but the boy gaped at him with such admiration that he had to swallow the complaint.
"Let's just… get going… before it's too dark…" he rasped out, trying his damn best not to betray his pain. The boy gasped.
"R-Right! B-Big bro is going to get mad if I'm late again…"
He sprang back up to his feet, hauling Takemichi up with him. To Takemichi's surprise, the boy was much taller than him – not as tall as Taiju, but still impressively enough, especially compared to how small he appeared when curled into himself. Takemichi frowned, mostly at his own body. That growth spurt better strike him soon.
"My house is that way," the boy pointed to his left, somewhere on the other side of the playground. "Thank you again…! Uh… what's your name?"
"Takemichi. Yours?"
The boy beamed, an adorable blush adorning his cheeks.
"My name is Hakkai! Nice to meet you, Takemichi-kun!"
"Yeah, likewi–"
Takemichi choked. He whipped his head up so hard that dark spots waltzed in his line of vision.
Really short hair (not quite his teenage buzzcut, but close), a lanky build and deep dark eyes that held too much pain for his age – no wonder he thought something about the boy was familiar. He was talking to none other than Shiba Hakkai, Toman's (future) vice-captain of the 2nd Division.
To Takemichi's horror, the first image he remembered of Hakkai wasn't that of the happier times they'd shared, like bowling or going to school together. First, he remembered his bloodied, tear-stained face, illuminated by the bright lights of the Udagawa chapel. Second, he remembered his limbs bent at grotesque angles, and involuntarily envisioned what his face must have looked like, despite having never got to actually see it.
In 9 years, Hakkai would–
A soft touch to his hand snapped him back to reality.
"Are you… okay?" Hakkai asked sheepishly. His fingers trembled – was he not used to holding someone's hand? Or maybe he got spooked by whatever Takemichi's face reflected. Takemichi's facial muscles hurt somewhat – quite a grimace he must have made.
Takemichi gulped down the bitter liquidy lump in his throat and forced himself to nod.
"L-Let's just go…"
He started walking, pulling Hakkai along with ease thanks to their still joined hands. It only occurred to him that he had no idea where to go when Hakkai meekly tugged at his wrist before they rounded the wrong corner.
The atmosphere between them was tense, and he could tell that Hakkai was uncomfortable. Suspecting that it was his fault, Takemichi hurriedly racked his brain to think of a way to lighten the mood. He needed to talk about something, but what?
It was too hot, and he was too unnerved to think of anything – anything but one thing, the very same thing that had occupied his mind for the past few hours.
Ugh, might as well try it.
"Say, Hakkai, do you know anyone whose last name is Inui?"
The boy jumped, no doubt taken aback by the sound of Takemichi's voice. His grip on Takemichi's hand once again tightened to the point of painful, but loosened relatively fast. At least subconsciously, Hakkai seemed to be aware of his raw potential.
(Given what giant he was going to become, it wasn't that shocking, really.)
Hakkai hummed, thoughtful, "Well… There is a boy named Inui in my elementary… he is in a different class, though."
Takemichi instantly perked up, "Does he have a big sister, by any chance?"
"No. He has a baby brother, though."
Takemichi's face fell. Clearly taking his dejection for something else, Hakkai mumbled nervously, "D-Do you want to talk to him…? W-We aren't friends, but I can ask him…"
"No… That's not my Inui…"
"Oh." Hakkai blinked at him, somehow expressing both relief and curiosity. "Are you looking for your friend?"
Takemichi rubbed his nose.
"Uh. No? Sorta. He doesn't know me, but I kinda do – actually, no, never mind." Seeing Hakkai's growing confusion, he blurted out, "I meet lotsa people every day, so I kinda mistake one for another, you know? Don't worry too much about it. I must have made a mistake, yeah."
Hakkai hummed again. Takemichi could feel the burn from the intensity of his gaze, sparkling with interest.
"Does it mean you have a lot of friends?"
Would Toman count? Probably not. It was too early for that.
"Not really?" Hakkai's eyes dimmed with worry, and he added, "I have more friends than enemies, though! I'm fine with that."
Hakkai sighed softly. Almost dreamily.
"Must be nice…" It was now Takemichi's turn to wordlessly ask for answers, and Hakkai clarified, "I meet a lot of people too, but they usually just bully me."
"Why?"
There was a barely detectable stumble to Hakkai's next step. Takemichi only noticed because Hakkai was walking faster than him, practically dragging him along.
"They say I look bulliable. Some of them attack me because they hate my brother."
Hakkai sounded sad. He made a noise of surprise when Takemichi squeezed his hand tighter and dashed ahead of him to look him directly in the face.
"Who are they? Tell me! I'll beat them up for you!"
Hakkai looked at him with doubt, attentive eyes scanning Takemichi's limbs. His eyebrows crept higher, and Takemichi couldn't help but pout.
"I'm serious!" He exclaimed, yanking Hakkai down by the hand. With their faces now on the same level, he stared Hakkai right in the eye, trying to convey everything he wanted without unnecessary chatter.
A crying, broken young man, trapped within his own family, refused to leave his mind. A corrupted, heartless gang admin followed, regarding him with a glare so chilling that it pierced Takemichi to the bone.
If he could help this boy avoid becoming the former and then the latter, even the smallest bit, he would do everything in his power. He was sure of that – and that's what he tried to communicate with his gaze.
As if mesmerized, Hakkai gulped, "But… why?"
Takemichi grinned.
"Because that's what heroes do!"
He grasped both of Hakkai's hands and brought them to his chest, wrapping his bony fingers around Hakkai's much thicker ones with a strong emotion that spelled promise. Hakkai's blue eyes shone with freshly formed tears as he bobbed his head, sobbing out something that sounded suspiciously like thank you.
Swinging their hands, they resumed walking, this time widely smiling and chatting away about the stupidest of things. It was as if the rest of the world had stilled, outlining Hakkai's enthusiastic blabbering, a tad bit slurred by the cry that still sat in his throat. His voice sounded gleeful and genuine, so Takemichi didn't mind listening to him. He himself felt like tearing up.
He really missed Hakkai.
Takemichi imagined the rest of their walk to end simple. He would walk Hakkai to the door, salute to his parents, and pridefully stride back home, having an excuse of making a new friend in case his own parents had noticed his absence.
Well.
"We are here," Hakkai declared, and the last bits of Takemichi's hope that they just stopped to admire the sight went out of the window. In his need to pick up his fallen jaw, Takemichi didn't respond right away.
Sure, he knew that the Shiba family were filthy rich, but the residence in front of him was too insane to even dream about. Apparently, they resided in a two-storey building made out of the finest white stone to ever grace his eyes, all cubic and sophisticated, no doubt inspired by the latest ideas of postmodernism. Or was it neomodern– ugh, whatever. Takemichi himself lived in a two-storey house, so he shouldn't have been that astonished, but it wasn't the height that amazed him. It was the width, the length, and the number of windows.
Was Hakkai's father a multimillionaire or something? Takemichi felt like he got thrown into one of those "date-a-rich-guy-for-a-day" reality shows. Wait, or was it too early for them to appear on TV?
Innocently unaware of Takemichi's numbed state, Hakkai looked around, shielding his eyes from the sun with his palm.
"Oh, the neighbour's dog is not here. That's a relief." He puffed out a nervous giggle. "Still, beware of it on your way back. It doesn't like strangers."
Oh right, the dog. Takemichi was supposed to fight the dog. No, stop, not fight. Although it depended on the dog, he supposed.
"What does it look like…?"
"Oh, you won't miss it! It barks like a siren. Now that I think of it, it's got a surprisingly strong voice for a Pom."
Takemichi felt like his brain just malfunctioned.
"You – you were scared of a Pomeranian…?"
"You will know when you see it. It's the angriest dog on planet Earth," Hakkai muttered, sending him a dreary look more fitting for a war veteran. In a flash, his features were overtaken by a bright, albeit slightly demure, grin. "Thanks for walking me home, Michi-chan!"
"Yeah, right… Wait, who?"
Hakkai was already pulling him toward the door and ringing the doorbell, leaving Takemichi to stew in his own thoughts.
Michi-chan. That… sounded surprisingly nice.
(And reminded him of Kakucho somewhat. He also loved giving him nicknames.)
Heart clenching, Takemichi squeezed Hakkai's hand in another wordless promise – this time to himself. Kakucho's parents were the last victims in this timeline. There was no other way for him.
Hakkai murmured something under his breath, noticing that no one was in a hurry to open the door.
"Maybe nobody is home…?"
The moment those words broke free from his lips, the door opened harshly, stirring the air a whisker away from their noses. They both froze, instantly overshadowed by a tall figure at the entrance.
"Hakkai, what did I tell you about being late–" Two yellow eyes sharpened and instantly took aim at Takemichi. "You."
Takemichi felt his heart fail.
Really, he should have known. The moment Hakkai mentioned a big brother, he should have just turned around and darted away without looking back, heroism be damned. For some reason, it just didn't register in his head.
He wasn't very smart at times.
Hakkai took a step back, probably without even realising it.
"Ah, t-that's my new friend, Michi-chan!"
"Friend…?" Taiju growled, a dangerous lilt to his tone, and if looks could kill, Takemichi would have already died in the most brutal way possible. Taiju's eyes narrowed into two vicious slits. "You weren't satisfied yesterday and decided to use my brother?"
"Huh…?"
"N-No!" Hakkai cried out, waving his hands to attract Taiju's attention.
"Why the fuck are you with him, then?"
"He helped me! He found me when I was crying…"
Sensing danger a microsecond before it came, Takemichi covered Hakkai's mouth. He was too late.
Taiju's face turned colder than stone.
"You were crying."
"I– I mean–"
Stepping outside and letting the door close behind him – way too softly, almost mockingly – Taiju stood in front of Takemichi, glaring at him from above.
"You set it all up." He uttered – it wasn't a question. The conviction in his words sent an eerie chill through Takemichi's back.
"N-No, I…"
"He isn't…!" Hakkai gasped and clamped his mouth shut at an accusing glower from his brother.
"And you. How many times did I tell you not to mingle with strangers?"
"I…"
"Need I punish you?"
Blunt horror spread on Hakkai's face, a wax mask of a face that once belonged to a kid. It was a face Takemichi knew too well and hated sincerely.
His body shifted on its own, positioning itself between the two brothers with the firmest gait he'd had today.
"Are you seiously going to punish him for making a friend?" It took every last ounce of Takemichi's courage to look Taiju in the eyes – the threat in them was so prominent that it physically hurt to maintain eye contact, but Takemichi persisted. "Leave him alone!"
Taiju's nostrils flared, "Do not get involved with my family."
He spoke quietly, almost calmly – but with an underlying message that was glaringly obvious. If he was like this at 10, Takemichi had no idea how Hakkai and Yuzuha survived him when he got older.
And he'd been abusing them for so long…
Something angry sparked in Takemichi's chest, practically gluing his feet to the ground. Surprisingly, he didn't sense a single quake of fear.
"But what if I will?" he gritted through clenched teeth. He tried to smirk, and in his half-panicked, half-agitated state, it must have been a grimace worth a distorting mirror.
Taiju responded with an equally unsightly scowl. Takemichi shuddered, overridden with a tingling sensation in his feet. The shame and the horror from his yesterday's escape laughed at him from the back of his memory, and he pushed them away, making his hands into such tight fists that his nails dug deep into his flesh.
He wouldn't run away. Not anymore. Nothing would change if he just kept succumbing to his fears!
Taiju's following leer was of the most dangerous kind.
"Very well," he spoke, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. In foresight, Takemichi should have seen that coming, too.
It took Taiju two harsh punches to his head to knock him out.
〘 I wanted us to stay together. Was that too much to ask…? 〙
〘 See? Even something damaged can still be of use. 〙
〘 I'm sorry, mom, but I didn't say that to get your permission. I only wanted your blessing – and to apologise in advance for making you worry. 〙
〘 Hesitation in such moments will be your doom. You hesitate, you regret it later. Life with regrets is worse than death. 〙
An invisible force yanked Takemichi out of the world of his dreams, making him groan. He squinted and reopened his eyes several times, at first guessing that he either was still asleep or went blind in both eyes – but then his brain finally computed that the surrounding darkness indicated nighttime. Which was weird, he clearly recalled an orange evening sky before – oohhh.
The memory must have hit him with physical force, because he had no explanation why the throbbing in his head chose that exact second to notify him of its existence. Takemichi grunted, trying to suppress the ache.
With weak, unresponsive limbs, he attempted to push himself upright and grunted at the shot of pain that pierced his temple. Something soft and weft slid down his forehead and landed on his face, blocking his vision. He patted the thing – was that a compress?
"You better lie back down. I think you have a concussion."
He dawdled, trying to recognize the voice – high and childlike, it was unfamiliar. Takemichi quickly took the cloth off his eyes.
"Put it back, will you?" A tiny hand stole the cloth and fixed it on his forehead, gesturing for him to keep it in place himself. Takemichi awkwardly pressed it to his skin.
"That's better."
The kid he was facing turned out to be a young girl with short brown hair and bright orange eyes glimmering with familiar sharpness. He already learned his lesson, so, recalling all the previous events and taking the girl's facial features into consideration, Takemichi mumbled out, "Yuzuha…?"
"How do you know my name?"
Of course it was her. With a nervous laugh, Takemichi slumped back on what seemed to be a bench. Casting a quick glance to the side, he made out something akin to a backyard – well, at least he wasn't thrown away on the road.
"Hakkai told me…"
"I see."
Takemichi tried to feel the damage with his free palm. His fingertips could sense several lumps that would no doubt bloom into ugly bruises. He faintly recalled falling to the ground, but his face was clean.
He peeked over at Yuzuha, "What happened after I… you know?"
She shrugged, "Taiju kicked you out and took Hakkai away for a lecture. I brought you here."
She must have been the one to clean him up. Takemichi flashed her a thankful smile, but she either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.
"Did I have a fever?" he pointed at the cloth on his head, but Yuzuha shook her head. "Why'd you put it here, then?"
"I used it to wipe your face, and it's dirty now. I didn't want to hold it in my hands."
Takemichi scrunched his nose.
"I'm kinda shocked," Yuzuha continued, ignorant of his dismay. "You got punched by Taiju and woke up so soon. It normally takes much longer."
Blood leaving his face, Takemichi bolted upward, screwing his eyes at another surge of pain.
"How do you know? Does he hit you?"
Instead of nodding or hinting at the truth with her eyes, like he expected, Yuzuha made an indecisive motion of her head. It wasn't as relieving as he could have hoped.
"Does he?" Takemichi pressed, fearing the worst.
"No. He just gets into fights often." She gave up at last, sighing. Lowering her eyes, she fidgeted with her fingers. "But I feel like he might start doing it one day."
"But he wasn't always like this, right?" He had to start from somewhere, right? He still could fix this, right?
"Well, I don't remember much. He's always been too uptight, but he's been getting insufferable lately."
"Like how?" Sensing her doubt, Takemichi urged on, "C'mon, you can trust me! I'm Hakkai's friend!"
She eyed him for a few moments, but eventually seemed to relax.
"Well, you did stand up for him. Okay." She pursed her lips, gazing at some unspecified point in the distance. "He's been crazy about discipline, always wanting to know where we are and what we are doing. I guess it has something to do with those bullies that keep harassing both him and Hakkai, but he's been taking it too far."
Takemichi hummed, already consumed by thought. Sure, he did remember those boys from yesterday, but – Taiju wasn't really fighting them. He just stood there, and that was it. What was his deal, then?
"What about your family?" Yuzuha asked. "Are they just as bad?"
"Oh no, they are actually…" Takemichi caught his breath in horror. Yuzuha cocked both eyebrows at his terrified state.
Oh no. They must be going insane because of his disappearance.
Tears of guilt and fear gathered in his eyes.
"I have… I have to go home…"
Yuzuha scooted closer, gingerly studying his face.
"I can call for them to pick you up if you want. It's kinda dark to walk alone."
Sniffling, he nodded. As he told her the number, Yuzuha quietly treaded away and vanished into the darkness, heading inside the Shiba residence to dial the Hanagaki house. Left alone under the net of pale stars, Takemichi could only kick himself – but only figuratively, unwilling to paint more bruises on himself. Yuzuha soon returned, but they didn't talk much after that. She did clap his shoulder once, though, as if somehow empathizing with his inner uproar without even getting to know what it was.
The wait was almost unbearable, and as much as he feared the moment, Takemichi almost jumped in joy at the sound of a nearing car. Yuzuha led him to the front yard where a familiar car parked at the gate. The door opened, revealing Ayaka's dishevelled form. She parted her lips, clearly intending to reprimand him, but halted at the sight of Takemichi's meek, guilty approach. In an instant, her arms encased him in a warm embrace.
"Why would you sneak out like that…? Do you have any idea how worried we were?! We thought that the news shook you so much that…" Ayaka heaved a hoarse breath, caressing Takemichi's rebellious locks. "God, I'm so glad you are okay!"
She sobbed, and only then did he realise that she was crying. Struck with a harsh pang of guilt, Takemichi hugged her as tightly as he could, rambling a mess of incoherent apologies. It wouldn't be the first time he made his mother cry, not with all the timelines he'd lived through, but it never felt nice, even when he and his parents were in a disagreement. It felt ten times worse now, and he wanted to yell at himself.
Yuzuha silently watched them weep in each other's arms until they both calmed down. Since he was too busy choking on his clipped hiccups, she had to explain the bruises on his face that Ayaka unavoidably noticed. With each word, his mother's face grew even more incredulous, and he became afraid that she was going to cry again. It really seemed like she was about to, but she somehow held her tears in.
"Another fight? Takemichi, you just had one yesterday! What's got into you?"
"I'm… sowwy…" he whimpered.
Ayaka only exhaled in exasperation. She turned to Yuzuha and granted her a kind smile.
"Thank you, young lady, for taking care of this rascal. I hope he wasn't too much of a bother."
She stroked Yuzuha's short hair. The girl stiffened, eyes widening.
"N-No, it's okay…" she murmured in an odd voice – some mixture of guarded and lost. Her eyes were almost longing as Ayaka retracted her hand to fold it around Takemichi's.
"Well, we'll be off. Say bye, dear."
"Bye…" Takemichi reluctantly waved. Yuzuha waved back.
He and his mother already started walking away when Yuzuha's weak voice reached Takemichi's ears, prompting him to look back.
"Your family is nice," she whispered gently, sounding as if she were talking to herself. Before Takemichi could say anything, Ayaka ushered him inside the car. She restarted the engine, and they drove away until both Yuzuha's tiny frame and the humongous silhouette of her house faded away far behind. Takemichi could swear he saw Yuzuha's small hand wave again and then fall back down almost dejectedly.
Thankfully, his mother didn't say anything else, and Takemichi relaxed on the backseat, watching the streets run alongside the road through the window. He took a few peeps at his mother, but hastily looked away each time, hurt by the traces of dried tears on her cheeks. Trying to distract himself, he desperately searched for something to focus on, but before anything attracted his undivided attention, a rush of fatigue sucked his consciousness out of his body. He fell asleep to the calming lull of the ride, happy to have made it through this eventful day relatively unscathed.
He felt too tired to see any dreams, but one sneaky dream somehow found its way into his head.
Notes:
So basically, the summary of this chapter is that Takemichi overthinks himself into oblivion, promises to fight a dog, and ends up KO'd yet again. If you can't take this story seriously anymore, I don't blame you.
I took the image of the Shiba residence from the 2nd Character Book (it was kinda hard to tell which building was theirs in the anime), but since it's black-and-white, I had to imagine it to be white. If you have a different headcanon, let's pretend the house in this chapter is entirely made-up.
Notes:
I'm really sorry for my absence guys! Good news though, I finally defended my thesis, which means I now have time to write. Including my other fics. Yes, this is happening.
this chapter is inspired by the comic by おさむ (@gg_vji).
trigger warning: Mikey-typical suicidal tendencies, Izana-typical creepiness
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 5. Barrenland
The morning air was crisp, imbued with a tint of sea salt. It smelled of something fresh and frosty, and while it wasn't as cold as he'd normally experienced in Tokyo, torrents of goosebumps rolled all over his skin with every step.
A part of him doubted it was the weather's doing.
The path he took was unkempt, desolate. Like a fool, he strode forward alone, and his phone lay buried deep inside his pocket, muted because he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. Even if it was exploding from the insistent stream of notifications, he had no way of knowing – sans his guilty conscience, perhaps. If he lived to see another day, Takemichi internally promised to make up for that.
His sneakers gently thumped on the dry soil and occasional wilted leaves, sending a tepid crunch resonating in the numbing silence. Distant waves roared along, though it could have been his own blood rushing up to his ears, singing all his fears and the tremor that refused to release his fingers. Another reason why he battled against the urge to take his phone out and check the incoming calls and messages was that he knew he would drop it right away. His job didn't suck, very unlike his loser self's from a faraway future-past, but he had never quite shaken off the habit of counting his money very meticulously. Technically, he could afford some repairs if he happened to damage his phone screen, but the possibility still made him cringe. Call it pettiness, call it greed, he didn't care.
Especially since such trivial concerns did a great job at distracting him from the main task at hand.
His heart fluttered when his eyes spotted the hazy silhouette of a dilapidated building, the white paint on its walls full of chipping and tawny stains. He halted and swallowed a heavy lump that stubbornly clung to his throat. In his moment of falter, Takemichi took his phone and, pointedly ignoring the number of notifications, zeroed in on the time.
9:24 A.M. The cruise ferry to the Corregidor would be arriving soon, so he had to hurry.
(He had taken a private boat – its owner had been kind enough to lend him a hand when he had pleaded for help in his broken English. He couldn't wait for the passenger ship. He just couldn't.)
With a deep breath, Takemichi tried to ready himself. His loyal backpack tightly hugged his shoulders, and he envisioned an encouraging pat to his back to force his legs to start moving. Slowly, one step at a time.
He entered the ruins.
Rays of pale light bled through the holes in the ceiling, and webs of cracks stretched across the dirty concrete, threatening to shower him with rubble if he lingered on one spot for too long. His steps echoed in spacious, bare halls, littered with rocks and wild plants that had fought their way through the inanimate grey, and he knew perfectly well that the other person in the building had already been notified of his presence. His feet tramped on the cold floors with an unnatural spring, almost begging him to turn around and sprint away, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. The heaviness in his body gradually disappeared, instead skilfully robbing him of any gravitational pull. A row of empty arcs sat on the wall that coasted alongside him, almost like massive mouths itching for a bite. Each opening allowed him a peek outdoors, at the rich expanse of insipid nature.
It didn't feel real.
Takemichi stopped. His destination was now in front of him.
A mountain of rubble stood at the centre of the long-devastated hospital, illuminated by the sunlight that streamed into the room from the hole atop. Occasional iron rods framed the scene like a broken, crooked ribcage, hiding the ghost of an once-beating heart.
Mikey's face was serene, unmoving eyes never leaving his form. The onyx of his irises housed even less sparkle than before, and a pang of guilt struck his soul.
But it wasn't fully his fault, was it? True, he had been doubting their ways for a long time, especially while trapped inside those antiseptic-drenched walls, but the final push had only come after the others–
No, he shook his head. He was done running away. He had to face his mistakes, to face Mikey.
He tried to smile, even though he felt like crying.
"L-Long time no see, Mikey-kun," he mumbled out. Mikey didn't even blink. His expression was listless, unreadable. Was he mad? Was he glad? Was he truly planning to kill him, like Naoto'd warned? Takemichi couldn't tell.
Frankly, he was scared, but the idea of leaving terrified him more, so he spoke again, "Have you been well…?"
Something within Mikey's features shifted slightly, making them reminiscent of a subtle smirk. Maybe, probably, definitely, it was a wrong question. He was trying, okay…?
"Takemitchy," Mikey murmured. As always, it rolled off his tongue with a pleasant drawl. Takemichi tensed.
He wasn't prepared for the next blow.
"Why did you leave me?"
If guilt could kill, he would have probably already kicked the bucket.
Yes, why?
Why had he listened to Draken and Mitsuya? Why had he given in to the fear? Why had he trusted that he had finally fixed everything?
Just what had made him do something so stupid?
"I was scared," Takemichi admitted, because it was the truth. Possibly the only truth he was certain of. Mikey frowned, but said nothing. "And I didn't – didn't want to be a burden to you. Even S-Senju said–"
He promptly shut up at the smooth raise of Mikey's hand. Mikey stood up from his improvised throne, hands sliding into his pockets, and titled his head to the side, assessing something that only he himself knew of. Then, he leisurely skipped down the slope of rubble, his flip-flops clapping cheerily, almost tauntingly.
From this close, Takemichi could see that Mikey had lost a lot of weight. His once-prominent muscles had lost in size, and he looked more slim and sinewy than robust and well-knit. His oversized clothes hung from his body in a way that seemed more pitiful than fashionable, and two dark crescents prostrated themselves underneath his eyes.
Takemichi's hands clenched into fists. The pain from his nails digging their way into his skin was almost gratifying.
Was… was that because of him? Was he the one who made Mikey like that?
Growing progressively more anxious, he was torn between his desire to hug Mikey and the logic's call to stay still. The coldness in Mikey's eyes helped him choose the latter.
"Why did their words matter to you more than mine?" Mikey asked, emotionless. "Why would you listen to Senju over me? Weren't we…" he paused – briefly, but noticeably, "...friends?"
Senju was Takemichi's friend, too, but he refrained from interjecting. Mikey knew that, of course, and it was definitely not the thing he needed to hear. Takemichi began to panic, struggling to think of an appropriate response and greatly unnerved by the unspoken time limit.
Talking to this Mikey was akin to walking on eggshells, and he didn't like that one bit. Mikey had really changed.
"I thought it was a better option. That's all."
"Better for whom?"
A bead of sweat slid down Takemichi's temple in a graceless curve.
"For everyone."
Mikey smiled coolly, "And where is everyone now?"
"W-What?"
"Everyone who told you to leave. Where are they?"
Was it supposed to be a trick question?
Lost, Takemichi involuntarily bowed his head, peering at Mikey like a prey peers at a carnivore.
"I don't know?"
Mikey chuckled. It was a light-hearted sound, too out of place for the situation they found themselves in. It sounded like the old Mikey.
"Yeah. I guess you don't."
With an unsteady period, their conversation grew stock-still. Mikey gently rocked his body back and forth, visibly unperturbed by the uncomfortable silence, while Takemichi had to fend off the desire to crawl under the nearest rock. Even when it looked like Mikey's eyes were roaming over something else, the chilly burn of his intense gaze pricked Takemichi's face like an especially sharp needle.
Tick, tock, an imaginary clock clicked in his head. Right, he couldn't dawdle here forever!
Sucking in a sharp breath, Takemichi extended a hand. Mikey cocked both eyebrows at the gesture.
"If you have nothing more to say, come with me. We can still mend things."
That last part came out a bit too indecisively for his liking, but Takemichi ignored it. He prayed the resolution in his gaze would be more convincing. Mikey stared at his hand like it was the world's eighth wonder.
No, don't back down, me!
"Or, uh… If– if there is something you want to say, please say it now. You wouldn't have summoned me here if that was all, r-right...?"
Takemichi was silently dying from embarrassment, but his outstretched hand remained stable. It was still the target of Mikey's unrelenting gaze, too hollow for Takemichi to decipher.
Mikey moved slowly, training his empty eyes on the light beaming at him through the ceiling. Fickle sun rays accentuated his colourless profile and protruding cheekbones, and his raven hair eerily contrasted with his complexion, making him look like a ghost. The image was oddly natural to their surroundings, as if Mikey were an apparition of a person once stationed within these ruins in their glory days, someone who had long since perished together with the building.
"Why did I summon you here…?" he hummed. The tone almost made it sound like it wasn't a rhetorical question.
Their gazes met. Mikey's glimmered with a trace of fading warmth.
"I guess I just wanted to see you one last time."
"One last time… before what?"
A vacant smile unfurled on Mikey's lips. In a moment, a flash of black cut through the air as he swiftly pulled something out of his pocket.
The muzzle of a sleek gun glowered at Takemichi like a big eye, just as black and devoid of life as Mikey's.
"Before one of us dies," Mikey responded matter-of-factly. A chill pierced Takemichi's bones as another gun was thrown to his feet, barely kissing the toe cap of his sneakers. "Kill me or die by my hand, Takemitchy."
Takemichi could only gape back, perplexity seeping through his features. Was Naoto right? Was Mikey already beyond saving?
You don't know what I know, Naoto had said when Takemichi had shown him Mikey's letter. We have been keeping an eye on Toman, and trust me, you don't want to know what they have been doing. They are not the friends you knew anymore.
Like the dumbass he was, Takemichi had refused to believe him. Against common sense and reason, he had booked himself a seat on the first plane to the Philippines – he had only bought a one-way ticket, too preoccupied with meeting Mikey above everything else.
Like the dumbass he was, Takemichi was about to die. The mere thought made his heart race and squeezed all the air out of his lungs. He didn't want to die. He was afraid of dying. No matter what had happened in the past or how many times he had died in other timelines, he still hadn't made his peace with everything he could possibly leave behind.
Such irony. Just a few years ago, his mind had been inclined toward a completely different direction. Maybe that was why everyone had tried so hard to make him leave.
But still, killing Mikey? The idea daunted him with much more success. The way Mikey's gun was aimed at him, not once wavering, promised instant demise, yet Takemichi didn't let the fear get the best of him.
He didn't want to kill Mikey and he didn't want to die, so, like the dumbass he was, he chose to believe in the Mikey he had been trying to protect all this time. In the Mikey that wouldn't shoot him.
The pair of motionless black eyes squinted, displeasure evident in their depths.
"Is this it? Is this what you choose?"
A deep breath refreshed his head enough for Takemichi to find new courage and keep looking forward. He must have been quite a pathetic sight, teary-eyed and quivering, but he didn't recoil or pick up the gun. He stood his ground.
Mikey's frown transformed into a scowl.
"Do you think I won't do it? I can and I will. It wouldn't be the first for me, Takemitchy."
He was graced with a voiceless response as Takemichi channelled his resolve into wordlessly maintaining the eye contact. The awkward respite between them became weightier with each second, adorning Mikey's expression with a tensing of his muscles that spelled annoyance, anger, maybe even hate. Oddly enough, it brought relief to Takemichi's heart. At least, Mikey didn't look so hollow anymore.
His face must have reflected his feelings, because Mikey hastily stomped forward, each crease on his forehead deeper than the other. His eyes, now narrowed into two slits, were flaring. He truly looked like a wild animal ready to pounce, and it took all the remains of Takemichi's will not to bolt away.
"Die, then."
Before Takemichi knew it, Mikey slammed into him, sending them both to the ground. Even in his weakened state, his attack was precise and impactful, and his weight kept Takemichi pinned to the dusty floor without any means to slip free. The dark muzzle was pointed directly at his forehead – the same spot his mother had always kissed whenever she had come to wake him up for school.
With their faces mere inches away from one another, Takemichi could sense Mikey's shaky breath on his lips.
He looked genuinely angry.
Maybe he would actually kill him.
The muzzle harshly squished his cheek, averting his head. Mikey rose to straighten his back, looming above Takemichi like a stone statue. His icy eyes were back to their defunct state, the final bits of irritation dissipating into naught, but his knowing look appeared expectant. The second gun gleamed teasingly, one motion away for Takemichi to grab, but he remained firm about his decision.
A series of dull, rustling sounds reverberated in the distance in tandem with Takemichi's heartbeat. Mikey noticed it, too, and relaxed visibly, resigned and tranquil. Takemichi could only accept his fate: it must have been someone Mikey knew approaching – like a signal for him to act.
Mikey whispered, "Goodbye."
Preparing himself for the deadly shot, Takemichi shut his eyes tightly, crinkles on his eyelids burning with ache.
The dull footsteps developed into a leisurely yet menacing staccato, and the rustle now followed in a separate susurrus, but there was also a new beat to the melody – a patter of gentle clinks like those of the wooden toys or dream-catchers he had seen in the local market.
"Mikey."
The merry voice was clearly alien to the site. It wasn't fully unfamiliar, but Takemichi had never been well-acquainted with it – he wasn't expecting to hear it again, ever. At first, he thought he imagined it.
Mikey's weight shifted, turning toward the voice's owner – but only slightly, still caging Takemichi between his legs.
"Izana."
Apparently, Takemichi did not imagine anything. His eyes snapped open, and he nervously glanced at the unexpected guest.
Amidst the fallen debris, Izana Kurokawa appeared in all his glory, dressed in hauntingly spotless white to match his wavy hair. He seemed to be carrying a sizeable grey sack, though Takemichi couldn't quite make out what exactly it was from his position. It would explain the odd rustling, at least.
One hand resting on his waist, Izana swayed in place, "So that's where you've disappeared to."
Takemichi blinked. Mikey didn't tell Izana about this?
"I thought you've been acting weird recently. I gotta say, I'm not really surprised. If there is anyone who can put you off your stride, that would be him."
Mikey remained silent. Takemichi didn't dare to speak and watched the scene with bated breath as cold moisture chilled his forehead. Even though he was talking about him, Izana didn't spare him a single look, his mischievous violet eye wholly fixed on his brother.
He, unlike Mikey, did not look much different from the last time Takemichi had seen him. He still had that disturbing smile that didn't promise anything positive, and the dark eyepatch on his face radiated inexplicable threat. How did he find them? And more importantly, why?
"We were talking," Mikey said, curt.
"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey," Izana tutted gently. "You know I don't like it when you lie to me. Tell me," his head slanted to the side, nearing his shoulder, "am I not giving you enough? You can have anything, anyone you want. How come not having a single person is enough to outweigh everything we have built so far? Out of all the reasons to die, you chose him?"
What.
His words were enough distraction for Mikey not to notice Takemichi crawl from under him and move up. He peeked at Mikey cautiously, trying to discern anything to rebut Izana's words. His lack of denial only made them more suspicious.
Mikey… wanted to die?
But didn't he try to kill Takemichi?
"What an absurd death it could have been," Izana snickered. "One of Tokyo's crime lords, killed by a novice cop. You are lucky to have such a caring big brother who will gladly take out the trash for you."
He tossed the mass he was carrying forward, and Takemichi almost fainted on the spot. It wasn't even a sack – rather, a figure in a grey suit, with lax limbs and dishevelled black hair that he had never seen this ungroomed.
"Naoto!" he screamed, praying to every deity he could think of that the worst hadn't happened. Naoto didn't even stir, Mikey didn't flinch, and only Izana winced at the volume of his voice.
"He is still alive. Behave and can it if you want to keep it this way."
Clamming his jaw shut, Takemichi shrunk into himself, but his eyes stayed glued to Naoto's slumped body in hopes to notice the rising and falling of his chest. Huffing with a note of levity, Izana returned his attention to Mikey and adopted a neutral, pensive expression.
"Really, though. Is he actually worth it? What's so special about him? In case you forgot, he left you."
Mikey didn't reply. Izana observed him silently for a good couple of minutes before letting out a sharp cackle. In a flash, his mouth contorted into another smile.
"I see. We are keeping him, then."
Uh…?
"Oh, and since he is joining us, why not make the most out of it? I mean, if something about him keeps you so enthralled even now, it must be top-notch. Is it the sex, maybe? We have plenty of job offers in this field."
A nasty layer of slime smeared all over Takemichi's stomach. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mikey stiffen. Izana's earrings tapped gently as he raised his chin, grinning like he was just struck with the most wonderful idea possible.
"Before we put him to work, I think we'd need him to go through a trial period first. Why don't I supervise him personally?"
Mikey gasped. His arms wrapped themselves around Takemichi and practically shoved him into his chest, encasing him in a suffocatingly tight embrace. Takemichi squeaked out a pathetic yelp in lieu of a more prideworthy reaction.
"Don't," Mikey rasped – or more like growled, just with a weird agitated tremble to his voice. Being this close to him, Takemichi was sure that the strain of Mikey's body did not come from rage alone.
Was he scared?
Izana laughed, "Oh my, so I was right. I'm not even sure if it's amusing or sad. Oh well."
With a jolly spring in his step, he marched over and crouched to look Takemichi in the eye. Mikey's grasp tightened, and Takemichi, now being on the receiving end of Izana's dead glare, involuntarily snuggled closer.
"Hanagaki Takemichi, do you know what that means?" He sounded mirthful, but his tone held an underlying warning. It seemed that faking sudden muteness was not an option.
"You… want me to work for you."
"No, he doesn't," Mikey hissed.
Izana scratched his head.
"Well, you heard him, though it's such a pity. Anyways! You, Hanagaki Takemichi, are my Mikey's weak spot. He came here to die for you. You follow?"
"I– I would never kill him…"
A mouthful of air burst out through Izana's lips, accompanied by a vrooming sound as they repeatedly smacked against each other.
"I guess I was right about that, too. You've got a pretty head, but nothing seems to be going on in there."
He leaned closer, attempting to flick Takemichi on the forehead, but Mikey manoeuvred him out of his reach. Izana stepped back as if nothing had happened.
"Heh. Well, what was I on about...? Right! You are, like, a huuuuge dartboard on his back. I thought he would get over you eventually, but it seems I was mistaken. If someone bad decided to use you against him, it would really suck, don't you think so?"
Is there anyone worse than you? Takemichi wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. The best answer he could think of was gingerly nodding his head.
"I'm glad you understand! Well then, you'll tag along, won't you? Otherwise…" the sole of Izana's sandal dug into Naoto's back, "someone else might get hurt because of you."
"NO!"
Takemichi thrashed in Mikey's hold. Smiling, Izana pressed down harder. Still unconscious, Naoto emitted a pained groan.
"D-Don't touch him! I will do anything! I will go with you! I will work if you want me to! Just spare his life, please!"
It wasn't like the prospect suddenly stopped terrifying him, but his mind went too blank to care. Naoto's safety was his top priority. If only he hadn't been so selfish, if only he hadn't embarked on this journey alone, fully aware that Naoto would follow, if only he hadn't hesitated so much…
Somewhere in the midst of his pleas, he had started crying, and Izana seemed transfixed by his tears, eye widening with each new drop that oozed out. Invisible gears were, no doubt, turning in his head, but his look was more incredulous than anything. What was his deal?
No, Takemichi should have given up on trying to understand him a long time ago. Thinking that he'd got worse since their last meeting was definitely an understatement – he was truly a monster now.
A barely-there sound of thunder broke out in the distance. Instead of receding, it was gaining in intensity, hymning his impending doom.
"It's settled, then." Izana was already back to his blithe attitude, though his voice sounded more robotic than usual. "Shall we head back? It's getting cold here."
Was it that easy? Really?
"W-Will you really do it?"
Izana shrugged, "Meh, one surviving cop won't do us any harm. Plus, you will be kind enough to tell him to mind his own business, won't you? Oh, and ask him to pass the message, too. If it's for you, I'm pretty sure he will gladly help us."
Much like in the past, Takemichi had a hard time telling whether Izana was being truthful or lying. He wondered if they were going to let him meet Naoto in person later, though it was highly unlikely. Maybe he'd be allowed to make a call – obviously, a bugged one.
Izana poked the ground with the tip of his sandal, impatient. It failed to elicit any visible reaction from Mikey, and Takemichi had to shake him. It proved to be quite tiring, given that his embrace was so tight that Takemichi was hardly able to move his head. He sneaked a glance at his face and choked on his breath.
Mikey's expression was overflowing with blinding wrath, his irises, now pale and contracted into two small dots, glowing with palpable hostility. It was the same look he had worn on Bloody Halloween. Or during the Battle of Three Deities. Or–
"Jeez, Mikey, loosen up," Izana chuckled. "I was just kidding. I won't do anything to him."
A deafening roar – not the thunder it'd started off as, yet still ringing every bit like it – clogged up Takemichi's ears. Merciless gusts barged in through the empty arcs, and the lukewarm, slumbering scenery outside was overtaken by a massive machine smoothly descending onto the clearing.
"Ah, the next ferry won't be departing any time soon, so I called for a quick lift," Izana had to raise his voice so that it didn't get fully drowned out. "Hope you don't mind."
"You better be," Mikey whispered, still tense, and Takemichi got the feeling he wasn't referring to the "lift" at all. His voice was lost in the aggressive whirls of the stinging winter air, but the knowing look on Izana's face spoke he was understood nonetheless.
They proceeded after Izana, exiting the ruins. As he passed by Naoto's unmoving form, Takemichi silently begged for forgiveness, only half-expecting to actually receive at least a speck of it. If Naoto were still his trigger, he would probably dive for a quick handshake and go to the past to fix whatever this mess was, but–
His teeth pinched his lip. There was no time for that. He had to stop unthinkingly relying on his ability and face this reality he'd created.
It was a good, inspiring thought, but it did not prevent him from trembling. Mikey's arm still lay wrapped around his shoulders, leaving nothing but a tiny space between them. To Takemichi's belated surprise, his touch wasn't stifling – if anything, it grounded him enough not to pass out from his nerves as he got on board of the helicopter.
The flight back to Japan was stressful.
Izana was nonchalant about the whole thing, as if he hadn't just kidnapped someone under the pretense of "helping" his brother. The atmosphere was smothering, icy cold, and Takemichi sat ramrod straight throughout the trip, discreetly licking away the sweat that rolled down to his mouth. Mikey was still hugging his frame, occupying half his seat, and didn't let go of him once.
That provided Takemichi with enough food for thought to not go crazy from the oppressing silence – bar the roar of the helicopter, of course.
Mikey and Izana were still family, right? Nothing about their relationship had changed since he'd left, right? They were still the leaders of their respective gangs, only now their rulership expanded all over Tokyo instead of just a couple of wards… right?
But if they were still family, why did Mikey seem so wary of Izana? No matter how much he tried looking into the subtle signs, like body language or occasional meaningful glances the two exhanged, Takemichi couldn't catch onto a single clue. And what did Izana mean by joining them in the first place? Would Takemichi be forced to return to Toman – as in, would he join their ranks once again? Or would he be held prisoner to disable anyone from hurting Mikey through him, like Izana had warned?
As much as he hated relying on something as vague as time, he had no other choice. Lately, time had been both his ally and enemy, and it was just as certain as a coin toss. Acceptance was difficult to welcome with all sincerity, but once he did, Takemichi finally allowed himself to trust the protective warmth of Mikey's touch.
A couple of hours later, they safely landed on a vast helipad on top of a humongous skyscraper. In the past, Takemichi had often stared at this tower of unblinking glass, admiring the view and feeding into his curiosity about what kind of rich company could be occupying such a large building.
A criminal empire, as it turned out. With such an imposing appearance, Takemichi wouldn't be surprised if their HQ remained untouched because no one had the guts to lay a finger on it.
No one met them on the rooftop, which, Takemichi surmised, shouldn't be shocking. Mikey had sneaked out in secret, after all, and it was very like Izana to have followed him without unnecessary fuss. The moment they entered the building and rode the elevator a few floors down, though, the doors tinged open to reveal a lounge full of men in dark suits, bowing at a perfect angle.
"Welcome back, boss!"
Izana dismissed them with a disinterested wave of his hand. He walked out, gesturing for them to accompany him, and Takemichi was exceptionally grateful for Mikey's tireless grip as they, too, crossed the expansive room. The sophisticated furniture that cluttered it up screamed millions of yen, but the worst were the harsh glares of the people around him. Their suits were immaculate, without an unsightly fold to scold for, but their scars, piercings, tattoos, and the stench of tobacco reminded him that they weren't your typical stoical bodyguards.
They were criminals who could easily snap his neck if they wanted.
As if reading his thoughts, Izana said, "Don't even think of touching this young man. He is Mikey's special guest."
Mikey's arm relocated to his waist and yanked him nearer, closing up the last bit of space that was still separating them. The glares, thankfully, stopped burning holes in his back, but Takemichi had an inkling that he might have to watch out if he ever wanted to explore this building alone.
Unexpectedly, Mikey turned around and began stalking away. Izana didn't comment on that, continuing on his own route, though Takemichi's ears detected a muffled scoff. Mikey guided him to another elevator, and they descended another couple of floors before getting out and arriving to a sturdy door at the end of a rich hallway, a row of thick windows embedded into one of the walls. Typing a password on the keypad at lightning speed, Mikey all but shoved him inside.
The door closed automatically. Only then did Mikey exhale, and Takemichi realised that he hadn't heard him breathe ever since their first contact of the day.
"Where are we?"
"My room."
It did give off the impression of a personal apartment, with a wide bed, a semi-transparent entrance to the walk-in closet, two hardwood nightstands, and an additional door that must have led to the bathroom. Takemichi would have mistaken it for the guest room, though – it didn't look inhabited at all.
He carefully freed himself from Mikey's grasp, and the other let him, albeit without much enthusiasm. He didn't seem to mind his guest approaching his bed, and Takemichi plopped down on the soft mattress, groaning from fatigue. The tenantless vibe of the room was somewhat disconcerting, but now, isolated from Izana, his goons, and all that imposing grandeur, Takemichi felt safer. Even if the tiniest bit.
"Is this where I'll be living?"
"Yes."
He was trying to joke, but Mikey sounded dead serious. One part of Takemichi really wanted to object and bring to his attention that there were some nuances to the fact – only one bed in the whole room, for starters. After a few moments of pondering, he shushed that part. Mikey seemed like his best option right now, and he would gladly camp on the floor if it meant protection from the rest of the tower.
The bed dipped to his right.
"Don't leave this room if I'm not around," Mikey said. Takemichi's head jerked to gape at him, only to be met with the same lacklustre eyes. Every complaint vanished on his tongue, and he nodded begrudgingly.
Compliance was the best tactic. For now.
(Not that he was eager to return to that lion's den alone. He wasn't suicidal.)
"And, Takemitchy… I'm sorry."
The first flicker of life danced in the black of his eyes. There was sorrow. He was nothing like the Mikey that taunted Takemichi with a gun just a few hours prior. Not anymore.
Tears burned at Takemichi's eyes. The Mikey he knew was still alive. Just like this, every bitter part of him was silenced without any hope to speak up ever again.
"For what?" He had a guess, but he wanted to hear it from Mikey himself – to make absolutely sure he was acquainted with the person in front of him. While Mikey did not look away or frown in shame, everything about him did just that. Somehow, he emoted with the tiny quiver of his voice alone.
"I didn't mean for it to go that way. I had no idea Izana was tailing me. I was only planning to meet you there and…" He trailed off, but the ending was clear.
And to die.
Takemichi pursed his lips.
If Izana claimed to be able to give Mikey everything he wanted, why did Mikey want to leave this life? Why did Mikey look so unhappy?
Rationally, Takemichi should have been mad, but he had already accepted this reality. The moment he had taken a plane to Manila – no, the moment he'd cut Mikey's letter open, he had known his life would be intertwined with Mikey's yet again, be it for a few minutes before Mikey killed him or for the rest of his days.
As he could no longer nurture his denial, it became a little bit easier to breathe.
"It's okay, Mikey-kun. I don't blame you," he said, placing his hand atop Mikey's silky black hair. "I feel safe with you, so I'm fine with that. And, well… if– if what Izana said is true… I want to do my best to help you. I want you to be happy."
Mikey's eyes widened, and his whole body went rigid at the touch. However, the second Takemichi regretted his action and attempted to remove his hand, Mikey grabbed it and nuzzled into his palm, repositioning the entirety of his weight onto him. Takemichi grabbed at him for fear of falling off the bed, but only succeeded in toppling them both in the opposite direction, right onto the pillows. Mikey's arms snaked around his torso, and he buried his face into his chest. Takemichi couldn't tell if the languor of his limbs was relieving or worrying, and timidly stroked Mikey's back, earning himself an incomprehensible murmur.
They lay like that for several minutes, engulfed in the peace and quiet, but it struck Takemichi as uncanny how quiet Mikey was. In the past, he would hum like a happy cat whenever Takemichi had humoured him in a similar way.
But maybe that was the answer.
Mikey wasn't happy.
"Hey, Mikey-kun…?"
There was no answer, and he thought Mikey'd fallen asleep, but his head eventually rose from where it'd nested, lazy and obviously groggier than before. Takemichi doubted his chest was comfortable since Mikey's face looked positively red, especially around his nose and eyes. Mikey slithered upward and supported himself with both palms, planting them on each side of Takemichi's head.
"Takemichy, I–"
"Oh. Am I interrupting something?"
Twisting his neck to the side, Takemichi found the door open, with Izana leaning on the frame with a sneer on his lips.
Of course he would know the password. Takemichi felt dumb for thinking otherwise.
He didn't have a good view of Mikey's features, now also facing the intruder, but he easily sensed it was far from pleased. Mikey's body went from slack to taut, fingers boring into the pillows, and while it was most likely accidental, it filled Takemichi with fear.
"What do you want?"
Izana opened his mouth, but, in a display of uncharacteristic mercy, decided against voicing whatever mocking remark he had. Instead, he opted to look at Takemichi, and the tacit message he conveyed wasn't kind.
"Business calls," he said simply while staring Takemichi down. "Don't get too carried away here. You have an hour."
"Got it."
The clipped words implicitly demanded he leave, and Izana, thankfully, heeded the meaning. He effortlessly broke the eye contact that had made Takemichi sweating bullets as if he'd just paid a fleeting glance to a random fly, spun around, and calmly swept out of the room. The door closed, sealing up the path to imminent danger, but Takemichi couldn't help the tinge of worry.
Soundlessly, Mikey got off him and ruffled his own hair.
"Another rule. Don't ever talk to him if I'm not there."
Once again, it wasn't like Takemichi was dying to do that.
Takemichi sat up as well, debating on whether he should say anything else. Judging by Mikey's unwillingness to leave the bed, he probably didn't have anything urgent in that hour they were generously given.
There was a possibility of this hour being the last one they could spend in the illusion of peace.
Takemichi was about to do something incredibly risky.
"You are not happy, are you, Mikey-kun?"
No audible answer. Mikey lifted his eyes, sporting the same blank look he'd just recently discarded – except this time, Takemichi had an idea what it was hiding.
He sucked the air in through his nose, maybe too shakily. What he was going to do would be a spontaneous gamble. A stupid one, too, since he didn't even know if the present was salvageable – and especially since Mikey still had this eerie side to him, no matter how insincere, that he'd shown him in those ruins. Takemichi was only sure about one thing.
He wanted to fix this.
"What if I said I could save you?"
Mikey furrowed a quizzical brow at him. Yeah, figures.
"I don't need to be saved. I'm fine with how the things are."
If you were fine, you wouldn't have tried to die.
"Yeah, sure. But I'm talking about changing this whole thing, changing Toman if needed. I can make sure that you are happy."
That everyone you love are still with you, went unsaid. Takemichi hadn't received the news of anyone's passing, but no one had contacted him over the past years, and no familiar face from Toman had come to greet them, which was odd on its own. Takemichi knew for a fact it had everything to do with Mikey's current state.
Mikey gave him a weak smile – almost a condescending one.
"Stay here. I will be happy."
"I will do that, yes. It's just… will it really be enough?"
"What do you suggest, then?"
Okay, they were getting there.
"Changing the past."
The disbelief on Mikey's face was almost tangible. He seemed a second away from bursting out laughing, and Takemichi had to suppress the impulse to elbow him in the gut.
"I mean it! Let me finish first!"
"Sure, go ahead."
They were real close.
"So… remember August 3rd? Have you ever wondered how I knew so much about it?"
Mikey seemed taken aback by the sudden memory, but slowly bobbed his head.
"I mean, Pah did say you were in cahoots with Kiyomasa."
Takemichi winced, "Don't tell me you still believe that."
"No. But why else would you bring that up?"
"There is… another reason."
Well, at least Mikey's undivided attention now solely belonged to him – a good, serious kind of attention that he tried to evoke up until this moment.
Here went nothing.
"So, the thing is…" Takemichi gulped. "I'm a time-leaper."
Takemichi woke up to the loving sound of his mother's voice as her hands carefully nudged him. It took him a long time to adjust to his surroundings, and he didn't know what he expected to see if not his cosy room, once again strewn with the socks that he'd promised to clean up a few days ago. His eyes itched, and he recalled that yes, he had cried quite a lot before falling asleep.
Right, it was time to go to cram school again.
His father peeked inside the room like he would normally do whenever it took Ayaka too long to shake Takemichi awake. He silently saluted to his son once he noticed his curious gaze, and Takemichi smiled at him sleepily.
Chuckling, Ayaka gently pecked him on the forehead. Her lips were unusually cold to the touch, and Takemichi didn't know why, but her action made him feel rather uneasy.
Notes:
sorry Bonten Mikey, you're cool i guess, but Manila Mikey is the cause of my heart arrest
(they added a scene of Manila Mikey nuzzling into Takemichi's hand in the anime!!!! aauuughhhh!!!!! it's highkey the reason i posted this specific chapter so early. It was supposed to take place much later, but wHO CARES–)
The Corregidor (or Corregidor Island) is an island at the opening of Manila Bay. I remember reading a theory that the ruins where Mikey and Takemichi met are based on the abandoned hospital on that island, and I thought it was a cool concept, so here we are. Btw, get ready to forget about this whole thing because we won't be hearing from this subplot for a while. Maybe I'll put a small recap in the notes before the next chapter in this setting, or something.
Notes:
Did I spend three months rewriting this chapter over and over again? Yes. Yes I did. Do I like the end result? Uhhhh, I'd say 50% yes and 50% no. I hope it's at least somewhat palatable.
(I've been real sick lately, so this chapter might look worse than the others. My recovery is taking forever, and I already took too long to update this, soooo...)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 6. A Proper Way to Say "I'm Home"
"How about a pre-emptive approach?"
Takemichi tilted his head, pondering the suggestion. He might have come to terms with not having Naoto or Chifuyu to support him, but it didn't mean he wasn't growing paranoid without their presence by his side. In all honesty, he was starved for any sort of advice.
He was currently enjoying the afternoon sun on the lawn of his backyard, accompanied by Takuya. He felt a bit guilty for not contacting him at all since his last time-leap, but Takuya – oh, sweet, understanding Takuya – had made it very clear that he wasn't offended at all.
Mom told me you were sick, so it's fine. I'm just glad you are well.
Takuya had always been too mature for his age. And where did he learn the word pre-emptive? Wasn't he, like, eight?
Cleansing his head of random thoughts, Takemichi tried to focus on the matter at hand.
Encountering the Shiba family, no matter how coincidental, was the stroke of luck he definitely needed for a good start. Being acquainted with Hakkai meant having a future link to Mitsuya and Toman, and if he also somehow succeeded in saving Hakkai and Yuzuha from Taiju, he'd automatically get rid of the entire Christmas Conflict and close up a prominent crack in Toman's defence.
A logical question arose naturally: how on Earth was he supposed to do that?
Right after cram school, Takemichi returned to the Shibas' neighbourhood to ask around. Judging by what he was told, they gave the impression of a happy, functional household. The mother had passed away not too long ago, and the father was a hardcore workaholic, but many neighbours praised the family for staying strong and maintaining a harmonious relationship (Takemichi hardly suppressed a nervous laughter at that phrasing). Taking Yuzuha's yesterday's words into account, he was musing on whether it would be reasonable to attract outside help. What if it'd make the Shibas trust him less somehow? They didn't know him as well as he knew them.
He returned home absolutely downcast, but Takuya the Godsend was now here, having decided to pay him a visit. Even if they failed to settle upon anything, his presence was enough to revive Takemichi's optimism. How odd, he thought. Since when was he so dependent on other people? Hadn't he spent a whole timeline pitifully alone?
Takemichi sighed, "I'll think about it."
Takuya shot him a canny smile. The temptation to confide in him with the truth about time-leaping was overwhelming, but Takemichi reined it in. He didn't want to drag his friend too deep into this mess. It hardly had anything to do with him, and Takemichi wanted to keep it this way.
"It sure is hot," Takuya complained, his lightsomeness enviable. "You have any ice-cream?"
"Sure thing. Wait here."
Takemichi ventured inside the house to fetch two vanilla-flavoured bars. Thinking back a bit, he rerouted himself into his room, took the newest manga volume in sight, and returned full-handed and prideful. The manga was his form of apology for ghosting Takuya all the days prior.
Takuya let out a rather uncharacteristic squeal, and Takemichi nearly suffered a heart attack.
"What…?"
"Is that… is that the new volume of 'Thunder Wizards'?" Takuya accepted the book as though it was made of gold, and his eyes lustrously gleamed in sunlight at Takemichi's nodding. "Really??? I thought it wasn't in the stores yet!"
"Uh, yeah? It's pre-ordered, I think."
"How did you get it?"
Takemichi strained his memory.
"Masaru let me borrow it."
"What? That Masaru? Your cousin?"
"Yup."
Takuya sent him a serious look.
"He was replaced by an alien," he uttered gravely. Takemichi sputtered on his ice-cream.
"Nah, no way," he shrugged it off, but Takuya's intense gaze made him reconsider. It was a bit strange to receive anything from Masaru, he could admit. When Aunt Fuyumi dropped by to deliver the book, he was wholeheartedly anticipating a mistake of some kind.
Takemichi frowned, "...maybe?"
"For certain. He's never been nice to you," Takuya affirmed, resolute. "I would know."
"...okay?"
"I know everything about you, so you can trust me!"
Takemichi debated if he should be happy or concerned, but opted to roll with it.
"I trust you. I hope this alien will be a better cousin."
Takuya giggled. It did sound ridiculous, so Takemichi hardly contained a chuckle himself.
With nothing else to busy themselves until the evening, they plopped onto their stomachs and began reading, chorusing oooohhh's and woooow's every time something awe-inspiring happened within the monochrome frames. Takemichi remembered being a hardcore fan of the story up until the start of middle school – it was, in fact, the very story that gave rise to his heroic aspirations. The look he'd worn, with that self-made red cape and the T-shirt with a star print, was practically his cosplaying as the main character.
His nostalgia turned sour rather fast. Before he knew it, Takemichi lost track of the pages Takuya was turning. Whenever he looked at the big fight being the centre of narration, he couldn't help but see the fictional temple as Udagawa Christian Church, the cartoonishly evil villain as Taiju, and the protagonist and his sidekick as himself and Chifuyu.
His fists clenched on their own.
What was he actually doing? Did he really need all those overcomplicated excuses to do something good?
A hero always faced the dangers head-on, and while it had been quite the sore spot for him in the past, it was practically his only forte – being able to butt in every conflict for no other reason than his gut feeling that it was the right thing to do.
Takemichi bit the inside of his cheek.
"Hey, Takuya…?"
"Hmmmm?" his friend drawled, glued to the book.
"You said you know everything about me, so I thought I'd ask… Uhm. Have you, by any chance, ever heard me or my parents talk about some supernatural stuff? Like… time-travel, for example?"
"No," Takuya didn't even hesitate and huffed. "Why do you ask?"
"Uh, you know. Just thought it'd be a cool superpower for a hero."
Takuya snickered and poked his side.
"Yeah, that's true. But I think you are already cool as you are."
"You are just trying to coax me into feeding you more ice-cream."
"Maaaaaybe."
Takemichi didn't really know what answer he expected, so he wasn't too disheartened by learning nothing. As long as his ability worked and helped him save everyone, he probably shouldn't question it too much so as not to jinx the order of things.
Takemichi ended up following Takuya's advice, so a pre-emptive approach it was.
His decision brought him back to the annoyingly humongous Shiba residence. Now that he stood in front of it alone, the size was unbearably imposing. Takemichi felt like an insect about to be eaten by a Venus flytrap, slowly dissolving in the venom it produced.
At least his parents would know that he didn't just vanish into thin air. They weren't home since some important ambassador had arrived to the country and their assistance was much needed for all that official stuff he hadn't bothered to ask about. Remembering yesterday, Takemichi left them a note explaining that he just wanted to thank Yuzuha for taking care of him. That sounded unsuspicious enough.
He rolled back and forth from heels to balls of his feet, uncomfortably sheepish, but eventually summoned his resolve and knocked on the door. The silence weighted him down like a dumbbell as he waited for a response. It wasn't too late, so the siblings might have been out doing whatever.
He jostled at the light padding sound. The door revealed a thin slit, crossed by a strung chain, and a small rosy face poked out from within. A pair of navy blue eyes popped at the sight, and the door slammed closed before whooshing wide open all the way.
"Micchan!" Hakkai exclaimed, a prominent blush exploding on his cheeks. "You came!"
"Hi," Takemichi grinned awkwardly. Such an excited welcome was a surprise. He was gone for just one day, but Hakkai's opinion on him seemed to have evolved into something tender – so did the nickname, though Takemichi couldn't say he disliked it.
He knew his next words would wipe that joyful beam off, but he willed himself to do it, "Is Taiju home?"
"Yes. He is in his room upstairs," Hakkai fidgeted. "He didn't hear you."
"Uh, no… Actually, I came to talk to him."
"Oh." And there it was – the dejected face with the saddest puppy eyes the world had ever known. "He said… he said not to bother him."
It sounded like a lie, but Takemichi pressed anyway, "It's okay, I'll be quick."
"I…" Hakkai hung his head as though he wanted to add something else, but swiftly forced himself to acquiesce, "Okay, I'll go get him."
The boy trotted back into the house before Takemichi got to insert a word. Takemichi gingerly stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him, and took his shoes off. The pristine wooden floors incited an odd guilt in him, ridiculously prominent for its insignificant extent, and he generously wiped each foot on his calves. Yes, his socks were fished out from the pile he couldn't bring himself to sort out. They passed the sniff test, though, so it should be okay.
The residence did not appear any less daunting on the inside. The ceiling loomed at him from its high, and he stood in the middle of a long, long hallway like a frightened deer, inspecting the massive staircase at the end where Hakkai'd disappeared. There was a single door to his right, and he could make out expansive shelving and a white couch, identifying the space as the living room.
Stiff and uncertain, Takemichi was starting to realise that he came here completely unprepared. If Taiju actually came down, what would he do next?
True strength isn't something you force others to acknowledge. It shows by itself, all you have to do is stay true to yourself.
That line came from "Thunder Wizards", and as cheesy as it was, it rang to him just right.
But was Takemichi truly strong? If he was, he would have probably survived that battle in 2008. No, scratch that. He wouldn't have failed to save Izana, Baji, Emma. He wouldn't have let things escalate as they did.
〘 We've fought once, so let me tell you this: there is no one who can do it. No one but you. 〙
Takemichi blinked, snapping his head left and right. Someone's voice yet again reverberated in his mind too realistically to be a mere hallucination. Quite ironically, it reminded him of Taiju's husky timbre, but Takemichi didn't recall a single occasion when he could have potentially said that. They barely spoke amicably once – okay, twice, if one counted his accompanying Mitsuya to invite Taiju to the decisive fight. Speaking of that, Takemichi didn't even get to know if Taiju had accepted their request.
What a shame it would be if he did, only to discover that his Commander had bled out. It would mean he yapped about his amazing cause and determination for nothing.
Takemichi slapped his cheeks. That was too abashing to think about.
As if on cue, the beast he'd known as a walking killing machine, currently stuck in a ten-year-old body, leisurely descended the stairs, his posture straight and proper. Hakkai tentatively tailed him, wearing the mien of unease. Taiju made his way down and only bothered to meet Takemichi's eyes as the distance between them shortened to a measly metre, his bearing hostile and firm.
"What do you need?" he asked, his words dripping with threat and vitriol. Was last time not enough? he all but growled out.
Takemichi curled his hands into fists.
"You're a coward."
Taiju's eerily bright eyes rounded, "Me?"
"Yes, you." Takemichi sneaked a glance at Hakkai – the boy stared at him in shock, pale as snow. "Is it nice, terrorizing your siblings to make yourself feel better?"
"Who got you on this?" Taiju corked a vexed brow. "Was it Yuzuha? Is this why she 'suddenly' decided to sleep over at a friend's today? Ha!" He smirked arrogantly, crossing his arms. "I'm not 'terrorizing' them. I'm their older brother. It's my duty to educate them."
Takemichi grimaced. That sounded quite preposterous, even – or especially – for a ten-year-old.
Glaring at Taiju, he felt rather strange. He knees were shaking, memory still reeling with his fleeting dismal stand in Udagawa Church, but more than a half of his yesterday's fear was as good as non-existent. Was it because he had a clear goal? Or because he knew he still had a chance? Or because he heard that voice earlier? He couldn't tell.
He couldn't care, either.
"Are you still going to call it education when you start raising hands against them?"
He didn't mean to drop a bombshell, but his words plunged the hallway in an uncomfortable quiet. Hakkai held his breath, and even Taiju froze, eyeing Takemichi with a dumbfounded squint. Takemichi gulped. Did he step out of line?
Taiju reached him in two aggressively wide steps and grabbed his collar.
"Me? Hurting my siblings?" he bristled, and thick folds stretched across his forehead. "Watch your tongue, you monkey. A wuss like you has no right to give me this crap."
Takemichi tugged at his wrist, "Are you sure? Then why do your siblings always look so scared? Hakkai is right here, see for yourself! Do you think he is afraid of me?"
Taiju's mouth moved open, but no retort followed. He turned back, zeroing in on his brother, and the boy shrunk into himself, wobbling on quaking feet and clearly contemplating booking it.
Something unexpected occurred.
For a brief second, Taiju's face contorted with a peculiar frown, acutely akin to despair. The fingers around the cloth of Takemichi's T-shirt loosened, and Takemichi wriggled his way back to freedom, trying to make heads or tails of Taiju's expression.
He quickly regretted his fit of sympathy because the next scowl sent his way was outright homicidal.
"Are you trying to turn them against me? To make them think I'm some kind of monster?"
"W-What? No! I just met them yesterday!"
"Or you are lying," Taiju gritted through his teeth, his pupils narrowing into pencil-thin lines. "Cowards like you always lie."
Why is it always like this? Takemichi mentally whimpered. Why do people only hear what they want to hear?
"I'm not lying," he tried to placate, albeit futilely. "I just want to help you reconcile!"
"We don't need that. We can manage on our own."
"And what would your father say?" Takemichi exclaimed in a last-ditch effort. "What will he think if he finds out that Hakkai and Yuzuha are afraid of you?"
He really needed to learn how to think before speaking.
The fragile thread of his patience snapping, Taiju roared and threw himself at Takemichi with a hateful cry. Takemichi barely reacted in time, dashing to the side, but Taiju's strong hand firmly wrapped itself around his shoulder. With a pained oof, Takemichi was slammed into the nearest wall.
"Why do you care what he thinks?" Taiju snarled. "We don't need him! I can protect them on my own!"
"No, you can't!"
"I can. I'm strong! Stronger than you!"
"You aren't, and I can prove it!" Takemichi yelled, struggling against his grip. "If you fight me, I'll totally win!"
Taiju's chest erupted with nasty, hearty laughter. His voice, while higher than what Takemichi was used to, held that familiar manic exuberance that made Takemichi break into a cold sweat.
"Don't cry about it later," Taiju sneered.
A fist planted itself right into Takemichi's cheekbone. Hakkai screamed. Takemichi watched his world spin, trying to comprehend his current position. He miraculously stumbled away from an incoming punch, but Taiju roughly pushed him into a collision with the opposite wall. Takemichi ducked to evade another attack, and a knee connected with his temple.
"Micchan...!"
"Who is the weakling now? Who is winning, huh?!"
Takemichi blindly palmed the floor, coming to realise that he'd toppled over. He could faintly hear Hakkai crying nearby, and his heart churned.
If he lost now, the same situation would repeat years later, only with Yuzuha in his place. He couldn't let it happen. He absolutely couldn't.
His mind went blank, and he launched himself forward, aiming for Taiju's legs. It got his opponent off-balance, and Takemichi pinned an elbow to his toe, eliciting an angered hiss out of his clamped teeth. Thick fingers clutched at his hair, hauling him upward, and Takemichi screwed his eyes shut, tearing up from pain. Sensing rather than seeing a new punch closing in on him, he used his forearms as a shield, grunting from the harsh impact. He tried to deal a desperate blow in retaliation, but Taiju dodged easily, staring him down like a hawk.
"You are so annoying…" he spat, growing progressively redder. Takemichi squeezed out a chuckle.
"So are you…"
It earned him another punch.
Taiju might have been smaller than he remembered, but Takemichi was also younger, so his hits felt just as heavy, if not heavier. The bruises he'd got yesterday, thankfully somewhat hidden by his hair, burst alight with new pain, and the fresh ones burned at his skin like melting metal. For his age, Taiju packed a hefty punch. Takemichi had no idea why he suddenly felt like praising him.
Taiju seized hold of him again, and in a spell of what he could only call stupidity, Takemichi craned his neck and fervidly bit into his skin. It was his first time hearing Taiju emit such a high-pitched bellow, and he leapt aside at the first twitch of his slackening grasp. Taiju folded in half, rocking his hand, and his eyes glistened with tears of pain and fury.
"You little…"
"What, does it hurt? Or are you, by any chance, ashamed? Now try to imagine your little siblings feeling the same way when you are being a jerk!"
Takemichi attempted to dart farther away, but ran into a shoe rack and faltered. To his astonishment, thin trembling arms enveloped his shoulders, keeping him steady. Hakkai was still sniffling, big fat pearls sliding down his cheeks.
Taiju flared.
"Hakkai, get out. I'm not done with him."
His gruff tone made Hakkai gasp. The boy's arm began retreating, dithered, and clasped around Takemichi with newfound strength.
"N-No."
"Don't make me repeat myself, Hakkai. You know I hate yelling at you."
Hakkai retracted his neck – if anything, it looked like Takemichi was supporting him, not the other way round.
"Y-Yell if you w-want… I w-won't leave Micchan."
"Hakkai," Taiju enunciated, devoid of emotion. Even Takemichi's gut warped with something chill. "Hakkai, he is the bad guy here. He is weak, and he wants to drag you and Yuzuha down. And you know what happens to the weak – others always hurt them."
"I saw them hurt you too," Hakkai sobbed, and it seemed to strike some nerve. Taiju grew skittish, visibly failing to choose the right words and contain his ire.
"Yes, because I used to be weak. But I'm strong now. I can protect you and Yuzuha if only you listen to me."
"I'd rather… listen to Micchan."
"Hakkai."
Taiju shakily tramped in their direction. He exhibited a weirdly hollow look, stuck between galled and tired.
"I… I think Micchan is right. You are being really scary lately…"
"Hakkai."
Burying his fingers in Takemichi's skin (most likely for courage, but it still stung like hell), Hakkai took a deep breath and shouted, "I trust that Micchan will make you go back to normal! He'll beat you up for me!" He met Takemichi's baffled gaze from behind his shoulder, and even though the dark blues of his eyes housed profound indecision, he squeaked out, "Because… that's what heroes do."
Takemichi's vision blurred.
Taiju halted, louring with incredulity. Swallowing his tears, Takemichi used this chance to slip between the two, no matter how ridiculous it looked due to the height difference.
"You heard him. I'll win."
Taiju's face flushed deep crimson. He charged forward, yelling at the top of his lungs. Takemichi threw a resolute punch, but wound up tackled to the floor, the back of his head bonking on the sturdy wooden boards. He kicked Taiju in the abdomen, rolling him off his body, but Taiju was quick to reposition them so that he got Takemichi in a grapple, one leg and one arm flailing helplessly like leafless twigs. Takemichi somehow pretzeled himself backwards, pinching an unclothed expanse of his neck. His opponent squirmed, giving him an opening to flip out of his arms and slither behind his back to restrain him. His nails dug into his triceps, forming a massive lock.
Taiju thrashed and bawled, but his foe was nothing if not resilient. Frantic, he dropped his torso against the floor, smashing Takemichi's head on the sturdy wood.
Takemichi groaned, stars sparkling behind his eyelids. Adrenaline still rampant in his veins, he refused to relent, holding harder than he'd held onto Kiyomasa a long time ago. Taiju rammed him down again and again, keeling over to crack Takemichi against the wall. He was panting angrily, pounding a frustrated fist into his arms and sides.
A few minutes in, Takemichi was dangerously close to blacking out. It was truly fortunate that Taiju's hits and convulsive writhing were weakening, although his enraged gurgling only picked up.
The final punch landed on him like a friendly nudge, but it might have been because Takemichi was gradually losing every sense in his body. His grip became lax.
"F-Fine… I gi–"
His eyes fell shut before he heard what Taiju was mumbling.
As much as Takemichi desired to be blessed with a propethic dream or a pretty remembrance to soothe his miserable drowse, Lady Luck did not humour him this time. His nap was short, restless, and ended so abruptly that it could hardly be regarded as a passed-out sleep. It wasn't even the throbbing that woke him up – he jolted awake at the ear-destroying wailing that promised plight and bloodbath. Momentarily, before his eyes regained focus, Takemichi hallucinated the train station and the hollers of the metal-ridden turmoil. A disgustingly sour taste emerged in his mouth.
What was happening?
He certainly wasn't on the floor. The surface beneath him was softer, and the feathery plush under his head was very pillowlike. His vision readjusting, Takemichi confirmed that he was indeed on the white couch he'd briefly spotted in the living room. Whoever relocated him did him a huge favour.
Alright, that was mystery number one. What about the sound?
Takemichi cocked his ears up. Discerning actual words in the incessant howling was no easy task.
"–ou killed him! How could you?! He is dead!"
"He isn't! Stop screaming!"
"You're the one who's screaming!"
"You started screaming first!"
"Because you killed Micchan!"
The higher voice definitely belonged to Hakkai, who sounded on the verge of choking. The other one must have been Taiju's.
Takemichi rubbed his forehead, relieved at the absence of a dirty duster. He wanted to laugh at himself – wasn't he pitiful? All that pride and fanfare was in vain. Again.
He lost. The aftertaste was just as familiar as it was depressing. Taiju must be so full of himself right now, preening his arrogant being on showing some conceited shrimp his place. Changing his beliefs had just become a nigh impossible feat.
"Hakkai, shut up before you suffocate," Taiju's voice broke into a grouch. It didn't help. "Dear Lord, why must I– actually, screw it. He is alive, see?!"
An unnerving lull ensued. Takemichi peeked to the side and met two bulging pairs of eyes gaping at him. Hakkai blinked, those baby lashes embellished with watery diamonds, and bolted to his side in one fluid motion, caging Takemichi in a bone-crushing hug.
"Micchaaaaaaan! I'm so glaaaaaad you are aliiiiiiive!"
"He won't be alive anymore if you keep doing that," Taiju chided, and Hakkai yelped and released the embrace. He was too strong for his age alright. Takemichi raised a weak thumbs-up – he really thought he was about to die again.
"How long… was I out?" he asked, voice hoarse. The déjà vu was more laughable than startling.
"Five minutes at best," Taiju said. Takemichi goggled at him owlishly.
Five minutes? Yesterday it'd been much longer and had still taken Yuzuha by surprise. Was Taiju perchance holding back?
His face pulsated, the tang of blood spreading on his tongue. Nah, it was impossible.
(A petty part of him, oddly enough, wanted to celebrate. He'd built the immunity. He was invincible now.
Or maybe not. His saliva tasted like vomit.)
"Do I have a concussion…?" he asked, just to be sure.
Taiju shrugged, "I guess."
If it was true, it would make twice in a row. What a great record to set.
To rub more salt in, Taiju's eyes remained fixed on him, following his every micromovement. Did he want to gloat? Takemichi was resigned to his fate. He made a fool out of himself, so he might as well let him go away with it. Just this once. But not right away. Takemichi wanted to get rid of the pain first. Every inch of his face ached like something was trying to pry it open.
"Uhhh… may I get some ice…?"
Nodding animatedly, Hakkai sprung back up and scampered out of the room, leaving the other boys alone. Taiju's piercing golden gaze was drilling into Takemichi as if he somehow held the secrets of the universe, and Takemichi hid his face with the pillow.
Why was Hakkai taking so long? It was getting really, really awkward.
"...It doesn't look too bad," Taiju spoke all of a sudden. Takemichi initially thought he talked to his brother, but no kiddy voice chirped back. He sneaked a peek from under his improvised cover. True to that, Taiju kept immovably scrutinizing him.
"What doesn't?"
"Your face."
Takemichi rolled his eyes.
"Are you insulting me now? You really are spiteful, aren't you?"
The corner of Taiju's lips arched down, "And you are an idiot."
Before Takemichi could retort, Hakkai came to his rescue with a small bag of ice. Takemichi pressed it to where it hurt most and moaned from the frigid, numbing bliss (only the tiniest bit mixed with agony). He tossed Hakkai a grateful grin, but Hakkai went white-faced.
"Hakkai? You okay?"
"Micchan…" the boy quailed. "Your… your tooth…"
Takemichi's tongue automatically licked around the palate and tragically stumbled where an incisor should be. If truth be told, there was none. The tip of his tongue teased the wet tissue, palpably torn, and a sting of his flesh made him flinch.
Ignoring Hakkai's protests, Takemichi jumped off the couch, ran up to the cubic, chubby TV resting on a lacquered wooden stand, and bared his teeth at his skewed reflection. The other Takemichi from the screen was dark, but a big damn hole at the forefront of his mouth seemed infinitely darker.
He didn't die today, but his tooth certainly did.
"It's all over for me," he whispered. Not only did he look like an amateur jack-o'-lantern, he was probably going to stay that way. Replacing a tooth would totally cost him a fortune. He'd have to live off instant noodles for months again–
"Stop moping around. You'll grow another," Taiju sighed like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Takemichi met his exasperated gaze with a moist pucker. "It was a milk tooth, wasn't it?"
Oh. Right, it probably was.
Takemichi jokingly scratched his cheek, trying to laugh it off. His bruise quipped back with angered ache, very flavourful and gruntworthy.
Taiju chuckled, "Like I said, you are an idiot."
"Whose fault is it? It was you who beat me up and made me even dumber than before!"
Taiju had no counter to that, so Takemichi toddled back to the couch and flumped down. Hakkai immediately made himself comfortable to his right, skilfully wielding his ice and wagging a metaphorical tail.
Well, Takemichi might have lost, but at least Hakkai seemed to be back in high spirits. Maybe today wasn't a complete failure.
The second he considered going home, Takemichi blanched.
He was wrong, he absolutely messed up.
If his parents saw him like that, they – actually, would they even be angry? He remembered his mother crying the day before and knew for a fact – he did not want them to find out.
"I can't go home like this," he snivelled.
Taiju furrowed his brows, "Why?"
"Mom will worry."
"If you knew that, why'd you fight me?"
"I… I didn't think it through."
A pause lingered. Taiju chortled through his nostrils.
"Yes, that confirms it. You are an idiot."
"You said it, like, three times already. Cut it out."
"Yeah, don't bully Micchan," Hakkai piped in.
Takemichi waited for Taiju to bark something accusatory again, but Taiju just wrinkled his nose and swivelled away. Takemichi grinned to himself.
Ha! Guess nearly killing a person humbled you down.
(If he was being frank, that beating wasn't as bad as some other ones, but he'd rather play it safe.)
He presumed Taiju would return to his business after confirming that he lived, but the boy in question didn't seem all that impatient to leave his corner, sort of idling there like a misplaced statue. Takemichi was promptly reminded of that time he'd seen Taiju harassed by other kids – his posture definitely came across as similar. Like a dark cloud hiding a brewing storm, something like that.
Heh. Maybe Takemichi was secretly a poet.
"Satisfied now?" he prodded. "You can leave if you want. I won't fight you anymore."
(Not today, at least.)
Taiju's attentive eyes sunk into him again. Did he have to make it so unsettling?
"How did you do it?"
"What? Passing out? Ah, it's simple. C'mere, I can smack you real good–"
His vigour faded away at Taiju's scowl. He wasn't in a joking mood, roger that.
Taiju looked like he was skimming through the words in his head before speaking, "Making Hakkai stand up to me. He's never done it before."
Gee, I wonder why.
"I dunno. It's not like I told him to."
He peered at Hakkai, but he wasn't of any help either. If anything, the boy himself seemed flabbergasted at the situation, as if reality only dawned upon him now.
"Is that the strength you were talking about?" Taiju inquired. It helped Takemichi not dwell on Hakkai's behaviour for too long.
"Oh, so are you interested now?" Takemichi perked up and simpered impishly. "Heh-heh, admit I left some impact even though I lost!"
Taiju gawked, "You lost?"
"I lost."
"You lost."
"Yes, I did… why are you making it sound so weird?"
Taiju's yellow eyes glimmered like rye dancing in the wind. A few beats passed before he snorted.
"You are an idiot."
"Can you stop with that already?!"
"I'll stop if you answer my question."
"Why do you even need me to answer?"
"I want to be strong," Taiju said. It sounded different from before – steadfast, yet modest. "And I want my siblings to look up to me. I want to do the same thing you did back there with Hakkai."
Takemichi's jaw dropped. Was it that hard to say from the start?! Did I really have to lose a tooth for that?!
"So?" Taiju just kept pushing. "Show me."
"Well… uh…" Takemichi frantically scanned the room, searching for an escape. He still had to take care of his face– wait a second. Observing Taiju's impassive features, he chose a dangerous road and feigned a purposeful smile. "First, uh, help me with my bruises! A-And swelling!" He covertly stroked his profile. "Oh gosh, I'm swollen as heck..."
Taiju tilted his head, "Why?"
"B-Because, you know! Being nice to someone and helping those in need is the first sign of true strength! Haven't you seen it before? All heroes in anime and manga do that. And what did Hakkai call me?"
(Takemichi knew he wasn't doing the greatest thing, but drastic times called for drastic measures. Taiju's family was rich, maybe they'd have a super-effective imported medicine or something?)
Taiju deflated, "Got it."
And he silently strode out of the room.
Takemichi wordlessly watched him leave, struggling to compute his exit.
Was it that easy to chase him out?
His relief was short-lived because Taiju returned in a trice, empty-handed and even grumpier than normal.
"We need to refill our aid kit," he grumbled.
Well, there went his plan. Takemichi was not above a bratty whine.
"What are you sitting there for? Get up."
"Huh? Can't you, like, go and buy something by yourself? I'm injured!"
Taiju blankly pointed at the bite mark on his hand and rebuffed, "Me too. You'll buy it."
"I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"Why do I have to go, then?!"
If he was insane, he would probably think that Taiju's current expression was bashful.
"I don't know what can help. You'll choose."
"You… don't know what helps against bruising? I thought you got into fights often."
"Yeah, I did. I still do."
"Then…????"
Taiju smirked, "I always win."
Maybe Takemichi was wrong in his assumption that he could ever change him. Simply playing along seemed like the least harmful option.
Playing along with Taiju was the worst decision in Takemichi's life, and he regretted it more than losing his cool and getting a literal turd in his hair in front of Mikey and Draken. The poor pharmacist almost fainted upon their entrance, and Takemichi named the first bruise cream he could think of while she could still converse. Taiju's glower might have also played a part in bleaching her complexion – heck, he had to instruct him how to properly pay without making the money look like a murder weapon. Takemichi was infinitely grateful he hadn't advised Taiju to go alone and learn to communicate on his own. It would have been a disaster of unspeakable notoriety.
He had teased the theory that the Shiba family hired a housekeeper, and it was now all but proven right. That, or grocery shopping was exclusively Hakkai and Yuzuha's responsibility, which was even more pathetic in hindsight.
They somehow made it back without trouble. Watching Taiju unlock the massive door, Takemichi felt really out of place, like a beggar adopted as a charity case. Not that he would mind something like this actually happening. Old habits die hard.
He cautiously treaded inside, trailing behind Taiju at a safe distance. Before untying his shoelaces, Takemichi instinctively intoned, "I'm home!"
He froze, his brain catching up to his error. Hakkai looked at him with curiosity, and Taiju turned back with a scrunched face.
"It's not your home."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry. I spaced out."
"Hmph."
"Mom would always say 'Welcome back'," Hakkai mused, his voice smaller than usual.
Takemichi smiled, "Yeah, mine says it too."
"And who says it to her?"
"Me or dad."
Hakkai's enthusiasm petered out, "Oh… I see."
"I-It sure sounds nice, doesn't it?" Takemichi stuttered, taking notice of his ailing mood. "H-How about you say it too?"
Hakkai twisted his fingers, "We don't… we don't do that anymore. Since… since mom died."
His voice was hushed, but his words resounded in a bleak echo that wrung Takemichi's heart. The atmosphere in the hallway rapidly dropped to gloomy, and he heard Taiju mumble something under his breath before spinning around to walk away.
Takemichi lit up with an idea.
"Taiju, get back here for a sec."
"What for?"
"I'll show you. I just thought of an ultra special way for you to become even stronger."
Taiju's unnerving eyes bore into his skull. Despite the feeble peace they established (it was peace, right? Right???), Takemichi barely suppressed an instinct to cower.
Taiju didn't move for a whole minute, and he was about to call this whole thing off when the older boy begrudgingly stomped over. Internally cheering, Takemichi clapped him on the back.
"There. Now you say it."
"Say what?"
Smug, Takemichi sing-songed, "I'm home!"
Taiju's face flattened out. It came across as his signature antagonistic scowl, but Takemichi could tell – he was embarrassed.
He playfully jabbed him to get his point through. Taiju awkwardly cleared his throat.
"I'm… home."
Takemichi would have laughed if he didn't feel so insulted. Was he even trying?
"No! You are doing it wrong!"
"How can anyone do it wrong? It's a stupid tradition anyway!"
"It's only stupid because you made it sound stupid!"
"And how am I supposed to make it sound?"
"Uh, cheerful? Thankful? I dunno, everyone is different."
"And yet I'm the one who makes it sound wrong."
"Precisely. I'd think you were here to kill someone. Don't you love your home?"
His words made Taiju flounder. He anxiously gazed around, popping the joints of his digits, and mouthed, "...I do."
"Now think about what you love about it most." Taiju, thank god, didn't question him and actually looked like he tried to concentrate. "Now imagine that you were out all day, doing something you really, really hate. Or – err, I dunno, just surviving... somewhere. You were doing that for ages, and now it's finally over. You are exhausted, but coming back here means you can finally rest, right? Wouldn't you be happy, getting to see what you love the most again? Put that happiness into these words and say it like you mean it. Got it?"
Taiju seemed upset, his jaw rigid as though a fish bone got stuck in his throat.
"...I guess?"
"Neat! Now, repeat after me," Takemichi inhaled and carolled, "I'm home!"
"I'm. Home."
"Put more emotion into it! Like this, 'I'm home!'"
"Gah! I'm home!!! Happy now?!"
"Don't yell! You have to shout it out!"
Fizzing like a kettle, Taiju punched the wall, "What's the difference?!"
"I'm home! C'mon, I won't leave you alone until you do it right."
"For the love of– I'M HOME!!"
A bit disoriented by the ringing in his ears, Takemichi presented him a lopsided grin.
"Now that's better," he giggled sluggishly, fatigue slowly creeping up on him. "Welcome back!"
Taiju didn't answer. He just stared in his usual fashion, if only slightly weirder than before. His eyebrows took off to his hairline as if he saw Takemichi for the first time.
"May I do it too? It's my turn now!" Hakkai chittered. Obviously, he didn't need to ask.
Stepping where Takemichi had stood, he chimed, voice jolly and so childishly bright, "I'm home!"
"Welcome back," Takemichi whispered with warmth and ingrown fondness.
Unlike his brother, Hakkai did it perfectly on the first try, but was far from satisfied. It was natural in a sense, given how hungrily he kept repeating those three words – like a poem that he had to learn by rote for his literature class, and Takemichi replied with a cordial Welcome back each and every time without fail. Taiju didn't depart to his room, and even though he remained silent, he thoughtfully spectated the whole process, his posture a little less tense and his eyes just the infinitesimal bit less strict