lawly

by footfungus

lawly

49. tokrev4

before the possibilities come true (i'll take all possibility from you)

retrosas

Summary:

(The burden Takemichi carries voluntarily is nothing like dead weight, because deadweight can't get any lighter. But he compares it nonetheless, hoping now, with what he's done, as Kisaki grows heavier, everything else—around him, above him, they all get lighter next.)

His back is warm with Kisaki's remaining body heat and the blood that continues to seep from his wounds. He gives Takemichi comfort in the cold, an ironic difference from their usual dynamic.

Takemichi hoists him higher and grunts.

A hefty, heavy burden to carry for the price of the future—but Takemichi carries on.

Takemichi leaps through time, fails, and comes back for one last chance to make things better. If he and Kisaki were meant to meet no matter what, and if the other ending has already led to ruin, then this—this world must ask for a different end. The right end.

Or: Takemichi wagers his morality for a better future. It isn't so simple.

Notes:

note: this diverges from canon AFTER kisaki is hit by the truck. it ends with elements from the "give me a hand" chap but the events in the middle are slgihtly different from canon! (timelines are hard)

title is inspired by the lyrics of "a little piece of heaven" by avenged sevenfold, which,seems perfect for the nature of this fic (if yall will listen to it tho, major trigger warning for the music video's graphic violence cannibalism necrophilia)

my search history is fucked but i have no regrets dgjkndsjngs idk yet if this will be 2 or 3 chaps since im still working on it but yeah :'D

please heed the tags! fic is rated E for graphic imagery, so pls keep that in mind!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

In a different world, Kisaki Tetta is hit by a truck and dies after a few seconds. After seeing his life goal happen without him lifting a finger, Takemichi watches the whole time with a morbid fascination as adrenaline would rush out of him, bringing him to his knees.

In that world, after everything—the time leaping, the lives lost, things get marginally better in the future. Only marginally , because lives are still lost after it all, just in different times and places. Different situations, yet all leading to the same ending. The same losses just spread out.

There, he's getting married right after visiting all these funerals and wakes. There, Draken dies in an explosion. Mitsuya, Hakkai, and Chifuyu all died in a freak accident after Pah's wedding. Naoto was shot on duty.

He feels no excitement for his wedding, and he knows neither does Hina.

Because there, in that world, only Takemichi is okay.

A life, a world where only Takemichi was happy—it didn't feel right for him. He's only made it this far with the help of those around him; it wasn't fair they'd give it all get nothing in return, that he couldn't give them anything in return.

So when Takemichi meets up with Mikey again days before the wedding and is shot before falling with him, he makes a prayer.

He asks for one more chance. Another try.

To make everyone happy again.

And so he is brought here—to his second chance, to the start. To a new world.

This won't be like that old world. Not anymore.

It's not, because Takemichi will make sure that world won't happen. Has made sure it wouldn't, isn't happening right now. Not if he has anything to say about it.

This is his last chance, and he'll make sure to make the most out of it.

(He'll make sure he won't need another one.)

Takemichi's future— current —self has merged with his current— past —self, the younger being aware of what lies ahead if he continued living without aid. Like this, the world is clearer, no empty spots in either past or future Takemichi's memories, because now there is only their collective memory. A singular Takemichi with the weight of multiple pasts and futures on his shoulders.

Though his crybaby tendencies have gotten stronger, the pressure heavier, he knows he's done better this time.

Even though Pah-chin still got arrested, Takemichi protected Draken from being stabbed. He saved Baji and befriended Kazutora, who was now going to therapy. Hakkai was called out earlier and saved easier, subsequently leading to a new division in Toman composed of former Black Dragons for Takemichi to lead. He even got to Emma in the nick of time, prepared for its earlier timing, shielding her and getting away with stitches in place and his life with him.

Takemichi has more scars than he can count now, but he regrets none of it. He holds them with honor and pride that nobody can understand as it only worries them, drives them to protect him the way he has for them. But he pays it no mind, only looking forward to an invisible goal with tangible results.

He knows better now. Knows that sometimes, even with all the changes that have happened, the future is still unstable. The more he fixes things, the more uncertain the succeeding events will be, because Takemichi only knows of futures where things were ever broken.

So he's not so surprised to be here again, cornered by Kisaki in a snowy park after his attempt on Emma, a day before Tenjiku and Toman were inevitably meant to clash once more. A meeting that no changing past can deny, it seemed, only its timing.

His foot throbs with phantom pain; there, a scar in the shape of popped chewing gum itches, missing the hole Kisaki once put through it. His thigh feels the same.

If he and Kisaki were meant to meet no matter what, and if the other ending ( endings, he's sure; he's seen them in dreams, too many to count ) has ( have; so many; have ) already led to ruin, then this— this world must ask for a different end. The right end.

Make no mistake: this is a parallel event of the last world. Not a repeat.

And this time, Takemichi is prepared to make the right ending happen.

Takemichi isn't surprised when Kisaki takes his gun out. He almost memorizes this scene second by second, frame by frame like it was his favorite film. Different in situation it may be in his mind, it was almost the same in person. The same tics, the same movements—Takemichi remembers it. Has played the different versions of Kisaki pointing a gun at him, all of them, enough times he could scratch the DVD it was burnt on.

However, Takemichi doesn't try to kick the gun away from him this time, choosing to do him one better.

(This is a different world.)

He takes out a pocket knife at the same moment, the voice of his past selves—his younger self, angry and emotional; his older self, lost to a horrible future and desperate for something better—guiding him, telling him to strike.

In a show of speed he knew Kisaki did not expect from him, Takemichi raises his hand. He uses all his energy and strength, reaching forward for Kisaki's outstretched arm. Kisaki then stumbles, shocked.

Amusement replaces fear, and Kisaki laughs at his miss.

But his laughter catches in his throat as something slides across and into it, blood escaping his lips instead in a mockery of the pretty fountain in the mall nearby.

(Takemichi will do better.)

Kisaki's gun falls almost gently into the snow. His blood continues to fly up.

The shiny sharp edge of the knife shines brown then red as it hits Kisaki's skin, then goes through it in the next second. It slides against it before going into it, and Takemichi watches as the skin parts open almost instantly. The cut isn't that big, but the skin it damaged is wide, open, and deep, the redness and glimpses of whiteness behind it visible for anyone who was nearby to see.

As the skin is cut, blood spurts out just as fast, flying straight up and forward as Kisaki loses his balance. Takemichi lets his body act on its own—in rage, in panic, in fear—and surges forward. The knife lodges itself in Kisaki's outstretched arm for a moment, drawing another scream from the other teen.

Takemichi pulls the knife out and Kisaki stumbles towards him. He leaves his knife be, all out in the open, letting Kisaki, almost naturally, poetically , fall onto it.

Kisaki, the killer, the devil, falling into another version of himself. Slowly, unable to do anything but follow .

A fresh supply of blood pours from his mouth at the action, falling like water coming from a bucket. Takemichi feels his shaking through the knife between them, and he feels his shoulders, his everything responding with their own shivers.

He pulls the knife out, letting Kisaki fall on his back and partially on his knee. The sound of something cracking rings through the otherwise empty park, followed by the sound of his back hitting the snow. There, he twitches, hands coming up to his neck instinctively to try and do something. To stop the bleeding, to hold his skin, his muscles together back so the wound closes. To breathe, breathe harder, to stay alive—

But fails.

No, failed.

After all, time does not follow the dead. Not in the same way it does for the living.

Like in the previous world, Takemichi falls to his knees, adrenaline sweeping off him and into the snow.

And then, he shakes. Harder. Stronger. He cries, wails. He brings his knees close and scrambles away, the knife falling in the snow with his old adrenaline. A new wave washes over him, but this time, in fear.

'I did it.'

The red of Kisaki's blood is absorbed by snow at a rapid pace, and near it, Takemichi vomits with a shaky, heaving smile. There's a mix of tears and snot dripping with his lunch, and they all begin to chill in no time.

His mind freezes for a moment, still reeling back from the excessive focus it exerted. As he regained his bearings, his mind began to wind up, replaying the exact moment his knife slashed forward, the first drop that spilled—

Like this, he knows he's changed the future for the better. Now, he knows the battle between Tenjiku and Toman will cease to continue. A first, small step to hope.

That is if Tenjiku doesn't know who killed Kisaki.

His world spins.

'Holy shit.'

And that realization—that brings a different fear altogether.

'Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit—'

Takemichi gives himself more time to compose himself, to let it all out of his system. Gives himself the time to shout, to puke, to let his shaking persist in time with the fat tears running down his face.

His hands are red and cold, but the blood on them—the blood he can see and the blood he can't but he can feel—are warm, thick, and bright. He doesn't mind the color as he lifts them up and rubs at his face, moving his hands up and down on his cheeks and a little over his eyebrows. Up, down; up, down.

Takemichi can feel his face grow wet from all the liquid on it, yet his skin feels so, so dry. The wetness between his fingers and his cheeks seems to evaporate, and Takemichi can feel the cracks on both parts of his body. The fine hairs on his cheeks against the rough and calloused tips of his fingers—he feels it all, as if they were exhausted of all moisture in them.

Breathing hurts; his nose, his throat, his chest, they all hurt, like their insides have been rubbed raw with a sponge. But...

Yet he needs to try. He—he can't afford not to, not right now.

Gradually, he calms down. He starts thinking. Slowly, but surely, he tries to think.

His tears flow stronger, and a wounded, confused wail stems from the base of his throat. Hands red, he wraps his arms around himself in a mockery of a hug. He's so cold.

Mentally, he replays the scene from earlier for the third time. Slower. Blurrier.

Takemichi doesn't know a future where things have gone right. Everything is now unfamiliar, uncharted territory. New. Strange.

Scary.

He gulps. It hurts his raw throat, but he does it again anyway.

Takemichi can't leave Kisaki here. He can't be found. Not yet.

He has to bring him somewhere. To a place where there's nobody likely to visit right now, somewhere he can think.

Teary, blue eyes widen, realization twinkling in them.

His home—safety, rest—is just a few blocks away.

In a different world, Kisaki dies. The same happens in this world, except this time, it's by Takemichi's hand.

With Kisaki on his back, he prayed he used his chance well. He believes so—there can't be any other way around it. He's done everything, taken every path except this—

Things will change for the better. Takemichi hopes, believes, and agrees.

Kisaki's weight is a symbol of all he has to bear; as he kept trudging on, Kisaki only grew heavier. Deadweight. Dead weight.

(The burden Takemichi carries voluntarily is nothing like dead weight, because deadweight can't get any lighter. But he compares it nonetheless, hoping now, with what he's done, as Kisaki grows heavier, everything else—around him, above him, they all get lighter next.)

It was a struggle to carry Kisaki home, but he managed. He covered the red in the snow with water and more snow; a shoddy job of covering his tracks, he knows, but it would have to do. He knew the blood would fade in the morning, but he had to be sure.

His back is warm with Kisaki's remaining body heat and the blood that continues to seep from his wounds. He gives Takemichi comfort in the cold, an ironic difference from their usual dynamic.

Takemichi hoists him higher and grunts.

A hefty, heavy burden to carry for the price of the future—but Takemichi carries on.

Nobody welcomed him home, as usual. He ignored the red staining his flooring as he brought Kisaki's cold body into the kitchen where the tiles were relatively easier to clean. Takemichi drops the deceased teen unceremoniously by the stove, his chest rising and falling from exertion as he did so. It wasn't a long walk, but it was hard nonetheless.

Once his breath has relatively stabilized, Takemichi leaned on the refrigerator across it, focusing on the gentle whirr inside the appliance to ground himself.

Kisaki's eyes are still open with shock, glasses miraculously still on him but askew. His hair is a mess as his stare bores straight into Takemichi, unblinking. His legs bent in a way that would have a different man (an alive man) screaming.

Shoulders shaking, breath stuttering once more, Takemichi can't look away.

Memories from earlier flash in his mind like a slow, high-definition film. The blood spurting from a tan neck, reflecting along a silver blade was so bright, too bright for an early evening scenery. The cold, though a fleeting touch, felt real then, as if the snow was blowing inside his house rather than outside of it.

His hands twitch, rising to his temples. He can't look away. His head hurts. It's throbbing, and he feels something start to bubble and rise in his throat again.

Takemichi holds Kisaki's stare, the light in those dark gold eyes long gone, yet captivating all the same. In a different world, he would've grown to be a handsome man.

Not in this world, however.

Takemichi doesn't know what to feel about that realization. And with it comes the oppressive weight of a lost life, a future he cut short by his own hand.

It doesn't make him giddy; it was going to happen anyway. Just not like this. But it doesn't bring about the same intense fear as earlier; in its place is a low, buzzing sense of unease, settled deep in his bones and almost squished between them and his muscles. It seems to vibrate with the refrigerator behind him, constant.

There is a smidgen of regret in him. He knows what it is, knows it too well. But it doesn't feel present enough. It feels like a fleeting thing, coming by and leaving after a minute in Takemichi's ribs.

It doesn't feel like something to focus on. It doesn't seem like it can be focused on either way, what with how it flitted between his bones with ease, driving his emotions down only for a moment, never lasting too long.

What is present and unmistakable, however, is the anxiety within him.

The way things were starting to feel normal makes his heartbeat spike, its speed contrasting against the refrigerator's noise. He acknowledged he was anxious not because of what he did, but instead—

He's anxious over not regretting, not reacting more. He cried, he vomited, but he knew a normal person would do more. Would feel more.

Instead, what he felt after all the adrenaline faded was…relief. Thankfulness. Hope.

He essentially saved Toman from loss. At least, more loss than what could be managed. He was giving Izana and Mikey a chance to talk, should they continue to meet. He prevented horrible injuries that were irreversible in the other world. He prevented the useless, meaningless loss of lives, those from his side and Tenjiku's own, but all at the expense of cutting one short.

"I did it for good," Takemichi tells himself in the relative silence of his kitchen. It feels like he's speaking to convince someone, to stake his determination. "I did it for us. "

It goes unsaid who "us" is.

"You won't get it..." He whispers.

Hina comes to mind. He smiles sardonically.

"Or maybe you do."

(Kisaki was never part of it. He never will be. Just like how he was the pest in Kisaki's plans.

Two outsiders looking in from different ends of a spectrum, gravitating towards the same center. What a twist.)

"It was for the greater good, Kisaki-kun." He adds, voice firmer, "It is ."

(Takemichi wonders why he's so determined, so unmovable in the face of a dead man. Dead men tell no tales, so why does he share one to one anyway?)

His voice is stable, unlike his hands. His legs have gone numb, and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth as the smell of blood floods his senses and becomes a kind of taste. He grimaces at how close it smells to rare steak.

Takemichi's stomach grumbles softly, but he pays it no mind. He focuses on the anxiety in him, the fear of normalcy that's begun to settle over him, and the worry of what to do next.

His chest hurts again with how hard he breathes. His skin feels too tight over him now the longer he stares at Kisaki's eyes, and when he moves his gaze to the open wound on his neck, he feels the urge to suck in his lips to counter the crawling feeling all over him.

Blue eyes start to feel dry from lack of blinking. He decides to close his eyes, syncing his breathing to the refrigerator.

When he opens them again, morning has come.

Kisaki is staring at him still.

Takemichi vomits for the second time. Though he makes it to the sink, he steps over Kisaki's body.

The squelch under his feet makes him hiccup, tears springing forth as he choked on some spit.

But as he rinsed his mouth, the idea of Kisaki not breathing, unable to fight back—it soothed him just a bit.

He retches a third time.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The smell is horrible all the same.

Yet his stomach grumbles, a storm brewing, uncaring of the next line Takemichi has seen he can cross.

(Takemichi has already defied fate and time. He's touched a life, saved many others, and ended one. What are a few more boundaries to cross?)

warning for: graphic description of cutting up a body, body decay, mind break (?? i think), disturbing thoughts, questionable morality, drinking blood (ish)

Notes:

CLARIFICATION ABOUT THE CURRENT TIMELINE:

- since takemichi saved baji here, the timeline changed. christmas happened as canon but emma was attacked right AFTER the black dragon arc and BEFORE tenjiku arc started

- kisaki, frustrated that emma didnt die, faces off with takemichi the DAY BEFORE the tenjiku vs toman war (in the manga, emmas death happened the day BEFORE the war itself and kisatake had their confrontation happened right AFTER the war)

- takemichi kills him during said confrontation. its currently the morning of the war (which will happen sometime in the afternoon-ish)

again, this is a canon divergence from chap 204 ("give me a hand") in which takemichi goes back to the start to do everything all over again!!! he didnt go back to his high school days so no brahman etc (cries in 224). he's still in middle school but his adult and younger self have mixed together into one...thing :D

tags have also been changed slightly just to be safe!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Unable to do anything else, Kisaki holds his stare.

Takemichi notes how his skin has grown darker slightly, discoloration visible even with his tan. The wound on his neck was darker though, crusting with something too dark to be a normal scab. There's dried blood out frozen from the tip of Kisak's mouth and his nostrils, also darker than what normal blood would look. On his shirt, the holes remain open; Takemichi expects the skin under them to look the same.

"Oh," Takemichi whispers. He fears how normal he sounds, feels as he notes, "Decay."

Photos from science classes and news reports flood his brain. He remembers feeling fear, disgust, and concern over them. Thinking, asking among his peers, "what could have happened?" and "why them?"

With Kisaki's body, he doesn't feel them quite as strongly. He doesn't have any questions, knowing he's the answer himself.

Takemichi finds himself more bothered with the red stains on the floor than the cause of it.

His chest hurts. He struggles to look away and gets a mop.

The red that stained the floors was easy to remove, the kitchen tiles easier than the wooden floorboards elsewhere within the house. Takemichi leaves Kisaki untouched the whole time.

When he finished cleaning up, Takemichi checked the refrigerator. Empty. He ignores the grumble in his stomach and closes it.

Afterward, he turned around and stared at Kisaki again.

His smell is different now, a bit more pungent. It stuck to his clothes and was probably wafting throughout the empty house.

Takemichi is used to sweat and blood mixing into one specific scent that Toman often carries. A strange scent for middle schoolers to carry, but with Takemichi really being in his twenties, he finds it normal that it's become his new normal. When it begins sticking to him like a second skin like many of the other members, he simply carries it with ease.

But Kisaki's scent is not normal to be out in the open like this. There was a reason dead bodies were only ever dealt with in private; the metallic undertones of the dead were too strong, and when decaying, stronger. A scent that could travel farther and faster than a living man could ever try.

A spike of anxiety shoots up his spine.

Shit, can people smell him? Could they smell him if he changed clothes? If they passed by his house, would they note the odor of death surrounding it?

The new batch of snow should've covered all his tracks, but what if it didn't? What if it was possible to trace it back to him, that he killed Kisaki?

What if Toman got involved? What if they find out about what Takemichi did? Kisaki was a traitor, but he wasn't deserving of death.

But he is. He was. He's dead. A Tenjiku higher up is dead by the hands of someone from Toman, a division captain no less.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Takemichi takes a deep, loud breath. His ribs shake with his heart.

Something rings, clangs in Takemichi's ears. He needs to hide the body. Needs to dispose of any evidence. Dispose the cause of all this, because even if the trails lead to him, there'd be nothing to worry about if what they're looking for can't be found. Right?

Right.

That's what he'll do.

He needs to hide the fucking body.

Now.

But. But how?

He sucks in a shuddering breath and holds it in, thinking about his options. He can't go out, not anymore now that the sun is up. His backyard wasn't safe from prying eyes either.

Takemichi looks around. The cupboard: it would work, but he doesn't know how to cram Kisaki into it. The smell might seep through the wood as well, the same way the spices behind the double doors tended to do. Though the one housing the food processor, blender, and mixers were relatively spacious, it wasn't enough.

Under the sink—same problem, if not harder. Takemichi wasn't sure how to get around the piping there, and he wasn't going to mess with it in fear of ruining more than he can fix.

He looks behind him. The refrigerator.

A good choice, maybe, as it could hide scents pretty well. Many a time he has been fooled by its durability and its scent-blocking, forgetting he had old food inside that eventually turn bad without his knowledge until he opened its giant doors.

It was empty too. He hasn't received an allowance in a while now, and he's only gotten by with Chifuyu, Hakkai, Mitsuya, and the Kawata twins pitching in for groceries to cook in their homes. He hasn't had any food for himself alone for almost a week now, he thinks. So the refrigerator was empty—spacious, and free for storage.

But Kisaki still would not fit. It just wasn't possible. Even if he bent him, broke his bones some more, his refrigerator wasn't that big.

Takemichi groans.

Kisaki would not fit anywhere.

"You know," Takemichi looks down at the stiff body in front of him. "You're kinda tall for a middle schooler. That's unfair."

Kisaki doesn't respond.

Takemichi feels bile rise up his throat along with a chuckle. "What," he laughs wetly, "What am I doing, talking to a dead man."

He slaps his cheeks. Twice. He looks up slightly, and his eyes catch something glinting above the dish-drying rack slightly above the sink, just below a singular cupboard.

On a corkboard were three knives, but his eyes caught on the middle one. It's about the length of his hand but wider. Has a black handle. He's used it enough times to know how sharp it is.

It scares him how the next thought comes in too easily.

He steps closer to Kisaki's body, taking care not to step over it this time as he reaches for the middle knife. It's a plain knife, multipurpose and effective.

Breath coming out in pants and hands shaking, he runs the knife under hot water for a few minutes, using his other hand to wipe it down. His skin burns, shriveling under the water, but he continues.

The sound of a tap switching shut resounds in the kitchen, but his heartbeat rings louder.

He crouches down and meets Kisaki's gold, dull eyes. Tears dropped onto the skin below them, the transparent liquid shining against decaying skin.

"This is goodbye, Kisaki." Takemichi raises the knife, tip perpendicular to the ground.

A wry, but proud smile settles on his face. His heart races, anxiety and adrenaline flooding his senses. His vision tunnels onto the open slash on Kisaki's neck.

Takemichi laughs, wet, broken, and resigned. "I'll see you in hell."

Takemichi was not the best cook in the world, but he knows how to work his way in the kitchen. He's a relatively okay cook, but a better baker, he'd say.

He's used to dealing with raw meat. He knows how some cuts can be, how some slices may be thicker, drier, or juicier than others.

Takemichi drives the knife into Kisaki's neck, right where the slash is; he doesn't flinch at the few drops of blood that spurt out. He does, however, frown at his inability to cut through cleanly. He digs the knife deeper, the object standing tall as it's buried deep into decaying flesh.

Once he's sure the knife has at least gone halfway, he pushes it down.

It feels like meat, he notes. Animal meat. Just a bit harder. "Must be the decay," he thinks aloud. It's been a few hours, after all.

He pushes the knife down, bone and muscle giving way for its passage across them. Takemichi flinches as he feels the surrounding lifeless muscle twitch from his movements, but he carries on. It takes a few harder pushes for the knife to come fully down between the skin splayed open around it and down to where Kisaki's neck meets the floor.

With a soft crunch and an even softer "ting," the knife finally hits the tiled floor. Takemichi takes out the knife and inspects his work—the inside of the neck is seen clearer now, the opening wide enough to see some tendons still sticking together and some pieces of bone. He places a hand above the cut, right under Kisaki's jaw. His fingers tingle and a new batch of tears spring forth as he brushes against the piece of skin flapping uselessly after it was flayed open.

He's reminded of visiting the butchers he frequented in the market. Of pigs hanging up by their heads, somehow stable even if it looked close to dropping. Of cow meat hung up the same way, just chopped up into pieces due to its sheer size.

Takemichi gives Kisaki's jaw an experimental push to the side. Nothing happens.

He takes a deep breath and steadies his hands. He adjusts his hand and takes another breath, pushing the head back and pulling it back a few times, tears falling at the sound of squished muscle and cracked bones in his hands. Twisting Kisaki's neck, tilting his jaw up and down.

Cold.

Coldcoldcold— hard.

Hard .

'Whywhywhy—'

Kisaki is hard . Not quite like a rock, but he was firmer than what could be attributed to a fit, muscular body. This wasn't right.

His flesh and muscles give way under the pressure of Takemichi's fingers, the feeling comparable to solidifying mush in a tight container. It was barely malleable, moving enough only because Takemichi is trying. Like wet soil in a balloon tied tightly, being pushed around by grabby hands, amused. Firm, hard enough to hurt someone if used right. Hard in all the wrong ways.

Or like ground meat in tight plastic bags, sealed like so to prevent spilling but still malleable to be smashed into tight freezers' crevices.

Takemichi tries not to think about that.

(He knows his younger self has less morality than his older self. The years are strange like that, bringing empathy and understanding only when you've hurt and been hurt enough.

But right now, his younger self only knows anger for what the future—no, what the futures have in store for everyone he loves.

So he can't blame him for telling him to keep going. To never give up because "this is for the future. Keep going, keep going ."

And.

See.

He's not wrong . He can't deny it.

Though bothers him that this doesn't bother him, not in the slightest, he simply agrees.)

A series of loud crunches rings in his ears as with one, strong pull, he detaches Kisaki's head. He feels Kisaki's jaw crack under his hold, and a new small spurt of blood lands on his pants. Some cracked pieces of bones fly out at the movement, hitting him in the chest.

He doesn't realize he was breathing hard until he chokes on a lungful of putrid air, the stench of blood, gore, and disinfectant flooding his throat like water. He catches his reflection of the dirty knife on the floor: sweaty and teary with a face that screamed of a long night and crazed anxiety.

But not an inch of regret. Not anymore.

(Why would he?)

Not one bit.

(He should. Why didn't he?)

Kisaki's severed head still has its eye open. Like this, fresh from being cut from its neck, its eyes stare into Takemichi's. The holes on his arm sleeves remain open, and so does the one on the front of his shirt. Takemichi can see where the blood spread on the shirt, up to where and just how dark it became. If he squinted, he was sure he would see the cuts, gaping; not quite grotesquely cut, skin flapping, but a hole he could see within nonetheless.

(Not through. He wasn't that thorough. He was a coward, still is a coward until the end.

But he made it, didn't he? Even with his cowardly ways, Takemichi made it. Nipped at a being larger than he was until it was weakened enough to fall and never get back up, struggling under Takemichi's cuts and his own ego, his own morality and pride.)

Takemichi chooses to look back at Kisaki's eyes, the dull, dark gold a more appealing color than the shades of red and off-white from the bits of neck stuck to the jaw.

He looks down at himself then, picking at the pieces of muscle and bone stuck to him and placing them in the sink. He does the same to the fallen pieces of flesh on the floor, idly noting the color of the bones was just a tad darker than his tiles.

Silently, he opens the faucet and lets the water run over everything. He doesn't turn it off. As water splashes around, he inhales, following the sound of it sloshing out.

The smell around him stings.

His stomach grumbles. Loud.

Takemichi shakes his head, tears flowing; from the carnage or the scents around him, he didn't try to find out.

He's not done yet.

But he can't move. He watches the water come out in a loud stream, and he can't find it in himself to look away.

His anxiety is screaming at him to go back down to the floor. The day is still early, but time does not wait for anyone. There's no telling what will happen when Tenjiku realizes Kisaki is gone, and that he won't be coming back anytime soon at all.

The idea of being found as a killer doesn't scare him as much as it should, but the idea of being found by Tenjiku at all does.

Something coils in his stomach, heavy. The urge to vomit comes back, burning his already dry throat with acid.

'Oh, fuck.'

He sniffles and tries to swallow it down, but he gets no relief. He only hurts more, chokes on the heat burning his insides, and moves closer to the sink, shaking, heaving.

The heavy thing in his stomach grows hot with acid. It's imposing on everything inside him, burning everything around it and more, begging to be felt. To be noticed. But it's—it's not for Kisaki. This anxiety.

It's for himself.

A fresh batch of tears dripped down his face. He makes no move to wipe them as he crouches back down.

"Fuck." He whispers, body racked with…with too much of everything and nothing from his scalp to his toes. "Fuck."

He needs to hide the body, he knows. Has to keep it somewhere, deal with it somehow. But he—

He...needs a moment. Just a bit more.

A moment for his crime; to provide peace to someone who didn't deserve it in his eyes. To respect the dead, as it was only proper even if Kisaki was anything but waste —

Takemichi's eyelids open with a start. He doesn't care to note when they closed.

A strange, concerning thought enters Takemichi's mind. His stomach grumbles. He tries not to tie them together but.

But he could.

Why not?

He...this...it would get the job done, right? This would solve all his problems right now.

"But this...that…" He whispers to himself, body overwhelmed with the clash of logic and this other...thing in him. Something he doesn't want to name, lest he risks acknowledging it. He swallows, feeling parched . "That's not right."

That— this is fucked up.

"That's not a problem," he hears a voice inside him croon. It sounds familiar but mangled. Warped, but solid, whole. "It'd be a problem if you left a trace right?"

It is, and that was...better than the alternative.

(There's little left for him to lose. He wants to keep it that way.)

He picks up the scattered pieces of bone from around him. Then, he looked at them in his palms: they were somewhere between off-white and yellow-white, and against his skin (dry, so, so dry), they stood out. They shined with red, some dried and matted down, and some still sticky, congealed blood catching a bit of light.

The smell is horrible all the same.

Yet his stomach grumbles, a storm brewing, uncaring of the next line Takemichi has seen he can cross.

(Takemichi has already defied fate and time. He's touched a life, saved many others, and ended one. What are a few more boundaries to cross?)

He balls his hands into fists, not reacting to the sting in his palms from the pieces of bone digging into them. His eyes move to focus on Kisaki's neck, taking in the pieces of flesh and muscle extending from where he dug his sharpest knife into. From there, his eyes travel lower, lower, and lower.

Inside his head, his mind feels stuffed with cotton; his eyes feel dry like they've been open for far too long, unblinking. He unclenches his fists and drops the broken bones in his grasp to reach out for the knife once more. Scooting over to the side, he hears his heart rate quicken.

The seconds pass as it does in a film: slow in feeling, but fast in actuality. His knife goes down onto Kisaki's hardened flesh, right on a limp arm—just a little past the elbow towards the wrist, which was where Takemichi stabbed him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Almost naturally, tears start falling from his eyes. His chest throbs and his lips tremble, yet his face remains blank.

It is relatively easier to cut deeper into an arm, Takemichi observes. There's more muscle and skin, and the bones within it were buried under a generous amount of the two. Kisaki's stiff muscles squelch and compress under his ministrations, his knife passing through them without much issue. He does flinch, however, as some of them twitch in his grasp, the last pieces of life in them going out like a light as his fingers—twitching in the same way but not quite —passes them.

He reaches Kisaki's elbow without a hitch and breaks into the joint. Unlike his neck, Kisaki's elbow gives out easier and faster, and with minimal stray shards of bone. But with the increase of muscle and skin, it was messier. "I'll have to throw these clothes out soon," Takemichi mumbles to himself.

With a little force he knew was necessary, he tugs on Kisaki's forearm with a full-body snap. It detaches a little more cleanly, and Takemichi can't help but smile in relief, unmindful of the new patches of red on his arms and face.

He sighs, shoulders relaxing. "Thank god." He sets the knife down gently; then, he takes the detached forearm and the severed head, lifts them, and prepares to stand up.

As he stands, his knees crack, and he winces. His legs don't stop shaking as he moves closer to the sink and drops Kisaki's head and arm into it. With heavy, shaking arms, he turns on the tap and lets the water splash against them.

Kisaki's head is a little off-center from the drainage, blocking it and creating a small puddle made up of tap water and blood. Takemichi keeps his head down, looking into Kisaki's eyes as water pours over them. The dried blood on his face slowly flakes off and falls into the steadily rising water, and his styled hair falls completely.

There's a muffled noise of something stemming from and ringing in his ears. It feels, sounds like a voice, but he's alone. It tugs on his heart, squeezing it as he opens his mouth and welcomes the scent of the taste in the air before its feel .

Blood. So much blood.

Even in the air, he can taste it.

Kisaki is already dead, has been for hours now, yet there's still so much blood that keeps coming as if he never left.

(Takemichi ignores the voice that says it is true. He doesn't pay attention to the nth replay of yesterday's events, nor to the one of the previous world.

He doesn't want to be right, not this time.)

Takemichi chokes on air and promptly bends a little lower, spit and acid dribbling down his mouth and chin. His face is closer to Kisaki's now, and he smiles dryly. He blows out air towards his wet hair. "What a waste."

He retches lightly, expelling whatever liquids he could over Kisaki's face and arm. He heaves for a while, catching his breath, before raising his numbing arms to wash his face.

Water pools in his cupped hands, and red fills them up. Uncaring, once his makeshift bowl was full, he splashed his face and mouth. The scent from earlier touches his tongue, this time directly.

Takemichi coughs on the water but makes no move to spit it out. His head hits one of the cupboards above him, and he's reminded of his spices and his food processor.

That unspoken boundary comes to mind once again. He looks into Kisaki's eyes.

'That's wrong,' he thinks. 'There has to be better ways.'

But what is there left?

What can Takemichi do now, when he's put himself in this situation? When now that Kisaki can't manipulate him, he's still driven into a corner?

(He can't forget Kisaki. He can't be rid of him. He wants to be wrong like usual but he knows. He knows too much and too well—he's not.)

Diluted blood settles on his tongue and down his throat. His stomach grumbles and he looks into himself instinctively, searching for a voice, a sign of what to do next.

He hears nothing.

Inside him, his heart races in time with the water. The sound of the refrigerator whirring rings loud and clear. In his mind's eye, he visualizes the remaining spices he has, and if the food processor is clean enough to be immediately used upon retrieval from storage.

Takemichi has lost count of how many times he's blinked, water and tears mixing in his mouth. No matter how diluted, the taste of blood prevails, and so does its scent. It weighs his jaw down, his feet to the ground. His stomach grumbles with a force that has him hunching slightly in himself.

Kisaki doesn't look away. Eyes still relatively gold, but dead. Decay visible still in his darkened skin. Beside his head, his arm, with one end connected to his hand and the other with uneven cut skin and muscles.

He's dead.

And the dead—they go back to the earth, don't they? One way or another: as whole bodies, they go into the soil, nourishing it. As ashes, though they're often stored in urns, they're sometimes returned to nature as well in all its channels: land, water, or sea. The dead nourishes the living microorganisms in land and water, which in turn nourish the living people who benefit from their deaths or reproductions after.

In Japan, they have a culture to never waste anything as much as humanly possible. To recycle things for as long as they can, to repurpose whatever scraps they can get their hands on. Electronics, food, clothes—there is always a way to leave behind nothing, if not barely anything.

Kisaki is a waste. Dead or alive, he always will be.

But waste can be segregated and repurposed or recycled, sometimes both.

And if he were to return Kisaki to nature, directly to the living—

What's wrong with that? Wasn't that still the natural order of things?

Isn't Takemichi just speeding up the natural order of things if he just repurposes Kisaki's body, turning it manually into something he was going to turn into anyway eventually?

So—

So it Takemichi was to combine these two—

"No," he grunts, crying softly. "It's not supposed to make sense like this."

'But it does,' he—someone thinks inside him, voice even. 'It does.'

Shaky hands press on the meat of Kisaki's severed arm. It's firm, and like this, detached and frayed at the edges where the joint once was, it was easy to pick at.

Without looking away, he picks at one of the two remaining knives nearby. His toes curl in his slippers as darkened, decaying skin comes off with a wet sound that Takemichi picks up on despite the water. He picks at the edges where the skin was lifted and partially detached from muscle already, watching as they move away further and further, sliding with his knife.

It's uneven work, but it gets the job done. Takemichi gets a full view of arm musc— arm meat in all its thick glory. Though thin, Kisaki was fit; fitter than Takemichi, at least. He had enough meat to push around, skin and no skin.

And with that, he had more than enough mea— muscle . Muscles that, if Takemichi tore apart, cut into dice, he could put in a food processor. Muscles he can put to good use.

Muscle he can return to nature.

Takemichi keeps the water running as he sets the knife down in the sink. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

He steps away slightly to look up at the cupboards above him, surrounding him like a crown overhead. A regal symbol of his victory at last, the contents of the cupboards will determine what he can—should—do with the spoils he's taken home. A crown in how it can protect him from all whiplash and counters, an offense in its defense.

Or maybe it was better to call it a halo in its protection. Ready to show him salvation, to show him the right path.

Cold hands reach up and open whatever doors they can. An array of spices greet him from behind one door, and shiny, silver appliances greet him from another other. The smell of the spices float down to his nostrils almost immediately, taking over the dust bunnies he woke up.

They fill his senses with anticipation. His stomach echoing the sentiment as his tongue lays heavy with the taste of blood and the weight of the different lines he crossed as of late.

He strains to listen to himself deep within. To find any protests, any encouragement—but again, he hears none. What he hears is the ringing in his ear turning into white noise, mixing with the water and the refrigerator, and his own breathing: harsh, soft, dry.

A little lower, his stomach makes itself known once more.

In the distance, he hears dogs barking and children bidding parents goodbye. The ringing in his ears grows a bit louder, and his fear and anxieties come back. With that, so does the voices in him, slowly and suddenly speaking from all around him, screaming, saying—

"Hurry up!" High. Young.

Higher. Too high. "Hurry up."

Takemichi brings his hands to his head, pressing his temples.

"Hurry up!" Deeper. Older?

"Hurryuphurryuphurryuphurryup!" Too low. Strange. Fast. "Hurryuphurryuphurryuphurryup!"

"The fight is later, hurry up."

"Hurry—"

"—Kisaki—"

"Takemichi."

He bites his lips and lets the tears fall. His younger voice and current voice lay over each other, pitches different but tones the same.

"Hurry up."

He swallows down the urge to vomit once more. There's nothing left for him to expel. He edges his neck forward instead, placing his head under the running water directly. Blue eyes stare into gold below it.

The skin around his face and on his hands feel taut, like a thin layer of fabric trying to hide or put together something it obviously can't. A transparent cling wrap being stretched as far as it can go to wrap something up and secure it, but still too thin to be usable.

His hands are starting to wrinkle from all the water. Wiggling his fingers, he presses them together and over each other, and, under the faucet, he places them to his forehead.

Takemichi closes his eyes and takes a moment to pray. To a god, to whoever is listening—he prays.

When he does, he doesn't try to erase the image of Kisaki falling in the snow any longer. He simply tries to let go of it as much as he can—in his garbled words, in his tears, in the heat that continues to rise up his throat and burn him from the inside out.

His neck itches. The thought of having the same insides as Kisaki makes him spit and cry harder.

But he hears himself coo, hears his voice soften as it whispers like a lover's hug wrapping around him, "This is for the best. Your best."

His stomach hurts. His heartache becomes a dull throbbing sensation; his chest is tight, but his stomach—

It's empty.

And Kisaki—

The dead will do its job. And the living will do its own. The dead are done for, but the living—not just yet.

Takemichi prays.

He doesn't know how long he prayed, just letting the water drip down his head and neck. His shirt is wet, and his hands are wrinkling.

Prayer is a personal connection with whoever listens. A channel to be honest.

Takemichi doesn't ask for forgiveness nor does he give thanks. He doesn't wallow in regret, nor does he feel giddy in excitement. He can't be honest about something he doesn't feel.

After a while, he opens his eyes and looks into Kisaki's.

He stands back up, back straight. Head tilted back, he looks up slightly.

The glint of the spices nearest to their cupboard door and the food processor catch his eyes. He brings the food processor down, then the spices.

He brings his attention back to the running water, Kisaki's face, and his arm. He swallows, and, taking the knife in the sink, he drags its tip across Kisaki's arm, cutting by the peeled skin until the muscles under it were seen in its entirety. The skin splayed open unevenly like chicken skin before filleting.

Water flies in the air and into his face as he pries the bone out of the arm, breaking off the wrist and leaving the forearm muscles separated from it. He groans as he breaks the bone with the same knife into jagged smaller pieces. Once they were small enough, he tossed them to the side, just by one of the faucet knobs.

Hiccuping, he peels off Kisaki's skin with fingers losing their sense of touch. He cranks up the water temperature and hisses for a moment before returning to his task.

Once the skin was detached, Takemichi plugged in the food processor.

The sound of forearm meat being ground up sounded too close to pig and cow meat going through the same thing.

He vomits acid again, this time straight into Kisaki's open eyes.

The dull gold remains. The machine whirrs loudly beside him, drowning out the ringing in his ears and the heaving of his lungs.

He tries to focus on the food processor. He stops it for a while to add some spices to the partially-ground meat before resuming its process.

With shaking knees, he crouches back down. The gold is far away from him, but it sticks still.

It's okay. He deserves it.

Another sob racks his shoulders, but he sucks it up.

He still has a lot of work to do.

Notes:

fun fact: human arm leg back meat are apparently comparable to other animal meat when cooked. my google search history is going places with this woo

btw i dont hate kisaki per se since i think he's an interesting antagonist but i do hate what he did lmao pls (which is a sign that he's good at what he does i guess??). also its v interesting to see parallels between him and takemichi esp in darker michi fics i live for it y e s

i think this fic would stop at 3 chaps, depending on how long it becomes,but anyway the next chap would involve the other toman guys and other things :DD

see you then! remember to stay hydrated uwu

Chapter 3

Summary:

"Yeah, but you're pretty good at cooking." Mitsuya ruffles his hair. "Your simple stuff always tastes good."

"What he said," Chifuyu nods. His expression was a mirror of Hakkai's, just a little bit more open.

"I...thanks, I guess." Takemichi says, hoping his voice didn't crack. He couldn't find it in him to feel bashful, not right now. His heart is racing again, and he's feeling adrenaline before the fight has even begun because—

Because he knows what's next. And he can't stop it.

(Ah. The urge to vomit is back.)

The first division captain grins at him, teeth sharp and glinting, and Takemichi feels it dig into his skin from a distance when Baji says: "Give us some, Takemitchy!"

Notes:

this was supposed to be the last chap but im still not yet done and its already so long so i decided to cut it in half :') this might be the longer slice of it tho ngl (as of now at least) but it felt proper that /this/ be the chapter

please note the change in tags! you'll understand what uninformed consent means here. again, it is not sexual. i might still add some more tags I'll see in the morning

edit: realized i repeated something towards the end but fixed it! a quote from canon i got wrong but nothing major

edit 2: clarified something

other chapter warnings: descriptive eating, chopping, and cooking of food. uninformed consent, psychological trauma ish

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Takemichi cranks up the heat on the stove, blue eyes watching the flame under the pan flicker to life. The flame was mostly blue but had tinges of light orange in it, as most stoves in his area worked.

Even with the orange tips, it was a relatively cool color to the eyes, a reprieve from all the warm tones clouding his vision within the last day. It was almost soothing to watch it dance, moving left to right, up and down with air. Without the pan on top of it, the flame would've been bigger—but it would also run the risk of being easier to extinguish after. A weight that was both a help and a hindrance.

(Familiar.)

He pulls his eyes away from the sight and focuses on the bowl of spiced ground-up meat in front of him. It was red with whites present, dusted with spices brown and green in color, and smelling faintly of the egg he mixed in. With two hands, he takes a handful of meat. Slowly, he forms it into a ball and sets it in a bowl. He does the same until he's made ten meatballs, effectively using up all the ground meat.

After inspecting the meatballs, Takemichi takes one and drops it into the pan.

The oil in the pan crackles at the new object in its presence. Takemichi takes a spatula and presses down on the ball, flattening it. He takes out a clean plate and sets it on the side, and moves the bowl by it, hiding a golden glint nearby.

Mikey once told his men, voice loud and posture relaxed: "A warrior never goes into battle unprepared and hungry."

Before every gang war, the captains and vice-captains of Toman would meet up to have a meal together. A strange tradition, but one Takemichi adheres to. It's nothing fancy; just a get-together at the shrine with each bringing their own food.

It took a while for Takemichi to get used to his new position as a captain after a new division was made for absorbing the Black Dragons, conversing with fellow captains and other vice-captains aside from his own. But slowly, he began blending in, getting along with the others he hasn't had the chance to bond with much.

On some days, he would buy take-out with Hakkai and Chifuyu somewhere near the shrine. He and Hakkai would come up its large stairs together with jittery nerves and wide smiles as Chifuyu hyped them up, Souya and Nahoya joining in once they arrived. On other days, he would meet up with Inupi and Koko, his vice-captains, instead. It was a matter of who was going to text or call first, and if anyone had any other errands to consider.

Today, he gets the call from Inupi first. "We'll be a bit late to lunch today," his blonde vice-captain said, apologetic. "Koko's injuries are acting up again. Sorry, captain."

"Oh, don't worry about it!" The thought of Koko's injuries from Mucho makes Takemichi's blood boil . Though they escaped thanks to the others finding them...

Something sizzles in the air as he presses his spatula down on the forming meat patty. 'This should've been him instea—'

"But..."

'Ah.' "You guys can choose not to come, you know? I don't want Koko-kun's stitches opening up…"

"I'm fine, boss," Koko's disgruntled voice came from a bit farther away from the phone. "I'll make it. I fucking swear ," he hisses. "Just let me sleep it off a bit longer and eat some stuff here. I'll be fine by later."

"Koko-kun…"

"I'm going, I have to." Takemichi hears his venom well. He gulps, ignoring the scent of raw meat flooding his senses again. "I'll be there."

Takemichi stays silent for a moment. He flips the patty and presses down on it again, releasing another sizzle. "Don't forget you have us too, Koko-kun. Don't carry this all on your own."

On the other line, Koko snickers. "Not something I wanna hear from you , boss."

" Koko! " Inupi gasps, scandalized.

Takemichi laughs. He pours a bit more oil into the pan and the sizzling grows louder. "I'm telling you because I know exactly what it's like, Koko-kun," he says fondly. "Don't forget that later, okay?"

Koko grumbles loudly on the other line, but responds, "Will do."

"You have his back, right, Inupi-kun?"

"Yes, boss. And—" Inupi takes a breath. "And I know you have ours too."

"Good." Takemichi smiles. "Well, I guess I'll see you guys later. Anything you need me to get for you guys while Koko-kun is resting?"

He lifts one end of the patty and inspects it. It's good enough now.

In one fluid motion, Takemichi takes his spatula, slides it under the patty, and deposits it on a clean plate. He lets it sizzle away from the heat, its leftover warmth cooking it even off the stove. Afterward, he picks up two small meatballs and places them in the same pan.

The sizzling is louder this time, and Takemichi can't help but flinch in fear. Still, he presses down on them.

"Boss? Are you still there?"

"Ah, sorry, Inupi-kun!" Takemichi winces. "I'm uh, cooking right now, so I got distracted there. Well, do you need anything?"

"...Um, if it's not a bother…" Inupi trails off, seemingly shy.

Takemichi's instinct to help tingles inside him. "Nothing is ever a bother, Inupi-kun!" He huffs, checking the flattened meatballs. "What do you need?"

"...If you say so," Inupi mumbles. "Can you bring some food for us, if you can make an extra serving?"

The sizzling sound gets louder. Takemichi can hear his heartbeat battling it.

"You cook pretty well," Inupi interjects, coughing. "And I know you're used to making food for the others too, so I think you can feed Koko pretty well."

"Oi, Inupi!"

"What, it's true?"

Hands shaking, he flips the two meat patties on their other side. He feels like vomiting.

Takemichi hears his refrigerator whirring behind him. It's stronger now, louder—it had to be if he wanted its contents to be preserved (and hidden) well. He stays in his mind as his vice-captains chatter about something, Koko's voice a bit disgruntled.

In front of him, the patties continue to sizzle. His heartbeat is increasing in pace and volume, and he feels his legs shake from under him.

From deep within, the need to hide clashes with the need to provide. He's not sure how to pick one when his nature was always about providing; always, his instincts called to protect and to nurture first and foremost.

But he also needed to focus on hiding. He needed to deal with the consequences of his actions, of his other instincts that acted in the same need—the need to protect .

Because underneath it all, that was the basis for everything, wasn't it?

Protecting.

"Use violence to protect."

("I did it for good.")

He did what he had to do. He knows he's not wrong; he knows he did what was needed of him.

(Kisaki would get it.)

Protection manifests in different forms, and one of them could be through providing, nurturing . Protection was more than defense, after all.

(He gets that all too well now. More than he would like but…he had no regrets.

At least, it feels like it)

Thinking about it like that, maybe he didn't need to pick a side after all. Not when it all boils back down to the same thing anyway.

Something blurs in his mind, and in the next second, he sees another line to cross.

His ears feel stuffed. Throat dry; skin dryer. Eyes heavier. Plastic spatula weighing like a ton of pans, the air under it too hot for frying patties.

Yet he still sees that line. Not so thick, but darker in the path of life.

(What's another one to cross? And another? And another?)

If it's to protect, it should be fine, he supposes. It's fine.

(It has to be.)

"Inupi-kun?"

The chatter from the other end stops. "Ah, yes, boss?"

"Hanagaki?" Koko adds in.

Takemichi forces himself to smile. He thinks of his vice-captains' faces, the blue of Inupi's eyes, the red scar on his face. The dark tresses of Koko's, and the sharpness of his dark eyes.

And then he thinks of the contents of his refrigerator. The gold glinting just by his side; a different shade from what he sees in his mind, but it's close. The light catching on the transparent lenses and creating a yellowish tint that reminded him of the gold framing it. The stench of raw meat that still hung in the air even after all the seasoning he poured out onto and all over it.

(Koko's big appetite isn't an issue. Takemichi has more than enough to make him something and then some.

A thought he would love to have on any other day but this.)

He plates the two patties and drops in another two meatballs in the pan to flatten. Takemichi hopes his voice is steady as he says, "I'm making hamburgers. Kinda. Is that okay?"

Red liquid mixes in with the oil and pops in the exposed air. He hears their delighted gasps over the call and imagines their faces. His smile softens.

His stomach rumbles and his mind is hazy. Between his ribs, his heart is calmer but feels all too big for its cage—however, he doesn't feel the urge to puke.

With a shuddering breath, he flips the patties. His fond smile remains on his face even after the call is dropped and Hakkai texts him he and Chifuyu will be buying food separately.

(Takemichi thanks whatever god is left listening to him for small mercies: that the image of his vice-captains' joy is so clear in his mind, and that neither of them had gold eyes.

He cooks with a little hum.)

Takemichi arrives at the shrine with two regular-sized disposable lunch boxes and one slightly bigger. He greets everyone before sitting with Hakkai, Chifuyu, Baji, and Mitsuya. Predictably, his packages garner attention.

"Oh? What's the extra food for?" Baji crooned, smiling wide. "Is that for us?"

The blonde laughs. His stomach ties itself into knots, but his mind is clear enough for him to ignore it. "No, it's for Inupi-kun and Koko-kun. They said they'll be late and asked if I had any extra servings for them."

Hakkai tilted his head, cheeks puffing with fries. "Wha' happened to 'em?"

"Koko-kun's injuries from Mucho-kun were acting up again." Takemichi sighed, no longer feeling the same agitation from earlier. Instead, he felt tired—but no less motivated. "They said they'll be late. Koko-kun just wants to sleep more."

"Understandable," Chifuyu nods. His eyes were glinting with promise and something sharper. He smirked, pumping his fist and balled-up burger wrapper in the air. "Well, we'll make sure we throw in some extra 'fucking shit up' for Koko."

"Got that right!" Baji howled, copying his smirk. He punched his fist. "Can't wait to rip Mucho a new one later, fucking—oi!"

Mitsuya took Baji's sandwich and held it away. "Sit down, Baji. Calm down."

"Tch. Fine. Now, give me back my sandwich!"

Chifuyu and Hakkai laughed at the exchange, and Takemichi couldn't help but join in. As Mitsuya began to jab at Baji's volume, Takemichi set his extra lunch boxes down and opened his.

In his lunch box were four meat patties, perfectly browned on each side. There was a bit of charring around the edges, but it did nothing to decrease its appetizing look. It sat on top of fried rice and was decorated with chopped-up green chives and a hefty serving of brown sauce. Said sauce was mostly layered on the meat, but with the amount of running Takemichi did to get here, it started getting to the rice as well. Not a problem.

It looked great . His stomach and his mouth—going by the amount of saliva pooling by his tongue already—agreed.

(He doesn't trust it. He doesn't trust any part of him.)

Not bad for something he made on the fly. Thankfully, he had enough ingredients for this and some more.

(He tries not to linger on what else exactly he had more than enough of. He doesn't want to think about how he was able to make gravy with the excess everything he had at his disposal.

He thanks his cooking skills that he was able to make things work, given everything.

Of all times for things to work out.

What does that say about him? About everything?

Takemichi isn't sure he wants to know.)

He took up his chopsticks and pried them apart. If he closed his eyes in (thanks) prayer longer than usual, he hoped nobody noticed.

As he opened his eyes, he wasted no time in taking a greedy bite. He closed his eyes the moment the piece of patty landed on his tongue, a pleased sound erupting from the base of his throat as he chewed.

The dryness in his throat disappeared, its rawness alleviated as saliva pooled in from his mastication. His hunger was both intensified and soothed as finally, finally something dropped into his stomach, filling it with something that wasn't acid or air. He suppressed a moan as the flavors only intensified after the first swallow, and he couldn't help but dig in just a bit more voraciously.

(His head hurts.)

After that first bite, everything blurred. The second, the third, the seventh. He goes through the first patty without difficulty, sauce on his lips and his chin. It's still warm, and the rice, even under the patty, was still releasing steam. The sauce on his skin burnt a little, but slowly, it began to cool.

The scent from the lunchbox was heavenly, but like this, the food in him, so close to him—it was even better .

(He thinks he should be vomiting. He thinks he should be crying. Yet—

Yet why does he also not feel like it? Why has his body gone off on its own path, uncaring of anything else?

What was wrong here?

Why does he have to think first to know it's wrong, rather than just...knowing immediately? Why does he have to be conscious?

Why?

Who was wrong? What was wrong?)

The second patty is attacked with the same intensity, and god, shit , it's so good .

It's only towards the last few bites of the third patty does he notice his friends staring at him. He swallows the ground-up food in his mouth with an audible gulp. Once it was down, he licked at his mouth. "...Yes?"

"That…" Hakkai swallowed, eyes focused on Takemichi's lap and lunch box. "Looks really good. Smells really good too."

Takemichi's stomach drops a little. His throat feels dry again.

(But he's still so hungry .)

"I just had some leftover meat and fried them, nothing big."

"Yeah, but you're pretty good at cooking." Mitsuya ruffles his hair. "Your simple stuff always tastes good."

"What he said," Chifuyu nods. His expression was a mirror of Hakkai's, just a little bit more open.

"I...thanks, I guess." Takemichi says, hoping his voice didn't crack. He couldn't find it in him to feel bashful, not right now. His heart is racing again, and he's feeling adrenaline before the fight has even begun because—

Because he knows what's next. And he can't stop it.

(Ah. The urge to vomit is back.)

The first division captain grins at him, teeth sharp and glinting, and Takemichi feels it dig into his skin from a distance when Baji says: "Give us some, Takemitchy!"

Said blonde couldn't even say anything as Baji picks a piece of the fourth patty.

A ringing sound and a vibrating sensation overwhelm Takemichi's ears, his eyes growing wide and frantic as he listens to Baji chew. Chifuyu followed suit without warning, picking at his lunch and taking a bite.

His heart rises to his throat. He watches, waits, worries—

"Holy shit," Baji moans. "This is really good."

Takemichi loses his appetite.

Chifuyu nods, a whine slipping through pursed lips and teeth grinding on the patty. "Dude, this is really good. How is this just a burger patty?"

"What? Gimme some!"

"Hakkai, calm down—"

"No way, Taka-chan, you're already grabbing a piece!"

Takemichi watches, mouth slightly hanging open as his friends pick at his food, unaware. They pop it into their mouths like—like it was normal meat, chew on it and swallow it like it was nothing, and then compliment him like it was everything .

"For real, god , Takemitchy…what do you put in your food, it's always so good." Mitsuya groans, licking his lips. "Whatever seasoning you got, can you share some of it with me? My siblings would love that."

Takemichi's hand feels cold. He watches Hakkai beside him chewing, idly noting that it was an oilier one from the other patties. Some of the oils of the meat came out in small droplets from the force of his chew, an uncountable amount of them falling onto the floor and disappearing into the air.

Most, however, stayed on his lips: light yellow in color from the oil, but with a tinge of red in some.

Takemichi wants to scrub it off.

(It's too close. It's too familiar.)

"Might be the meat too," Hakkai adds, lapping at the meat juice by his lower lip. "You got some dealer you could let us in on?"

"Stop making things sound illegal, idiot." Mitsuya slaps his shoulder in jest, grinning wide. "We gotta keep that only for ourselves."

Takemichi's meal tasted like wet bond papers heavy with ink, crumpled into balls, and left to dry in a place without light nor air. The flavor was disappearing fast, and yet—

His stomach was satisfied with each bite, each swallow he did.

When he wasn't—

He wasn't supposed to be.

This is wrong .

(Why isn't anything telling him that? Why does he have to think about it to be wrong, why—

Why isn't anything going off anymore?)

Nobody questioned the few tears he shed then as he later gave Inupi and Koko their food and watched them gush over it, the other Toman members scrambling to get a taste of it just like earlier. "It's just Takemitchy being Takemitchy," Baji laughs. "He's probably just happy we love his food!"

"You mean it's because we aren't eating everything again this time!" Nahoya snickers.

Mikey, being one of the common culprits of swiping the blond's home-cooked meals, laughed at that. Draken, his co-conspirator, joined in.

Sanzu, who Takemichi barely interacted with one-on-one, hummed consideringly towards him, inspired by Mikey and everyone else. He manages to get a bite from Koko's share when he wasn't looking. "You do cook well."

Takemichi shivers as the light-haired man eyes him from top to bottom, lips still moving as he chews. He gives Takemichi a pat on the head and a quick bow before turning away and slipping his mask back on.

He leaves and returns to his division, now being its leader. Hakkai whistles. "You even got Sanzu's approval now!"

"Hey, I'm injured! I need those nutrients!" Koko hisses. "The heck, Sanzu?!"

A surge of anxiety swells up within him, the unreasonable thought of 'he knows he knows he knows they know they all know they ate it they like it' coming up and being stamped down just as fast as it rose. The chaos around him mutes a bit into a soft static, muffled noise.

He zones out. The anxiety drops.

Koko and Inupi guard their meals like men on a mission. Sanzu approaches them again, to the amusement of everyone watching. His heart doesn't soar like it usually would.

For some reason, that hurt.

He looks down at his meal. Just a few more bites and he'd be done. Only half a patty left.

Mikey drapes himself over him and his mouth makes his decision for him. "Do you—" He bites back the hot, hot burp coming up his throat. A swallow. Another. "Do you want it, Mikey-kun?"

His commander beams at him like his birthday came early. He immediately snatched the lunchbox and ran away, dragging Draken with him. At the same moment, Chifuyu, Baji, and Hakkai were on their tails.

The boys laughed, but Takemichi could only crack a smile.

It takes everything in him to keep every bout of bile, every gastrointestinal reflux he has down , where it belongs. He knew once he started letting any of it out—

He wouldn't get through the battle. The more important battle.

Because this one, against himself, his sense of justice that suddenly isn't ringing besides in his thoughts, his body so okay that it was wrong—it's nothing.

It has to be.

Mikey comes back later with Draken, his lunch box cleaned off any rice grain and sauce. "We washed it a bit too," Mikey puffed his chest out, proud.

Draken snorts and gently smacks the back of Mikey's head. Ignoring Mikey's whining, Draken faces Takemichi with a small, grateful smile. "It's the least we could do for you. Thanks, Takemitchy."

"Haha, it's nothing. I'm glad you guys like my food!" Takemichi says, genuine yet feeling fake like he had a mask on that was thin enough for whatever under it can show but not enough.

It feels weird.

"Ah! Thanks too!"

Draken blinked. "What for?"

Takemichi laughed, slightly hollow. "For not fully robbing me of everything this time."

The vice-commander of Toman lets out a bark of laughter in response. "You're safe for another day, Takemitchy." Takemichi hopes his flinch wasn't caught. "Count your lucky stars Mikey was patient today."

Takemichi tries to laugh with him. "I guess I will. A patient Mikey is rare, after all."

"Well, we noticed you looked pretty shitty earlier before you started scarfing down your lunch." Mtisuya pointed out, joining in their conversation. "Mikey isn't that dumb not to notice that."

"Earlier?" Draken snorts. "Nah, you've been looking real tired lately, Takemitchy." The tall blond wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Just worse today."

"I...did?"

"Yeah. So Mikey held off from stealing off you at first glance."

Mitsuya chuckles. "Why are our standards so low that we're complimenting that ?"

"Shut up, man! You know what it's like!"

Toman's twin dragons share a loud laugh. "Perfect timing too. He hasn't eaten much today." Draken hums. "Probably got too worked up thinking about the fight."

"That's rare." Mitsuya raised a brow. Then, he comes to a realization. "Ah, wait. Right. Izana."

Draken nods. "Exactly. He's had his snacks yeah, but not enough." He shrugs. "He was betting you'd come in with food. Said 'Takemitchy's food is the greatest power-up there is' too." He gives Takemichi a warm smile. "Which, yeah he's not wrong. Your food's gonna get us through the day, man."

Takemichi wants to fucking sob .

"Draken's got that right," Mitsuya grinned. "And you know what Mikey says: we shouldn't be going into battles hungry. Food's basically our fuel." He rubs his nose, thinking. "Maybe you could even call it our protection."

"Protection…?" The two blonds look at each other, confused.

"Hm...yeah. Like...without food, we wouldn't get the energy to do shit, you know? Can't fight, yeah, but can't defend either," Mitsuya points out. He smiles, proud of his analogy. "That's why I make sure to feed my siblings real good. Can't have them not thinking in class or running and unable to get up when I'm not around, you know?"

Takemichi's eyes widened. Something clicks into place inside him, and the urge to sob is gradually lessened.

Protection.

Safety.

Saving them.

"Use violence to protect."

"Use your strength to protect."

To protect was to nurture. To provide. And to protect also meant—

To attack .

Or at the very least, to have the capability to attack. Even if one was weak like he was, if they at least had the chance, the energy to attack, they can make a difference. They can make a change.

Just like what he did.

If he viewed it like that, then...maybe the food—maybe them eating the food wasn't all bad. Because not only does Takemichi continue the circle of life, returning the fallen to the living, he's using it to strengthen it too. He's repurposing something considered trash and turning it into treasure, into something important: food.

So this…

This is a good thing, right? He made the right call, right?

This is right.

Right?

If it weren't for his food, if he didn't share...doesn't share…

Who knows what could happen?

(It's better than the alternative. Alternatives. So many alternatives.

Takemichi is tired of them already.)

"I mean, he's not wrong. Food is protection in its own way." Inupi comes in, heels clacking loudly against the pavement. Takemichi jerks his head towards him, regaining awareness."Although Mitsuya-san's explanation was a bit complicated, he's right."

"Oi…"

Draken snorts. Mitsuya tries to slap him, and Draken laughs again when he misses.

Inui ignores their banter, handing his and Koko's lunch boxes to his captain. "Thank you for the meal, Boss. We've cleaned it up a bit too."

"A-Ah, thanks, Inupi-kun!" Takemichi takes the containers, nibbling on his lower lip. "Where's Koko-kun?"

Inupi snorts. "Chasing Sanzu. He's annoying, apparently."

"He's just mad he got some of his food," Draken guffaws, arm around Mitsuya's neck in a playful chokehold. "Leave them be. It's nice for gang members to get along."

"Is it really…"

Mitsuya snickers. "Yep. Don't worry about it too much!"

Takemichi chuckles warily. "A-Ahaha, if you say so."

The lilac-haired man wrestles himself out of his twin dragon's grip, huffing. After catching his breath, he sticks to Takemichi's other side, slinging an arm over his shoulders opposite the side where Draken was. "Now, gimme those lunch boxes. Let's put 'em in the shrine and get some water. You haven't had anything to drink yet, right?"

Takemichi isn't sure he can stomach anything more, really.

"I haven't," he forces out. "Let's go set these down first?"

"Mhm. Come with us, Inupi. You haven't seen the inside of the shrine yet, right?"

Inupi jerks, surprised at the invitation. "Ah. Um. No, not yet. I'm fine though."

Draken gives him a not-too-gentle push, and Inupi stumbles slightly. "Nope. Go with them." The vice-commander grins. "All members need to know this. Just show it to the other Black Dragons later."

The scarred man looks to his leader, questioning. Takemichi nods and manages a small smile. "He's right. Come with us, Inupi-kun."

One half of his vice-captain looks at him with a furrow in his brow before sighing. Wordlessly, he falls into step with him, standing a little behind. Takemichi gestures with his chin for him to move closer, and with a small blush, Inupi does.

The smile on Takemichi's face then starts to feel right .

As they make their way towards the shrine proper, his throat clears up just a bit. It's still hot, still tight, but it...no longer burns. Its walls don't feel scorched with acid, not so much. Below it, his stomach is content, quiet.

His mind is still hazy, but his ears don't feel stuffed. He can hear Mitsuya trying to engage with Inupi in conversation, and hear Inupi's confused and awkward responses to him. The laughter around him rings well in his ears, the shuffling of their feet and other limbs garbled but heard nonetheless.

They get to the shrine and Takemichi puts the lunchboxes down with the other bags present. Mitsuya enlisted the help of Inupi to get some water for Takemichi and the other guys, leaving him alone.

He keeps his eyes on the lunchboxes, remembering they're all clean. The people who ate the two he brought loved it; the ones who ate from his own felt the same.

They're full. They're provided for. They wouldn't fall from hunger or lack of sustenance.

They're protected . From within . Their defenses are improved upon with his food. With the blood he's shed and placed in their food, literally .

But they don't need to know that. Why should they? It's the circle of life; he's only doing his job as one of the earth's inhabitants, making up for his sins by paying it forward to the ground he was born from. It doesn't matter that they don't know about it.

What would knowing even do for them, when they've already eaten his meals? They've already taken Kisaki in their system; their bodies are already digesting him, gearing up for a battle against his gang.

And like this, nobody will ever find Kisaki.

The irony that they'd be strengthened with one of Tenjiku's pillars of strength isn't lost on him. But that doesn't matter right now.

All that matters is what happens next.

They'll be just a little bit stronger now. Ultimately, it's all up to them what they want to do with their energy, but the thought of contributing to it, even just a drop—

It quiets his mind. Quiets the voice that questions because he makes it, not because it's doing so out of its own accord.

Alone like this, he lets his shoulders sag in some relief. He knows he can't relax just yet, but he knows he needs to, lest he carries his tension to the more important battle of the day. 'Let go,' he tells himself, 'let it go.'

His fingers twitch beside him, and they still do even after he balls his hands into fists. He finds himself unable to close his eyes for long; the darkness makes him tense up again, and he can't have that. The back of his head throbs with a whisper of anxiety—not for himself anymore, but for what is yet to come.

It's silent in the shrine, but the noise from outside passes through its thin walls and resounds like a distant echo.

His mind is quiet enough that it doesn't bother him.

(He tells— reminds himself it's a good thing.)

Mitsuya and Inupi look on from the doorway, watching Takemichi clasp his hands together. The blond puts his hands to his head, keeps it there, then slowly lowers it to his chest as he bends at the waist, eyes closed. His form was shaky, but he appeared focused nonetheless.

"This...is a buddhist temple, right?" Inupi asks. Thinking of Taiju, he adds, "That's a very...Catholic way of prayer. Or Christian."

Mitsuya shrugs. "Well, prayer is prayer. Besides, it's all about talking to some higher being anyway."

If he put it that way, that's true. Inupi hums quietly, taking in the sight. Takemichi looked so small then, the structure and shadows of the temple towering over his already hunched form. Almost humbling to the eyes.

"I didn't know he was religious," Inupi whispers.

"He's not," Mitsuya replies. "At least, from what I remember."

"Huh. He must be really worried about the fight, then."

"Maybe...but he's never done this before a fight."

"Hm...is that so…"

Mitsuya gets a thought and snorts. "Maybe he's thanking god for letting him get away with his food mostly intact today. That's unusual, after all."

Inupi can't help but smile. "I think he should thank god for giving him those cooking skills instead."

"Hah! That's true. Takemitchy's cooking really is to die for." Mitsuya grins. "And that meat too."

Inupi chuckles, eyes never leaving his captain. "And that meat indeed."

"I don't know if there's just some other extra magic Takemitchy did to make patties taste that good, or if he just got good meat, or what ." Mitsuya huffs.

"He better be thanking god for all of it then, I guess."

Mitsuya snickers. "I guess so. Let's give him some more time then? I'll give you a tour of the shrine while we wait."

"You don't wanna thank god for the food too?"

They turn and see Draken approaching with Mikey.

"Yeah," Mikey hums. "Or pray for the fight?"

Mitsuya chuckles. "Nah, I think Takemitchy is doing both of that on his own already. With him bent like that for so long, that's probably a lot of help he's asking and thanks he's giving." He shrugs. "If anything, I'll be thanking God for Takemitchy ."

"Heh." Mikey smiles, fond. "Got that right."

"Come on, Inupi," Draken pulls at the scarred man. "Let's go."

Inupi is forcefully turned away by the others, but he doesn't jerk in shock. Instead, he's in thought, and the words spoken by those around him go in one ear and out the other. The last view of Takemichi he got before being pried away from him replays in his mind.

The images of the shrine's interior enter his mind, but he keeps his attention on the way Takemichi sank to his knees, bent still. His small form growing...smaller. Mouth moving. Back hunched. Shoulders shaking.

'Why...did boss bow like that? Is that how prayer works? He looked so...much smaller. And so...shaky; why was he shaking? What...

What was he whispering to himself?'

The battle between Toman and Tenjiku pushed through, and the entire Toman was present. With Emma safe and Kisaki missing, Toman easily clinched the victory.

Following Tenjiku's fall, Izana was taken to the side by Mikey. Nobody knows what the two talked about, but Izana was retrieved by Kakucho while looking more teary-eyed than earlier, eyes just a smidgen brighter.

Nobody died. All arrested folk were from Tenjiku, who showed no resistance as cops cuffed them down. Many were injured, yes, but it was as much of a win as possible for Toman.

They were together; that was a win in itself already. A fact everyone celebrated with tight hugs, piggyback rides, and flying food.

In particular, the captains and vice-captains were cheery and high from adrenaline still. It wasn't uncommon for that high energy to last well beyond the fight, in the same way some crashed instead. But it was noticeable that Takemichi seemed more strung up than usual.

A crybaby, but a fighter in every sense of the word. The bruises on his skin were badges of honor to them, a sign he gave his all even in the face of people stronger than he. The tiredness in his form was palpable and regarded as normal, but the fidgety shoulders, the unfocused eyes, the constant shaking in his hands as he held his glass of water—it was hard to attribute them all to something explainable like fatigue when they were worse than usual (and this is saying so after Takemichi got stabbed and stabbed himself last Halloween).

"You good there, partner?" Chifuyu asked, sliding him a glass of water, voice quiet in the loud diner so as not to attract attention. "Did you get punched a lot or are you just lacking sleep? Those are some nasty panda eyes you got there."

Baji slides the two men a gold plate of mixed vegetables and noodles. Damn, these are cool plates. "Eat up, Takemitchy. You need some good grub after everything."

Takemichi's eyes widened at the plate. Then, they glaze over, unseeing. Chifuyu blinks.

Nahoya takes the plate and edges it closer to Takemichi specifically. "Didn't push it strong enough, Baji." He snickers. "Here."

A small squeak escapes Takemichi's lips. He looks around then back to the plate as if bringing himself back to awareness. "Ah. Um..."

Predictably, Baji blows a fuse at the older Kawata—in good faith, of course, but Chifuyu can still be wrong. He ignores his howl and Nahoya's laughter in favor of analyzing the plate in front of him.

"Tch. Have some soup first," Souya intervenes, passing a small bowl. "Start with this."

"...Okay." Takemichi smiles softly. "Thank you."

As Souya prepares to growl out his acknowledgments, Baji misaims a stray noodle that hits the blue-haired Kawata. Things grow rowdier from there, but Takemichi seems focused on quietly feasting on his warm soup.

Chifuyu turns his gaze from him and back to the plate. He squints at it.

"Stop staring at it. Takemitchy might not wanna eat that if you burn it with your eyes."

He turns around and sees Draken making his way over, a plate of steak and mashed potatoes in one hand. In his other hand's grasp is a fork with a cube of said meat, its redness visible even from a slight distance— 'looks medium-rare or rare,' Chifuyu notes.

The vice-captain of the first division laughs. "What does that even mean?"

"Y'know," Draken plops the meat in his mouth and chews. "That thing where people say if you stare at something long and hard enough, it could burn."

"...Like superman?"

Draken grins, lips shining with translucent red and brown steak sauce. "Yeah. Like that."

"Man, I wish I was that cool." Chifuyu snorts. He zeroes in on Draken's plate and gets an idea. "Hey, can I have some of that steak? Takemitchy here—" He gestures to the tired-looking teen beside him, who jerked and spilled a bit of his soup at the attention— "can't be looking like this and only have noodles."

"I'm okay with this, partner." Takemichi smiles, the act pulling on tight skin unnaturally. "Really, I am."

"Nah, no." Draken interjects. The other two blonds look at him as he places a knee on Nahoya's abandoned seat. "Gimme that plate. I'll be back."

Chifuyu takes the plate of noodles and veggies and gives it to him, ignoring Takemichi's "no really, it's fine!" He sends him a glare after. "It's not fine, you idiot. You look like you've been through hell and back even before we had the fight. And! "

He pointed at Takemichi's stomach as he exclaimed. Said boy eeps and covers the area with his arms. What is he, naked?

Chifuyu holds back a snort as he continues, "Don't think I can't hear that shit grumbling! You need to eat!"

Takemichi pouts. "I'm fine, I swear!" He insists. "I'm just tired, like you said. And I'm not hungry. I had a big lunch, remember?"

Chifuyu raises a brow.

"Okay. I kinda am. But! Wait, Chifuyu!" Takemichi's voice rose, panicked as Chifuyu raised his arm. Listening, he puts it down as Takemichi goes on to say: "I'm hungry! But I don't feel like eating! That's it! It must have been all those punches! You know how it is..."

Chifuyu's frown deepens. "I did see you vomit after…" He trails off, in thought. "But still, you're supposed to eat when you're hungry, dumbass."

Mitsuya, who's passing through with food for Mikey, joins in. "Get that sustenance, Takemitchy. Can't have you fainting from lack of it. Remember what I told you?"

"What he said." Chifuyu sticks a thumb out towards the disappearing lilac-haired teen. Never mind he doesn't know what that last part he said meant. "Unless you feel like you're gonna get sick or something from eating, you should eat. Especially since you puked after the fight." He hums. "The more you gotta eat something even if that's the case."

He turns away and passes him some of the gold plates and utensils. "Here. Some more gold to spice it up," he laughs. "Let's split whatever Draken is gonna get between us, in case he gets us too much." As he looks back at his partner, he blinks.

A sour, dark look flits across Takemichi's face at his words, one that shows an intent to retort something contradictory and maybe out of line in Takemichi's standards. Yet...it also looked scared .

His partner looks at the plate. Then, the utensils. Chifuyu catches him gripping the spoon too tightly.

It's uncharacteristic of him to have such a look, and though it disappears just as quickly as it suddenly happened, Chifuyu is left staring, eyes wide. Though his expression is normal, Takemichi's eyes retain the same dull shine.

Takemichi seems to notice his surprise though. He meets his gaze and smiles sheepishly. Chifuyu blinks. "Take—"

"Oi, Takemitchy."

Both flinch at the sudden call and look away from each other. They faced Draken as he approached them then sat on Nahoya's now-abandoned chair. "Here's your meat. Didn't know what you're into though, so I got something safe."

The tall male sets his extra plate down and pushes it towards Chifuyu and Takemichi. On it were the same noodles from earlier, now with a dollop of mashed potato and a container of gravy beside it. Majority of the plate, however, was occupied by the massive slice of steak Draken showed off with a grin. "I got a good slice too. Check it out and see if you like it or want it cooked more."

"Is this rare?" Chifuyu hums, sniffing the air. Man, he should've gotten his own slice too. This smells really good; he's not sure he can settle for just a half of it.

Draken nods. "Medium rare, more like. Looks pretty close to medium, in my opinion," he points out. "If he wants it well-done though, the lady in front said to just give it back and she'll make it happen." He shrugs. "I don't know how, though, but that's what she said."

"Really? Damn. Wish I asked you to get me some too."

"Don't worry. That thing is thicker than it looks." Draken takes a spoonful of mashed potatoes. "I doubt Takemitchy's gonna finish even half of it, so just split it amongst yourselves."

"Haha, that's true," Takemichi says. "I doubt I can finish it. It looks," he gulps, voice suddenly tight, "Really thick. You can have most of it if you want. You said let's share if ever, right?"

Chifuyu lets out a sound of awe at that and brightens up. "Well, if you say so!" He beams, giddy.

The sour, strange look disappears from Takemichi's face and eyes. He smiles and nods, a bit more relaxed. "Of course. You can cut it too, if you'd like that."

"Yeah, nice! Gimme that knife, will you?"

Chifuyu, focused on the smell and look of the steak, simply sticks his hand out. He hears something clinking before being handed the knife. He brings it closer and frowns. Then, he hands it back to Takemichi. "The sharper one, partner. Not this butter one."

"Ah...yeah. Sorry. Which is that again…?" Taekmichi asks, sounding...a little lost? Huh?

Chifuyu blinks. "It's also gold. Though it's not plastic." He snorts. "I don't know what's up here with their motif, but it is pretty."

Takemichi gives a wobbly, shaky smile. "I...guess it is." He looks down at Chifuyu's hand.

Something is wrong .

They're at a diner. Why does Takemichi look like...like that? Why is he breathing like that, shoulders shaking and chest visibly rising? Why are his eyes suddenly looking around, crazed, like…

Like he feels, looks trapped.

Or like he wants to run away.

"Gold…" Takemichi mumbles, Chifuyu feeling the tremors in his hands as he takes back the butter knife. He catches him taking a sharp breath. "Okay."

Subtly, Chifuyu's eyes follow the movement. He takes in Takemichi's form once more, noting how the tremors go all the way to his elbows, how his breathing, though soft, has grown ragged.

Chifuyu has the urge to ask what's wrong again, but he bites his tongue. If Takemichi doesn't wanna talk about it, then asking again just means he'll get the same response anyway. It's better to just let him be.

'Besides,' he thinks, 'When it comes down to it, Takemichi will give in eventually. If not, Baji-san will get him to, one way or another.'

Still...Chifuyu can't help but be concerned. Shooting a quick look at Draken, who paused his eating to watch them with narrowed eyes—he seems to have felt the same.

He watches Takemichi go through the utensil container for the steak knife, noting how his shoulders were tensed up and how his eyes grew duller. 'The dark circles under his eyes look shittier like this,' Chifuyu observes, 'and it's...really not a good look on him.'

Takemichi gets to the bottom of the container and finds the knife. His eyes widen at it, breath stopping for a moment before he hands it back with a tight—but—shaky grip on the knife's wooden handle. The gold blade glints prettily under the dim lighting. "H-Here you go, Chifuyu."

Chifuyu smiles and takes the knife, his hold lingering a bit over Takemichi's hands. "Thanks."

Slowly, he takes the knife away from him. He says nothing of the increasingly more violent tremble in Takemichi's hand as he focuses back on the steak, estimating where to cut best. He chirps to himself as his knife finds the prime spot to cut into: somewhere soft and juicy enough that a simple gentle tap of the sharp object on its surface was enough to draw out some meat juice.

The first division vice-captain nods to himself and sets to cutting. His knife goes through the meat without a problem, and he gapes at the sheer juiciness it was exhibiting right then and there. Its fragrance grows stronger and Chifuyu can't help but unabashedly take a big whiff of the air and groan. "It smells so good, fuck ."

"Right?" Draken mumbles around a mouthful of both potatoes and meat. "It's like. Oily in the best way."

"Looks like it, yeah." Chifuyu agrees, whistling as said oil made a small puddle around the meat. "Damn."

He continues his trail with his knife, marveling at how easily the meat was cut through. Once he reaches the middle, however, he hits bone. "Oh, I thought this would be boneless."

"Some slices were. Can't pick 'em."

"That's fine," Chifuyu grunts. "This is a thick bone though."

Draken grunts. "Just cut around it."

"But the meat…"

"You can chew on it later. Or Takemitchy can. Or just pick at it once you guys settle your halves."

Chifuyu nods. That makes sense.

He tries to cut through the bone again, wincing as he felt the knife bend weirdly after a few tries. Okay. Guess he's cutting around the bone, then.

With the knife slightly out of the steak, he tries to trace the outline of the bone; it wasn't too visible, but god was it a thick one. After going over it a few times, Chifuyu decides to cut along the light trace he created, digging deeper into it to separate the meat.

Oil and sauce squirted out a bit as Chifuyu made his way along the bone, most of it dripping onto the existing oil puddle while some hit his face. Motivated by how good it smells, Chifuyu quickened his pace. After a few seconds, he finally reached the end of the steak and sighed. "That shit really is thick."

"I told you!"

"Okay," Chifuyu snickered. "TIme to decide who gets what." He sets the knife down, momentarily being blinded by how its golden blade reflected light before facing his partner once again. "Which side do you want, Take...mitchy?"

There it was, that look again.

The wrong look on Takemichi's face. But worse.

Blue eyes wide, pupils dilated and tears already forming at the base of his lower lashes. Mouth agape just a little bit, breathing not loud enough to override the noise but loud enough to be heard and be called abnormal. A visible shiver racking through his body, no longer focused on just his hands.

Now, he truly looked terrified.

"Takemitchy?" Draken asks, clearly concerned. "Are you okay?"

Chifuyu's words catch in his throat as Takemichi flinches. Those blue eyes dart around, searching. Black almost completely overtakes blue when he catches onto the plate's golden edges and the knife beside the halved steak before Takemichi snaps his head back. Then, he looks at what Chifuyu thinks is his face, frantic and, for some reason, searching.

After a few tense seconds, Takemichi's gaze lands on his cheek, just by his jaw.

"What's up, partner?" Chifuyu asks, slow. "Is there something on my face?"

The noise around them persists, but Chifuyu can make out the Kawatas and Baji looking their way. He shoots them a look and they stop in their tracks.

"Takemitchy?"

"I…" Takemichi takes a long, shuddering breath, his entire body shaking with him as he did so. He releases it just as strongly, eyes unblinking the whole time. Hand reaching out slightly, he stutters, "You...face...r-red…"

"Hm?" Chifuyu blinks. "Red…"

Chifuyu touches his face; he didn't feel warm or anything. He had no bleeding wounds on his face either. Any blood that splashed on him was long gone too—

"Ah," he drawled. "It's from the steak."

Removing his hand from his jaw, he looks at it. There's meat juice and steak sauce on his face, but since it was medium-rare, there was still blood oozing out. Still, this is a lot of red for medium-rare; wasn't medium rare more cooked?

Takemichi keeps his eyes on him, still spooked and ready to bolt for some reason. His shaking has subsided, though.

"Were you worried?" Chifuyu asks, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm fine!"

It didn't sit right with him, this entire thing. There was no reason for Takemichi to get so keyed up, not right now, at least. And certainly not in a diner.

Try as he might, Chifuyu was coming up blank on possibilities as to why Takemichi was acting like this. They were celebrating, for god's sake. And before this, he was okay, if not a bit tired.

So why?

"I'm, uh," Takemichi swallows. "I'm...okay. It's nothing."

Chifuyu holds his stare a little longer before sighing; now he can't push. He turns to Draken instead, not pointing out how they must be wearing similar looks of concern at the moment.

"This is more rare than medium rare, I think," Chifuyu notes idly, sniffing his hand.

Draken whistles. "Yeah. Want me to get it cooked for you guys?"

Chifuyu ponders on it. "Can I taste it first? I've never had rare steak…" He looks at Takemichi. "Unless you want it cooked? That's fine too!"

Takemichi opens his mouth, holds it, then closes it again. He kisses his teeth with a loud hiss, thinking. "I'm okay," he repeats. "I'll have what you're having. I—" He gulps, eyes now looking at anywhere but Chifuyu. "I don't think I've ever had r-rare steak before."

Excitement walks a little over concern at the new tidbit of information. "Well then, let's take a bite! And if we don't like it, we can send it back. Are you okay with that?"

The other blond gave a shaky nod. Still tense, but responsive. Good. At least.

"Got it," Chifuyu works on separating the two cuts cleaner, maneuvering them towards their respective plates. "Just gimme a few."

He scooped some of the mashed potatoes after and moved to do the same to the noodles next. After, he spooned some of the leftover oils and sauces from the main plate and drizzled them on both slabs of steak, consciously adding just a little more on Takemichi's end; just a little more so even if he didn't want to eat everything, he'd get the full experience.

Besides, these are nutrients too, right? Takemichi needed all of those right now. He's being a good friend here!

"You good with that?" Chifuyu sets down the steak knife on the main plate.

Takemichi swallows loudly. "Yeah," he nods, smiling tightly. "Let's eat?"

Chifuyu grins at that and bumps shoulders with him, lips nearing splitting his face when he hears Takemichi giggle. They say their thanks, Takemichi quieter than him as usual, and dig in.

No shame, the first bite had Chifuyu moaning unabashedly. Draken whispers a faint, "Same" in response. God, it's so juicy . It tasted a bit weird, being raw, but with the sauce and the oil and the potatoes—it worked. It worked really fucking well.

With everything mixing the way it did, he could overlook the slightly metallic tang of blood and its aftertaste. Everything just overcame that one little oddity; in the grand scheme of things, when the sauce, the rub, the everything else is this good, a little bit of rawness was nothing.

And it was so tender too, holy shit. Chifuyu kept chewing, swallowing , as if he were drinking water. Some sauce and mashed potato dripped on the sides of his mouth and he licked it back up, telling it "hey, where the fuck do you think you're going?". And what he couldn't reach, he scooped back into himself with whatever utensil was nearer.

He could hear Draken's laughing and Baji's inquisitive grunt at the display he must be giving right now, but he didn't care. He had already eaten some pasta when they got to the diner, but his stomach was asking for more . The hunger after a fight just really is a different thing altogether. Chifuyu digs in like he hasn't eaten for days, ignoring the world around him entirely.

The sound of utensils hitting the floor pulls him away from his meal; then, a chair clattering to the ground.

Gradually, the hunger and rapid eating-induced haze in Chifuyu's mind began to clear. He looked to the source of the sound, confused and with a spoonful of mashed potato in his mouth, mid-chew. He turned to the side and—

"Takemitchy?" He looked up, eyeing his standing partner. "What's up, you—"

The words catch in his throat as he really takes Takemichi in.

Eyes blown wide, tears flowing freely from them. Body full-shaking. Head bent low. Hands on himself; one on his stomach, one in front of his mouth.

Distantly, Chifuyu hears Mikey's concerned voice from afar, no doubt witnessing whatever it is that just happened. Draken's voice overlaps it as he stands up with the other blond, concerned: "Takemitchy, are you oka—"

"I," Takemichi groans, looking as if he's about to vomit. "I need to go. I-I'm sorry."

"Oi, Takemitchy, what's up—"

Chifuyu catches a look of his face then. His breath catches in his throat; he thinks he just made a mistake somewhere. He missed something, he's sure of it now.

Takemichi sees him looking, and the tears in his (too wide, too scared, too lost, too much) eyes fall faster. His shoulders have begun to shake, lips trembling. Chifuyu stands up, ready to reach out, concern oozing from every pore of his body.

With a surprising show of strength, the fake blond pushed against Baji, who moved to stand near him. "I'm sorry."

Baji, in shock, let himself move from the push, staggering slightly. He lets Takemichi through, watching as he pushes against more people to run out of the diner, head hanging low.

Chifuyu moves to stand by his captain, sporting the same confused expression as he was. He knows Draken and Mikey, along with the others who saw what just happened, had the same expression.

The windchimes at the top of the door frame ring as the door shut closed. Gradually, the chimes quiet down, and the noise in the diner picks up again.

In Chifuyu's mind, the chimes haven't stopped ringing. It might be the same for others nearby.

Notes:

living for mitsuya inupi friendship and koko sanzu interactions pls

its 4am here im abt ti pass out but i hope yall like this!! and pls stay hydrated!! tysm for dropping by, hoping to get the 2nd half out soon hhhh so close

also remember to do some stretching daily!!

Chapter 4

Summary:

Upon his return, Takemichi checks the kitchen again, making sure everything was clean and nothing was amiss. He looks at the refrigerator's contents and feels...nothing.

He goes to bed without much fanfare. Takemichi doesn't sleep straight, standing to vomit and cry a few times throughout the night. But the instances he did get some shut-eye, which were at least pretty long, he thinks—he wouldn't trade them for the world.

(He didn't deserve it. He doesn't.

Still, he was a selfish man. He can't help but keep the good things close and savor them for whatever they're worth.)

Notes:

im literally done with the fic but unsatisifed with the last few paragraphs so i decided to make the last quarter (~1-2k words) of this chap as an epilogue instead sobs im sorry it keeps getting loNGER i said chap 3 would be the end but it got LONG and then now sdnjkgnkjsdg

warnings for this chap:

- uninformed consent (!!!)

- unreliable narrator (like...really unreliable)

- mental breakdown rationalization

- pov switches

- misunderstandings and savior complexes

- nightmares (not graphic)

theres a callback to the previous chapter here so if you need a refersher pls do just refer to it!

only slightly edited. might edit some more later! for now, enjoy :D

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Do they know?

They might now.

No.

Do they know?

They know.

They know . They knew.

His chest was starting to hurt, but he wasn't sure if it was from the running or the sudden onslaught of thoughts and—and humanity, mortality crashing over him.

Takemichi knew it was weird; it was too quiet inside. He knew. He understood it was wrong that his sense of...of something, that thing that tells him what's right and wrong—he knew it was bad it wasn't telling him anything. He knew it.

But he didn't stop to think about it. No.

He just focused on his body. What he wanted. Fuck.

Takemichi, he...he should've thought harder. He should've given it all more thought.

Now, he was here. Running because that steak tasted too close to his lunch. That red in its juices, it was too familiar. And the plates, the shine of the utensils, the oil—

Familiar. Too familiar. Too yellow. Too golden .

A sharp knife. A loud crack. Steel against meat. "I'll see you in hell."

'They're gonna find out,' Takemichi thinks, crying and heaving. 'They're gonna know, if they don't already. They're gonna realize it's familiar, they're gonna—they're gonna taste it.'

He should've forced himself to think things through, even if it felt weird. It shouldn't be okay with him that nothing rang bells in his head. He should've dug up whatever fucking morality he had left , and if he really had none, he should've made it for himself.

'They're gonna know. They're gonna find out.'

No, they won't. Because they already know.

They know. They know. They know. Theyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknow—

"No," he whispers, feet hurting as he makes a turn to his residential area. "Shut up, they don't know."

'Not yet.'

"No. No ."

They will , he's almost sure about it.

He made the food. And though patties were different from steak, he could taste it. Could smell how similar they were.

The blood, the stench of meat growing cold. The smell of fresh blood, free-flowing and coagulated. Of blood watered down, going down the drainage. Of disinfectant so strong yet still not strong enough to fully erase the metallic smell from his senses, lingering like a conflicting aftertaste.

He's sure they'll know. They ate parts of his lunch, they know what human mea—

Wait.

Wait.

"No," Takemichi repeats, feet slowing down by the corner of his street. "No, they...they don't know."

Oh.

They don't know. Right.

They...don't know what they ate. That's right. It's—all this worrying, it's in his head.

They don't know about the blood. Of its smell. Of its taste. Of the gold, fucking gold that Takemichi sees behind his eyelids, of the gold that makes him want to hurl.

They don't know.

"That's right." He breathes out, shaking. "They don't know. That's right. I… didn't tell them."

His lunch with the Toman captains and vice-captains replays in his mind, and he remembers the rollercoaster of emotions he felt then. When he made food for his vice-captains. When Chifuyu and the others picked at his lunch. When the others fought over the lunch he made for Koko and Inupi.

It sinks in heavier just what he did. His stomach feels full of lead, weighing him down. He feels, tastes bile, a whole liter of it sloshing around his stomach and intestines, burning him from the inside. He feels bloated with the acid, his skin tight around his midsection and his arms, the sensation of pinpricks rising all over him.

He doesn't feel like this is his body. He doesn't feel like he's in his body.

"They don't know." He falls to his knees. His house is so close, but the park is closer. If he blinks, he thinks he can see the red trail he left behind just yesterday, shoddily covered up with the snow. "They...really don't know."

He thinks about how he ran out of the diner. The way the gold of the plates were just too much , the knife too dull to be anything good but too sharp in his mind. The steak, fuck , it was so red.

The meat was good like Draken said but it—it tasted wrong .

It didn't settle on his tongue the way he wanted it to; its juices were too fake, too saturated with oil for him to taste the meat's natural flavor. It was still meat; it was practically juicy raw meat, it was too much like him, it, that Takemichi just. Just couldn't. And he thought the others would feel the same but of course, how could they whey they don't fucking know .

They don't know. They didn't know. There was never a chance they would know—that is if he just kept it up. Swallowed his bile and stupid shaking and ignored the gold.

'He's gone, he's gone. It's gone. Stop thinking about it. He's not there.'

A childish voice calls out to him, reminding him, "You made sure, remember?"

He agrees. He did. He remembers it too well.

However, he isn't digesting this information. He can't . It passes over him and so do the facts attached to it, the human not quite understandable and able to connect these elements with what's in front of him.

If only he did, then this shit wouldn't be happening.

But now his friends might find out everything because he was stupid . Because he made a fucking scene . And now people might start asking questions he can't answer just yet, or-or come over when he's not ready because he made a scene—

The thought of being found out for real encourages him to stand. Placing a hand against some house's gate, he takes a few deep breaths.

No. It doesn't matter anymore whether he felt remorse or not for what he did. It doesn't matter anymore what he should've felt and thought. None of that matters anymore.

They should know, he knows this. They're his friends. They should know.

But what then?

If Mikey and the others were to find out just what he did, the little peace they've made for everyone involved will be shattered. Izana and Mikey talking, Emma alive—there's so much to lose now, and with the knowledge of Takemichi's sin, it would risk it all.

Takemichi can't have that. He's worked so hard to make this future work; he won't let himself be the cause of it failing again. This isn't about his safety being at risk anymore if people found out about what he did—this is about everyone else's.

He's long accepted he won't be safe from the things people can't see anymore. But them...for them...

Maybe...it's a good thing then he isn't plagued by the moral considerations of his actions. Maybe it's good his insides are quiet about it all, only really worrying about his friends and their happiness.

Because if he was, what ending would that have created?

He's already lived through the alternate end. And in that end, he was better. Nicer. Weaker.

This was the only end he hasn't lived out yet.

It made perfect sense some changes had to be made for things to be different. This was probably just one of them—a necessary change for the ideal goal. Life is about trial and error, but sometimes, some events can only afford so many tries, if not only one.

Takemichi is both cursed and blessed to have a little more chances. And the price is this: a sure path to a place where many of his friends might have ended up going to back in a different world, but won't to anymore because Takemichi will carry their vestiges with him when he goes on his own.

That is his duty. His purpose.

And with him, in all senses of the word—no, welcoming him, will be Kisaki.

(Gold against the fiery pits of hell. Won't that be similar enough to the stove's fire, he wonders.)

It's weird. It's wrong. So many things, everything is wrong.

But this is just one thing. What's one wrong thing for a million right things?

He thinks back to his sin. To his secret. His friends and theirs, they won't know what he just did. He'll make sure of it. For them. For himself.

"If you kill people, that makes you a bad guy," he hears, sees Kazutora. The broken cars of Bloody Halloween. His eyes.

(They make so much sense.)

"But... if you kill enemies... that makes you a hero."

Oh.

"Oh." Takemichi takes a deep breath. " Oh ."

It's a heavy burden to carry, but it keeps him moving. Makes him move towards his house, hands finding purchase on a new gate and wall every few steps taken. The tears haven't stopped flowing, and some have grown cold, stinging his cheeks and some scratches. He winces; he deserves it.

But he…

He's a hero now, isn't he? A silent hero. He saved everybody.

Then…this is okay, right? It should be.

And yet. Yet . His legs feel worse than they did after the fight. He supposes that's the price of carrying a lost life, a dead weight, and everything it came with on his shoulders and in his stomach.

Funny how even without a body this time, it feels the same.

Just a few more steps, and he'll be at his front door. His stomach rumbles again, and he thinks back once more to lunch.

Takemichi thinks he's going to hurl. His heart is pushing up and away from his ribs and lungs. It wants to break free in all ways possible—forward, against his bones; upward, against his breath. It's taking him everything not to give in.

He's a hero. He can't falter now . Not anymore.

And then, his current mission.

This time, when he gets the idea of what to do next, he doesn't question it.

(What's one more push? What's one more line broken?

If it's for good, it's not really a bad thing, right? He's using violence to protect, so…

So this is fine. He's fine.

There's no other choice to be anything else.)

Takemichi enters his house, shoulders shaking with the force of his breathing, but he trudged on. He shuts the door behind him, inhales the leftover scent of disinfectant as he makes his way to the kitchen. There, the disinfectant is strongest, but what lay under it was even more powerful. Something that can't be ignored once noticed.

His kitchen is just how he left it: the bowls and plates he used were on the drying rack, and the pans he used were still in the sink, a few soap bubbles rising from the water in it. With the soap bubbles was a thin layer of oil that rose from the pans leftover from his cooking. Above the drying rack was his corkboard of knives, and all three knives fit snugly into their slots, clean.

The floors were clean as well, shining, even; it hurt a bit to look at for long though, as most of the disinfectant was used there, and it contained a high amount of concentrated bleach.

By the cupboard under the sink, however, were three black bags. With the tallest bag reaching his knees and the shortest halfway through his calf, each was tied tightly at the top with big knots.

Looking back to the sink, the top of the counter was clean too, save for some dried soap markings. No water dripping from the faucet.

He looks to the side of it and sees a pair of broken, golden-framed glasses. Below it was a red piece of cloth, folded so the black and white symbol on it was facing inwards. However, the fold was done in a rush, the symbol remaining visible and unmissable on the light-shaded countertop.

Takemichi turns on the stove. As he waits for the flame to stabilize, he gets one of the knives on the corkboard without looking.

He congratulates himself for the decreased shaking in his hands as he picks up the cloth and unfolds it. He looks at his knife next—the smallest one, he noticed—and wonders what to do next and how.

'Smaller would be better, right?' He thinks, ignoring the quickening of his heart as time passes by. 'I...I guess I'll do that.'

He doesn't put much thought into how he slices at Tenjiku's uniform, only thinking 'smaller, smaller, smaller.' He cuts through the fabric with difficulty, using a thin knife on a thick cloth, but he makes do.

A few minutes later and he's left with bloody cloth scraps on top of his counter. He looks at the fire of the stove and hopes he doesn't get burnt.

He does.

(He deserves it.)

With each scrap Takemichi brings to the fire, the tips of his fingers are singed. He winces, but he continues. Most of them dissolve into ashes almost entirely, if not leaving only charred cloth behind. Regardless, it works. It's enough.

(He deserves the burn. That pain, it's not enough.

The idea is filed away for later.)

Once all the cloth scraps are burnt or reduced to ashes, he turns off the stove and lets the smell of fire and charred material waft through the air. It mixes strangely with the scent of disinfectant, but Takemichi finds himself not allowed to care right now.

He opens one of the trash bags gently, caring not to rip the plastic material. Upon opening it, he pushes at its hard off-white—almost yellow—cracked contents, welcoming the sting of the sharp edges some of them had. He shoves in the remaining burnt clothes inside, moving them around so they'd be mixed in with the other things in the bag.

If Takemichi doesn't focus on the off-white almost matching his palling hand, he could almost forget what they once were. 'But,' he guesses, wincing at how easily this thought comes to him, 'It's hard to forget what's inside you, how we all...have the same bones, more or less. That we're all the same inside.'

His thoughts make him snort.

Lies. They weren't the same. Takemichi wasn't.

Not everyone has this power. Not everyone has these thoughts, this silence , even though there should be a clamor inside him right now. A noise barrage telling him what's right and wrong. Not everyone would be tossing bones in a bag like popcorn like this. Nobody should.

Takemichi wasn't like them .

(He refuses to acknowledge who is, could've been like him. Not while he's holding him like this.)

For all their similarities within, in the middle of it all...they were all different.

'Huh,' he thinks, moving his arm out of the bag. 'Maybe...that's humanity.' The differences. The same groundwork, different executions. Branching out from the core.

And for some reason, that's...a comforting thought.

But he doesn't want to dwell on that right now.

Reluctantly, but determinedly, he swallows it down. There is no time for anything else.

(He doesn't deserve the peace.)

Takemichi stands back up, dusting his hands on his pants. He looks at the glasses, trying not to flinch at its gold frame. The light above him reflects off it and the broken lenses.

It doesn't take a lot of force to snap them. He shoves the broken thing into the bag, tossing it around as well before (unwillingly) removing some of the shards of broken lenses and glasses frame in his palm.

(It should stay there. He should take it. Never take it out.

He deserves it.)

After, he closes the bag with a tight knot and moves away. Inspecting it, he nods to himself and takes all three bags outside through the kitchen's back door.

If he passes by the back of his neighbors' houses as well, tripping and pushing down some of their big garbage containers, scurrying through the dark, and thanking the lack of CCTV and street lamps on this side of the area before coming back empty-handed, nobody will ever know. And if he opens the hose on some of the backyards he passed by and wet the bags before dropping them and a bit of himself, he can always blame it on the sudden rain shower that fell as he made it back home.

Upon his return, Takemichi checks the kitchen again, making sure everything was clean and nothing was amiss. He looks at the refrigerator's contents and feels...nothing.

He goes to bed without much fanfare. Takemichi doesn't sleep straight, standing to vomit and cry a few times throughout the night. But the instances he did get some shut-eye, which were at least pretty long, he thinks—he wouldn't trade them for the world.

(He didn't deserve it. He doesn't.

Still, he was a selfish man. He can't help but keep the good things close and savor them for whatever they're worth.)

The next two days pass the same; still, he gets sleep. Slowly, it grows longer.

His mind is quiet. It's terrifying. It's not supposed to be, he knows this, but—

He takes what he can get.

Bleach and other cleaning agents flood his nose from morning till night, but other scents linger in his mind. As the contents of his refrigerator decreases, so does the bile he tastes.

On the third day, as he eyes a tupperware slowly running out of meat, he gets another idea.

(Another line to cross. Were there always so many lines in the sand? Was the sand always this vast?)

Before going to bed, he sends a lengthy text to Chifuyu and then another to the group chat he has with the other captains and vice-captains. He turns off his notifications and huddles to sleep.

(He dreams.

He hopes he doesn't remember them.)

"Mikey's first?" Mitsuya blinks. "That's a surprise."

Chifuyu snorts, leaning against Takemichi's house gate. Beside him, Baji is trying to get a cat to look at him. "It's Takemitchy's cooking." He gives Mikey an exasperated smile, watching him bother Draken for some reason. He snorts as Draken sighs before giving Mitsuya a wave. "What do you expect?"

"Heh. That's true."

"Oh, everyone's here!" Koko whistles, Inupi beside him. "Guess we all like my boss's cooking."

"Why do you look so proud? You're not the one cooking."

"Sanzu, what is up with you—"

With a sigh, Inupi moves away from his partner and makes his way to Chifuyu. "Good afternoon, Matsuno."

"Morning, Inupi." Chifuyu nods in a greeting. "You guys are early too."

A shy smile breaks across the scarred blond's face. "We're the boss's vice-captains. It'd be embarrassing if we came late."

"Oh? You sure it isn't for the food?" Chifuyu grins, cheeky.

Inupi coughs. "Perhaps."

Chifuyu snickers. Not like he's any better.

Everyone was worried after Takemichi's sudden departure from the diner after their scuffle with Tenjiku. Although Takemichi texted them after what they assumed was a few days of rest, assuring them he was okay and apologizing for the scene he caused, they were still on edge.

Still, Takemichi did also say for them to come over for dinner so he could treat them to some home-cooked meal. As much as Mitsuya and Inupi tried to talk over the excited messages in the group chat, saying Takemichi should be left to rest some more, it was evident that hunger and the desire for Takemichi's cooking won out, so they all ended up coming anyway.

Chifuyu was guilty of coming for the food too—but hey, no way would he pass up a chance to also check up on his partner. Especially after the faces he's seen Takemichi make...he really wanted to see him again. Needed to.

And eat his food. But that's beside the point.

Thus, here they were at 5:30 p.m., watching what they could of the sunset outside Takemichi's house—which is way too early as they agreed on six in the evening, by the way. But that's okay, they still have to wait for the Kawata twins and Hakkai, so it looks like they'll be coming in just in time.

It was quiet at first, but as more people came, their tiny group grew louder. For once, Chifuyu isn't joining in their shenanigans, thinking about Takemichi's text to him directly. It wasn't anything concerning or too different from the one he sent in their group chat actually; the only difference in his message to Chifuyu was that he kept apologizing, saying "you had to see me like that, I must have ruined your meal."

Of course, Takaemichi didn't. Chifuyu can't help the sardonic smile and weary sigh. ' Trust him to worry about others first.'

It's just that...it meant Takemichi was aware of everything. He wasn't... entirely out of it that night. He was in his right mind as he seemed to...lose himself? Zone out? Think about something?

And that's something Chifuyu is concerned about: what was Takemichi thinking about then for him to react like...that? All of that? Chifuyu lets out a heavy breath. 'What was it that he couldn't trust him, his partner, about?'

Chifuyu knew of the time leaping; granted, a few others did too, but he knew the most. More than Mikey, even. He knew of his previous lives and deaths, and he knew that Takemichi was trying once again to make things work. Some things didn't happen, thankfully, but some still did—which Takemichi was able to solve or stop from getting worse.

And with Kisaki's sudden departure and their win against Tenjiku with no lives lost before, during, and after the war, doesn't that mean Takemichi should've been happy now? Or happier, rather?

There doesn't seem to be anything amiss, besides Kisaki's disappearance. But that didn't seem to be within their scope anymore. Plus, with everything over, there's no point in doing anything more unless Kisaki or someone else pops up and threatens Toman. Which...is very unlikely. Not after everything and not after Toman has grown this powerful.

So...why? What's bothering Takmemichi? And why?

What could bother him so much for him to... break the way he did?

"You're sighing a lot there."

Chifuyu blinks and turns to the voice. "Angry. You're here."

Souya grunts, frowning. "What's up?"

"...Takemitchy." Chifuyu says, plainly. "And Smiley?"

The blue-haired Kawata looks to the side. Chifuyu follows his gaze. "Over there, talking with Draken about something. Hakkai is there too, just hidden by that tree." Souya looks back at him. "So? What's on your mind? What about Takemitchy?"

Chifuyu bites his tongue, pondering. "That's the thing," he starts, "I don't know what's wrong. And I don't know what to think."

Souya looks at him, the crease between his eyebrows softening just a bit. "Yeah, he looked...pretty bad before he left. It's probably good he just bolted out, honestly."

"Yeah. If he really did feel bad...but…" Chifuyu pursed his lips. "What could've happened? He was pretty fine during the fight."

Souya nods aggressively. "He was," he agrees, recalling the way he took him out of harm's way how many times, either by taking hits meant for him or simply pushing him aside. Chifuyu sees the glazed-over blue eyes looking at the sky and gets it a bit too well.

"Did he say anything to you, though?" Souya comes back, eyeing him once more.

Chifuyu shakes his head. Souya's frown deepens and vein throbs by his jaw.

Yeah, same .

Just as Chifuyu was about to sigh again, the door opened. All chaos stopped and they collectively looked to the opened wooden door.

Takemichi looked better. Thank god. Though he still had some of his sickly pallor from a while back, his posture was less tense, and the skin around his smile was less pulled taut.

He welcomes them in, laughing, and Chifuyu feels the somber, concerned mood he and Souya had inadvertently created fade away almost instantly. He hands him the containers he left behind in the shrine and hugs him tight. Everyone made their way to the living room, situating themselves across the couches and the floor.

The smell of disinfectant was a bit strong, but if Takemichi truly was sick, it makes sense. And knowing Takemichi's propensity for worrying about his friends more than he did for himself, he probably wanted to make sure they wouldn't catch whatever he did.

Chifuyu's lips twitch into a smile. Same old Takemichi.

It takes almost no time at all for each one of them to find their spots on the floors, dining area, and the living room. Chatter immediately fills the room, and if Chifuyu didn't know his friends, he'd think they didn't care for Takemichi's sudden silence a while back with how rowdy they were being. Even with their mess and roughhousing with one another, he could see and hear how they try to drag Takemichi in. The subtle questions. The loud yet quiet offers of companionship and an ear to listen or some shoulders against his if he needed it.

Baji on the floor with Mikey, a space between them as they yell at each other, looking at Takemichi between breaths to ask for his side. Sanzu trying to act as Takemichi's shadow. Draken, Inupi, and Koko posturing at a doorway each, all within Takemichi's pathways as he walks back and forth, getting slippers, clothes, blankets, and pillows. Hakkai and the Kawata twins fighting over who will get the two controllers for the game console, asking Takemichi for his input and who he would want to play with.

Takemichi didn't quite accept or address any of them, but the smile he sent all of them as he met their eyes in turns—the pure, happy, normal smile on him was real and beautiful, and for Toman, that was enough for now. They know they're getting to him, one way or another. They're making him smile.

Chifuyu and the others keep their questions to themselves. For now, what's important is making sure, assuring themselves that Takemichi is doing better.

"You guys," Mitsuya sighs, exasperated and smiling dryly. "You guys should help Takemitchy out. Look at him, he's running back and forth for you all."

Oh. Right. Oops. Forgot.

"Need anything else, partner?" Chifuyu stands up from beside Souya, smiling. He rolls up his sleeves. Hakkai snorts.

Mitsuya huffs in amusement. "Smooth, Chifuyu."

"It's the thought that counts!" Chifuyu rubs his nose. He looks at his partner, smiling wider as he hears him laugh. Finally. Discreetly, he does a fist pump; the others' smiles tell him they'd do the same if they weren't obvious. "So, need anything?"

Takemichi's laughter tapers off. He calms down. "Haha, I'm good with the pillows for now, Chifuyu, thanks," he says, catching his breath. "Maybe help me with getting water? I was gonna do it the moment you guys came in but…"

Everyone flinches. Right…they just…came in and got settled. Just like that.

"We'll help," Baji grunts, standing up. "Come on, Mikey. Smiley drinks a fuckton of water too."

"Don't make that sound like a bad thing, Baji," Nahoya laughs. "But get me a whole pitcher, please."

"Nahoya-kun's pitcher is in the lower cupboard."

"Thanks, Takemitchy! Okay, get up now, Mikey."

Mikey groans but stands up anyway. He follows the black-haired man into the kitchen, Sanzu now switching over to help them as well.

Chifuyu gapes. "Wait, so what…do I do now…"

Hakkai snorts up a storm, Koko and Nahoya following suit. Chifuyu reminds himself to keep it together. Damn it, Draken's in on it too and now so is Souya, and fuck, is that a smile on Inupi—

"Ah." Mitsuya blinks, clapping once. He looks at Chifuyu. "I've been planning to ask Takemitchy if I could help with cooking. Wanna join?"

"Nice, I'm up for that."

"Wait, I wanna cook too—"

"Nuh-uh, Smiley. Fuck you. Go drink your water."

"What about me—"

"Sorry, Angry, but you didn't help me just then. Traitors don't get Takemitchy's cooking in progress taste test rights."

"...Fuck you, nii-san."

"Souya—Chifuyu, come here you little—"

Mitsuya places his hands on Chifuyu's shoulders and swiftly turns him away from the peach-haired boy and the very heavy controller in his hand. "Okay, Chifuyu, let's go."

If the living room smelled like plain old disinfectant, the kitchen smelled like a hospital .

Mitsuya and Chifuyu come into the spacious area unnoticed, their host busy pointing inside a cupboard which glasses and pitchers to use for the most break-risk and violence-prone people of Toman.

And yet, even they were scrunching up their noses; they, two of Toman's strongest in everything physical, including their immune system—as they say, idiots don't catch colds after all, but everyone knew Baji and Mikey were just built differently. However, Mikey was already affected by it, it seems, going as far as stepping away from the cupboard's other door to let out a loud sneeze before going back in, Baji and Takemichi not sparing him a glance.

Their words are muffled by the cupboard doors and the chaos from the living room, and so is Mikey's sneezing. A few moments later, Baji does the same, sneezing to the other side.

Chifuyu can feel his throat itching from the smell alone. What is this? It smells so…weird. Too damn strong in a way that just…doesn't feel right anymore. Like a hospital decided to set up camp in the kitchen, equipment and sanitation materials complete and in use.

Just what was Takemichi down with for the kitchen to smell like this ?

Mitsuya sneezes beside him. The other three in the kitchen finally look their way.

"Oh, Mitsuya-kun, Chifuyu-kun!" Takemichi smiles. "Are you guys here to help Baji-kun and Mikey-kun?"

Mikey huffs. "We're okay, Takemitchy." Baji nods his assent with him.

"Nah, we wanna help you cook, if that's okay?" Mitsuya asks, sniffling. "You need all the help in feeding us, I'm sure."

For a moment, Chifuyu sees Takemichi's smile twitch, and his eyes widen in something that had no business being there right now. Mitsuya's confused hum tells him he saw it too.

They send each other a look from the corners of their eyes. Their earlier joy wobbles a bit.

Something is…wrong here.

But is it something worth worrying over?

Takemichi is a nervous person by nature. He can stand his ground when it counts, yes, but he is also so frail, so easy to stress out. He was sick just until recently. It wouldn't be unlikely if he was still not fully recovered from it. It looked serious too from what they remembered; tremors wouldn't be impossible to have.

But there's something wrong regardless, Chifuyu knows it. Because Takemichi—

Takemichi doesn't smile like that . The only times he had were when he was lying. In the diner. Whenever he's hurting. Whenever he's nervous.

And Takemichi, in good faith, in love, in care—Takemichi lies a lot.

(Is this good faith still? For what?

Sickness is different from nervousness; what is he nervous about?)

Takemichi gulps, smile shaking before he nods. "Sure, just hold on a second." He goes back into the cupboard, getting some of the glasses himself.

Bells ring immediately in Chifuyu's mind. He looks at Mitsuya.

Mitsuya shoots a hand out, grabbing at his elbow. "Calm," the second division captain whispers, "Let him lead. Don't initiate."

Chifuyu's lips flap, unsure of what they want to say. He settles for exhaling in distress, shoulders tense.

Takemichi pops out from the cupboard with Baji and Mikey, Baji and Takemichi holding glasses, and Mikey holding three pitchers. Takemichi gives Chifuyu and Mitsuya a short wave and a quick "hold on" before helping the other two with their cargo. Once they hear the clinking of glass and Nahoya's yelling, Takemichi comes back in.

"You sure you guys wanna help out?" Takemichi asks, looking between the two of them with…a bit of apprehension, it seems. Fidgety hands. Darting eyes.

Mitsuya replies without a hitch in his smile or tone: "Of course. It's the least we could do for you."

The apprehension mellows down slightly. "I'm the one who offered a meal for you guys, Mitsuya-kun. I don't think I'd be a good host if I take you up on this offer."

'Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses.'

Mitsuya chuckles and ruffles Takemichi's hair. He and Chifuyu pretend not to notice the flinching, the sudden tension in his form, neck bent and shoulders raised. "We're offering. You're not forcing us. It's all good."

"What he said!" Chifuyu nods.

Takemichi looks at them, nibbling on his lower lip. "Okay," he says, sighing. He smiles once again, this time more…tired. Yet a real smile nonetheless. He must be really sick…

"Just gimme a few. I'll just fix some of the glassware then let's cook."

"Got it!"

"We'll just be here."

Takemichi gives them another smile and proceeds with his task. A few minutes pass and Takemichi starts by approaching the refrigerator. "Okay, first, I'll," he coughs, "I'll just take the meat out to thaw first."

His hand shakes around the handle. The rest of his upper body follows.

With a sigh, he opens the refrigerator's door.

Immediately, the smell—the stench of raw meat hits Mitsuya and Chifuyu. It's…strong. It wafts through the air with the freezer's chill, and yet it stings like the iron undercurrent it carries. Chifuyu gags , unused to the smell and tasting it on the underside of this tongue.

Mitsuya, however—

"That's really fresh meat," he says, awed. "Holy shit. I can smell it from here." And he's not even near it. It's in the refrigerator too, damn .

Takemichi flinches, turning to look at him with wide eyes. "Sorry—s-sorry about that," he stutters, "I-it usually works better than this! The scent-blocking, I mean," he looks to the inside of the refrigerator. "I should probably crank this up, huh…"

"Lemme see." Mitsuya makes his way over. He eyes the freezer inside and gapes. "Holy shit, it's full. Like, really full."

"Y-yeah…"

"Huh. Make sense." He looks at Takemichi and points to the dials inside. "I don't think you can crank this up any further, Takemitchy. You're already at the last line." He whistles, eyeing the stacked containers in the freezer. "That's just how it is, sometimes. The scent-blocking can only do so much."

Strangely, Takemichi pales. He looks away. "Oh…sorry about that."

Mitsuya pats his back. Takemichi flinches. Again.

Was it trauma from Tenjiku, maybe? Or embarrassment? Knowing Takemichi though, both make sense…

"Hey," Mitsuya begins, a little wary, "Don't worry. We're not bothered if that's what you're worried about." He gives a sharp smile to Chifuyu. "Right?"

Chifuyu gulps. "Y-yeah!"

Takemichi frowns. "Chifuyu…" His frown deepens. "I heard you gag, though…"

"Well!" Chifuyu flinches. He scrambles for what to say next, turning over his next words in his head. "I…yeah, I'm just not used to the smell, that's all," he admits. "But I'm not disgusted or anything, I swear! I also just…didn't know that raw meat would smell so strongly, you know? But I swear, I'm okay!"

"Some meat has a smell, even when refrigerated," Mitsuya points out. "It usually smells like blood."

"Ohh…"

"So for this to smell so strong ," Mitsuya sniffs the air again, whistling. "This must be really fresh." He faces Takemichi. "Did you just buy this recently? You've been sick. That's worrying, you shouldn't be going out…"

"Ah, n—" Takemichi blinks, surprised at his own words and stopping midway. Mitsuya looks at him, hoping he looks gentle as he waits for him to recollect himself. "It's, um, I've had it since—" He swallows. "Since the day before Tenjiku."

"Oh!" Mitsuya brightens up. "The patties? You made them with these?"

"U-Um, yeah…"

"Those were really good!" Chifuyu interjects. Then, he flails: "I-I mean, Takemitchy, you always cook great food, but those were, uh—"

"He means what you made back then were different. Like, really good."

"Y-Yeah, that!"

"A-Ah, is that so…?"

"Hell yeah," Mitsuya tries not to let his excitement show. "The meat you used then was different, Takemitchy. I just know it."

Takemichi gapes; then, he gulps. "H-how so…?"

"The texture, for one. It's just…different," Mitsuya replies. "It was a lot juicier too. It was kinda like beef." He grins. "Hey, maybe show me to your butcher, yeah? I'd love to ask him where he got this."

"I..um…" Takemichi's lips wobble, eyes glowing with moisture. "I…don't know if I can," he says, voice stilted. "He's um...he's…" He takes a big, sharp inhale, tears prickling. "He's, um, he's on v-vacation…yeah."

He looks away from Mitsuya, but Mitsuya keeps his eyes set on him. Watches his eyes dart around, teeth coming out to nibble on his lower lip a little more violent than earlier. Sees the dry skin there catching on his front teeth, wonders how sick he must've been to be so dehydrated that Mitsuya could see it.

Wonders what was wrong that his shoulders began to shake, his breath coming in short gasps.

Chifuyu knows this look all too well. Why is it still there? It's wrong .

(He can't ever forget it.)

"Oi, Takemitchy?" Chifuyu starts slowly. Takemichi's neck snaps towards him. Mitsuya winces at the sound but doesn't look away from him, even if he wasn't looking at him. Chifuyu gulps. "You…okay there, partner?"

Takemichi blinks almost as if he's coming back to awareness.

(Why did he lose it anyway?)

The smile on Takemichi's face is as real as it is unsettling.

"Yeah," he nods. His grip on the refrigerator door handle in his hand grows tight. "Just spaced out for a while there."

That's nothing new.

(But why does it feel like it is —horribly?)

Why does it feel like Takemichi was about to go somewhere anybody can't follow?

(Or maybe he already has?)

'Why do you look like that?' Mitsuya gives a gentle smile to offset his and Takemichi's. 'Where are you looking? Where are you going?'

The topic of meat dies down. Takemichi pulls the door wider, pressing on its inside to keep it open. He keeps his lower body there and moves his upper body to get a trash can to help him keep the door open.

He looks away. Mitsuya worries.

Once the trash can is settled, Takemichi smiles a little wider.

Mitsuya comes forward and ruffles his hair again. 'Gentle,' he reminds himself. He sees Chifuyu's eyes saying the same thing. 'He's not okay. Something is wrong.'

(For how long now?)

(Mitsuya knows what tiredness is. He knows what fear is. Despair. Hate. Anger. He knows it all.

Takemichi was sick. Was . This is not that.

This is more . It's all Mitsuya knows and wishes he didn't know , didn't see right then and there.)

What Mitsuya is trying to say, to do —it doesn't feel like it's working. It almost seems like nothing will , if Takemichi's wobbly smile is anything to go by.

But at least his grip loosens up.

"You…are you sure you're okay? Want us to take over?" He cuts off Takemichi immediately: "Don't bring in the issue of us being guests here. We're offering here."

The way Takemichi's shoulders jolted up is louder than his words. His grip tightens again. "I am. I promise!" A laugh. Choked . "No way I'm letting you do this alone!" He grins.

'So why are you doing something else just like that?'

Mitsuya backs down and bites his tongue. His smile starts to hurt and so does his chest. "If you say so," he sighs.

If Takemichi won't open up, there's nothing he can do about it. Mitsuya was his friend, not his conscience, soul, or mind. If all he can do is go on like normal because that's all Takemichi seems to want, need , right now, then—

Mitsuya faces away from the turbulent blue and looks into the bright white of the refrigerator.

It's cold. So, so cold .

Mitsuya shivers.

"Okay, Takemitchy," he begins, shoulders tight and arm hairs prickling, "Let's go, mister chef."

It's cold. The freezer air is cold.

But the cold inside him is worse .

Yet Takemichi's smile warms it up just a little bit as it stabilizes, brightens just a little bit. He cheers softly and Mitsuya watches him come closer to open the freezer door.

The smell of fresh meat makes Chifuyu suck in a breath, biting back a grimace. The scent was much more potent than earlier, the cold air making it sting; with all doors open, the only thing keeping the scent and chill at bay were the Tupperware's covers. Even then, Mitsuya already felt like he was holding the meat, hands clamming with the tell-tale sensations of uncooked fat and melting ice bits molding under his grasp.

Mitsuya tries to make small talk, praying the shaking in Takemichi's hands with each stocky Tupperware he takes out stops. Asks him about the meat, about defrosting it, about storing it.

After all, if he didn't want to talk about his sickness and absence, this should be a good middle ground right? This would be a safe conversation topic, right? Plus, Takemichi cooked with this before, it should be okay, shouldn't it? He answered some of his questions earlier too.

So why does Takemichi just seem to close up more?

Why does he look like he wants to run away? To fight and to cry?

Mitsuya's heart sinks just as it pumps harshly in his ears. He gets that feeling of a threat looming nearby but not knowing from where , instincts to protect flaring up. But who is the enemy? Where? Why ?

What's wrong with Takemichi?

(Mitsuya knows it's not him.

…Or is it?

But…why?)

Takemichi fills up the sink with water, clogging the drainage to let the plastic containers soak in the little puddle he's created. Mitsuya thinks he knows what the meat feels: cold, heavy, yet afloat. Moving, yet not; it's moving out of his control, only following the water and gravity. No real thought processing, no actual anything .

Out of everyone in Toman, Mitsuya would consider himself one of the most rational, if not the most rational at all. Instinct-driven as he is, much like the others, he is more brainy. Slower to anger but quick to analyze. The one to think things through most times, the one to find solutions that don't always involve fists.

Yet right now, Mitsuya could come up with nothing .

And so, he shuts up.

He lets the water take him, carry him. Lets Takemichi's eyes—their blues, their fears, their sadness, their distress—dictate him. Listens to their hidden plea, their whisper-quiet prayer.

Mitsuya goes against every instinct in him to press on, to protect how he knows, and listens .

Never mind if it feels wrong. If it is wrong. Right now, it has to be right .

(There doesn't seem to be any other option that would be.)

"So, Takemitchy," Mitsuya hums, taking some of the remaining containers from the freezer, pretending not to see the surprised gaze of the other. "How long will these take?"

"I…" Takemichi blinks. "H–Huwah?"

"The meat," Mitsuya repeats. The smile on his face hurts a little. He guesses this is the price of fighting nature. "It's special, right? So how long should these take to thaw? Will they take longer? Shorter?" He forces a grin. "I told you, I'll trust you. So, lead the way."

Multiple emotions flash through Takemichi's face then. Mitsuya catches regret lasting the longest.

But what Takemichi lets settle on his face is something akin to…relief.

(Yet Mitsuya wonders: why does it feel like that was the wrong thing to say?"

"Mhm!" Takemichi nods, smiling a little better. Happier. Nicer. "I-It's like regular meat. J-just…uh, tougher." He nods to himself, pensive. Thinking. "Like..,beef or chicken."

He looks at his sink. "My faucet's k-kinda old so you can't see the markings anymore, but I used warm water to do this," he gestures to the mini-bath his sink has become. "So let's give it m-maybe ten more minutes? We can work with it in a few. My microwave also has a d-defrost function, so we can s-speed things up if ever! For now, l-let's make the rice…?"

Mitsuya feels his smile relax; he doesn't dare name the tightness in his chest and stomach. "Okay then."

(He didn't hear from Chifuyu during a portion of their exchange, Mitsuya realizes. But maybe he didn't need to.

One look his way as Chifuyu comes forward to help the still-shivering Takemichi with the sack of rice grains tells Mitsuya all he needs to know. He knows if he looked into a mirror then, he would see Chifuyu's worried facial expression on himself.)

Hot Pot is what they decide on. Takemichi has Mitsuya bring out some of the vegetables from the refrigerator as he works on thawing some of the meat in the microwave. Chifuyu is set with moving the rice cookers away so as they don't get wet, preparing the burners and the pots for use.

Takemichi looks both better and worse as they go along with the food, but he's stopped shaking for the most part. His words come out more stable, his eyes brighter. He shook as he wielded the knives, however, and Chifuyu decided to come in from there. Wisely, they didn't say anything about it.

(The grateful and frustrated look Takemichi sends his way does not go unnoticed by them. Nothing can anymore.

Yet, they cannot name its source. Its why .

For a moment, they reflect his frustration.)

The sound of chopping and sizzling flow with the smell of vegetables, chicken broth, and raw meat. Mitsuya decides to step in as he sees Takemichi's hands shake around some of the meatballs he was working with, smiling as he meets Takemichi's grateful—yet frustrated, so much more frustrated—smile back.

From outside the kitchen, the living room's chaos continues. Mitsuya and Chifuyu stay quiet as Takemichi tells them what to do and where to go. No other sound accompanies them.

If Takemichi isn't giving instructions, he is silent. Pondering, almost. Mind away, spirit somewhere as he stares off, expression changing quick and undecipherable, seemingly unaware he was still with others. With them, his friends. Friends who were worried sick for him. Are worried sick for him.

Regardless, they let Takemichi go. Let him think, let him look away. He's still with them somehow; he's not gone. Whatever he's seeing, thinking, mumbling to himself without a voice yet mouth clearly moving—Chifuyu and Mitsuya can do nothing but let it happen.

(It feels more chaotic in the silence.)

But they realize there's nothing to worry about when Takemichi starts a conversation. On his own. WIllingly. Brings up the fight against Tenjiku, asks about the aftermath and the dinner he left from. Wonders what's been going on after everything.

His hands continue to shake as he takes the formed, solid meatballs from Mitsuya and boils them in a special broth, pre-cooking them for later. His shoulders remain tense as he takes the knife from Chifuyu and moves to wash it himself, refuting Chifuyu's plea to help because "I've already let you guy do enough!"

(But have they really? Did they really do enough? Did they ?)

Takemichi smiles through it all though. His eyes shine as he speaks, his skin glowing like normal. They answer him, and the silence fades.

Chifuyu and Mitsuya share looks with each other through it all. They wonder if there's anything they can still do. What are they allowed to do.

It's as Chifuyu prepares an electric burner for the living room that Takemichi changes the topic: "Mitsuya-kun?"

Mitsuya sets down a pot with a different broth, setting it aside with the solo burner for later. "Yeah?"

Takemichi takes out some of the meatballs and inspects their taste and consistency. His face gains an unreadable look, hand tightening around a spoon. Mitsuya sees Chifuyu look close to tears.

"What's up, Takemitchy?"

Silence settles for a few seconds before a different smile blooms on Takemichi's face.

He looks the most relaxed since they've entered this kitchen.

(Fucking hell. Why ?)

His shoulders are still a little tense. His hands haven't quite lost that tremble. But his face is more relaxed, his smile is more natural. His eyes are a little brighter; though not losing their tiredness, it's something .

Takemichi sets his spoon down and takes a soft, deep breath.

Mitsuya and Chifuyu can work with something .

"You were, um, you were asking me about the meat earlier, right?"

Mitsuya blinks. "Uh…yeah. What's up?"

Takemichi scoops out the rest of the pre-cooked meatballs and drops in a new batch of raw ones. He covers the pot of boiling water with a transparent lid slightly, letting some steam out. "Well, um, I was wondering if you wanted to bring the others home?"

"Others?"

"Y-Yeah! Um, other meats?"

As Takemichi blows some out of his face, he lifts some of the containers still floating in the sink; they're still relatively frozen, being some of the last ones they took out from the freezer. "You can have these." Another batch of meatballs is taken out, another batch is placed in. He looks at Chifuyu and gives him the same smile.

It sends shivers down their spine.

But they know Takemichi, and they know this is, as weird as it is, a real smile. It's just…different. But it's as real as it can get right now.

"You too, Chifuyu." Takemichi adds, "Your mom might uh, I don't know…like this?" He chuckles, sheepish. "Unless Mitsuya-kun wants to bring all of this, then okay."

Huh.

Well.

That… this …is kinda okay, isn't it? This…is a little more than earlier, right? A little more alive. A little more…something. A good kind of something.

Hope is quick to bloom in the other two.

(It moves faster than the mix of concerns budding and dying in turns.)

Takemichi looks okay. Different, but okay. A little better yet not the best—but… okay . Speaking, initiating, remembering—those are all good things, right? This means Chifuyu and Mitsuya can let loose a little now, right?

Something is better than nothing . It's not the best mindset to have. But right now, who are they to deny a low-hanging fruit? Who are they to look a gift horse in the mouth as deep as they can, to pry its jaw open when the mouth is small and locked?

If this is all they can get, they'll fucking feast on it.

"I'd love to bring some home!" Chifuyu nods, grinning. It doesn't feel so bad anymore. His chest feels…weird still, but it's better, and better is good right now. It's all he needs. "I can't bring a lot though, I think…we're just two so it might go bad…" He looks at Mitsuya. "You?"

Mitsuya nods as well. "Same here. But I don't think I can take a lot either." He hums, thinking. Then: "Ah, save some for the twins. They've been cooking more often, so they might appreciate it."

"Draken too, then!" Chifuyu adds. "He cooks for some of the girls, doesn't he?"

"Ah, right. Then in that case…maybe for Inupi and Koko too? Don't they practically live together?" Wait, hold on—"Takemitchy, do you even have enough for all this?"

Takemichi gives them a nod of his own. He's not facing them anymore, taking out meatballs and replacing them once more. But his nod—it's a little enthusiastic; that's good. "I-I do, actually!" He says. "There's, um, there's some more in there," he gestures to the refrigerator, "But some are cooked…some leftovers from last time. Do you…think they'd be okay with that?"

"Oh shit, Draken would like that," Mitsuya replies, whistling. "Less work for him."

"Maybe leave some for Koko too!" Chifuyu takes a plate of the pre-cooked meatballs and pushes them to the side with the chopped vegetables. "Didn't Sanzu one-up him on some of his share?" He chuckles.

Chifuyu and Mitsuya try not to beam when Takemichi chuckles back—naturally, moreso. "He did, I remember that," Takemichi hums, stirring the meatballs away from the pot's walls. "I gave him such a large serving too."

"You know him," Mitsuya joins in with his own short laugh, "Greedy, but like, in a good way."

"That's true!" Takemichi laughs a little louder. He takes the last batch of meatballs and, after removing the boiled ones, drops them in next. He places the vegetables on large plates. "Ah, Chifuyu, can you prepare some rice in the rice cooker? Just use one please."

"Got it!"

Takemichi looks back at Mitsuya. "Ah, also, Koko-kun said he's gonna lay off the money a bit, but food is a different matter altogether after all."

Mitsuya snorts. Chifuyu comes back and joins in, rice cooker filled and working. "Listen, Takemtitchy, if it's your food we're talking about here, I think it'd be weirder if we weren't greedy about it."

"Eh?" Takemichi blinks. A little disbelieving, he asks, "What—why?"

"Because it's good, duh," Mitsuya bumps his hip with his own, laughing as Takemichi squeaks.

"Mi-Mitsuya-kun! D-don't flatter me like that, I don't deserve it!

"Partner, again , Sanzu and Koko. And the Kawatas, yeah, but…the first two. Partner. Partner ."

"Well, Koko-kun was hungry, Chifuyu—"

"Fuck. Fair . Okay , but everyone else, though? And I don't mean just that day against Tenjiku, I mean like…everybody else during the other times we've been here?"

"I…" Takemichi gapes. His shoulders are still tense, his eyes are a little too wide, too wet—but the blush on his cheeks adds to the life he's taking on then. "T-Thanks, I guess…?"

Chifuyu chuckles and ruffles his hair. "You sound like it's the first time we're complimenting you. Which it isn't."

"I-I know!" Takemichi huffs, ears red. "But still!"

"Want some more?" Chifuyu leers, annoying but earnest. He wraps an arm around his waist, grinning as Takemichi squeaks; he's strangely cold, but Chifuyu doesn't mind warming him up. "I'm more than willing to keep going. Need some daily texts?"

"C-Chifuyu?!"

"Can't let our chef think we don't appreciate him!" Chifuyu huffs, "Right, Mitsuya-san!"

The other two start to feel the homey energy associated with hotpot then: from the smell of the broth, the meatballs, and the freshly-cooked rice, to the chaos outside that's becoming ambient sound—

To the small, obviously fond yet embarrassed smile on Takemichi's face as he continues stirring.

Mitsuya laughs. "Can't say he's wrong there, Takemitchy," he says. "But lay off him for now, Chifuyu. Let's go help with the stuff we can bring home." He gives Takemichi a gentle, firm pat on the back and smiles when Takemichi flinches only a little. Progress. "You sure about giving us all this? This is…" He looks at the containers in the sink. "This is a lot. What about you?"

"Don't worry!" Takemichi hums. "I'll be fine." He turns off the burner And you're giving leftovers too…" Plus, it's unlikely there'd be anything left from the hotpot too.

Takemichi closes his eyes and smiles once more. And that—

That— this is the best smile so far.

It would've been better if his eyes were showing, but the tension in his face…was gone.

"I have more than enough," Takemichi says airily, "And I don't think I could finish it all anyway. A container or two would be more than enough to get me through a week or two." He chuckles, taking out the last batch of meatballs. He inspects them before dividing them evenly across the plates holding the previously-boiled ones. "You saw how filled they were!"

Takemichi moves to wash the pot and utensils he just used, but Chifuyu beats him to it with a proud tongue sticking out and a bump of his hips against him. He laughs, and Chifuyu smiles, feeling warm inside at the sound. Mitsuya lets out a soft chuckle of his own at the sight.

"I guess you're right," Mitsuya relents, soft.

Takemichi chuckles, breathing a little clipped, giving another close-eyed smile. "Right? And besides," he opens his eyes briefly, a layer of moisture pooling under them; quickly, he wipes his face with his apron, "I don't want this to go to waste." He laughs, voice a little tight and raspy, but smile so wide, so carefree, so alive— "It wasn't easy getting this g-good quality meat."

He hands Chifuyu some towels and wipes down their working area. Just as Chifuyu starts wiping down with him, he bumps him much like Chifuyu did earlier, and Chifuyu simply huffs, acquiescing.

"Not fair!" Chifuyu grunts. "You know I can't win with that ass!"

Takemichi flushes, stutters, then snorts. "I-I'm gonna forget that and just be glad it worked for me just now." He sticks his tongue out. "I'll handle this cleaning. Please just work on scooping and carrying things out instead."

"On it," Chifuyu starts taking the plates of vegetables.

The natural blond's arrival to the living room is heard in the kitchen, the cheers palpable. Mitsuya chuckles to himself. "Told you your food is a hit."

Chifuyu comes in briefly, screaming at someone in the living room before going back out.

Back against them, Takemichi says, "I hope they don't break anything again, though…"

Mitsuya cackles. "No promises. Speaking for them here."

Takemichi sighs at that, exasperated. But Mitsuya sees his lips quirk at the side anyway.

"What about me? Need me to do anything?" And as an afterthought, as a shot in the dark, he adds a little curiously, "Or wanna share anything?" Then, mischievously, "Any secret you're hiding from Chifuyu, maybe?"

Takemichi jolts, but with his face away from Mitsuya, he can't make a call on why.

"Chifuyu is gonna get mad at you for that…"

Mitsuya grins wide. That's not a bad answer. So... "That's not a no."

This time, it's Takemichi who chuckles. "It's not a yes either," he teases, coughing. "But really, there's none. We're good."

( 'But what about you?' )

"Okay, okay," Mitsuya manages a laugh. It comes out a little easier, smoother. Body buttered up with their domesticity, he…is calmer now. "Was just teasing you, I swear!"

"I know," Takemichi's smile is notable in his voice. Mitsuya smiles back even if he can't see it. "I'm sure Chifuyu would do the same, honestly."

"Man, for sure."

Takemichi laughs, moving down the counter to wipe at a splatter of chicken broth and oil. "You can go out now if you want, Mitsuya-kun."

"...Are you sure you're okay here?" Mitsuya blinks. He looks to the burner and the pot of broth he helped bring in. "I could lift some other stuff for Chifuyu." A snort. "I think he needs it."

"Even though you tried to go behind his back?"

"Takemitchy, it's a joke!"

Another chuckle slips from Takemichi's lips. He wipes down the faucet's knobs. "Hm…okay, maybe you can bring out the others? Or maybe bring the meat back to the fridge…it might be a while before you guys go home…"

"Sure." Mitsuya moves to do as told, wiping some off before refrigerating them one by one. "Christ, these are so…full…" He mumbles to himself, eyeing the red, ground-up meat in his hands and the refrigerator. "And to think I'd get some home…Luna and Mana would love this."

Looking at the stacks of Tupperware on top of each other, he feels his heart well. The images of his happy siblings fill his mind.

"Thanks, Takemitchy." Mitsuya feels so warm. "Really, dude. Thanks."

"Hm?"

"For the food. My siblings would love this. I love this." A short, affectionate laugh. "First, you give us motivation." Familiar memories flood his mind. "Saving us, helping us, being with us. Then, food. Feeding us." Another laugh. "I can't wait to make my girls' lunch. I'm so excited."

"...You're welcome, Mitsuya-kun…but if anything, I think I should thank you ."

Mitsuya holds back from facing his friend, reminding himself to focus on making sure this one stack wouldn't hit the refrigerator door when it closed. "Huh?"

"Okay, well, Chifuyu and the others too, of course, but you , Mitsuya-kun…Inupi-kun and Koko-kun too, you guys are a little special."

He hears the squeaking of a wet rag on a cupboard handle. Mitsuya thanks all his lucky stars Takemichi isn't seeing his face right now. "Chifuyu isn't gonna like that."

Takemichi lets out a peal of laughter. "I guess we're even now, you and me."

"Heh, guess so," Mitsuya chuckles back, pushing some containers aside inside the refrigerator. "So? What'd I do?"

"Well…" Mitsuya hears Takemichi wet his rag and moves to clean another section. "You said something I've been thinking about lately."

"Huh? What'd I say?" Mitsuya's memory wasn't his strongest suit.

Takemichi's side turns silent and Mitsuya hears his voice turn soft and fond. "You said something like to eat—or, uh, to feed, is to like…protect. And I like that. I haven't stopped thinking about it since then." Soft laughter. "I really liked that. I…" A pause. "I really, really need to hear that. So…thanks."

There's a little tinge of desperation there Mitsuya can't understand, but he can sympathize regardless. Knowing Takemichi and his self-esteem issues…

It's a deep conversation about food that Mitsuya almost wants to cackle. But that's not the time for it, is it?

"You're doing great, Takemitchy," Mitsuya starts, "Your food is great. You've been nothing but great to Toman. To everyone, me included." He turns and faces Takemichi's back. Something in him swells and for a moment, eats his concern in favor of feelings he needs to articulate. "I didn't really get what people say we do crazy things for love and those we love. Then Mikey dragged you into our lives and now I do. And I appreciate everything you've done for us."

He steps closer, feet loud even with all the ruckus just a few meters away outside. Takemichi turns to look at him, and the fucking fear in his eyes then, fuck —

It's not right.

Mitsuya places a hand on his head. And Takemichi…relaxes slightly. Loses the fear a smidgen.

It's something .

"Thanks, Takemichi," Mitsuya says, words feeling heavier with each proper syllable, with each little breath the younger was taking, almost in disbelief. "For today. For last month. Last year. The food," he moves his hand to grasp at his shoulder, "Everything."

(It's not shaking. Not anymore. Thank fucking god .)

Takemichi opens his mouth, eyes wide. After nothing comes out, he closes them again, looking down and away. He looks back up for a while.

Mitsuya lets out his warmest, almost widest smile. Something in his heart flutters.

Takemichi's forehead is creased, but his cheeks, his gaze—all look alive again. "You know it's what anyone would do, Mitsuya-kun," his voice comes out a little breathless and disbelieving.

"Hey now," Mitsuya chuckles, "You know that's not true. Just accept it."

Takemichi puffs out his cheeks and looks back to his task at hand. "I guess you won't accept my thanks too, huh?"

"For what?"

The blond looks at Mitsuya with incredulity as if he couldn't fathom the older. Mitsuya grins. "For everything! For everything I j-just said a-and, like, e-everything! I-it's just right I thank you!"

Mitsuya laughs and leans into his space. He holds back the urge to nuzzle the other when he feels him not tense. "Well, it's what anyone would've done," he snickers, copying the other.

"Wha—not fair, you know that's not true!"

"Nope, you won't take my thanks, I won't either, just suck it up."

Takemichi flusters, pinking further. He isn't quite fully up to health just yet, Mitsuya can tell. And he's sure Takemichi is still hiding something, but—

But he's looking better. Happier. More himself.

It's a little more than something now.

This, Mitsuya considers, is a win.

The meal with Toman went as well as Takemichi expected. That is, full of rambunctious laughter, broken plates (thankfully only four), some new stains on his couch, and a tired chest from laughing and yelling so much. It's only been a few days since he's been out of commission, but with Toman being the way they are, it felt like forever. Like he was probably his real age.

Night comes and while some slept over, others went back to their own places. To his luck, the morning after was a little more peaceful to handle.

(The time in between then, the time of sleep…he couldn't say the same for them. Not when the Mitsuya in his dreams was redder than the one he saw off prior. Not when his hands, his sisters were red, and behind, around them was gold, gold, gold —)

It was understandable people were worried about leaving him again. But Takemichi was insistent on his distance and rest.

As Toman leaves, yelling all the way, they fail to hear the sounds of retching just by the door.

A sob.

And then, laughter.

(Later, he finds out he truly needed that rest. The red-covered people with their faces in his dreams called for it.)

It's three days later when Takemichi opens his refrigerator again. It's more barren than it was when Toman was around, and yet the smell of blood remains.

His stomach grumbles. He feels bad.

But that's okay. He'll be okay.

(Is the lack of guilt… okay ?)

"It's bad to let the meat go bad," he hears himself say, reminding himself as he looks at the cuts of meat in his freezer. Picks a container with more white than red. Brings it to a counter and proceeds to remove the bone. Throws it into a garbage bag and smiles to himself as he doesn't flinch at the sound of it hitting the ground.

Kisaki isn't trash.

Because another man's trash is another man's treasure, protection . Sustenance. A gift to the gods as thanks for their blessings.

Cooking goes by in a blur. He hears nothing, smells nothing.

By the time he comes to, he's holding his phone and there's a message from his side of the screen, asking the Toman group chat if anyone wanted to come over.

Takemichi smiles.

The last time.

He promises to himself this is the last time.

And when his friends come over again, almost twice as joyous as last time—

Takemichi finally gets his good sleep.

(He knows he deserves it now.)

Notes:

thanks for dropping by!! hoping to finish the epilogue part in a few days hhsngns dont forget to stay hydrated! also please do some stretches save ur back dont be like me cries

hope yall have a nice day!

Chapter 5

Summary:

It's slow. It's boring.

It's everything Takemichi ever wanted and god, fuck, he hopes it'll last.

(He hopes he doesn't have to work so hard for it anymore too.

Not that he'd say no to it, but...it's fine to be selfish, right? He can afford it now, right? )

Notes:

so here we are oh wow last chap!! for real!!!! epilogue but not changing the chap title sorry lmao

i can't believe i keep adding tags to this fic ffff but pls note the following tags are very relevant to this chap :

- mind break

- rationalization (in a bad ish way)

- guilt tripping (slight)

- unreliable narrator

- graphic depictions of violence all around

barely beta'd, but enjoy!

5/15: beta'd a bit more and added a sentence for clarification

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Days pass. Weeks come and go. Slowly, with Toman truly ruling over Tokyo now, things grew peaceful. Takemichi gradually reincorporated back into the gang, his healed injuries and improving pallor enough to appease the rumors about Toman weakening. Delinquents and new delinquent gangs still came up, but Toman kept them relatively in line.

Takemichi grew more famous than he'd like even, but he soaked it up all the same. The person that leads in and for two different gangs.

(Yet he continues to avoid a certain park. A certain path.

The red there never seems to go away.)

Still, life goes on.

It takes time to get used to this peace, but Takemichi doesn't mind. He has all the time in the world now, and he means it. He's living day by day, minute by minute. He's…genuinely living for himself and his loved ones. No either-or. They're all living.

His mission is complete. Everybody is saved. Everyone is accounted for. There's no more need to work so hard. He can take it easy now. He can protect, nurture normally now—with peace .

It's slow. It's boring.

It's everything Takemichi ever wanted and god, fuck , he hopes it'll last.

(He hopes he doesn't have to work so hard for it anymore too.

Not that he'd say no to it, but...it's fine to be selfish, right? He can afford it now, right? )

Months pass. A little break from school and there's a new school year ahead. Takemichi has never been so excited . After, time goes on, and he settles in just fine. Studying, going out with friends, living .

Everything was okay. He was okay.

At last.

It was all worth it.

At least, he thought so.

Kakucho told him Mucho was due to leave reform school soon.

The first emotion Takemichi had was joy. He knew Mucho was a good person deep inside; his allegiance was just more inclined to Izana at the time. Mucho was a loyal fellow—that's always something he admired about him, whenever he remembers his friendship with Nahoya and Sanzu. It's why he put himself in reform school after Izana said so, for the betterment of his character.

He almost smiled thinking about it.

But that first emotion is immediately overridden with something heavier, deeper. Darker . Something that had claws so sharp and had a weight so unbearable to bear. It grabbed at him and didn't want to let go.

(His smile began to hurt .)

The cafe he and Kakucho were at was a cozy little thing. It had the stuffed toys they liked as kids as the main merchandise. And yet, Takemichi wanted out .

He went through his food sluggishly, and at the end of it, Takemichi asked for the name of the reform school too fast for his liking. He left a little quicker than normal, he knew, and he cleaned his utensils a little sharper, a little harder for the days leading up to Mucho's release.

The days seemed to pass by him with so little time. School, hangouts, dinners—they all faded away to the background. His mind was focused on one thing only; everything else was simply…there. Just like him to them.

Eventually, the day comes. And then, he picks him up with a smile. They talk along the side of the road out, catching up as old friends do. Takemichi feels his smiles come easy, genuinely happy for Mucho's new look on life. His intent to live in peace just like him.

And that—

That just wasn't right .

Not after everything. Not after Koko and Inui. Not after that betrayal.

Mucho deserves peace, everyone does. But Takemichi wants to take away all possibility of the opposite happening. He wants to give Mucho a chance, he really does…but after everything, he just—

He just can't trust him anymore. He can't think all good of him anymore.

So better nip it in the bud, right? Mucho is undoubtedly the problem here. He was the traitor.

That worked for Kisaki.

So it should now. Again.

Peace, peace, peace. It's all always for peace. The present, the future—Takemichi will protect all their peace. He's risked and lost more than enough to get even a semblance of it. There's no way he'll let go of it now.

What's one more sin for a lifetime of heaven?

(He no longer wonders how it doesn't scare him how easy this thought comes.)

As they approach a crossroad, Takemichi asks if Mucho would like to see the sea. "To reflect," he says first. "Ah, wait, I mean to chill!" He laughs next, genuinely slightly embarrassed.

"You're growing up, Hanagaki," Mucho responds, smiling.

Takemichi doesn't want to dwell on his conflicting feelings. "I guess we all are."

Mucho laughs softly and follows suit. They make their way to a pier empty of people at the time but filled with ships docked by a wooden pathway and a multitude of container vans all around. They settle on sitting on a van they deemed full, climbing up quietly but quickly to catch the quickly setting sun.

Something in Takemichi hurts like this. Here, watching the sunset, with Mucho by his side. A silent companion. A being like him: one that has most likely suffered, and yet caused suffering himself.

But Takemichi doesn't want to think about that. He can't afford to.

(He doesn't matter.)

When the sun sets fully and Mucho helps him down, holding his backpack, he gets his wish.

Everything fades out fast . His blade from his shirt. The slice and syab against flesh and muscle. The repetitiveness of it all. The sky darkening just a little faster than the red drenching him does.

None of it settles in his mind.

It's no wonder he didn't see Sanzu looming, smiling at him and his red hands in the dark of the docks, scarred lips glowing almost ominously with the flow of the waters below reflecting light.

Takemichi catches his gaze and freezes. Then, everything sinks .

His hand was fast, he remembers, faster than it was with Kisaki. The rise and fall of his wrist, the way his breath was a beat slower each round, each splat and spray of blood. The patches of skin left untouched by red feel freezing cold then burning hot ; there was nothing safe or sacred on him, not anymore. His mind replays everything like a DVD on repeat, alternating being sped up and slowed down. He sees his blade sink slow and the blood flash fast, hears Mucho's grunting statically quick and his own sobs loud and slow and distorted.

(When did he cry, why does he still cry, what, no, why—)

His mind reels. His heart lurches.

And yet, he feels no guilt. Not quite.

(Selfish. So fucking selfish , fuck, fuck, fuck, shit —)

His hands twitch. He doesn't want to ponder why. He can't .

As his mouth parts open for a loud gasp, Mucho falls, and he snaps his head in the taller's direction. His breath comes out in harsh pants as everything, everything, everything settles in his gut, his skin, his fucking pores .

"S-Sanzu-k-kun," Takemichi heaves, falling to his knees. "I—T-This is…"

"I knew it," Sanzu gleams, too bright, too alive for the increasing darkness in his heart, the growing pit of despair deepening. "You're fucked up, Hanagaki. You really are."

Words die in Takemichi's throat, but Sanzu isn't done. The scarred male comes closer and eyes everything with a wide smile. Small peals of laughter ripple from under his breath as he slowly looks back at the younger. "You did damn great . Got here before I did. You , of all people." He flashes his teeth and smiles. "You were planning this too, weren't you? Who told you? Was it—" He whistles, "Ah, Kakucho, that guy, was it him?"

Takemichi's silence persists. Sanzu keeps going.

"You know, I noticed something was off with you just a little before the shit with Tenjiku," Sanzu hums, squatting down. He holds his gaze, wiping blood off Takemichi's chin; his touch is warm against the cooling air. "You were way more annoying than usual, more strung up. I was wondering if it was because of what Mucho did to you…" He gives the mentioned man a side-eye. "But that's not all, is it?"

"I…I…S-Sanzu-k-kun, I-I c-ca—"

"You did something to Kisaki, didn't you?"

Takemichi feels the tears come.

"You fucked him up. You killed him." Sanzu smiles, excited and evidently…astonished? "I don't know how, but you did it." He comes in closer, moving to wipe a streak of clear liquid and blood from Takemichi's face.

"I…no…Sanzu-k-kun—"

"And you must've done some other shit because until now…" Sanzu's voice grows ecstatic, "Kisaki's body is missing ."

"S-San—S-sanzu-kun, p-please —"

"All that was found was his glasses in some neighborhood." Sanzu flashes his teeth. " Your neighborhood. Far from your house, but," he snickers, " Yours ."

Takemichi lets out a sob .

"That's fucking crazy," Sanzu breathes out, almost entranced. " You're fucking insane, Hanagaki. And Mikey and the others don't know it. Calling you a weakling. Hah!" He cackles, "If only they fucking knew!"

Sanzu's mention of Mikey brings Takemichi to his senses. "Sanzu-kun, don't—Mikey—" Please, don't.

"I won't," Sanzu interrupts him, slapping his cheek…gently. Playfully…? "I can't get found out either, can I?"

"I…"

Sanzu doesn't say anything for a while, and neither does Takemichi. His heart is somewhere and yet everywhere inside him, hands clammy on the pavement. His ass feels like it's burning and heavy with his sagging body weight, head like it's being pressed from all directions.

And his throat—

It burns .

(Familiar.)

(When will they stop being familiar?)

"Hey." A gentle slap, again.

Takemichi blinks. "W-Wha…"

Sanzu holds his gaze, face showing a multitude of emotions and mumbles escaping his lips and flying over Takemichi's head. He knows Sanzu is thinking something aloud, but he can't understand what or why. Nothing is sinking in. Nothing is making sense anymore.

Then, Sanzu lets out a proud chuckle. Takemichi blinks, attention taken.

Sanzu's next words are the cheeriest, almost childish voice Takemichi ever heard the male speak:

"Let me in on this."

"W…what?"

"Whatever you did to Kisaki after…" Sanzu's voice raises a pitch, "Let me in on it."

Let him in…like—

"You…wanna help ?"

Takemichi's heart rings in his ears. He feels warm. Something trickles through his veins and to his heart. Before he can think, before he can even hear Sanzu's response or ask who the fuck wants to help with this, Takemichi opens his mouth, desperate, vulnerable, open, shaken —

" Please ."

Sanzu's responding chuckle and smile brings him to hell and douses him in cold water all at once.

"Lead the way."

Notes:

ive gotten comments from people here on ao3 and twt about how santake would be great friends here, how mucho should be fucked up, how sanzu would betray mucho, and other related topics and yk what? everyone who suggested these are so big brained i said im gonna take all your ideas and try to make something so... epilogue uwu

not sure if ill ever write the santake sequel, but if ever, it would just be a one-shot. maybe from sanzus pov if i wanna challenge myself shdjwjs it's kinda hard to keep up with a chaptered fic for me sobs but im glad i made this!!! this fic got so long, longer than i intended really then became a monster lmao no pun intended sjdjwk pls its been a ride and i just :'DD wah hehe im a little emo (as someone who rarely finishes chap fics rip) (weird to be emotional for a fic like this but haha hey i invested a lot into this idk man)

pls note i dont hate kisaki or mucho and if you like muchotake pls see my profile i made a fic abt them and love it lots its supper fluffy no cap it's not fucked up i promise whrkwkd

anyway! thanks for sticking around with me and i hope you guys liked this fic one way or another!! tysm for dropping by! stay hydrated 333

Notes:

the thought abt takemichi going off the rails from time-leaping is so interesting to me,so many possibilities,and the fact hes 26 while also a teenager??? experiencing all this? and thinking abt the future??? MAN thats a lot to unpack and pack up

2nd chap coming soon! ill find out then how many chaps this will be :'D

thanks for dropping by!! pls stay hydrated and remember to wash ur hands 33 uwu