Archive of Our Own

Miyuki couldn’t stop the tight smirk that pulled on the corner of his lips as he lifted his head towards the ceiling of his bathroom, closing his eyes at the fluorescent light that gleamed dimly, buzzing and feebly reflecting off of the mirror. The mangled curl of his lips stung sharply and he relaxed his face, gingerly touching his hands to the lump that was forming on the bow of his lower lip. Miyuki pulled his finger away and wiped the blood off on his pants, scowling when he realized he was still in his school uniform. His shirt had wrinkled and had become bundled against his back. His skin pressed against the cold wall chilling him and cooling the sweat that had accumulated.

Heavy banging continued on his bathroom door, the entirety of the room shaking with each exaggerated knock. The door knob twisted roughly, its turn stopped by a weak push lock that prevented the door from being opened. If his father had opted to drink less that night, he might have reached above the door frame for a thin, worn nail to push the lock through, but it appeared he was either thoroughly committed to the bottle, or not nearly as committed to his violence as the danger in his voice implied.

”Miyuki Kazuya, this is my house, you will open this door.”

The irony that his father could still call this piss poor excuse for a home his house had moved from baffling to ironic, the ire of it practically ringing in his ears.  This house couldn’t belong to someone who was never here, never had been here, even when she was here. His mother’s portraits still hung from every wall, still sat on book shelves and coffee tables. Her 19 year old self was forever captured in a beat up, frayed polaroid clipped to a cheap magnet on the fridge, just four years older than he was now. This was still her home – her home of denial and innocence, her home of sleepless nights on the couch, waiting for a husband who did not want to come home. This home did not belong to Miyuki, who as much as he strived to be nothing like his father – the spitting image of his mother, chestnut eyes that belonged to his grandfather, and soft, russet tresses that were identical to every photo of his mother’s side of the family – but no, he was definitely his father’s son, because he avoided his home like a disease, a disease that would eat him slowly, regardless of where he chose to lay his head.

”It won’t be any better for you tomorrow, Kazuya. You can’t avoid me forever.”

Again with his ever present irony; avoiding people was probably genetic at this point. Miyuki’s children would make for fine politicians. Polished liars and sneaks, expertly dodging even the fastest of assailants.

‘Always take care of your family, Kazuya. Sometimes your dad works too hard and it’s our job to remind him of what’s at home.’

What is it that I’m supposed to be taking care of, Mom?

Miyuki’s lip burned, the wound stinging as a salty tear fell from one eye, followed rapidly by a few more. The hammering in his heart slowed down as he heard his father’s footsteps depart from the hall. He slammed his head against the wall, shaking the memories of his long gone mother out of his head. She couldn’t help him now.

∞

Miyuki is nine years old when his mother is taken from him.

“Kazuya-kun, hurry! We don’t want to be late home!”

Chasing after his mother’s hand, Miyuki ran after her, giggling loudly at the childish look on her face. The smile she wore was younger than she was, gleaming radiantly and warming his heart like the sun did the earth. Her eyes shone brightly with every step she took, dancing in a circle while waiting for Miyuki to reach her. He finally caught up with her, jumping in front of her to pull open the door, back pressed against it to hold it ajar for her. She giggled again and the sound of her laughter echoed inside of the convenience store. The owner at the register waved at them, unable to suppress the smirk on his face that took root when Miyuki and his mother walked in. She had that effect on people.

“Kazuya, you are such a gentleman. Just like your father.”

The boy smiled at the praise, letting the door go to chase after his mother once more. She headed straight for the ice cream section, lazily sliding open the freezer to inspect their options. Miyuki’s father had promised to come home from work early that night and his mother was ecstatic, having finished preparing dinner hours ago. They had rented his father’s favorite movie, prepared his favorite dish, and were now carefully selecting ice cream for their desert.

“Which one do you think, Kazu-kun? Your father loves all sweets, so why don’t we go with your favorite?”

He made no attempt to hide the excitement in his voice as he squealed, “Really?!” while jumping up and down in place. His mother smiled and pressed her lips together mockingly, pointing a slender finger at him while bending down at her waist to reach Miyuki’s eyes. Her skirt danced around her ankles and she leaned towards him, the flowery scent of her perfume filling Miyuki’s nose.

“Yes, really. Now be quick about it!” she stated sternly, but the mirth in her eyes betrayed her, and Miyuki giggled again, playfully pushing his mom out of his space.

“Okay, okay!”

Lifting himself up by his arms, Miyuki peered into the ice chest, eyeing the selection greedily.

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, or maybe something salty?

Miyuki was too occupied with the ice cream to notice the shift in his mother’s behavior; her breath had quickened, starting with a sharp inhale, followed by her grip clenching tightly around Miyuki’s forearm. He tried to shake her off – she was starting hurt him, her nails digging into his skin. He looked up at her scowling, but immediately stopped himself from shouting. The ease at which his mother’s face always rested was missing, replaced by a wide eyed, pained countenance. Her lip trembled and Miyuki could see panic in her eyes, her gaze fleeting across the store, rapidly glancing between the counter where the attendant was and the exit.

“Mommy?” Miyuki inquired, whispering softly. Her hand moved quickly, releasing his arm and pressing her fingers to his mouth, holding firm against his face. She did not respond, choosing only to push Miyuki behind her, grabbing his hand and walking slowly down the aisle.

“Give me the money and I won’t hurt you,” came a strangled cry. A fist slammed on the counter loudly and Miyuki jumped, his body realizing what was going on before his mind could. The air felt stale, and somehow how the room grew warmer, his shirt sticking to his skin, uncomfortably moist on his neck. He followed his mother obediently, but Miyuki could not shake the innate desire to run as fast as he could, dragging his mother with him. He felt his heartrate quicken and he held his mother’s hand tighter, instinctively moving behind her skirt. She patted his head softly, turning around to look at him with a finger pressed to her lips. Miyuki just nodded, keeping close behind her.

“Do you want me to shoot you? Give me the fucking money!”

His mother’s fingers dug into his palm once more and he felt relief at the pain, silently celebrating the constant that she was. He squeezed back just as hard, reaching to hold on to her skirt. She moved too quickly for him however, and he lost his footing, falling roughly into a shelf carrying some dry food. A can of vegetables rolled off of the ledge, smacking loudly onto the tiled floor. His mother stopped abruptly, her motions completely frozen and still; somehow, despite his previous sweating, Miyuki felt himself grow cold. He felt the hair on his arms stand straight and he whimpered, burying his face into his mother’s clothes.

The gunman turned toward them slowly, fear etched into his face, with danger rolling off of him in waves. Miyuki’s mother let go of him, gently raising her hands into the air.

“I’m sorry,” the man cried, his body shaking uncontrollably. In his hand was a wrinkled paper bag, poorly covering the exterior of the gun he held in his grip.

“Why are you sorry?” she whispered, opening her palms in a questioning gesture. “You haven’t done anything yet. It’s not too late.”

“What are you talking about? Are you blind?” he asked incredulously, whipping the gun back and forth, and finally pointing it at himself. “It’s definitely too late.”

His mother smiled warmly, lowering her hands to rest at her sides. “You don’t have to do this,” she crooned, trying to reason with the man. “I have some money in my purse, you can have it, okay? Just take it. I’m sure you need it, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t forced to.” She tentatively reached for the handbag slung around her shoulder, but the man barked at her, directing the gun back at her. She wrapped a hand around her back, rubbing circles into Miyuki’s neck, comforting him even in this situation. He risked a peek around her hips. The man with the gun was crying, his body contorted into a tight, rigid stance. His fingers tapped the gun nervously, still looking between the door and Miyuki’s mother.

“Take my money and go home to your family. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than committing a crime, right? If you were taken away it would hurt your family deeply. Take what I have and go. No harm done.”

“It’s my daughter, s-she’s sick! I have to help her!” his voice crumbled, and he clasped his forehead, shaking his head and sobbing. “I don’t have the money –“

“It’s okay,” she whispered, stepping forward. Miyuki tried to follow, but she held him back, pushing him back behind the shelf. “It’s okay. Take my money. Your family is important, I understand that.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing, I’m so sorry,” he continued, finally lowering the gun and moving towards Miyuki’s mother. She smiled softly at him, reaching for her bag and holding it out to him bravely.

“It’s okay. Just take it.”

What took place next place happened so quickly, Miyuki could hardly make sense of it, let alone try and stop it. One moment the gunman was relaxed, smiling through his tears, the next his mother was handing over her bag, placing a kind hand to his shoulder, urging the man to take the purse.

The next few seconds of his life moved like a trance – even in hindsight, when nightmares plagued his slumber for years afterward – it was like a terribly edited movie, as if someone had taken scenes from a joyful, meaningful story and forced it into a cheap horror film, toying with the viewer’s emotions like one would a cat. Dangling peace and resolution in front of him, only to yank it away at the last second and replace it with blood.

So much blood.

He would later be told that the owner panicked, unsure of the perpetrator’s new found intent, and had lifted the drawer of his heavy metal register, slamming it down on the man’s head, instantly knocking him unconscious. The officer would try to explain that guns are finicky things, and that Miyuki should be grateful his mother protected him. He would go on to say that if the gun hadn’t been loaded, it would have been a different story, but because it was, when it hit the ground a round went off, lodging itself deep into his mother’s chest.

Miyuki would have to be told everything that happened in front of his father, in excruciating detail, because he could not remember anything but his mother bleeding out, dying in front of him.

He sat at her body for what felt like hours, clutching her hands to his chest and screaming her name. He vaguely recalled shoving the owner of the store off of him, refusing to leave her side. He can clearly remember the smile that remained on her face, her lips slanted at the edge, as if she had just only realized what happened and didn’t have enough time to feel distraught about it. Nobody else tried to move him, either too afraid or too sympathetic to try, and it wasn’t until his father showed up and yanked him from the ground, holding him like the child he was to his chest, locking Miyuki into his embrace. He fought hard, punching his father repetitively until he could no longer move, his arms limp from clinging to his mother’s lifeless form.

∞

Miyuki was never one to believe in fate. He held little regard for higher powers and less for organized religion. Any reverential dedication or commitment that he was capable of was reserved for himself and himself alone. The years since his mother had past had taught him that, at the very least.

As someone who didn’t believe in a set path, Miyuki knew the man that his father became after his wife died was someone he was capable of being his entire existence – these kinds of things were all circumstantial, all entirely dependent on one’s choices in life, and the choices that were made for you.

He also knew, even at his young age, the young man he was evolving into was of his own choice, and one he made clearly at that. Naivety was not a factor; in order to survive in a world where you alone were responsible for your own safety, health and general wellbeing one had to become a certain way. Miyuki learned to adjust, adapt and persevere at an alarming rate. Going with the motions was a part of growing up, and like most young men of his age, Miyuki waited.

At 13 years old, Miyuki did not blame his father for distance, depression, or destructive tendencies. In a situation where a child drops their ice cream, or a parent loses their job, or even an elderly loved one passes away, the normal response is to grieve and move on. Understand where you went wrong, learn from it, and seek a better tomorrow. Be more careful with your ice cream, become better at your work, and make sure you tell your parents that you love them because someday they will be gone.

Neither child nor father were ever the same after Miyuki Shiori was shot and killed. It rained on the day she was buried and for them it did not stop raining for a very long time. It would be years before Miyuki looked into a pair of eyes that reminded him of what his mothers were like – somehow as dark as his own, but still golden like the sun, with a dash of petulance and more than a hint of gall. But until then, it poured.

As the years passed Miyuki grew colder, and his father grew older, lines and wrinkles increased by aged whiskey and cigarettes, and yet still their home remain unchanged. Every day, Miyuki would leave a delicately wrapped plate of dinner in the fridge for his father and every day it remained untouched, the only addition to the sink being a single, short glass. He obediently went to school, attended classes and clubs, and even picked up a hobby or two. What filled his heart did not fill his smile however, and no one could ever tell the difference. He heard the whispers of his classmates and observed the pity from his teachers, obstinately ignoring both. Miyuki was not one to be looked down upon and he cleared up all misunderstandings from that point on with a carefully constructed smirk and wink.

In retrospect, it was probably that false, pretentious smile that pushed his father over the edge. On the rare occasion that the two shared a meal or for some odd reason or another Miyuki actually needed his father, he couldn’t find it within himself to shake the mask he wore for everyone else.

“Stop smiling like that.”

Caught off guard, Miyuki’s grin wavered, his hand shaking as he set his father’s dinner on the table.

“Like what?”

Miyuki Kazuya was 13 years old the first time his father struck him.

“Like you’re better than me because you don’t miss her.”

∞

Cracking open the bathroom door quietly, Miyuki peered around the corner into the hallway and listened silently, praying to gods he didn’t believe in for luck he didn’t deserve. Thick, heavy snores could be heard from the hall and Miyuki sighed, relieved. He dashed into his bedroom and pulled out a backpack from under his bed, unzipping it to check the contents one last time. One black hoodie, a spare pair of glasses, as well as change of clothes. Even if he could take more, there wasn’t much left in this house Miyuki needed.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he quietly trotted down the hall, stepping silently into his father’s bedroom. He laid with his back against the wall, slumped over a few pillows with a glass of whiskey still hand, his eyes drooping heavily, chest rising with each drowning gasp of air. The bottle was nearly empty on the night stand beside him. Miyuki stepped over to his father’s armoire, pushing aside his work uniforms to feel around for the hidden compartment his mother had shown him years ago. Feeling the clasp against his fingers, Miyuki pulled open the door and reached around, swiftly grabbing its contents and shoving it into his bag. The gun, for that’s what it was despite his past, gleamed arrogantly at him, mocking him.

I will control my own life

Stuffing the few hundred dollars his father had kept for emergencies into his pockets, he risked one last look at his sleeping father. Sighing, he walked up to his bedside, fiddling through his wallet and pulling out a photo. It was a picture of his parent’s wedding day, his mother blushing and clutching the skirt of her dress while covering her face from the camera.

I should take it.

It appeared there were moments when Miyuki let his mask down, rare and few as they were, and he put the picture down, picking up the bottle of whiskey and tilting it at his father’s form. He drained the last of it, the fluid so strong he could smell it more than he could taste it, and placed it back on the nightstand.

Miyuki Kazuya was 15 years old the last time his father struck him.

∞

Despite the fact that Miyuki was begging every cell in his body to slow down, his heart raged loudly in his chest, thumping heavily behind his ribs. Dry, ragged breaths fell from his chest and Miyuki gritted his teeth together, grinding them in an effort to reduce the sounds of his breathing. It was all pointless though, because there was a harsh clanging coming from below him, definitely loud enough to drown his labored panting.

Oh

The awful racket was in fact his own leg, jittering and quaking beside him, his foot twitching irritably against a stack of milk crates.

Calm down, he told himself, finally able to breathe normally. His pulse was heavy still, throbbing horribly in his temple, but Miyuki shook his head clear and sunk to the ground, bringing his knees up to his neck and resting his head between his legs.

The job was easier than he thought it would be and betraying the group had been even easier.

The plan was simple – after weeks of staking out their victim’s home, Miyuki would go in with a small group, only two other men, and rob this family blind. They were wealthy, they wouldn’t miss any of it, probably wouldn’t even notice the theft if it weren’t for the arbitrary way his cohorts had insisted upon when intruding the home. Miyuki had half a mind to ditch them right then, make them pay for not adhering to his request of simply picking the back door’s lock, but the prize was too much, and if he was going to risk his life he was going to risk it with a considerable amount of cash in his hands.

Five thousand dollars

In hind sight, Miyuki knew this wasn’t a lot of money. But it was more money than he had ever had, more than enough to ensure he ate every day for the next couple of weeks, slept in a bed for the next few days, and maybe even had enough left over to actually pay the bus driver who took pity on him and allowed him nap in his bus.

Definitely enough for a new pair of shoes, soap that didn’t make him itch and a jacket that would actually keep him warm this winter.

It was worth accidently tripping the alarm while the rest of his team scanned the home for relics, jewelry or keepsakes worth any more money. There was no doubt in his mind.

Miyuki was gone before the sounds of police could be heard barreling down the street, hidden in an alley before his teammates ever knew what hit them. They had separated to comb the home more efficiently and Miyuki was a lot of things – greed was something that developed over time, when wanting something bad enough was enough to justify stealing and lying to get it – but stupid was not one of them and when his partner had handed over the bag of cash, freshly swiped from the safe Miyuki had managed to unlock, he slipped out, having no interest in whatever else was lying around the house.

He had dashed into an alley way just as a flashlight swung his direction, its light beaming haphazardly in all directions, coming close to revealing his location behind a trashcan. Soon, the sounds of the police arguing over where to look next dissipated and Miyuki leapt up, ignoring the alarms sounding within his mind.

It was dangerous to keep moving but more dangerous to keep still; he had no idea if the rest of his team had been caught and he had no intention of finding out firsthand. If all went well they would be captured, one by one, separated by the need to escape and nobody would ever know the wiser, but Miyuki couldn’t be sure until tomorrow’s newscast.

There was a danger, still – the team he worked with had friends, bigger, more important friends, and while they were bound to find out eventually of Miyuki’s betrayal, they would have a hard time finding him. He rarely ventured into the suburbs, preferring the city to the outskirts of town and when he volunteered for the job it was under an alias.  

Miyuki jogged quickly, the dimness of the moon his only light, making a few left turns until he finally stumbled upon an abandoned lot. Various trash littered the area, scattered across dead grass and rotting trees. Pushing aside some tires, Miyuki squeezed his way through a set of bars covering an old drainage tunnel. Pulling a lighter out of his pocket, he flicked it open, illuminating the shallow walls around him and breathing a sigh of relief when he found what few belongings he had remained untouched. His backpack lay against a wall, filthy and worse for wear, but zipped and the way he had left it.

His hands were still trembling, shaking as he fumbled with the front pocket of his bag, pulling out a stale pack of cigarettes. Pressing the filter to his lips, Miyuki let himself smile in relief, shakily inhaling the first harsh breath of tobacco.

The betrayal might have been easy, but this was the first time for him and more than likely not to be the last. He hoped the dark feeling in his gut was one of fear and not guilt, for only one of those would dull with a few more inhales.

∞

The bell announced Miyuki’s entrance into the diner, but the hour was late and the few people that were there did not pay him any attention, too versed in their own late night discussions to pay him any mind. Miyuki took a seat at the counter, nodding once in acknowledgment to a waitress occupied with a cash register. She smiled, eyes twinkling while her hands counted out cash, a warm blush settling on her cheeks. Returning the smile, Miyuki set his eyes upon a menu, pausing only to thank the young waitress for bringing some coffee.

“It’s nice to see you again, stranger. I thought you said wouldn’t be back here?”

He had indeed said that, but hadn’t expected to see the girl again. Miyuki had deliberately come in on a different shift, unable to shake the strange feeling that he was being watched. He chalked it up to paranoia, and besides, the coffee here was cheap and strong, and the fries were too good to pass up on.

“Ah, what can I say?” he murmured, setting the menu down and flashing his best smile. “Something about this place drew me back in.”

It was definitely the fries, but the waitress didn’t have to know that – her smile widened, reaching her eyes, and she flustered, her hands fumbling for something to do. She settled for grabbing a rag, wiping once, twice across the counter space in front of Miyuki before giggling nervously and pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ears.

“Oi,” came a voice from across the counter, brash against Miyuki’s ears. “How about some coffee over here? I know I’m not as pretty as him, but you know I’ll take care of you!”

The waitress scowled for a moment, playfully flicking the rag in the direction of the interruption. “Hush, ‘Mochi. I just started a new pot, be patient.”

Mochi threw the waitress a dirty look but the smirk at his lips betrayed him, wide smile opening up to reveal an impressive set of teeth. Laughter left his throat harshly, loud and resembling a hyena, and this time the waitress really did swat him, squealing when the man reached over the counter to pinch her waist. Miyuki resumed his overview of the menu, pretending to not notice the way the man, Mochi, was glaring at him from across the counter. After letting a few seconds pass, he carefully set the menu back down and turned in his chair, angling the stool until it faced the other.

“Can I help you with something?” Miyuki drawled, arching an eyebrow. Mochi just stared back him impatiently, scoffing under his breath before poking at the burger in front of him.

“Nothing particular. I’ve just never seen you around this area. New in town?”

Miyuki sipped his coffee slowly, taking care to keep his eyes trained on the rim of his cup. This person was trying very hard to appear nonchalant, but something told Miyuki he was infinitely more perceptive than he was letting on.

“Just visiting. I had something to take care of and then I’m back to the city tomorrow.” It didn’t hurt to tell him where was headed – Tokyo was a highly populated, large city with plenty of people to cast a shadow over Miyuki.

“I see,” Mochi mumbled, sounding like he didn’t really see anything at all, and shoving his plate towards the back end of the counter.

“What about you? Are you one of those – ah, what’s the word – regulars? Come here for lunch three times a week? Know the waitress by her first name?”

“So what if I do?” he spat angrily, swiveling in his chair and cocking a brow at Miyuki. “You got a problem?”

“No, No! Of course not, I was merely making conversation.”

“You’re a shitty guy, you know that?”

Stifling a laugh, Miyuki glanced up, enjoying the incredulous stare on Mochi’s face. “Ah, well thank you.”

“How in the hell did you manage to take that as a compliment?”

“Let’s just say I’ve heard worse.”

The man didn’t look like he bought it, but he relaxed anyway, leaning over the counter to grab to grab a napkin. He reached feebly for the coffee pot but was about an inch too short. He shrugged and drained the last of his mug, getting up and glancing at Miyuki from the corner of his eyes.

“The fries here are good.” Closing the distance between them in just a few short steps, the man thrust his hand out, roughly grabbing Miyuki’s hand in his and shaking it, his grip firm. “Kuramochi.”

“Miyuki,” Miyuki replied, not even thinking twice about telling him the truth. There was something in his expression that assured Miyuki that this man, closer to a boy than an adult, would die before revealing somebody else’s secrets. Even if Miyuki’s secret was his name. “Miyuki Kazuya.”

Kuramochi scoffed. “Pretty name. Suits a pretty boy like you.”

“I’m flattered. At first I thought you were jealous that waitress was paying attention to me, but now I see you were jealous that she had an excuse to talk to me.”

“Hyahaha! Sure, sure. That’s what it was.”

Laughing, Miyuki spared the guy a smirk and slid out of the stool, checking his pockets to ensure he had everything on him. He knew it was stupid to carry this much cash on him, but the alternative was to leave it somewhere anyone could find if they looked hard enough. It wasn’t like he had a bank account. Hell, he didn’t even have an ID. It made trying to keep up a cigarette habit a bitch and half. Turned out 18 years old didn’t look that much different from 17 years old.

“Fries sound great. If you don’t mind, tell her I’ll take those. I’m going to use the restroom.”

Kuramochi grunted but said nothing, choosing instead to take the seat next to Miyuki. The man had suddenly tensed, and for whatever reason he was now dead set on staring at the counter. Miyuki was intrigued, but abated and resumed a path towards the back of the diner, pushing the bathroom door open with ease.

The waitress stepped out of the kitchen, a fresh pot of coffee in hand just as promised. She began to pour more coffee into Kuramochi’s cup, but froze at the glare that her customer gave her. Kuramochi tilted his head up her, jerking his chin in her direction and shaking his head slightly. His hand was clenched tightly around his mug, with his index finger pointed slightly to his right.

The waitress quickly glanced at where Kuramochi had his finger pointed and stifled the gasp that threatened to pass her lips. Three very large, very intimidating men had situated themselves around the corner of the counter. All had nasty expressions, pulled tight with sneering lips. The bigger of the three jerked his head in the bathroom’s direction, quietly mumbling under his breath before turning on his heel and heading towards the bathroom.

“A-Ah, Kuramochi-san, I believe the extra side of pancakes you ordered is done, I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks, Misaki-chan. Take your time.”

Misaki’s hands shook as she set the carafe down, the glass clinking loudly and startling her before she got her bearings together and slipped back into the kitchen to peer around the doorway. From there she had a clear view of Kuramochi and the two gentlemen who were now headed to the restrooms after who Misaki assumed was their leader. Kuramochi took one last sip of his coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin, sighing as he set some cash on the counter.

He cracked his neck twice, once to the left and once to right, before removing his jacket and heading after the handsome stranger and whoever was after him.

∞

 “Ryou-san, I-I can’t let you do this! I’m going to the cops, I’m underage, they’ll send me to juvi or back to the orphanage, wherever, but I can’t let you take the fall for this!”

Ryou’s hands trailed over his wrist, delicately wrapping lithe fingers around the bend of Kuramochi’s palm. “Youichi,” he whispered softly, leaning farther into the park bench. The wind blew softly around them, sending shivers down Kuramochi’s spine. At least he hoped it was the wind. Ryosuke’s hands were cool against his wrist yet still sent a burn of heat across his skin.

“This is my fault. I will take responsibility, it’s all I can do. But I cannot take responsibility for ruining your life.”

“Ryou-san, how can you expect me to just sit here a-and do nothing while you – you go to prison for me – “

“Youichi,” he scolded Kuramochi lightly, pinching his skin between two fingers. Kuramochi inhaled sharply, preparing to scowl at Ryosuke, but stopped when he saw a rare smile at the bend of his mouth.

“I’m going to the police station first thing in the morning. Unintentionally or not, we hurt someone and you offend me by thinking for a moment I would let you take the blame.”

“Ryou,” Kuramochi started, pulling his hand away to face Ryosuke. “This isn’t what I want.”

Ryou scoffed lightly, taking Kuramochi’s hand back and lacing his fingers with the others. The attention was rare but Kuramochi was too distressed to appreciate it fully. It wasn’t until Ryosuke gently laid his on Kuramochi’s shoulder, nuzzling the thin material of his shirt and mumbling into his neck.

“Let it rest. We won’t have another night like this for a very long time.”

∞

The first thing Kuramochi thought as Miyuki walked away was what an idiot.

The second thing he thought was of course this idiot has a nice ass.

The thoughts that followed were less simple.

Sizing up the men that followed Miyuki into the bathroom, Kuramochi sighed, stopping and leaning on the wall adjacent to the restrooms. The men were speaking in low tones, but not low enough that Kuramochi couldn’t catch the general drift of what was going on.

His new acquaintance was in deep shit. Judging by the looks on their faces, they weren’t going to give Miyuki a chance in hell.

Shit

This wasn’t his problem. He had better fucking things to do, more important priorities than this random, too pretty and smart mouthed stranger that wasn’t smart enough to keep himself out of trouble. Judging by the boy’s paranoia and nervous hands, he was guilty of something and these men were here to ensure he paid for it.

Kuramochi liked this place, he really did. Misaki was beautiful and kind, and just far enough out of his league that he kept coming back, too enthralled by the gentle curve of her smile and the spark in her eyes. The food was good, the customers quiet, and Kuramochi took care of Misaki. He stayed late on her closing shifts, keeping a watchful eye on the door and was generally the first person to arrive on her morning shifts. She was a quiet thing when he first met her, quaint and timid, but after a few bad jokes and some well-placed compliments, she opened up like a flower, gracing Kuramochi with tiny smiles and warm touches.

This is for her, he told himself stubbornly, waiting for the group to separate. Two of the men went inside, leaving a stocky man with a terrible pompadour at the entrance standing guard. The guard was twice his size and covered in some real shitty tattoos. Like really shitty. Like Kuramochi could give his blind grandmother a sharpie and they’d look better. Taking a deep breath, Kuramochi relaxed his shoulders and stumbled into the hallway, pulling out his cell phone and laughing dumbly at the blank screen.

The thug looked up at him, a nasty snarl etched into his face and stepped into Kuramochi’s line of vision. Kuramochi jerked his head up in feint surprise, stumbling a few steps for good measure.

“Woah, dude! Watch where you’re going. I gotta piss something fierce, so if you could move, I’d appreciate it.”

The the ugly ass bastard touch him now – he pushed a firm hand onto his chest, shoving him hard, hard enough for Kuramochi to actually stumble this time.

“Find somewhere else to be, jack ass.”

Somewhere else to be? Really? This was a bathroom for Christ’s sake. Not that Kuramochi had to use the bathroom, but come on. They just didn’t make thugs like they used to. Ryou would have been ashamed. Keeping his cool, Kuramochi tried again. He knew it was pointless, but pushed anyway. Maybe he could intimidate the guy into backing down.

“Come on, dude. Can’t a guy take a leak?”

Apparently he could not. “I said find somewhere else to be, punk,” he grunted out, moving faster than Kuramochi would have given someone his size credit for to shove him. Not fast enough though. Kuramochi side stepped him easily, swiftly moving around him in a small circle until he was behind the man, back now facing the door.

The man turned around abruptly, confusion in his steps and charged Kuramochi again and this time he felt some action was needed. Dodging the man’s charge easily, he jumped out of his way and reached for the man’s neck, placing just enough pressure on it to guide his path into the nearest wall. The thug rammed into the wall, forehead taking the blunt of the force, and groaned loudly, whipping his head back and forth in search of his assailant.

Kuramochi took a few steps back, dancing lightly on his feet. It had been a while since he’d seen any action. A promise made too many years ago lingered in the back of his head, but he shook it off. He’d stayed out of trouble long enough. He’d apologize later. He’d make up for it later. Now closer to the bathroom door, he could hear Miyuki trying to talk his way out of trouble. Kuramochi didn’t have much time if he was going to save this kid’s ass.

“I’m gonna give you one more chance to let me use the bathroom. One more dude, and then I’m saving the rest of my patience for the assholes inside who are teaming up on scrawny prick of a kid while he’s trying to take a shit.”

The man hesitated for a moment, crouched at his waist with his fists up in the air awkwardly. Totally the wrong stance to take on someone fast and as lithe as Kuramochi. Kuramochi knew guys like these. They weren’t street fighters. Dude couldn’t even land a punch, even if he wasn’t up against someone as fast as himself. There was a reason he was saddled with guard duty and not inside doing the actual fighting.

Speaking of actual fighting, it sounded like Miyuki had run out of time. Kuramochi heard the all too familiar sound of a fist making contact with bone and the crunch that followed had Kuramochi scrambling. To Miyuki’s credit, the boy didn’t cry out nearly as loud as he thought he would. Bitterly, Kuramochi surmised that it probably wasn’t the first time he’d been hit in the face.

While Kuramochi was speculating, the amateur in front of him got brave. Brave enough to charge him for a third time, and this time his fists were actually out. If had happened a little bit slower, Kuramochi might have had time to make fun of him.

Moving quickly, Kuramochi finally reached for the knife in his back pocket, accepting that the only way this was going to go down was the hard way. He pulled his leg up quickly, pushing all of his weight into his hind leg and swiftly kicked the man in his chest. The guy went down hard, clumsy and yelling and Kuramochi jumped on top of him, pushing his knife to his throat and hushing him with a single, firm press.

He didn’t want to make things harder for Misaki than they already were.

The sounds on the other side of the bathroom wall increased – Miyuki was tough. Kuramochi heard boots collide roughly with the ground. The groan that escaped Miyuki’s mouth was purely physical.

‘Is that all you fucking got?’

‘You fucking wish.’

Kuramochi would never admit it, in all the years to come, but when he heard Miyuki beg for more, when he heard the resilience and tenacity ring more clear in his voice than the pain he was obviously going through, he knew right then and there that this punk would have his respect for the rest of his fucking life, whether he wanted it or not

“Hm, I wonder. Do you think if I beat the living hell out of you, would you ask for more?”

The man whimpered below him, trembling like a scared child. “Hm?” Kuramochi prodded again, pressing the blade deeper into the man’s throat. A single drop of blood slipped down his neck.

Kuramochi had no pity for him. He pulled his fist back, feeling the familiar stretch in his muscle before slamming it down into the man’s cheek. There were things to be said about muscle memory. He felt bone break and winced, his knuckles burning. He knew how to throw a punch, but he wasn’t going to pull back for this shit head’s sake. Luckily for him, Kuramochi managed to knock him out. Not even a yell of pain.

“Huh. Guess that was my fault. Can’t expect you to ask for something if you’re not awake.”

The man didn’t respond. Manners were important and not everybody had them.

Giving the unconscious man one sympathetic pat to the shoulders, Kuramochi got up and stretched briefly, chancing a glance to make sure no one had snuck up on him. Masaki had hopefully stayed hidden in the kitchen. If there were any customers who were fearless enough to stick around the diner while this nonsense was going on, there was a good a chance they were bigger and tougher than Kuramochi and he had no business with them. One down, two to go.

Resolved, Kuramochi strode proudly into the bathroom, kicking the door open as loudly as he could. It swung far, colliding harshly against the tiled wall. He definitely owed the place a new door.

Kuramochi may have only known Miyuki Kazuya for ten minutes, but he knew without a doubt that this idiot had seen better days.

He was on the floor at the feet of the largest assailant – his lip was busted open in several places, blood pouring profusely from his mouth. Broken glasses somehow managed to stay atop the bridge of his nose, but Kuramochi feared they were doing more harm than good since the lenses were shattered and he definitely had a black eye.

“Shit, I was looking for the bathroom. Did I make a wrong turn?”

“Get the fuck out,” Miyuki mumbled from the floor, spitting a tooth out and glaring at Kuramochi. The fucker was resilient, even in the face of what may as well look like death. He glanced briefly at the thugs who had just barely noticed his presence – neither one looked worse for wear.

“You couldn’t land a punch on either one of these punks? Seriously?”

Somehow, even through the bruises and blood, Miyuki smirked up at him, flashing a red streaked smile. “I have a plan. Get out.”

Kuramochi let out a laugh, loud and obnoxious. “Nah. I’m already in this deep.”

∞

Miyuki had just enough time to swallow the blood in his mouth before taking another blow to the stomach. He braced himself for impact, tightening his diaphragm, steeling his breath and trapping in it his lungs – but the kick never came. He opened an eye gingerly, scanning the bathroom through cracked lenses.

The man who had done the majority of kicking Miyuki’s ass was backing away from Kuramochi, ignoring Miyuki and bringing his hands up in protest. “This isn’t any of your business!!” he raged, back colliding against a bathroom stall, fists clenched but still not attacking.

Kuramochi just laughed, a brash, deep heckle leaving his mouth in bursts. “You made it my business when you decided to do this here. Don’t you know who I am?”

Miyuki didn’t have the slightest idea who this guy was, but it appeared his attacker did. His eyes widened in recognition, throat bobbing nervously. “B-But he stole from us! He isn’t one of yours, what do you care??”

Why does he care? Miyuki pondered, slowly sitting up, cautiously keeping an eye on the other guy in the room. It wouldn’t do for him to start attacking now – Miyuki’s adrenaline was slowing done, pulsing its remnants strong against his temple.

The shorter of the two was frozen, hand still clutching a pair of brass knuckles. He looked as if he was about to snap and Miyuki was fearful it would be directed at him. He gathered as much courage as he could and stood, arm leaning heavily against the wall while his ribs screamed in pain. Definitely injured. At least one of them broken. Probably enough cash left to get him bandaged up. Not enough cash for pain killers. It didn’t matter, Miyuki didn’t like them anyway.

“Wasn’t aware I needed a reason to care, dude. To be fair, all of this started when one of yours wouldn’t let me into the bathroom. Don’t you think that’s a bit rude?”

Mouth gaping, Miyuki watched as Kuramochi sauntered over to a urinal, dropped his zipper, and took a piss. Right in front of all of them. Miyuki, bleeding from multiple places, the sound of his heavy panting the only thing accompanying the loud pour of Kuramochi urinating.

Who the hell is this guy?

Kuramochi might have been the most interesting thing in the room if it weren’t for the fact that nobody – literally nobody – was moving. The leader of the gang still stood pressed against the wall, his lackey frozen just a few feet off. Kuramochi finished his business and buckled his jeans, flushing the urinal and turning around. A feral, twisted grin wrenched his expression dangerous and foreboding and Miyuki could feel the temperature in the room drop.

Frozen guy booked it first, tripping over something and crashing into a wall on his way out of the restaurant. Miyuki heard the waitress scream and winced as the leader ran right into him, accidently, it appeared, and booked after him, screaming bloody murder on his way out.

“This isn’t the last of us, you hear me? You’re not as strong as you used to be, Kuramochi! We’ll come after you with more!!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuramochi muttered, walking up to the bathroom sink and turning the water on. “That’s what they all say.”

“Who are you?” Miyuki asked incredulously, pulling off his frames and staggering towards Kuramochi. His vision was clouding, darkening at the edges – adrenaline had run out. He went down hard, should have landed on his face, but his knees gently fell to the ground, back supported by someone he could no longer make out.

“Manners,” Kuramochi tsked and Miyuki’s vision went black.

∞