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phoen1xr0se · 7 months

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Good Omens S2E6 - Aziraphale's perspective

Taken from my fanfic 'Don't Fall Away From Me', on AO3 (link below). Apologies for any broken hearts in advance, but I hope it fixes some too. Most of the dialogue is taken from GOS2E6 but everything else is all me.

Artist credit: @mistysblueboxstuff

Aziraphale

Forty-one days earlier.

"Go on. The day can't get any weirder."

Aziraphale swallowed, turning to exit the bookshop, coffee in hand. The last thing he wanted right now was to leave Crowley's side and the sanctity of their little world - he knew that the significance of what they had just witnessed between Gabriel and Beelzebub would not be lost on the demon, and he desperately wanted to talk about it with him. When Aziraphale had intuitively reached for him, he was sure he had seen Crowley give a small nod, as if to say, "I know, angel."

The thought that he might finally give a voice to what they had been dancing around for years made him feel as though he was in a freefall - Aziraphale took a long swig from the sweet almond coffee to try and ground himself and glanced back at the Metatron.

"Sit, sit, dear boy," said Metatron, gesturing to a small table and chairs.

Aziraphale sat, hands fluttering anxiously. He put them back on the coffee to stop himself and took another sip.

"Now, I shall get right to the point. It seems we are down an Archangel." The Metatron smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do you have any thoughts on who might be best suited to replace them?"

Aziraphale paused. Why was the Metatron asking him for advice? "Well... Michael?"

"Oh, don't be silly! No, no, no, no, no. There's only one candidate who makes even the slightest bit of sense."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"And that's you."

Aziraphale blinked. Had he heard that correctly? "Me?"

"Well, yes. You're a leader, you're honest, you don't just tell people what they want to hear. It's why Gabriel came to you in the first place, I imagine."

Aziraphale's mouth dropped open in astonishment, struggling for words. He had always believed that those qualities had contributed to his exile from Heaven, and yet the Metatron was telling him that these were reasons he should be... promoted? In charge? Surely there was no way that this offer could be genuine.

The Metatron continued, before Aziraphale had a chance to pick that thread apart. "There are huge plans afoot, enormous projects, and I will need you to run them."

Aziraphale paused. In a flash, he remembered what Crowley had said four years previously about The Big One. Us against humanity. Left in the hands of Michael, or Uriel, or any of those bad angels, he could only begin to imagine what would befall Earth. Humanity wouldn't stand a chance. The angels didn't understand anything about what it truly meant to be human... or even what it meant to be good.

"You are just the angel for the job." The Metatron smiled, and in spite of himself, Aziraphale thought that he was probably right about that.

But no... he couldn't leave Earth. His bookshop. Crowley. This peaceful, fragile existence. "But I... I don't want to go back to Heaven. W-where would I get my coffee?"

The Metatron's eyes grew steelier and Aziraphale realised that he understood that this wasn't about coffee. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. How much did he know?

"You know..." Metatron phrased the words very carefully, "as Supreme Archangel, you would be able to decide who to work with. I've been looking back over a number of your previous exploits..." Aziraphale swallowed nervously, "and I see that in quite a few of them you formed a de facto partnership with the demon, Crowley."

The name hung in the air between them. Aziraphale glanced away. Apparently he knew quite a lot.

"Now, if you wanted to work with him again, that... might be considered irregular, but it would certainly be within your jurisdiction to restore your friend Crowley to full angelic status."

The impact of the statement took a while to register. Aziraphale blinked. In his mind's eye, he flashed back to the first time he had ever interacted with the angel-that-had-been-Crowley. It was at the creation of the universe, and he recalled with a pang the joy on his face, the sheer exuberance and excitement that had left a lasting impression on the more junior angel. Crowley as an angel had been magical, magnificent to behold. And Aziraphale knew better than anyone that Crowley had never deserved to Fall. Crowley had no memories of his time spent as an angel, but Aziraphale remembered. He remembered it all.

He was so lost in thought that he missed the triumphant glint in the Metatron's eyes.

"I... well, I don't quite know what to say," began Aziraphale, but Metatron held up a finger to halt him.

"It's just an option. One of many powers you will have as Supreme Archangel. A word to the wise, though..." Metatron leaned in conspiratorially. "There has been some talk that this partnership is all simply a part of Hell's... how shall we put it... long game."

Aziraphale was lost. "What do you mean?"

"Well there is a rumour that Hell assigned some specific demons to tempt angels away from Heaven..." Metatron paused, choosing his phrasing with care. "I personally didn't believe it myself until the utter disaster with Gabriel. Quite a shock, I can tell you. I never thought Gabriel would be vulnerable to demonic influences, but I suppose you never can tell..."

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. "I can assure you -" he began, but the Metatron interrupted.

"Oh, my dear boy, I am certain that you would never fall prey to a demon's wiles. You are far too intelligent for that." The Metatron looked Aziraphale coolly in the eyes, but there was a question there. A question Aziraphale didn't want to examine too closely. He looked down at the coffee in his hands, and recalled the night he and Crowley had spent in Job's basement.

Are you... trying to tempt me?

Not at all, angels can't be tempted, can you?

The taste of those ox ribs. The way once he'd tasted it, he'd realised he was so hungry, not just hungry, but ravenous. Starved.

Aziraphale pushed the thought away, but as soon as he pushed it away, another thought barrelled in to take its place. The first time Crowley had convinced him to try wine, promising him that a drop wouldn't hurt. The first gift he had ever been given, a book, his first material Earthly possession, gifted to him by Crowley. The way Crowley had convinced him that there was no point in doing Good if they were always cancelling each other out. The way Aziraphale had done so many small, little, bad things because Crowley had assured him it didn't matter. Each memory was like a gut punch.

But no.

No.

He knew Crowley. Yes, he was a demon, but he wasn't bad. At least, not all bad.

"I believe you are quite wrong," stated Aziraphale boldly, sitting up straight. "The demon Crowley has, over the many years we have spent... I mean, over the time we have known one another, done many kind and Good things. He is better than half the angels I know! Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, they don't have half his compassion, his honesty, his bravery. I believe God was mistaken in..." Aziraphale's brave defence faltered as Metatron's eyebrows raised. "I mean, I think sometimes people deserve a second chance."

Metatron nodded. "Perhaps it is as you say." He stood, and Aziraphale followed suit.

Aziraphale glanced back at the bookshop. All he wanted now was to get back to Crowley. He knew that talking with him would alleviate these fears. Crowley might not want to go to Heaven, but surely he would see that it was the safest place for them to be? Especially if their fears about The Big One were correct? In spite of everything Crowley felt about Heaven, he was certain that Crowley would see it was the only way they could save the world they had both come to cherish. And perhaps he'd see a glimmer of that happy angel he'd known so long ago... before Aziraphale had put thoughts into his head, thoughts that had ultimately led to...

Aziraphale shook the thoughts away.

"Uh, thank you for this... chat... I really had better get back to the bookshop," Aziraphale said delicately.

"Well, you don't have to answer immediately," said the Metatron, "Take all the time you need."

His expression, however, demanded urgency.

"I... I don't know what to say," Aziraphale faltered. He needed Crowley. He couldn't make this decision without him.

"Well then, go and tell your friend the good news," said the Metatron measuredly. Good news.

Would Crowley see it that way?

Aziraphale very much doubted it. As he crossed the street, he resolved that he was going to hard-sell Heaven to Crowley no matter what. Above everything else, he wanted Crowley to be safe. He wanted humanity to be safe. And the only way that was going to happen is if he had a voice. He exhaled, steeling himself for what he knew was going to be a very difficult pitch.

The bell tinkled as he entered, and he saw Maggie and Nina walking toward the exit. "We're just going," smiled Maggie. "I'm sure you two have a lot to say," Nina added, and they exited.

Aziraphale took another deep breath as his eyes fell on Crowley. Crowley was sat in his usual chair, leaning forward with his dark glasses on, his mouth hanging open as if in surprise. He thought, with a sudden rush of feelings, how accustomed he had become to seeing the demon here, and how comfortable Crowley had made himself here. These days he almost always took his glasses off around the shop, a level of vulnerability Crowley had only recently managed in the last year or so.

Crowley, noticing Aziraphale, suddenly stood, removing his glasses. Aziraphale felt his resolve soften as he looked into the demon's wide yellow eyes with their trademark snakelike slits. Yellow really was the most beautiful colour. He was so busy staring that he didn't even realise Crowley had begun to speak.

"Look, I suppose, um... I've got something to say. I know we ought to be talking about... uh, it's probably best if I start off doing all the talking, you do all the listening, 'cause if I don't start talking now, I won't ever start talking, right? Yes, so -"

Aziraphale barely heard a word of what the demon was saying. This wasn't uncommon when Crowley was around, Aziraphale did have a tendency to get a little distracted - but this time it was because he was desperately trying to think of the right arrangement of words that would help Crowley adjust to what he was about to hear.

"What's that lovely human expression?" interjected Aziraphale, flailing his arms wildly. He was feeling giddy. "Oh yes, hold that thought!" He pasted on a wide grin. Sell it, sell it, he told himself. "You see, I have some incredibly good news to give you!"

Crowley didn't look particularly pleased so far. "Really?"

"I, um... so, uh, um..." Aziraphale's arms were still doing most of the talking for him whilst he frantically tried to explain. "The Metatron, you know, I don't think he's as bad a fellow... Well, I think I might have misjudged him. You see, I... Well, he said, um..." Aziraphale noticed Crowley's expression darken with mistrust. Oops. Go bigger. "He said that Gabriel, obviously hadn't worked out..." Aziraphale laughed nervously, "as Supreme Archangel and Commander of the Heavenly Host, and he asked who I thought should take over in Heaven now that Gabriel was gone. And I said Michael, to which he laughed, and said there was only one candidate who made the slightest bit of sense. Me."

Crowley's face was frozen. It was hard to assess how he was taking this. "And I said, 'me?' And he said that I was a leader, honest, I didn't tell people what they wanted to hear and that they needed me. Of course I was surprised - I mean, obviously - and of course I said I didn't want to go, because... well... but then..." Aziraphale paused and took a step closer to Crowley, his entire face lighting up. "He said that if I was Archangel, I could restore you to be an angel. Full angelic status."

A beat. "He said what?"

"He said I could appoint you to be an angel." Aziraphale couldn't help beaming. Crowley deserved to be restored, deserved it more than anyone, in spite of everything Metatron had said, he knew that Crowley should never have Fallen. "You could come back to Heaven and... and everything. Like the old times. Only even nicer."

Aziraphale's smile lit up the room as Crowley held his gaze. "Right. And you told him just where he could stick it, then?"

Aziraphale's smile faltered. What had gone wrong? "Not at all..."

Crowley shook his head slowly. "Oh, we're better than that, you're better than that, angel! You don't need them, I certainly don't need them!" Crowley began pacing, avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. "Look, they asked me back to Hell, I said no, I'm not rejoining their team, neither should you!" His yellow eyes met Aziraphale's again and they were awash with confusion.

Aziraphale fumbled. "But.. well, obviously you said no to Hell, you're the bad guys." He saw Crowley's face change. Whoops. He should have said THEY are the bad guys. Crowley was anything but bad, and that was precisely the point he was trying to make. "But Heaven... Well, it's the side of Truth, of Light... of Good." And that's why you belong there.

"When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it'll be just as dead as if Hell ended it," growled Crowley.

Aziraphale was flustered now - this hadn't gone how he thought it would, at all.

"Tell me you said no," Crowley begged. Aziraphale looked away, avoiding the way Crowley's body broke a little as he stepped forward into the silence. His voice when it came out was devoid of all his usual venom. It was almost soft, pleading. "Tell me you said no."

"If... I'm in charge, I can make a difference," Aziraphale said. It sounded so lame and contrite given the weight of the conversation, but he really meant it. The angel had endured so much loss that he had been unable to control, so many of God's choices he had been unable to question or challenge. How many times had he had to sit back and endure human tragedies at the hand of God, wrestling with himself to try and believe that it was for the Greater Good but never understanding why. This was his opportunity to finally understand God's will - and perhaps even try to alter it.

Crowley sighed deeply and began pacing again. "Oh... Oh, God." He gulped. "Right, okay. Right. I didn't get a chance to say what I was going to say, I think I'd better say it now. Right. Okay. Yes. So." Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale noticed that the demon was almost imperceptibly shaking.

The energy in the room shifted instantly. Aziraphale instantly knew that whatever Crowley was about to say was going to change things. Permanently.

"We've known each other a long time."

This was it.

"We've been on this planet a long time. I mean, you and me."

He wasn't ready.

"I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me."

How long had he waited to hear these words? Words he was sure would never come. Crowley never spoke like this, not ever. Aziraphale's eyes flicked to the street where he could see the Metatron standing by Muriel and he shifted uneasily.

"We're a team. A group. A group of the two of us."

Aziraphale's blue eyes widened. This was really happening.

"And we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't." Crowley's voice cracked.

Aziraphale's mouth struggled to find words, but no sound came out. Crowley hadn't looked away from him once, but broke their gaze now.

"I mean, the last few years, not really." Crowley looked around the bookshop and Aziraphale knew that they were both thinking of the last four years they had spent together on Earth. No longer having to pretend to be on opposite sides. No longer having to deny their affection for one another. It had still been unspoken, but it had been allowed. They had allowed a life to grow, here.

"And I would like to spend -" Crowley began, but as his eyes met the angel's, he choked on the words. He looked away again, growled, exhaled, then regained his composure, whilst Aziraphale stared at the demon as though he were a freight train coming straight at him. Was Crowley really trying to say what he thought he was trying to say?

"I mean, if Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can." Crowley's voice was desperate, pleading. Aziraphale had never seen Crowley like this before.

It scared him.

Crowley was always the strong one, always the brave one, always coming to his rescue. Despite knowing the demon had a softer side, Aziraphale had come to rely on the demon's hard exterior. You always knew where you stood. Except now, he really didn't.

"Just the two of us. We don't need Heaven, we don't need Hell, they're toxic! We need to get away from them, just be an us."

An us.

In all honesty, they had been an us for quite some time now, and they both knew it. It was just one of those things they didn't say. Except all of a sudden Crowley had changed the rules and Aziraphale didn't know what his part was in this new dynamic. He felt lost. All he knew, all he had ever known, and all he had ever tried to do, was the Right Thing.

"You and me, what do you say?" finished Crowley, his eyes wide. Pleading. Hoping.

An eternity seemed to pass as Aziraphale stared into Crowley's open, hopeful face. He reminded him then of the angel he had been. It reminded Aziraphale again of what they had both lost, and what stood to be lost now. And even though Aziraphale had dreamed of this moment many times, in many ways, over many years - and in no version of his imaginings had he ever rejected the demon's affections - he knew that he could never place his own selfish wants over what was right. He wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"Come with me," he implored, stepping closer to Crowley, his blue eyes begging the demon to see reason. "To Heaven. I'll run it, you can be my second in command. We can make a difference."

Crowley looked stunned. "You can't leave this bookshop."

Aziraphale almost laughed. How could Crowley be thinking about the bookshop at a time like this? Humanity was at stake, for crying out loud! If they remained here on Earth and let Heaven and Hell wage their wars, there wouldn't be much of anything left, let alone a bookshop. The existence Crowley wanted wouldn't even be possible.

"Oh Crowley," Aziraphale said softly. "Nothing lasts forever."

Crowley's entire demeanour changed. He wilted, and with horror Aziraphale saw tears glisten in his beautiful yellow eyes. Crowley's face, that had moments ago been so expressive and open, turned to its usual impassive state. "No," said Crowley quietly, blinking and looking away. "No, I don't suppose it does." He put his dark glasses on, and Aziraphale realised that Crowley had read something into his words that he hadn't meant. "Good luck," he said flatly, and walked past Aziraphale to the exit.

Aziraphale felt the world drop out from beneath his feet. "Good luck? Crowley!"

He watched his demon pause, momentarily, then turn around. He knew he had to say something to convince Crowley to stay. He knew trying to convince Crowley it would be a good idea to go to Heaven would be tricky, but he knew that Crowley was at heart a GOOD person. He had to appeal to that.

"Crowley, come back! To Heaven! Work with me!" He saw Crowley's deadpan face and realised, with some shame, that he hadn't truly responded to any of the wonderful things Crowley had tried to say to him. Crowley had dropped his defences and tried to redefine their relationship and Aziraphale found himself unexpectedly unable to reciprocate. The words just wouldn't come. He gulped, now, examining his own feelings.

Did he care for Crowley?

Yes.

Did he love Crowley?

Yes.

Did he want to spend his existence with Crowley?

Yes.

But did he feel deep shame and guilt for loving him, a demon?

Also, yes.

Aziraphale tried. "We can be together!" he clasped his hands together, as if trying to press together what he wanted and what was right. "Angels! Doing good!"

Crowley wouldn't even look at him.

The feeling of the Earth falling away came back to him. He was really about to lose Crowley. "I - I need you!"

Crowley looked at him then. They were both remembering the many times they had protested quite the opposite over the years. Crowley looked unimpressed.

Aziraphale felt his whole body burn with frustration - he was offering Crowley a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. Fallen angels never came back to Heaven, not ever. And he knew Crowley deserved to be there. He wanted to undo the mistake he had made all those millennia ago, the guilty truth he had never forgiven himself for. He swallowed back a lump in his throat as he recalled the last moments before Crowley fell, how the angel had sought out Aziraphale's face in the crowds, his eyes wide and wild, hopeful and scared - and how Aziraphale had looked away. This was his chance to put Crowley back where he belonged. "I don't think you understand what I'm offering you."

"I understand," said Crowley flatly. "I think I understand a whole lot better than you do."

And that was the moment Aziraphale knew he'd lost him.

The world fell away, for good. Somehow he stayed standing. "Well... then there's nothing more to say."

Crowley was only two feet away but it felt like miles. And soon the distance would be a lot further.

"Listen," said Crowley, pointing up. "Do you hear that?"

Aziraphale barely heard him over the sound of his own panicked thoughts. "I... I don't hear anything," he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice.

"That's the point," said Crowley, his words dripping with emotion. "No nightingales."

At the mention of nightingales, something hardened in Aziraphale. More unspoken understandings between them. The song 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square' had been playing on the night their life together began, the night they were freed from the confines of pretending they were on opposite sides. Neither of them had ever mentioned it, but Aziraphale knew it was a song that signified their relationship, their partnership, their freedom. No more nightingales meant no more them. Crowley was saying, in his own way, in the cruellest way, that they were over.

He saw something like satisfaction in Crowley's face as he realised the hit had landed. "You idiot," continued Crowley, frustration etched on every line of his face. "We could've been... us."

Aziraphale was the one to turn away now, hiding tears that had betrayed his resolve. Did Crowley think he didn't know what he was giving up? All he had ever wanted... but not at the cost of life on Earth. He couldn't bear to watch his demon leave, to walk away forever, if he looked at him a moment longer he knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it.

He heard footsteps, and closed his eyes, not wanting to see Crowley leaving - but instead felt a rough tug at his lapels, and before he knew it, he felt Crowley's lips on his. The shock reverberated through his entire body and his instinctive reaction was to pull away, no, I can't, I can't he thought desperately... but the warmth of Crowley's lips, the feeling of his body so close, the fact that it had taken six thousand years to finally close the gap between them, it was impossible to resist. It felt so good, to finally be... us. Despite himself, Aziraphale's hands stopped fluttering, and he pulled Crowley closer, giving in to the temptation.

The temptation.

Aziraphale's hands flew off the demon.

Hell assigned some specific demons to tempt angels away from Heaven...

Crowley let go of Aziraphale and Aziraphale gasped, overcome with a torrent of emotions. He hadn't known he'd wanted this until the feel of Crowley's lips pressing into his. It had taken a moment but the craving it had awoken in him raged through his body, a betrayal against all that he tried so hard to be. It felt exactly like that night in Job's basement, all those years ago... He wanted Crowley. His entire being ached to close the space between them again. He wanted so badly to forget all about the Metatron, Heaven, Hell, everything, and just throw himself back into Crowley's arms. But he'd been tempted, hadn't he? The serpent did what he does best, what he does so well, so slyly, what he's done for thousands of years... Aziraphale felt something inside him break, deeply, as he realised that, regardless of whether or not Hell was behind it, he had been tempted, and failed to pass the test yet again.

Aziraphale felt a cold, righteous anger sweep over him.

Crowley was staring at him expectantly. What did he expect? A declaration of love after having completely manipulated the angel's feelings?

I won't let you have the satisfaction of knowing how much you tempted me. How much you hurt me.

"I... I forgive you," Aziraphale said unsteadily, clenching his jaw in resolve. He regretted it the moment he said it.

Crowley sighed, a deep sigh. "Don't bother."

With that, the demon turned and finally left the bookshop.

Crumbling, Aziraphale let the tears come. He lifted his fingers to his lips, allowing himself for just a moment to remember what it felt like. He had never been kissed before, he had always thought it a peculiar human oddity, to press their faces together to show affection - he had not expected it to feel warm, to feel intimate, to feel like they were communicating in ways that could never be put into words. It was... magical.

But then he remembered who he was. Or at least, who he was supposed to be. Not an angel in love with a demon. An angel who did The Right Thing. An angel like that does not get tempted away from doing The Right Thing. If he was going to be Supreme Archangel, he had to be THAT version of himself.

He wiped the kiss away from his lips with vehemence. He would not allow himself to think about it, or Crowley, anymore.

Because if I did, I would run back to you...

As Aziraphale struggled to regain control of his emotions, the bell tinkled, and for a moment, one glorious moment, Aziraphale thought it was Crowley coming back to straighten everything out. Turning, he felt his hope fade as he saw the Metatron striding in. Quickly turning away to wipe the tears that threatened to fall and betray his emotion, he gave himself a quick talking to. This was no time for weakness.

"Well? How did he take it?"

Aziraphale said, truthfully, "Uh... not well." He chuckled nervously. He didn't want the Metatron to interfere with Crowley. He knew he needed to be careful about what he said.

"Ah, well, always did want to go his own way," said the Metatron dismissively.

Aziraphale stole a glance outside the bookshop and saw Crowley standing by the Bentley.

"Always asking damn fool questions, too," said the Metatron. Aziraphale recognised that this comment was a disguised warning to himself - don't ask questions. "Right, ready to start?"

Aziraphale felt his heart lurch. Hadn't the Metatron said he had plenty of time to decide? "I..." He glanced once again at the tall, dark figure standing outside. Crowley was stood completely still, watching Aziraphale from the street. Waiting? "My bookshop!" stammered Aziraphale desperately, trying to think of a way to give himself a little more time.

"Ye-es, well, for now, I've entrusted it to Muriel," said the Metatron matter-of-factly, indicating the young angel who waved exuberantly from the window. "So it should be in good hands."

"But..." Aziraphale stared out at the street. At him.

"Anything you need to take with you?" asked the Metatron.

Him, thought Aziraphale. Just him.

The Metatron's energy was cold, and forceful. Aziraphale could feel it coming off him in waves. He knew, somehow, that he had been backed into a corner. "No... nothing I can think of."

The Metatron made an affirmative noise and made to move towards the door, and it all suddenly hit Aziraphale - if he went with the Metatron now, it would really be over. No more cosy bookshop, no more books. No more sushi, no more sherry. No more music, no more plays. No more nightingales. A flash of what returning to Heaven would actually mean suddenly cut through Aziraphale and he understood, finally, what Crowley had been trying to tell him. There would be no going back.

Overcome, he rushed forward. "I think I -" he burst out, but stopped himself.

For once in your soft, silly life, do the Right Thing, angel! Aziraphale told himself sternly. This is about more than you and... him. He took one last look at Crowley. Leaning against the car on the street outside, the demon hadn't moved an inch, his dark-shaded eyes fixated on the inside of the bookshop.

"Nothing at all," said Aziraphale, straightening himself up and exiting the shop, plastering a fake smile on his face.

The street was busy, and Aziraphale could feel a pair of snakelike eyes burning into the back of his head but he wasn't going to look. If he looked, he'd run...

As they approached the entrance to the elevator that would take him to his new job, Metatron smiled at Aziraphale in a way that was intended to be reassuring but sent chills down Aziraphale's spine. "Well, I can't think of a better Angel to wrap things up, and to set into motion the next step in the Great Plan."

Aziraphale started. This was why he'd taken the job. This is why he'd forsaken everything he'd ever wanted. "Um, yes, you mentioned that. Can I know... what it is?"

"Well, it's something we need an angel of your talents to direct. An angel who is familiar with how they do things on Earth."

Aziraphale felt himself relax somewhat. Perhaps he had been mistaken and Heaven really was beginning to consider the merits of humanity. He began to smile.

The Metatron turned as the elevator doors opened. "We call it the second coming."

Aziraphale's face dropped its smile, now stricken with panic and fear. The second coming wasn't a fluffy visit from Jesus as most people believed... the second coming meant Judgement Day, when all of humanity would be judged and those found wanting would be thrown into Hellfire. The world, as they knew it, would be over.

The Metatron turned and looked at Aziraphale with steely eyes. Aziraphale felt as though the being could see into his innermost thoughts and tried to rearrange his expression. He looked away... to his left, the tall, dark figure of Crowley still leaned against the car. Definitely waiting. Aziraphale realised Crowley was holding on to the hope that at the last moment, Aziraphale would change his mind and choose their life on Earth.

But what will that be worth if we end up with no Earth left to live on, my dear?

It took every bit of strength Aziraphale had ever had to tear his eyes, his heart, his everything, away from the life he could have had and walk into that elevator. He sighed, inwardly letting go of it all. As he entered, it almost felt as though every step was being taken by someone else, and the smile on his face was a ghost of himself. He was so focused on appearing normal that he didn't notice the Metatron's sigh of relief and smile of victory as the doors slid closed.

"Going up," said the disembodied voice, and they began to move up towards Heaven. Every second that passed, Aziraphale felt his anxiety rise.

The second coming.

Judgement Day.

What had he done? How on Earth could he possibly circumnavigate this? And on his own? Without...

With another pang, Aziraphale realised that Crowley would be Judged just like everybody else. He knew in his heart that Crowley wasn't completely bad, but he had always been under the impression that Judgement Day was very black-and-white when it came to who was deemed righteous and who was not. He could lose him. He could lose everyone - and this time, it would be all his fault. No chance to shrug and complain that someone else had the power this time.

What could he do? What could he actually do?

As the elevator continued to take them higher and higher, Aziraphale racked his brains, and Crowley's words suddenly sprang into his mind. "Just to be able to ask the questions..."

Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind.

A plan that would begin... with a suggestion box.

Aziraphale smiled.

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cheesus-doodles · 1 year

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Chapter 6: Don't Look Back in Anger

Former Gang Leader Darling AU (Red Dragonflies)

Red Dragonflies Masterlist | Masterlist | Ao3 Link for the Sane

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tw/cw: mentions of murder, death, gun violence, body mutilation and self mutilation, suicide, dead dove do not eat

A/N: This was so supposed to be out for my birthday but I still made it in the end! Didn't get a chance to have this beta read because this is an absolutely monster! Hope yall enjoy, this was more for my sanity because I just had to tell this story! Thank you everyone for sticking around!

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“I’m tired, Takeomi.” Your voice, soft and weary, was a far cry from the firm yet kind tone he knew well.

The man said nothing, cigarette clenched lightly between his teeth as he plopped down onto the still damp grass next to where you were leaning against the trunk of an old, gnarly tree, hands tucked neatly under your legs. Despite knowing you for as long as he had, your eerie ability to tell who was approaching you from behind without turning your head still sent shivers down his spine - you had always been a tad too aware of your surroundings for his comfort, let alone for someone as young as you, even if it did come with the territory. At the same time, it seemed like you weren’t actually registering that he was here. Almost as if you were just leaving a voicemail.

The early morning gale that had just an hour earlier blew the torrent of rain through his open bedroom window, heartlessly drenching both him and his bed, seemed to favor you more - now a soft breeze that lightly tossed your hair up as the cool air blew in from across the open field. You didn’t turn to acknowledge him, large doe eyes not shifting from where it was fixed on the overcast heavens, rumbling gray clouds with a hint of an impending thunderstorm blocking out what should have been azure skies ablaze with the dancing colors of the rising sun.

Next to you, your mobile phone nestled untouched among a patch of grass and flowers chimed incessantly, the small screen lighting up with what seemed like a continuous stream of message, the lull created by the humming of cars whizzing by a stone’s throw away only occasionally broken by the ring of what would be another unanswered call. A picture of a smiling blond-haired boy holding up a piece of taiyaki took the place of your phone’s normal background, accompanied by a familiar name splashed across the top of the screen - Mikey. “Not going to answer that?”

“I don’t think so.” Came your almost dreamy response, hand reaching out to absentmindedly flip your phone around, hiding the blinking screen from his view. But this was more an intuitive move on your part rather than an attempt to dodge your responsibilities - it was easy to tell you were barely even present in the moment, watching the time slip by through your fingers. More like a visitor simply watching from afar.

Takeomi lit his cigarette, before stubbing out the match on a small, mossy rock, the sizzle of fire extinguishing drowned out by the roar of yet another vehicle racing by somehow oddly poetic. Taking a deep breath, the once-feared Black Dragon Vice Captain allowed himself to consider his next move.

Nothing about you and your life had ever been easily rectifiable when things fell apart; and if there was anyone that had learnt this lesson well, it was undoubtedly him. He had tried to help previously, what with his renowned strategic skills in battle, but it was always Shinchiro that had a better handle on you and solutions for your endless troubles when you came knocking. Yet the duty that came alongside the blessing the Black Dragon founder gave to you all those years ago now fell to him, and no matter how unsuitable he felt for the role, Takeomi owed it to his best friend. Filtering through his memories, situations where he found you like this - a kid lost in the world with a burden far too great for your small delicate shoulders - were far and few between, though the outcomes were always the same: much like a game of chess with just the two opposing kings left on the board, there was no obvious solution and no obvious end. Exhaling, Takeomi dropped his hand from his lips as he watched the smoke quickly dispersing into the cool air, whisked away in the light draft - he was really getting too old for this.

But time ticked mercilessly on, the man turning once more to look over a still unmoving you, glazed eyes reflecting everything yet nothing at all; you needed to be grounded before you were in any state to talk. There wasn’t much he could ask or say if you remained as you were - and the curiosity was killing him. The longer he takes to rouse you from this zombie-like state, the more you would come up with worse and worse ideas, trapped in your head with nothing but time; and of course the lesser time Takeomi had to find out the comings and goings of your life and of the greater Kanto region when you did finally emerge. Passing his stick from one hand to the other, the former Vice Captain of the Black Dragon reached out, though he hesitated mere inches from your head. How did Shinchiro do it again?

Fuck it, he thought, withdrawing his hand sharply; it wasn’t like Takeomi could say exactly how his friend brought you out of these moods all those years ago. Might as well he tried something different. Reaching back down into the pockets of his pants, the man pulled out that comforting box of cigarettes.

“Stick?” He grunted, though he moved to pass you the slightly crumpled packet before you could offer an answer. And unsurprisingly, you accepted, the torn plastic wrapping lightly crunching under your touch as you slid one out for yourself with ease, allowing him to light it for you with a new match. His death at the business end of a furious Koji's cane when (not if) the other found out was but expected, watching you choke on the lungful of foul-smelling smoke you inhaled; you always hated the smell even after you had picked up the bad habit from Shinichiro (and him, though Takeomi would never admit it) all those years ago in a bid to manage your mounting stress, and was made to drop it cold turkey when your concerned friends cut you off. In his defense, this was the best he could think of in the heat of the moment.

The two of you sat in silence, the clouds above head leisurely drifting past in whichever direction the wind took them, uncaring about the problems of the mortal world below. Takeomi took another drag; now, to wait.

You seemed to shake back into reality a few puffs and several horrid sounding coughs in, blinking owlishly at your surroundings and then at the former Black Dragon Vice Captain as you took in your location; he wouldn’t be surprised if you yourself had no idea how you got here. He had heard of your legendary auto-pilot mode from both your weary Red Dragonflies and Shinichiro. “Takeomi? When did you get here?”

“Just a while ago.”

You hummed, taking another look around. "Did they send you?"

"Yep," The former delinquent dropped his head into his hands, rubbing weary eyes into his palms, his lit cigarette uncomfortably close to his skin. "That fucker Jun appeared yelling outside my fucking door this morning and woke me up at 4. Said something about giving you space and to look out for you, then left for baseball practice. Fuck me, I just went to bed and my neighbours were pissed. Don't even know how you people keep finding me."

“Sorry,” You laughed, not sounding the least bit apologetic, your eyes scrunching up along with your nose as you did, and just for that moment, you actually looked your age. Takeomi blinked, and the illusion dissipated. "Must have been Masashi’s doing. He doesn’t like it, but he’s good at this sort of thing," you mused, hand reaching for your discarded phone to weigh it in your palm. “Probably has me tracked here too.”

You didn’t seem concerned in the slightest that you most likely were being watched by your friends in red; nor that Takeomi seemed to have found you with little difficulty, sitting in the same open field you so loved since you were young. The delinquent with the scarred eye was certain that it wasn’t a lack of foresight for you to be sitting out in the open like this for several hours (even taking into consideration your disassociation), and that you were more than capable of vanishing into thin air with no trace to follow if you wanted to as you had many times in the past. Yet Mikey and his Tokyo Manji Gang were unable to find you even while you weren’t trying to hide? Did they even know you?

He shook his head; the more he thought, the more questions he had - and the one thing he was sure of was that you wouldn’t answer them all. But one question stood out in his sleep-deprived mind, the burning need to know overpowering his hesitancy. “So what happened?”

"Thought you know better than to meddle in our affairs?" The corners of your mouth quirked up as you gently teased. "What was it again? Something about a cafe and some Serpents- "

"Okay, okay I get it!" He hurriedly blurted out, cutting you off, cheeks burning slightly as you laughed once more. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of was that, no matter how many years ago that incident had been. You did take pity on him and his incessant need to know though (bless your soft heart), your gaze sliding off him and fixating onto a tiny white flower sprouting from the grass before you started speaking again.

"Izzy - Izana - he came to visit. And they met him in the morning."

Ah. Takeomi winced. That already explained so much. “And then what?”

You sighed, running one hand through your hair. “Furusawa snitched on my past to my friends. About my time with the Reds, most likely about me and Izzy. I don’t even know the full extent.”

“Mikey and his gang?” The former black dragon cocked his head. “Why?”

“I don’t know!” you threw your hands up, letting out an annoyed 'urgh'. “I’ve been trying to think of a good reason why, but I got nothing. It’s weird that Furu would do something like that - it’s not him, you know? Maybe he was influenced into ratting me out?”

And that was the danger of letting you stew alone for so long, Takeomi immediately reaching out to flick your forehead. “Or he could just be genuinely worried for you and not know who else to turn to.”

You reluctantly considered the older man’s words, rubbing at your forehead. “I guess so,” you grumbled, but you were far from convinced.

“Think on it for a while. Izana did put you in quite a bit of danger.”

You shrugged, just as a chime on your phone went off. “Well, time’s up.” Getting to your feet, you dusted off your spotless skirt, before turning to face him one more, the moodiness on your face replaced by a small smile. “Been good speaking with you again, Takeomi.”

“Off to meet Izana?”

“Not just yet,” you hummed, glancing at your phone once more before finally tucking it away in a pocket, unaffected by the continuous buzzing of your Toman friends desperately trying to reach you. “Got somewhere else to be first.”

“Take care of yourself okay?” Jun had explicitly instructed Takeomi not to let you go and meet Izana on the threat of death (he was going to die anyway for that smoke), and he remembered this fact fine despite his half-sleep daze - how could he not at the end of a baseball bat he knew painfully well? But you were you. You knew how to look after yourself.

Dipping your head, you raised a hand in parting. “You look a lot better, Takeomi. I’m glad. Try not to get into so much debt again.”

The former Black Dragon Vice-President blinked. Debt, again? Wait, had you been the anonymous benefactor that had negotiated with his yakuza debtors? The man whirled around, the wind whipping at his well-gelled mullet. “I-”

But you were already gone.

‎

“She replied to you, didn’t she?” Mikey demanded, abyss eyes swinging around to meet glazy sandy ones, the metal of his phone creaking and crying out under his crushing grip, the unfortunate messenger of yet another failed call. “Try again.”

Kazutora sniffled, a fresh round of hot tears trailing a well-trodden path down his already reddened cheeks. “B-But she’s not picking up-” His response was half whimpered, half wailed, mobile phone held just mere inches from his eyes as the boy desperately tried to scan through his flurry of messages on the tiny screen with blurry eyes, all in the hopes of that it was him who missed a newer reply from you. The reply had been just a single fullstop, more likely than not a mispress, yet the Toman founders couldn’t help but hold out hope. “She’s not-”

“Nothing from my side either.” Draken announced over the duo-colored hair boy, letting out a ragged sigh as he allowed his hand to fall away from his face, hitting the worn wooden bench with a muffled thud. Running one hand over his sweaty brow, the stormy clouds that had already unleashed its fury once but still loomed threateningly above did little to alleviate the humid air that clung to his skin. What a wretched day it was, with neither the sun willing to shine nor the wind willing to blow, yet it was especially so without you by their side to make the world brighter.

The dark eye bags that hung low from most of their eyes were even clearer in the dull sunlight - the previous night spent apart from you, knowing nothing about where you were or whether you were safe had weighed heavily on them. “This is all their fault,” Baji hissed, the audible anger that rolled off his tongue, enough to make any regular delinquent in his vicinity tremble at the mere thought of being on the receiving end, this time directed at a foe not present. Bronze eyes flickered over to the outwardly calmer Mitsuya, though the mix of rage and anxiety broiling behind his lavender eyes were clear to everyone around as he gingerly rested his phone face-down, his face taunt and stiff as he spoke up. “No word from any of the others. She hasn’t been at any of her usual spots.”

The sound of wood splintering as Baji hurled his bottle across the patch of grass, curses rolling freely off his tongue as the plastic now embedded an inch into a new split in the wood letting out one final groan before releasing its water to drain freely to the ground. Yet the boy was barely a breath off even after the incredible show of force, instead turning to stomp off and look for himself. And the rest of the Toman founders let him - the First Division Captain had always been the most agitated and impatient of them all. No doubt he was eager to have you back with him again, and the bad sleep the boy got only made him more impatient.

"I told you we shouldn’t have listened," came the accusation hurling from Kazutora, unblinking eyes reddened from hours of crying. “Why would they tell us the truth?” Given it was Kazutora that made the traumatizing discovery of you being missing from your room after shimmying his way up that big tree outside your window, his disgruntlement with Mikey’s decision to stand down was almost understandable. Just maybe if he had been a little earlier, a little faster in chasing your tails up that threateningly dark flight of stairs, he could have been there for you, to comfort you and tell you that it’ll all be alright, that Toman would take care of you even if the rest wouldn’t. Like how you were always there for him. They could have been there for you.

Maybe they should have, Draken considered, glancing back down at his phone as it started to beep with the quarterly hour updates from the rest of the captains and vice-captains of the Tokyo Manji Gang rolling in. But at the same time, he could argue that the information that they had gained in a single hour speaking with your left hand man in return for letting you roam for a night was almost worth the trade-off, whether or not the others agreed.

‎

“Leave her.”

The previous night had been choked full of emotions in the aftermath of the fight between you and Furusawa, your house falling into an uncomfortable, unusual silence despite the presence of so many people.

Hase dragged one hand down his face, the weariness usually confined to his eyes now smeared across his expression, visibly aging the poor soul by a good decade. Though this tire failed to dim his sharp words or that unnerving look that he leveled plainly at the Toman founders, with even Kazutora, himself already poised to follow you, hesitating. “It wasn’t a question, if I wasn’t clear,” the blue-haired man reiterated. The quiet lethality Hase emanated even as he was bonelessly slumped against the doorway to your kitchen was impressive, even by Mikey’s lofty standards - the unspoken promise of pain should they cross him received well and clear by all six. They could understand why this unwanted intruder was worthy of being your left-hand man and First Division Captain, though it certainly didn’t mean he had their respect. Far from it; these Red Dragonflies were the ones that stirred up this whole unnecessary drama in your life. A smooth-sailing life that you shared with them and only them. If only these assholes had never clawed their way out from the past.

“Why?” Mikey challenged, crossing his arms. Having to stand by and watch a side of you emerge like a cornered viper was already pushing the limits of what he could bear, not to say those doe eyes that had never known sadness with them that now brimmed with tears and anger; the boy didn’t think he had felt this angry in a long while. The one time he let you stray away from him against his will, let your leash loose on your pleading request and your absolute promise that you would be back by his side in three days, and this happens. The Toman President didn’t recall promising to let you leave him again and again like some sick game of peekaboo, and it didn’t help that your old gang was trying to cut your reel to your real friends for good.

The blond-haired boy was momentarily ignored in favor of Hase fumbling in his pocket, pulling out a pristine smoke pack only to sigh before tucking it away once more. “Fuck, can’t smoke in here,” he muttered, turning to face the boys again. "I’m sure you have your questions. If you don't go upstairs, I'll answer as many as I can."

Of course they would be immediately enticed - who wouldn't be? Someone as precious to them as you, who they thought they knew better than the back of their hands, but it turned out to be a complete lie. How much were you keeping from your dear friends? Draken held up his hand, cutting off Baji before the other could start to demand answers. "How many, and what kind?" Being a lot more skeptical than his hot-headed friend, Toman’s Vice Captain crossing his arms as he bodily turned away from the flight of stairs you had just fled up would have made for a frightening sight, his face taut with the effort of keeping the worry from his expression, though neither Mikey nor Kazutora held no such reservation, both boys almost a mirror of each other as they slammed open palms into your creaking wooden table, who took the blow with a groan.

“Who is Izana?!” “Who the fuck is Izana?!”

The Toman Vice Captain let out a groan, and both boys were sent reeling from the dining table with a slap each to the back of their heads. “Shut up.” Even in the wake of such a serious event, these two needy babies couldn’t take things seriously for once when it came to you - this was a negotiation between gangs, and jumping straight to the question was accepting all the terms at face value. “Sorry bout that, Hase-san.”

“No worries. An hour of questions, and nothing too personal about Boss.”

The blond-haired boy with the dragon tattoo pulled out a chair, waving the other to take a seat. “Let’s discuss.”

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It had been a full hour after Hase had concluded his talk with the Toman founders, and a ward away back in the Red Dragonflies’s home turf of Shinagawa City, it was in an unassuming room that two of the Wings had gathered over a chessboard. Plain, painted beige walls were covered with baseball pictures of kind, and another wall was lined with an unproportionally huge bookshelf and filled to the brim with books - yet the centre of focus of the room was a rack with a collection of various baseball bats right next to a simple bed, the sole shelf that no one else was allowed to touch. “White knight to D4 please.” Koji set his cup down on the coffee table, and not far from where he sat, a dull clink: the distinct sound of a chess piece being set back down on its wooden board. “So what do you think?”

Jun furrowed his eyebrows as he surveyed the board. “And they still don’t know about that night? Or what she’s done with him?” The Second Wing clarified. “Black bishop to D4.”

“Unlikely given their reaction,” the Third Wing responded, adjusting himself on the cushion as he recalled what Hase had told them earlier. “Can’t imagine they would have been as manageable as they were if they did. White queen to D4.”

“True,” Jun paused, momentarily falling silent as he thought both about his next move and Koji’s words. “Boss is on the move again huh?”

Koji nodded. “Cutting through Shibuya.” They had no doubt of your exact location as you moved through the city; with a gang as big as theirs and the number of connections the Wings had, it was almost child’s play to have eyes on you at all times. Okay no, even Koji had to admit to himself that that was a lie without certain caveats - it was child’s play to have you followed and tracked if you weren’t trying to hide, like you were last night after disappearing from your room. No amount of connections or eyes found you despite them scouring the city, and all the Red Dragonflies could do was wait on their ass for you to appear once more.

You were simply too good at concealing yourself when you wanted to disappear.

“Meeting Izana?”

“Not just yet. I have men in the area around the cafe, they haven’t reported any sighting of her or Izana.”

“Hmmm. She could have changed the location or the-”

The conversation and his thoughts were momentarily derailed when Jun’s bedroom door burst open, and two girls stumbled in, still dressed in their elementary school uniform. “Nii-san!” “Nii-san!” They echoed, instantly reaching to tug at those golden locks attached to their older brother's head.

“OI!” A flail of arms had them let go for an instance, though the twin Matsuno sisters were quickly back at it with their grabby hands. “I FUCKING TOLD YOU TWO I’M BUSY!”

“No cursing nii-san!”

“Yeah no cursing!”

“We can’t reach the biscuits!"

"We'll cry if you don't get it for us!"

Jun only let out a string of even more colorful curses as he forced himself to stand, grabbing his baseball bat as he stalked out the door, his screeching echoing back. “RYUU! I TOLD YOU TO HANDLE IT!”

Koji sipped on his tea, following the shouting and the various bangs of objects and doors fading down the corridor. “I told you I’m studying, nii-san!”

“FUCKing STUDYING MY ASS! ONLY SHITBRAINS LIKE FURUSAWA HAVE TO STUDY!”

“Its always the fucking Sanos I swear.” Jun complained as he settled back down, bedroom door having been slammed shut and locked behind him, though it was a moment later that Koji realized what the conversation had moved to. “First Izana, now fucking Mikey. I fucking hate that Shinichiro. Peanut for brains. What was he even thinking?”

“You think so too?”

“Fuck yes?! She’s like a fucking dog on a leash - indulges them too much. Let them do whatever they fucking want, have you heard how many of her schoolmates they beat up?”

“We did that too,” Koji pointed out, earning himself an extremely annoyed tsk.

“That was different! And we don’t ask for cuddles or to sleep in her bed, do we? Fucking clingy bastards, every last one of them.”

“Well-“

“Fuck you, if you had asked her out earlier we wouldn’t be in this fucking mess, would we?”

He could feel the very pointed look shot at him without even looking, and Koji couldn’t stop the blush that crept up his neck onto his face. That was a very personal attack, and Jun knew it. “I-I couldn’t, okay?”

Jun sneered, but the sound quickly gave way to a thoughtful mumble. “I supposed if we could turn them on Izana and his new gang, it would be useful.”

The Third Wing straightened, a feeling of hope blossoming in his chest. They just might be able to save you after all. “Explain.”

‎

If he was being completely honest with himself, Takemichi had to admit he lost the plot a long time ago. When he had first started, he had only one goal in mind: to stop Hina’s seemingly inevitable future death. Yet even several leaps in plus the counsel of a police detective in the form of Naoto, the twenty-six year old couldn’t quite say where he had gone wrong: he just couldn’t figure out where you fit in. In his current future, with so many deaths still fresh on his mind - Mitsuya’s peaceful, almost sleep-like one, surrounded by flowers, and Mikey’s tearful goodbyes and those pain-filled eyes, hiding out in the middle of nowhere begging to be put out of his misery - Naoto had been unable to find any head or tail of you, though you certainly did exist in the past (where he had seen you with his own two eyes), the detective having pulled out your old school records. But the trail went stale there - no job applications, no hospital records, no death certificate. You seemed to have vanished off the surface of the earth roughly twelve to ten years ago, never to be seen again, and there was no trace of the Red Dragonflies left anywhere.

It didn't make any sense - you clearly were the sun that the Toman founders revolved around despite you turning out to be a rival gang leader yourself, and Takemichi having only ever caught a glimpse of you alongside them once. Chifuyu had refused to speak any further about you after that fight in the abandoned docks of Shinagawa, muttering that Baji-san would not be happy and it was better Takemichi forget he ever saw you, and the same went for any member clad in the black and gold uniform - most simply paled and asked if he was looking to die. The six monster delinquents that made up the backbone of the Tokyo Manji Gang seemed almost normal (if he dared say) with you laughing in their midst, ruffling their hair and handing out forehead kisses like they were children - no doubt none would have let you go so easily. So where were you?

Takemichi was barely able to muffle the groan that slipped out, drawing just the attention of his classmate to his left as he ruffled his hair in despair. What to do now? Letting out a sigh, the blond-haired boy slumped in his seat, allowing his head to drop and hit the wooden table top with a thud. Though he did mildly regret that decision as well given the wood was much harder than it looked, and his forehead was throbbing. Hopefully it didn’t bruise too. The sun had barely rose over the horizon of trees that lined the windows of his classroom, rays of morning light filtering through the leaf canopy muted on the rough surface of the blackboard already scribbled with several math questions,

The light knock on the classroom door that broke his teacher's rambling words had him nearly rocketing off his seat, his train of thoughts quickly derailed with the wave of sudden dread settling into the base of his gut. The mere probability that it was Mikey and Draken that had come looking for him again was enough to have him break into a cold sweat, though his nerves instantly settled when it was your soft, melodic voice rang out across the otherwise silent classroom. "Sorry for the disruption, is there a Hanagaki Takemichi here?"

Oh you were just looking for Hanagaki Takem - wait. That was him. And your voice sounded awfully familiar for some reason -

Takemichi only had enough time to poke the top of his head above his propped up textbook before twenty sets of eyes instantly turned accusingly on him, but your own set of doe eyes never left his teacher’s to follow the others, a gentle smile pulling at your lips when his teacher couldn’t help glancing in his direction. The blond-haired boy was sure he could hear the unspoken accusations loud and clear from just those looks alone - what horrors did he unleash this time? First Mikey and Draken, now what?

More importantly, what in the world were you doing here of all places asking after him? Weren’t Mikey and the others turning Tokyo upside down looking for you right this moment? That mental image of you lying (asleep or unconscious, he didn’t know nor did he want to find out) in your Vice President’s arms, Toman’s founders having rushed to your side and congregated around you as if in prayer. Those looks on their faces: they had been burned into his mind ever since that night; the absolute fear, the sheer rage. The urge to maim. He gulped - you were going to be the death of him, and Takemichi wasn’t quite that keen on dying just yet after all. How the fuck did he get himself into this mess again?

Though somewhat fortunately for him, the same math teacher that had always scared the living wits out of Takemichi was in his corner this time, and was none too willing to give him up that easily. Probably because of his abysmal grades. “Excuse me, who are you to Hanagaki-kun? You don’t seem to be from this school and class is ongoing,” she demanded, though those extremely stern eyes simply bounced off an unflinching you.

Seemingly more perplexed at her question than frightened witless by that death stare, you paused, your head cocking to your side as you considered her question for a moment before it registered. "Ah! I have-" Turning to rummage through your bag, you retrieved what looked like a carefully folded note. "I have a letter from the principal to excuse Hanagaki-san for the rest of the day. May I come in?"

The once-lifeless classroom instantly erupted into hushed whispers, his classmates now shamelessly leaning over aisles and tables to discuss their conspiracies, the eyes that previously only stared as long as was courteous were now fixed on him like flies to a honey trap. Though this time, Takemichi had to admit he couldn’t quite disagree with the gossip storm whipped up - who were you to get a letter from the principal just to excuse a mere student like him? Why him? But he didn’t have much time to ponder that either. You were waved in regardless of their theories, the blond-haired boy only watching the letter changing hands, and then the resignation that washed over his teacher’s face as she scanned over the crisp paper. “All right then. Hanagaki-kun, please gather your things. The rest of the class, turn your attention back to the question on the blackboard.”

The pressure he felt on his chest grew with every step you took towards him, his heart pounding away while cold sweat coated his shaking hands as he attempted to shove his belongings into his bag as quickly as he could. You either didn’t notice his nervousness at your presence, or rather you chose not to, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you picked up and offered him a lonely pencil left behind on the desk. “You ready?”

Your attention was drawn away as he haphazardly stuffed down the last of his papers, a quick rap on the desk of Takemichi's deskmate having said boy jerking his gaze up to meet yours as the math class started up once more around the two of you, the scribbling of pencils and chalk against blackboard quickly rising to cover up the sound of murmuring students. Winking as you held a finger up to your lips, the usually silent Suzuki who Takemichi had been seated next to for the past half a year looked like he had seen a ghost, face paling to a chalk white before reluctantly nodding.

“Right, let’s go.” You ushered him out the back door. “Come on, we have five minutes before Hisao outs us.”

“Hisao?” The blond-haired delinquent repeated in a daze, his bag swinging loosely from his grip.

“One of Koji’s, if my memory still serves me well.” You scratched at the nape of your neck as you breezed down empty corridors with ease, navigating the corridors like you had been here your whole life. "Though I swore he was in a different school?"

Hisao-kun; that meek, quiet boy who barely spoke? He was a delinquent as well?

“How can someone so unassuming be a delinquent, huh?” You laughed when Takemichi almost walked straight into a wall upon hearing his exact thoughts said out loud. “You’re too obvious, Hanagaki-san. Not every delinquent wants to stand out, you know?”

Your hand shot out to catch the elbow of his uniform, pulling him round the bend of a side corridor. “They all have their own stories and histories they carry,” you mused, as the two of you started your descent down a dim stairwell, the lack of students in usually crowded halls only serving to amplify your voice, and then the deafening silence as you fell quiet.

“Um..uh…” Takemichi scratched at the back of his head, fumbling for a way to break the awkward lull. What should he say? Why did you call him out of his class? Where should he start with his growing list of questions? “How should I address you? D-do I call you Boss too?”

He wanted nothing more than to kick himself in that instance. But you didn’t seem to mind his foot-in-mouth moment, your lips instead twitching upwards as the two of you stepped out into the mid-morning, an umbrella sprouting up above you. “Told those meatheads to knock it off.” You mumbled under your breath, the fondness carried in your voice unmistakeable, those doe eyes turning on him as the blond-haired boy was pelted with drizzle. “I’m not your boss, Hanagaki-san. My name will do.”

"Takemichi is fine. So why did you call me out?" He tried to ignore it the best he could, the feeling of his clothes slowly drenching and his hair gel coming apart, given he had forgotten to bring his umbrella, but you noticed and generously waved him under the shelter of your own, though you did hand it over to him to carry for the two of you.

“Not beating around the bush, I like it. But here is hardly the place to talk, Takemichi-san. Walls have ears.”

“Walls have ears, right,” the boy muttered to himself, eyes turning back down to scan the wet gray pavement. Here he was, once more following a stranger to god-knows-where and crossing his fingers that it didn’t get him killed or worse. The rest of the short walk was spent in that same silence; at least you seemed comfortable, humming a tune under your breath as you led him down twisting alleys that Takemichi never knew existed despite having lived in this city all his life. At some point the time leaper couldn’t quite pinpoint, your silent duo seemed to have crossed some unspoken line, and his surroundings - even the very air - around him shifted. The buildings grew taller and taller with every turn the two of you took, reaching up like tendrils in an attempt to swallow the sky. Even in broad daylight, something felt very off with this place, and the unlit signs that popped up more and more, sprawled haphazardly across worn walls tiled with large gray bland tiles, loose messes of wires hanging low between buildings, didn’t help make the blond-haired delinquent feel any more at home than the unusual stillness permeating the narrow backstreet and the feeling of eyes following the two of you.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t hear the bustling city just a stone’s throw away; the crowds couldn’t have been that far off, one street, maybe two? Almost as if he was in a bubble of sorts, the rumble of people muffled and the atmosphere they brought muted. This was no place to be caught as a passerby, Takemichi knew, yet for all the nervous glances tossed your way, you didn’t once look concerned. He would have continued on his merry way without noticing you stopping in front of one of many well-decorated doors if not for you catching his sleeve once more, and the blond-haired delinquent just had enough time to straighten up when the door slid open with nay a creak, only for Takemichi to instantly pale at the sight of a burly man filling the doorway with full sleeves of tattoos, and a very thick hand wrapped around what was very obviously a gun. “Can I help you?”

You ignored both the man and Takemichi’s visible sweating, instead attempting to peek past the enormous figure in your way. “Shoji! I’m here!”

A crash immediately echoed out from deep inside the house, followed by a failed attempt at holding back swearing and a ‘Let her in!’. Said doorman stepped back and aside, and you said your thanks, walking in and straight onto sleek wooden floors without blinking an eye, though this time Takemichi was hot on your heels, blue eyes fixed unmoving on you as he kept his head down; he wasn’t risking being left outside by himself, not with the sharp gaze of the guardian of the door trailing him suspiciously right up till the two of you disappeared round a corner. He wondered what fresh new hell he had just walked into.

Fortunately, nothing of the physical kind (or yet at least), Takemichi having to cough back his laugh at the sight of said Shoji laying on the floor groaning with his head in his hands, a book on the floor next to him, as the two of you stepped through the doorway of a non-descript room. But you had no such restraint, the genuine laugh slipping from your lips light, taking both of them by surprise, Shoji blinking owly up at you, his mouth an O shape. “Always the compromising positions, Shoji.”

“I swear it’s not me this time,” the average-looking boy whined, quickly picking himself up and off the floor, narrowed hazelnut eyes sliding to glance at a now-shut door before returning to you. “Mia threw it at me right the instant you yelled.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”

The other ran one hair through black hair, letting out a groan as he thrusted the book at you. “I swear! I don’t even read this shit!”

“You don’t read anything, you mean,” you retorted. “You still don’t read anything.”

For once, Takemichi felt lucky that he had all but faded into the background amidst the commotion your arrival had drummed up, the blond-haired delinquent watching from the doorway as you and your friend (?) bantered back and forth like kids on a schoolyard, Shoji having barely blinked an eye at his presence. Yes, you two were just kids. Amidst the plain, normal-looking reading room, and the laughter and smiles as you caught up with Shoji, lightly wacking him with the book when he complained, it was almost hard to remember where he was or the burly man he had scampered past just minutes earlier, Takemichi somewhat relaxing into the wooden frame - it felt homely.

“So what are you doing here? You hardly ever come round.”

“We’re just passing through. I need to access the tunnels.” You paused, before continuing. “And don’t let Hase or the others know.”

Shoji sighed, replacing the book on the table, switching it out for a judo jo that had been tucked away behind a bookshelf. “You never changed either. Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

“So how did you know I was back?” The black-haired boy grumbled, though he didn’t look particularly annoyed at the fact as he led the small group through winding hallways, Takemichi having long lost which way was back. “No one was supposed to know, not even you.”

“That’s because-”

“That’s because I told her, Shoji!” The blond-haired boy felt his face pale one more as yet another enormous man seemingly appeared from nowhere, bare chest and arms completely covered in hair-raising tattoos depicting an assortment of demons and man-eating animals, his yukata hanging from his waist as he marched forward. But it wasn’t just the tattoos or the threateningly thick muscles that had the twenty-six year old trapped in his juvenile body ready to bolt and never look back. There was something about his aura, the way the older man carried himself that screamed authority. That screamed danger. This was undoubtedly someone that had taken lives with not a wink of sleep lost, and would do it again.

“Mr Tsutsui!” You laughed, leaping forward into unexpected open arms. And Takemichi could only watch gobsmacked as said man with the pants-wetting glare burst into an equally unanticipated hearty chuckle as he wrapped those beefy arms around you. “It’s been a while!”

What was with you and men who seemed to defy human proportions?! The time leaper bit his tongue.

“Been a while? You didn’t come visit!” The yakuza boss ever so gently patted your back, the soft smile looking foreign on that hardened face. “How’s it going? Everything okay? Is that fucking piece of shit still bothering you?”

Those steely grays slid to him. “And who’s this?” It was the first time anyone had bothered to question his very out of place existence in this place, and Takemichi couldn’t say he liked it.

You came straight to his rescue.“This is Hanagaki Takemichi, Mr Tsutsui! He’s a friend,” you chirped.

“A new boyfriend?” One suspicious eye and a hand itching in his direction, the man’s shadow seemed to flicker and grow across the wooden floor boards like hungry ghosts - Takemichi gulped. This was it. He could see his life flashing before his eyes.

You, on the other hand, just seemed rather amused. “No, no. Just a friend. A friend-friend.”

And he was instantly dropped from all relevance, the yakuza boss instead turning on his son. “SHOJI! When are you going to marry her huh? Hurry up!” The older man complained, wacking the younger Tsutsui on the back hard enough for the slap to echo.

Shoji, on the other hand, seemed a lot more preoccupied with trying to cool his flushing face as opposed to the hit he just took, the poor black-haired boy trying desperately to look anywhere else but at you. “Oto-san! Stop it, you’re embarrassing me!”

“Embarrassing? You’re embarrassing! Why haven’t you learnt to be a better boss like this young lady here?! When are you going to snag her before someone else does?”

“OTO-SAN!”

“Ah Mr Tsutsui, I can assure you Shoji is a fantastic boss.” You patted one thick arm, looking up at the man towering over you with no fear in your eyes, conveniently pretending you hadn’t heard his second question. “He’s come a long way.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Mr Tsutsui humpfed, but he stepped aside to make way for you to pass through. “I’ll let you be on your way now. Come round more often, you hear?”

“Of course, Mr Tsutsui! See you soon!” One final wave, and the man disappeared behind yet another identical door, followed swiftly by another black-suited man that Takemichi had failed to see previously, the door sliding close and locking shut with little fanfare.

“Stupid oto-san and his stupid mouth,” grumbled Shoji after him, taking a turn in the opposite direction; the narrow corridor the three of you had been travelling down opening up in a vastly wider hallway lined with spotless wood panels but still equally devoid of souls, elegant paintings hanging at evenly spaced distance giving the place a softness and sense of delicacy that the people did not. “He needs to learn when to stop talking, I swear.”

But you obviously disagreed, stifling a laugh behind delicate hands. “Your father is a great boss. There’s still much to learn from him, I would say.”

“Still! He’s so embarrassing, god!”

One more turn, and it was a positively small, worn door that seemed to have been your final destination in this cold, lifeless place, Shoji heaving open the heavy door to reveal a void of nothingness beyond except for the sole light on the opposing wall, waving Takemichi on while pulling you aside. The blond-haired delinquent though didn’t dare to venture far from the door on the off-chance it did close behind him and seal him away; he knew you weren’t the sort to bring him all the way here just to sentence him to death, but still.

From his nervous dance right on the inside of the thick steel vault-like door, he found that he could still hear traces of your conversation. “You haven’t met Izana yet?”

“No, not just yet. In a bit.”

“Stay safe, you hear? He’s still as unpredictable as ever.”

“I promise I will - I’m not going around looking for trouble.” There was a pause, and Takemichi scrambled to move away as your voice floated towards him. “I’ll see you later, Shoji.”

The door closing reverberated around the round enclosure, the tunnel walls vibrating slightly with the force of the door.

“Sorry for making you walk all the way here,” you started, waving him to follow as you led him down into the nothingness, the dim light fixtures to worn, leaky walls doing little to illuminate where any of you were going. “But it’s kind of on-the-way for me, and it is a private place to talk.”

“Ah- don’t worry about it!” Takemichi let out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “So what did you want to speak about?”

You hummed, the sole note haunting in the dark. “I know that look.”

Those few words were enough to almost trip him with how they caught him off guard. "Huh?" Takemichi spluttered out. "Wh-what are you talking about?"

Yet you didn't even miss a beat, unsurprised by his reaction, your walk coming to a stop as you turned to face him with a curious lilt of your head. "That old soul trapped behind your eyes," you elaborated, those doe eyes of yours that showed the world everything you thought yet at the same time seemed to read his past and present through his gaze alone. “You’ve… experienced things no one should, and they have left a mark on your conscience. On your soul.”

You couldn’t possibly know, could you? “I-I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Takemichi felt the lie seep through clenched teeth. He was in so much trouble.

And you instantly saw through that as well, your lips quirking upwards. "I won't ask. Too much information can be a curse." You continued to walk. “I’m more interested in your relationship with Mikey and Ken-chin.”

Ken-chin? “Oh, Draken? I- um- we’re…friends?”

“I’ve only just started seeing you around, but you’ve left quite the impression. They went to pick you up from school, didn’t they? Mikey’s spoken about you too, previously. Said you reminded him of Shinichiro-san.”

Mikey?! Spoke about him? Takemichi gulped. He didn’t like where this was going at all, and he was following a stranger down a tunnel.

“Takemichi-san.” Under one flickering lamp, you stopped once more, turning to face the time leaper directly. “I need your help.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve ran my Red Dragonflies since I was eight. They've relied on me as much as I've relied on them for strength. And I don't think I can walk away from them again. But my boys - Toman doesn’t like them. At all.” You admitted, your hands folding behind your back as you turned to lean on the old wall. “I think you know how overprotective they are over me. They hate my Reds. But I can’t pick sides.”

He didn’t respond, but you pushed on regardless.

“I- I’m worried. About Mikey. About Kazutora. About Baji and my friends. I don’t know how they would react if I can’t be there for them, whether they'll try to take it into their own hands.” Sighing as you ran one hand through your hair, you seemed to have age where you stood, the eyebags hanging under both eyes darkening. “Drastic measures with drastic, dire consequences.”

The tunnels were deathly silent, somehow even more so than the maze of rooms and tunnels above - Takemichi barely dared to breathe, let alone answer you, should he wake the creatures of the dark. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep everyone safe. But I can’t be everywhere at once. I don’t want them to get hurt doing something stupid in my name.”

“Promise me you’ll look after them.” He wasn’t being given an option, the gentle look in your doe eyes replaced by that same steely gaze he had seen all those nights ago now levelled at him, the first night he had ever seen you. The night of the fight at the Shinagawa container terminal with your own men. And trapped here with you with no knowledge which way was up or down, there was little else Takemichi could do, though he thinks he would have regardless of where you had cornered him.

“I-I promise.” Because how could he not? With your determination to go to any length for Mikey - and with Mikey’s cold body against warm skin still fresh in his mind - there wasn’t anything for Takemichi to lose in siding with you. Maybe you were the turning factor in his struggle against Kisaki. “I’ll keep them safe.”

You simply nodded, finally straightening from the wall and continuing to walk, your light steps barely audible despite his own echoing for miles down the labyrinth. The silence, at least, was now a more comfortable one.

“Well, this is your stop, Takemichi-san.” Glancing back down the tunnels into the swallowing darkness, you smiled at him, beckoning him to enter the phobia-inducing unlit side tunnel. “Just follow this all the way and you’ll see a ladder. It’ll bring you back out near your school. Mine is up ahead.”

“I’m counting on you, Hanagaki Takemichi.”

‎‎

Masashi has long been the quietest member of the Four Wings, and despite the mousy-brown haired boy being more than capable to lead his own division, it wasn’t a stretch to say his strength was far outstripped by the other three Wings and the beast that was Furusawa. Such were facts he and the others knew well, especially when it came to taking advantage of rivals underestimating him. So when Hase and Jun had approached him to discuss the high possibility of your Toman boys approaching him for information on you and what information he should disclose, Masashi made sure to listen to his two older friends - he didn’t want to mess up or worse, make life even harder for you.

And yet again, Jun and Hase had spot on with their predictions; Masashi had heard them coming before they ever had the chance to knock on his door, trampling all over his floor with their dirty boots. The Fourth Wing resigned himself to asking one of his members to clean it again after they left - he wouldn’t be able to work in peace with the thought of his floor being desecrated like that.

Moments later, as expected, a quick rap on the door before two heads, one lilac and one blond with a dragon tattoo, were revealed from behind the door, dressed in full Toman uniform. He supposed they weren’t too bad, given how clean their white boots were. “Pardon us for the intrusion, Tsuchida-san,” the boy he knew as one Takashi Mitsuya called out as he strolled in. “We have some questions if you have the time.”

The other - Baji Keiseke, you told Masashi before - simply kept quiet, glancing around the room filled with gadgets of all kinds and seemingly random objects that Masashi had been testing for use as weapons, though the annoyance at having been seemingly dragged here against his will was clear on his face. That was easy to read at least. He waved them into the only two available chairs.

Bringing up his hands, the Fourth Wing tried to communicate first with Japanese Sign Language, asking them to please call him Masashi, then switching to American Sign Language when he only got confused looks in return. But neither got through, only serving to anger the previously unspeaking Baji, who threw up his hands. “You throwing gang signs at us huh?!”

A hand shot out to catch him by the wrist, forcing him back down into his seat. “Behave, Baji,” Mistuya chided, before turning back to Masashi. “Sorry Tsuchida-san, we can’t understand you.”

The brown onion-haired boy let out a silent sigh, reaching out across his table. The duo tensed, only for a ding to ring out - Masashi settling back into his seat, his hand retracting to reveal a table bell.

A moment later, a knock, the door opening to reveal another brown-haired well-muscled boy in a tank top, signature red jacket tied loosely around his waist, spannel in hand. “You called, Cap?”

Masashi pointed at your two Toman friends, and signed quickly. The boy nodded as Mitsuya turned to shoot him a quizzing look. “I’m Hideo, the Fourth Division Vice Captain. And Cap says to call him Masashi.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not you,” assured the other, rubbing his neck. “Cap’s selectively mute. He doesn’t talk much, so I’ll be helping to translate his sign language.”

Masashi signed more as Hideo made his way over to his captain’s side of the desk, taking a seat on a stool that he pulled out from under the desk. “Captain says ask away, he’ll try to answer whatever he can.”

Mitsuya and Baji exchanged glances, before the shorter of the two took a breath and started. “We were wondering about Izana’s relationship-”

This was going to be a long day.

‎

What to do, you wondered, letting a hum slip past your lips, the resigned smile pulling at your lips matching the weariness in your eyes. You never meant to try to balance as many moving parts as you did, torn between your past and your present; yet with every tweak you made in a vain attempt to solve the kinks in the system only surfaced more problems you simply didn’t know how to solve. What to do indeed. “Am I strong enough, nii-san?” You sighed, resting your head against the cool stone as you mentally ran through the events of the past few weeks again in your head, your hand fiddling with the petal of a fresh flower. “Should I keep going down this road?”

The rustling leaves of the giant canopy stretching overhead whispered its answers, the breeze caressing your cheeks and hair, though you could understand neither. The cemetery was usually quiet at this time of day, with most of the living caught up in their own day-to-day rather than bother about those who were lost to time; but you found yourself having wandered here again, as you always did when you needed to think. Somewhere you could just be without the weight of someone else’s expectations. In a kinder life, you were sure this safe place would have been home, where your older brother would have fearlessly fought off anyone who dared disturb you during your rest time. The thought of your only family, forever young in your memories, squaring off with and scaring away a much larger yet very confused Furusawa brought a small wave of giggles. You yearned for nothing more than to hear those teasing words you could almost hear fall from your older sibling’s mouth, that of course you weren't strong enough, that you shouldn't try to bite off more than you could chew, that you should let your big brother take care of things. Alas, life had other ideas, and here you were.

“It’s tough,” was all you could bring yourself to admit out loud, though you couldn’t help but laugh as you hastily wiped away the accompanying tears welling along your eyes that came with the turmoil of emotion in your chest that you kept strictly locked away; who knew what would happen if ever you let that out. “Look at me being a complete mess. Crying for no reason.”

Hands wandering to tug at the few errant blades of weeds at the foot of the grave, it was times like this you had to wonder how he did it - how did your brother cope with being a gang leader along with all the stresses of raising you? And it wasn’t like your brother’s life was anything that could be described as easy even before you came along - you vaguely recall his own inner circle berating him for taking on the extra burden of caring for you once, though maybe you remembered that incident wrongly. It was quite the distant past after all, and the sound of boisterous laughter and copious amounts of alcohol filled the memories of your early life far more often than not. Running one hand through your hair, you instead turned your mind to more recent, pressing matters; no point reminiscing on a past you couldn’t change when you were now stuck in a conundrum of tangled situations. “Well nii-san, hope you’re ready to listen cause I think I got myself into quite a pickle this time.”

You had long fallen quiet after pouring out your problems and bouncing possible solutions off your unanswering audience, now content with enjoying the temporary peace that came with the territory. Having made up your mind on which road to walk, all you could do now was to wait and find out what laid for you and your friends at the end of the dark tunnel, heavy eyelids closing against your will with the onset of silence. It was the sound of footsteps nearing that finally broke you from your stupor, the quick glimpse of white-hair you caught from the corner of your eye giving away your guest. “Izzy?” You mumbled, turning in the direction of the sound as your eyes fluttered open, though you made no move to stand from where you had been resting against your family headstone. “What’re you doing here?”

The white-haired boy only chuckled as he squatted to gently brush away a freshly fallen leaf from the otherwise immaculately kept grave, carefully laying a bouquet of fresh chrysanthemums on the altar as you frowned down at your watch. The new glow of yellow reflected in black granite was a memento of the afternoon sun missing from the overcast sky. He knew exactly where to find you even before you failed to turn up at the agreed meeting spot - one glance at the familiar faces mixed in with the usual crowd on the prowl for him and you and Izana was sure you weren’t anywhere close by. You were always so diligent with the upkeep of this place. It had been raining earlier, yet your family marker was already dry while droplets still clung stubbornly to the others around you, the crisp flowers on either side of the headstone swaying lightly in the wind. “Pay my respects, of course. Brought some flowers.”

Your furrowed eyebrows only pinched further. “It’s not time yet, is it?

“It is. An hour past, in fact.”

Blinking, the words slowly settled into your head as he busied himself rinsing his hands off with your dipper and pail. “An ho-” Attempting to quickly lurch to your feet, you would have hit the ground face first if not for Izana’s quick catch of your waist. “I’m late!”

The white-haired boy tugged you down. “Don’t worry about it. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You’re here,” you repeated again, staring blankly at him as he picked his bouquet back up. “Oh! Izzy, you’re here!”

“I am indeed,” the white-haired boy replied amusedly, splitting the bundle of fresh yellow flowers into rough halfs. “I’ll just add them to the side.” Izana never had the chance to know, let alone meet, your brother, your older sibling having passed years before he ever met you, but no doubt without his influence, you probably would have never had come roaring into his life - he would suppose he did own a lot to this mysterious figure you so adored even now.

Simply humming your acknowledgement, you accepted his hand, and Izana pulled you back up. “You’ve grown a couple of tails.” One tanned thumbed pointing to behind his shoulder - there was one he spotted not far off, watching the two of you from a distance. “Seems like they knew you would pop up here.”

“They’ve been around. But we’ll lose them soon.”

But one tanned hand halted your steps before you could leave, the same hand retrieving a small brown envelope from the depths of his jacket to pass over to you. “Before we leave, this is for you. I found this stashed away.”

“A photo?” Those doe eyes of you instantly lighted up as the entire image was revealed from the depths of the envelope. “Oh, this is!” You certainly recognised the two men beaming back at you from the aged paper, each with an arm thrown cheekily over the other, posed dangerously on some kind of ledge with their two motorcycles in front. Izana knew the one of the right well - it was his Shinichiro, the same one who took him in when there was no one else to turn to. The other man though - “It’s nii-san and Shinichiro-san!”

But you looked uncertain. “Are you sure I can have this?”

“Why not?”

“Well… Shinichiro is here as well, wouldn’t you like to keep the photo?” Your gaze dropped away from his, though one delicate finger continued to lightly trace meaningless patterns into the frail yellow paper. “I could just make a copy of -”

A finger pressed on your lips before you could finish. You’ve never been able to hide your true feelings well, especially not from him. “It’s for you.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, hugging the paper to your chest, before ever so carefully replacing the priceless photo into its envelope and slipping it into your bag.

Izana stood, dusting his pants off slightly before offering you his hand. “Shall we go?”

‎

Hase never quite got used to the overwhelming smell of fried trash that was nuggets. Didn’t matter where it was from, what choice piece of chicken went into making it and what expensive oil they were fried in - the stomach-turning smell simply from being in the same room as a box of them was enough to make him hurl. There was no way Hase could spin this to even begin to understand what pleasure Furusawa (or anyone with better taste honestly) got from gouging himself silly on these, yet here he was strolling down the road with the most wretched smelling package consisting of not one, but two boxes of McDonald’s nuggets (the apparent holy grail of nuggets, whatever that meant) hanging off his arm that obviously weren’t for him.

Unfamiliar streets came with its share of stares and whispers, though the attention directed towards his towering figure, pierced ears and blue side-swept hair were to be expected - unlike their home ground of Shinagawa, the good folks of Shibuya were probably a lot less familiar with the sight of him or accepting with how much he stuck out of a crowd. Not that it bothered Hase of course; the Red Dragonflies’ First Wing clad in a simple black tee and jeans more focused on pausing at every shadowy side street and checking its name against the small text printed on his screen, the inability to find the small lane whose address he had drawing his ire a lot more than the opinions of nobodies.

How fucking difficult could it be to find one god-forsaken street? Letting out yet another sigh, he ran one hand through his hair, the well-gelled strands bouncing back into their precise location as his palm passed over them. This was precisely why he hated anywhere outside of Shinagawa, Hase concluded, with no relief to spare even as he finally turned down the right back lane, the overlapping shadows casted by tall glittery buildings lining both sides quickly swallowing him back into the comfortable darkness. Fortunately for him, there was little searching left to do, the sight of the former Black Dragon Captain leaning against an unassuming door frame, signature lollipop stick hanging from his lips, though it was the yellow and purple striped hair that really caught his attention. What a change from the mob of white he remembered, even if Hase couldn’t quite agree with the color combination, his lips involuntarily quirking as he neared. “What happened to your hair?”

“Changed it a little,” came Wakasa’s flat, unamused response, as he straightened, leading the way into the building. “Watch your head.” Though it seemed that Wakasa had said too little too late given there was little left to dodge - a very clear man shaped hole where someone clearly smashed through parts of the doorway where he couldn’t fit.

There was a brief moment of silence, and the neighborhood’s ambience, consisting mostly of the occasional quiet rumble of a nearby washing machine and the rustle of clothes being set out to dry, that seeped in through the gaps in the wall, only delayed the inevitable.

“So what’s up with Furusawa?” And there it was, Wakasa’s droopy eyes failing to hide the interest lacing his tone, the older man turning slightly to glance at Hase. “Haven’t seen him this upset since his first and only loss against me and Benkei.”

“He had a fight with Boss,” Hase replied, the slight amusement he had found all but evaporating as the weight of life came crashing down once more, his expression returning to its usual sullen frown. Right, he still had yet to deal with Furusawa. “Must be pretty bad. He doesn’t even want to spar.” The delinquent-turn-gym owner directed Hase’s attention to the rightmost wall with a quick thumb as the narrow corridor opened up into a big, airy room. Allowing his eyes to wash over the racks of weights and the small boxing ring, the sight of a flat ass in white pants sticking out of what used to be a wooden padded wall broke the overall tranquility of the quiet area. He had to bite his tongue just to keep his expression serious, but even if Wakasa noticed, he didn’t bring it up. “Benkei and I offered for old times’ sake, since he looked so down. Furusawa ignored us, but Benkei went ahead anyway. One punch.”

“Fucking stupid old man.” The First Wing let out an aggravated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just send me the bill for the repair. We’ll take care of it.”

“Door and the wall. Can’t take classes like that.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll get it to Koji.” Hase mumbled distractedly, having spotted that eye-catching mob of hair even where it was sprawled from behind some benches from the moment he walked in. At least those colors made more sense than whatever the old Black Dragon was sporting.

“Koji?” Wakasa stopped him with an arm before he could take another step, that raised eyebrow saying everything without a single spoken word. “No Koji. Too stingy. You handle it.”

“That’s why he’s our treasurer. But fine, I’ll settle this later.”

‎

The sound of the front door clicking close behind the former Black Dragon resounded back down the dark corridor behind him, but Hase paid it no mind, advancing cautiously on his target. “Furusawa?”

There was no response, not even a twitch from where the usually unflappable Vice Captain lied. Reaching the makeshift barricade of racks and closets, said man didn’t turn at the call of his name nor at the smell of his ultimate indulgence, slumped on his side facing the wooden paneled wall where he had been since stumbling in the previous night.

“Mr. Nakamura said you didn’t turn up for work today. He was waiting for you by the gates all morning,” Hase paused, glancing to his side once more at the mob of brown and pink hair - still nothing. The blue-haired man itched to light the cigarette he was twirling between his fingers, though tucking the stick out of sight at least helped to temper that temptation. Wakasa definitely would have something to say about smoking inside his gym even if it did help momentarily lift this weariness of life Hase could never quite shake. “He and the others bought you some nuggets you know, said to come back whenever you feel better.”

“Don’t wanna work,” Furusawa grumbled, shifting slightly on his side, thick white-knuckled fingers clenched around his tattooed arms tightening their grip.

At least getting a response was a good start, but the actual content of the answer was not. Of all the defense, security and less-than-savory job contractors from around the world that had come knocking trying to recruit the infamous beast (the First Wing shuddered to think of all the trouble if you hadn’t stepped in to fend them off from your clueless partner-in-crime with your equally infamous connections), Hase was certain Furusawa had rather liked his construction jobs that you had found and approved for him. Manual, simple and well-paid.

“How bout a no-limits spar?” He offered instead, nudging the other’s leg with his heel. A rarely-offered treat, given Hase’s disdain for Furusawa’s no-limit strength and his lack of awareness and control over it whenever you’re not present, but if that was all it took to bring back the cheer in his friend, then so be it. Living with some bruises and a few broken bones is child plays for a veteran underground fighter.

A twitch earned from the sulking man at the salivating temptation, but ultimately no hook. "Don't wanna fight either."

That definitely wasn’t good - Furusawa never turned down a no-limits fight. Or any fight as a matter of fact; Hase was sure there was nothing in that empty brain of his but fighting. “Then let’s go get Boss.”

“No.” He must have been more hurt from your lashing out than Hase had first thought.

“Why not?”

“...We’re not friends anymore.”

He doubted that neither Furusawa nor you believed that statement. “Are you sure?”

Another twitch. “She said so. Not me.” For a man, the Vice Captain of the Red Dragonflies of all people, who had never tasted defeat in all his years as a delinquent, whose larger than life shadow kept the gang safe - seeing this beaten, defeated side was hard to stomach. A kicked, abandoned puppy indeed, waiting for its owner to come and pick him up from daycare.

Hase sighed again, dragging one hand down his face. Looks like he has to resort to that. Steeling his gut, the blue-haired man popped open one paper box, wincing as he felt the grease coat the tips of his fingers as he gingerly extracted a nugget from it's not-so-eternal resting place - he’s never going to get the smell off now.

Leaning over the side of the other man, Hase dangled the foul fried meat mere inches away from Furusawa’s face. “Can I not tempt you with this amazing, delicious nug- oh woops.” Two pairs of eyes followed the treasured treat that slipped free from lightly pinched fingers, hitting the ground and bouncing in an almost comical fashion.

A pause. Silence.

“You big fucking idiot,” Hase sighed out almost in relief as the tanned man stuffed into the wretched golden and now-dirtied shape made of meat into his mouth. Furusawa was back. “That’s disgusting.”

Furusawa paused mid-chew, looking back at Hase in confusion, free hand already sneaking out to grab the offered paper bag. “I thought you said it was delicious?”

The blue-haired man simply rolled his eyes as he surrendered the fast food bag, and the two fell into a comfortable silence, with only the sound of munching breaking the stillness.

“I should have killed him that night, Hase.” Furusawa muttered, stuffing yet another nugget into his mouth. “Boss would have been mad, but I should have done it anyway.”

The bonk of Hase’s fist bouncing off a barely bothered Furusawa was loud enough to echo in the large, otherwise empty room. “Don’t be stupid. Mad was what Boss was when she woke up in hospital; you'll be lucky if she ever looked at you again. Then what are you going to do?”

The older man shrugged. He hadn’t thought so far ahead.

As much as he hated having to look after this giant baby that had nothing but fighting, eating and you in his head masquerading as a fully grown human being, it was times like this that had Hase realize that beyond keeping an eye out for this indestructible force of nature as part of his gang duties, deep down in some part of his black rotted heart, Furusawa truly was worth doing all this for. After all, he had been the one to drag him kicking and screaming from that meaningless existence in those underground rings, and showed him what life had to offer beyond misery. You and him were the family Hase never knew or had, and he knew Furusawa thought the same - they simply weren’t so different after all.

“Are me and Boss still friends?”

A rare chuckle from the usually sullen man. “Better be. I ain’t counting your fucking lunch money again.”

“Okay,” Furusawa mumbled, looking back down at the empty boxes. “You forgot my ketchup. Boss never forgets.”

Yeah, nope. All that previous goodwill was gone now - he couldn’t believe he had actually felt good about caring for this giant manbaby for that moment in time. “Right, get up. We’re leaving,” Hase spared a glance at the semi-conscious man still half-embedded in the wall. As much as he would rather leave him to become one with the gym punching bags for siding with Shinichiro all those years ago, he did promise Wakasa to help clean up. “Go pull Benkei out first.”

“I didn’t even hit him that hard,” the brown and pink-haired man whined, though Hase’s raised eyebrow was enough to spur the other into action, Furusawa pouting as he trudged over, the wood splintering as he finally freed the groaning white-haired man from his prison. “Fucking old men getting weaker by the year.”

Hase would have loved to supervise, the thought of incurring even more expenditures making him cringe, though it was the ring of his phone that drew him away from listening to the crunch of wood splintering and watching the accompanying cloud of dust puffing up into the air as the now white-haired Benkei was freed from his temporary wall prison.

A familiar voice came stumbling across the line, the sound of the bustling city clearly audible in the background, with the occasional honk tearing through the phone. “Um, Captain, uh-”

“Just spit it out, Shou.”

“We lost her.”

Hase blinked, before the words sank in and he let out another dejected, drawn-out groan, dragging his free hand down his face. Fuck him. Fuck him sideways. “What do you mean ‘we lost her’?”

‎

Tap, tap, tap. Pause, and then repeat. No matter which way you led Izana down the winding alleys of Shinjuku, those footsteps seemed to haunt your trail. Never quite close enough to eavesdrop on your conversation - you could tell from the way the sound of their not-quite muffled steps echoed over the faint sounds of the hustle and bustle of the city in these otherwise empty lanes - yet near enough to keep up even if you made two lefts in a short span. You knew your little stalker couldn’t be any of your Reds; none of your boys would have left you alone with Izana for this long as per their captains’ standing instructions, Izana being quite a pariah among your gang. And the same went with your Toman friends; Mikey and the rest would have been already crawling all over you, whining and crying and demanding to know who dared hold your hand like they did. So someone was following you, and you couldn’t quite pinpoint who it was or why.

Despite the growing concerns obvious on your face, the Tenjiku leader, whose tanned hand was tightly intertwined with your own, didn’t seem particularly bothered. He must know of their presence, you determined, the arrogant crook of his lips and slight tilt of his head hiding no secrets from you when you glanced back at him, perhaps even their identity and purpose whatever that might be. And he knew you knew. But Izana remained stubbornly tight-lipped, meeting your raised eyebrow with those blank violet eyes as he always did, taunting you - this wasn’t information he was willing to give out for free, and at this point, you weren’t willing to start negotiating just yet.

Deciding to leave the matter for the time being, you turned to face forward once more, trying your best to concentrate on the quiet back alleys that stretched out endlessly in front of you. The sun was already starting to sink from its peak, its reign over the sky drawing closer to its end, though the day was far from over - good news, given this place could get quite unnavigable to the average soul once the night sets in. Last thing you would want was to be held responsible by Izana’s new Tenjiku gang should he go missing among the alleys.

“Don’t bite your lip, it’ll bleed.” A quick brush of his thumb brought your attention to the unconscious act, and you stopped.

Izana only wrapped his arm around you tighter, pulling you flush against his side, and you let him. “I heard you made new friends. The Haitanis brothers from Roppongi, was it?”

“You didn’t come visit.”

There was only one possible thing that Izana could have been speaking of, and you weren’t the least bit surprised that he was still hung up about those months spent in juvie after all this time. After all, you never quite managed to forgive yourself either for abandoning him. “You know I couldn’t.” You had never wanted to blame your friends for stopping you - they had their reasons that you understood later on after the dust had settled and you had time to think things through. But at the same time, you had your own selfish reasons; Izana was your last link left back to your brother. You didn’t want to let him go - you couldn’t. And you knew your boyfriend depended on you for his feeling of security, his source of affection.

But nothing you tried got through, no matter what time of day it was and who you talked to within the system, and after a while you had simply given up.

“You didn’t try hard enough,” he insisted, hand wrapping around your arm in protest. “You knew I was stuck in there, and you didn’t even send a letter.”

“I did!” You burst out, unable to keep silent on your unseen efforts. “I sent so many! Letters, lunchboxes, birthday gifts. I even turned up outside, but the guards refused to let me in to see you.” Your words had trailed off into a whisper that Izana caught loud and clear, though it seemed he still didn’t agree.

“You didn’t try,” Izana repeated, and you threw up your hands in surrender, letting the topic drop. It was just a short while more anyway.

‎

Pausing in the doorway, Izana watched as you felt around for the light switch to the left of the door. The click of light instantly illuminated a small room style in a way he could only describe as very ‘you’ - from the soft yellow lighting, to the tired wooden coffee table resting on a plush carpet, to the two sturdy camelback sofas with golden trimmings facing each other from across the room. It was almost exactly as he remembered your famous negotiation room back in the Red Dragonflies’ headquarters save for the lack of a painting, and it was clear the design followed you long after you had left. A quiet beep and then the whirl of ducts, the first of cold air sank from the ceiling as the air conditioning system started up.

You waved him in, closing the heavy wooden door with a thud behind the tanned boy. And as the lock clicked into place, your mannerisms switched into business mode, the familiar gentle look he so loved fading away behind a neutral expression and placid smile. “Sit, please. Sorry I don’t have tea here for you.”

It was no secret that Izana despised this side of you and your little meeting rituals with a burning passion. Of course he thought the whole shebang was still rather cute when it was directed at others; the introductions, the tea and the what-not. You were free to be as neutral and business-like as possible when it came to your dealings with mundane mortals. And if it were anyone else in his place, he would in fact encourage the distance - you weren’t supposed to get close to or show biases towards them after all. But to him? Of all people?

Unacceptable. Violet eyes followed you as you neatly seated yourself down on the plush seats, though your ex-boyfriend had little intention of putting so much space between him and you again. You let out a huff, the air forced from your lungs as the boy made to settle on your lap instead of the other available seat as expected, throwing his legs up onto the sofa (much to your dismay) and forcing you back as he snuggled and made himself comfortable - with his weight on you, there was no way you were going to get out from under him if he didn’t budge, and the boy knew that well.

And you did too, first trying to wiggle yourself free from your predicament, and then giving up and throwing him that look, the cracks in your facade already showing through. “Izana, the formalities-”

His hand shot out to catch your cheeks, lightly squeezing them together till your mouth formed a tight o. “Screw them,” he muttered, leaning in close, his lips just centimeters away from your own. “And you call me Izzy.”

Pulling away, your reddened cheeks softly marked with his fingerprints were finally released when you completely gave up the pretense, rolling those doe eyes at him as you obediently mouthed his beloved nickname, Izana allowing himself to sink further against your chest, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, satisfied. Ever since you had let that slip in your excitement at the first of many temple fairs Izana had brought you to, you had been forbidden from calling him by anything but that. And it seemed no matter how many years have passed, he would never let you forget.

On the far end of the room, the simple clock ticked on faithfully from its wall, to which you spared but a glance before returning your gaze to the fussy white-haired boy. “Can we start now?” Yet even with the minutes slipping away, it seemed clear your former boyfriend still wasn’t quite ready to settle down, Izana’s attention this time drawn away by your flawless shoulder peeking out from beneath the collar of your neatly pressed shirt.

“You better not be leaving a hickey, Izzy.” You sighed out, even though you already knew your words came too late; the feeling of Izana lapping his tongue over the newly formed bruise he had nibbled and sucked into your easily-marked skin was a familiar one from days past. “Fine, just the one then.”

But said boy wasn’t quite done yet, tugging at your shirt collar to reveal the other still flawless shoulder. “One more,” he mumbled. “Gotta match.”

“Uhuh, no more,” Your hand came to clap over his lips, lightly pushing his face away, though the pout you earned almost made you u-turn on your decision. “Come on, don’t give me those eyes. At least tell me why you called this meeting?”

“Kiss,” was all you got in response, Izana tapping his lips with his free hand, the other sliding around your neck, attempting to tug you closer.

You resisted, protesting the request. “We aren't togeth-”

But he didn’t let you finish, turning his face away from yours in protest. “Kiss first,” the tanned boy insisted again, and the sigh that followed slipped out from you once more before you realized. How many times was it you had sighed today? Realizing you were going to get nowhere, you gave in - a pattern you were starting to notice that you had yet to kick. It wasn’t like you didn’t know what the other was doing, trying to wring as many concessions out of you as he could get away with, yet here you were. “Okay, fine, fine. Come here.”

The room stilled as your soft lips met his, the quiet rumble of vehicles driving past the industrial building fading away into nothingness. Though the peck you thought you could get away with quickly turned into a full, lengthy kiss, Izana refusing to let you pull away as he cherished every moment of being able to taste you again, you couldn’t find it in you to be angry at him; not even at the tongue that lapped at your lips, eager to leave his own taste behind before he let you catch your breath. You had little doubt about how the other still felt about you despite all this time away, and you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t miss this either. Miss him.

"You've been smoking again." You could hear the frown in his voice without even having to look, the disappointed tone one you were familiar with from your younger years; Izana had always been very disapproving of the smoking vice you had picked up, complaining about how he didn’t liked that you ‘tasted different’, and had been one of the biggest factor that led you to stop cold turkey two years ago.

“It was just the stick.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, yes, I promise,” you assured the boy amusedly. “Now can you tell me why you’re here?”

Now satisfied, the Tenjiku leader moved quickly. The events of the next few seconds happened faster than you could see; Izana reaching to pull something from the depths of his pocket, grabbing your hand, and a new weight on your ring finger. The simple silver band shimmered under the warm yellow light as the shadow of his hand slipped away. “Marry me.”

It wasn’t lost on you that the promise band you had given Izana on his birthday was similarly worn, glimmering tauntingly against his brown skin from the fourth finger of his left hand, though unlike your own gift, the elegant engraving on his own was on the outside, the carving of yours and his name a clear warning to whoever cared to look close enough. On second thought, you really should have considered all the ways that your well-meaning birthday present could have been interpreted wrongly - you had just really wanted it to be convenient. Maybe you should have thought about a necklace instead?

More importantly, how were you going to let him down? Izana certainly wasn’t one that would simply give up and walk away without a fight, especially when it came to issues to do with you.

Yet in the physical world away from your mental turmoil while you pondered and considered, the reasoning for your hesitation seemed to have been similarly misinterpreted, your former boyfriend tilting his head as you struggled with yourself, breaking your train of thoughts when he grabbed your hand. "It doesn’t have to be now,” he emphasized, thumb stroking the new accessory, running over and over where your name was carved into the metal. “I'll wait for you as long as you want. Five years, ten years. It doesn’t matter."

The ticking of the clock in the dead silence sounded a lot more menacing now than it did just a few minutes ago. You let out the breath you had been holding, shaking off his grip. “Izzy, you know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not together anymore.”

Izana wasn’t pleased in the slightest at your statement, those violet eyes sharpening as he met your gaze, brows furrowing. “I am your boyfriend.”

“I-”

“You never broke up with me, did you?” Though technically true, you didn’t feel like pushing the same point again since the earlier discussion you two had, and you dropped that argument, trying a different one.

“My Reds-”

The interruption came again swiftly, Izana seemingly already having a counter prepared for every excuse. “We’ll merge our gangs, Tenjiku and the Red Dragonflies, and get married. Rule the world together. Like you promised we would, remember?” His tone dreamy, the Tenjiku President allowing his eyes to drift close as he pressed your face into his chest, arms wrapping ever so tenderly around you, even if those tanned muscular limbs felt a lot more like a boa constrictor tightening around its prey. “Tenjiku is yours. All of it. I even picked the same shade of red for you.”

“You know I can’t live without you.” Thump, thump, thump. You could hear his heartbeat from where you were, huddled close against warm skin, his quiet murmur echoing in his chest. You remember better times, falling asleep to this same comforting sound amidst raging thunderstorms outside in the dark of night. And when your expected agreement failed to materialize, it was the underlying agitated urgency that had been broiling and boiling mere inches under the surface, the depraved, needy side of Izana you dread to deal with, that reared its ugly head, and his arms tightened. “W-why aren’t you saying yes?”

Pushing off from you, those same wide violet eyes you had fallen heads over heels for were searching your own almost frantically, looking for any sign, the slightest indication of your agreement. But you had nothing to give but disappointment, letting out a sigh as you ran one hand through his soft hair in a last-ditch attempt to keep the Tenjiku leader grounded and the meeting on track. You didn’t like when he was like this - a crushing mess of insecurities lost in his own doubts and fears. You just wanted him to be happy. “Izzy, you attacked me and sent me to the hospital two years ago. Furu, Hase - none of them would ever agree.”

No answer. “Izzy?”

Izana didn’t seem to have heard any of your words, his pupils completely constricted; swept up by the voices in his head lying to him, whispering falsehoods. You knew that look - it was the same one you saw on that fateful night. Your gut sank like a stone as he began to speak - you were already too late. “I knew it.”

The slap that followed rang your ears, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the otherwise silent room. The surge of pain and throbbing only settled in after as you started to register what happened, one delicate hand hesitatingly reaching up to prod at your flushed, swelling cheek, you barely holding back the tears you could feel starting to brim. “You fucking slut.”

“You’ve been sleeping around with other men, haven’t you?” But his accusation wasn’t a question, his shaking grip latching onto your wrist, though the tremendous force behind his squeeze was a far cry from the gentleness he held your face with. “Is it Mikey? Someone else?”

“There is no one else,” you managed to get out through gritted tea, your attempts at pushing delicate fingers under his crushing one to free yourself failing time and time again. And as the throb escalated into a searing pain, your hand turning an ugly shade of red, you finally relented. “Izzy, you’re hurting me!”

‎

Like a hand scalded, the Tenjiku boss released you instantly, recoiling away from where you now nursed your bruising wrist. Violet eyes went back and forth between his own hand and yours - he hurt you? Him? Impossible. He could never hurt you. The disbelief faded as quickly as it started - he, of all people, couldn’t have hurt the love of his life - and his attention snapped back to your disagreement, pupils sharpening as his lips quirked into a playful smile. No - whatever he did, it was out of love. Unyielding, suffocating love. “Does your brother know I wonder? Did Shinichiro die knowing that his precious prodigy was a little whore that spread her legs for whoever?” He sang, his touch gentle once more as he danced his fingers across your cheek. "They were failures, wasting their lives to raise a heartless slut like you."

The watery eyes and tears that streaked down your cheek almost instantly disappeared, and in a split second, your face darkened, hardened narrowed eyes swinging to meet his gaze without hesitation, the darkening bruise on your wrist all but forgotten. “Don’t you dare speak of them like that, Izana,” you warned, that soft, loving voice of yours giving way to a dangerous edge.

There it was, the other side of you that Izana had seen all those years ago, that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. The true Red Dragonflies boss, a ruthless, unyielding leader who wasn’t afraid to stomp on and break whoever dared oppose you. Not the benign, level-headed negotiator who only helped diffuse hot heads, but the delinquent gangster who wielded the sheer might of her gang to accumulate territory and claw her way to the top with the vain excuse of protecting precious friends - splattered with the filthy blood of scumbags, forcing down into submission all who came before with a sneer and the business end of a metal baton. The suppressed half of you who ignited this unquenchable fire in his chest that only the gentle, kind you could soothe.

“Or what?” He giggled, pressing his forehead against yours, white hair framing violet broken eyes as one tanned thumb caressed the eyebags that hung low from beneath your eyes, before following the contours of your cheek to the corner of your downturned mouth. “You’ll beat me into submission? Send me back to the hospital, maybe for good?”

Izana let out a hum, dilated pupils following his hand that danced a path down your chest, slipping below the hem of your shirt to trace the long, jagged scars that decorated your abdomen. He knew how they looked, having seen them countless times in his dreams - the same ones he gave you all those years ago to mark you as his, to remind the world that you were his. “Would you do it yourself? Or would you get your little puppy to do it again?”

His questions were like a punch to your gut, and you couldn’t answer - he knew. Izana was there when you had swore on your honor to Shinichiro to care for him like your own when you had first asked for permission to date; after all, he was the Black Dragon’s heir, and you were an upcoming rival gang leader. To never let him come to any harm while under your wing, the same promise you had extended to apply to the rest of your precious Red Dragonflies. He knew you couldn’t even deny the implications of his questions; you had broken your oath even before Shinichiro’s death. You had allowed hurt to come to him.

The hot air he exhaled against your skin made you shiver as he kissed and nibbled a hot trail down your neck. “You killed your brother, then my brother,” Izana breathed. "And now you want to kill me too."

"I-” Your breath hitched in your throat, and you turned away, swiping at your eyes. He didn’t push, simply watching as you took a deep breath to compose yourself (you always did this when in a tough corner), before facing him again. “I’m sorry Izzy. I promised Shinichiro that I would take care of the Black Dragons for him.”

Ah, he saw the full picture now. It wasn’t just your pesky little red flies orbiting you that was interfering with his ideal future, but also his lack of standing as the leader of the Black Dragons; you did make the promise to him when he was after all. No doubt once he had broken and reshaped Mikey into his Shinichiro, you’ll side with him over those annoyances, so all that’s left would be - “So when I take back the Black Dragons, you’ll be mine.” The Tenjiku boss hummed, tracing one finger down your jawline. He leaned in, and you didn’t move as he stole one more kiss from your soft lips. “Wait for me.”

It took but a blink for the tanned boy you called your ex to stand from the seat he had been sharing with you and pull the heavy soundproof door open with little effort, and one more for him to disappear from your sight, with all that’s left of Izana’s presence being the lingering scent of his cologne. The air left you as you slumped back into the sofa, dragging both hands over your face. You messed up royally.

‎

Takemichi himself was in an equally unideal situation. Being back in his twenty-six year old body only served to dig up unwanted memories; no matter how many times he that feeling of Mikey’s blood staining his hands and clothes, the sight of the light leaving those once unflappable abyss eyes, of his skin turning ashen and going cold in Takemichi’s arms - it was enough to make the man hurl. The streets of Tokyo felt much darker and hostile than he remembered despite the noon sun being high in the sky, and for the first time in many time leaps, Naoto’s presence didn’t make Takemichi feel any less lonely or any more hopeful. Even if he had started his fight in the hopes of saving Hina’s life, Mikey, Draken, Mitsuya - Takemichi couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving them behind. They were his friends now as well, and even if he had to keep forcing himself forward, he would find a way to save them all.

“Kurokawa Izana huh?” Naoto huffed out, leaning against the wall of the alley, fingers flying over the screen of his phone. The frustration was clear in his stiff posture. “How is it every time we get close to saving my sister, it's just more obstacles?”

“I don’t know,” Takemichi admitted, crossing his arms. “I don’t know.” And that was all he could say: despite having come back from the past, there was still too much he didn’t know even now, and there was nothing to gain if he lied anyway. More so he came back precisely because he was hoping that the future held answers he couldn’t find in the past. The more he dug, the more convoluted and confusing the information became, the lines between cause and effect joining and tangling in an impossible mess. Where does one start unraveling this? Was it Kisaki pulling the strings, like what they had suspected all this time? Takemichi had yet to see head or tail of him, let alone anywhere near Mikey, but the effect he had on past timelines was clear. Or maybe it was you being the sole factor that tipped the scales leading to Hina’s seemingly inevitable death? But then again, no matter how much the past world seemed to revolve around you, neither Naoto or Takemichi had ever encountered you in person or on paper, dead or alive in any timeline, and it was hard to ascertain your impact.

The time leaper sighed again, the hum and drum of vehicles speeding down roads just a stone’s throw away swallowing up the despair. What now? The silence was his only answer as the world continued to turn uncaring around the duo, the narrow alleyway that snaked between tall office blocks as devoid of life and hope as when they had started. Even the small strip of sky that peaked through the faraway roofs were empty of stars, the occasional wisp of gray cloud drifting by and disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

“There’s not much more I can do here,” Naoto finally announced, his phone screen locking with a definitive click as the other slipped it back into a pants pocket. “I’ll head back to the station and see what else I can find.”

Takemichi nodded, straightening from the brick wall he had been leaning against, though he wasn't quite able to stop himself from wincing at the crunch as his shirt pulled away from the crusty wall; that was going to take a while to wash off, he just knew it. Yet before the former delinquent could assure the detective of his own plans following his departure from this god-forsaken place, it was a stranger’s voice - one that seemed so familiar yet unfamiliar - that answered Naoto. “And what else is there to find?”

“Don’t play dumb. We still need to look into Kisak-” Those furrowed eyes barely had a chance to catch a glimpse of shaved and striped blue hair, let alone realize that it wasn’t his time-traveling partner he was responding to, before a swift kick smashing into the back of his head with a sickening crack had his eyes roll into the back of his head, the only surviving Tachibana sibling collapsing to the floor with a soft huff. Takemichi could only watch with wide eyes as Hase kneeled to carelessly roll over the unconscious man, comparing his face against a tiny photograph, before standing seemingly satisfied, tucking the picture away in a coat pocket - done under a minute. They hadn’t even heard the man.

Every last hair on Takemichi’s body instantly stood on end as those tired gray eyes swung onto him, though the man made no move towards him, only reaching into his pocket to fish out a fresh pack of smokes. “And I would presume you’re Hanagaki Takemichi.” It wasn’t a question, Hase leaning back against the same crusty wall, robotically lighting the end of his cigarette and letting out a sigh when he took a puff. “Kisaki did say you would be nearby.” Falling quiet, the other took the moment to enjoy his break and cigarette, even allowing his gaze to slide off Takemichi and onto the pavement. Both of them were well aware that there was no way Takemichi was outrunning or outfighting the former First Wing, the former delinquent needing only one look at the slim muscular build hidden behind that black turtleneck and similarly colored coat to understand the difference in ability.

The crunch didn’t seem to bother Hase as much as it did Takemichi when the man straightened his posture, sighing once more, his lit stick still hanging loosely from his lips. “If you relax your neck muscles, it won’t hurt so bad.”

“Huh-?” What looked like a boot flying his way, and then the world went black.

‎

Takemichi jerked awake with a bang, the sensation of pain once more flooding his senses as his eyes popped open. Wh-where was he? The table’s leg that his head was just carelessly smashed against gave a wobble, Takemichi noted, struggling slightly in a bid to right himself, make himself more comfortable even. But his new captor could barely care, failing to even spare a glance back as he continued to drag his two prisoners down what looked like a hallway of sorts by their feet. Next to him, a still unconscious Naoto, limp body being bumped and dragged with no complaint, and of course being of completely no help in attempting an escape; not that Takemichi could blame the other - that blow he took to his head had looked especially hard. Besides, he would have preferred not being awake for this very uncomfortable ride anyway, but it was too late to change that particular fact, and the black-haired man resigned himself to his fate of observing his new environment.

Simply calling his surrounding luxurious would be an insult; the ornately carved walnut legs of tables dotted with gold rising high above plush carpets, the granite bases of statues too far above ground level for Takemichi to see, the bottoms of Chinese porcelain vases decorated intricately with masterful paintings of cranes and dragons. Anything and everything he landed his gaze on was certainly worth more than his entire net worth, including that table he was mercilessly rammed into and probably the carpet he was dirtying with his mere presence - he would hate to find out what would happen to him should he be the cause of something breaking. The long, slow journey came to an end in front of a plain wooden door, one that was out of place amidst the opulence yet still flanked and guarded by two pairs of black shoes. Takemichi supposed this was Hase’s (and his own, by extension) destination, even if it didn’t seem like he was expected.

“Ah Hase-san, you can’t-” “The boss doesn’t want to be inter-”

Their attempts and warning did little to deter the blue-haired man who brushed past them, grabbing the worn bronze handle and wrenching the door open with surprising difficulty. The hefty door groaned, almost as if a welcome bell. “I’m coming in.”

The flood of sunlight hit Takemichi like a fork to his eyes, the sheer glare momentarily blinding him despite his eyelids shutting almost instantly on their own accord - he hadn’t even realized the absence of natural light throughout his short traverse along the corridor ground until now. Left to just wait for his poor eyes to adjust, it seemed that Hase wasn’t as badly affected by the sudden change, hauling the comparatively smaller man easily up into a seat of sorts and binding him to it with duct tape.

All he could hear was the sound of someone moaning and sighing, the wet pop of lips pressing, suckling and releasing. Of skin rubbing up tenderly against skin and clothes ruffling.

“Brought them both, Izana.”

Takemichi blinked, a moving brown blob slowly focusing into a man with shaggy white hair bent over on a low bed against the breathtaking backdrop of a clear blue sky, slim back exposed with what looked like a sleeping robe tied loosely around his hip. Were they in a penthouse? I-Is that Kurokawa Izana? The same man that Kakucho had begged for his help to save?

A brief glance of the gigantic room was enough to conclude that; even if the room itself felt positively spare compared to the grandeur of the corridor outside, the furnishing was still top quality - walnut wood trimmings and granite counters with hints of gold, an eye-popping amount of jewelry and branded goods scattered carelessly across various pieces of furniture, and the rug on which the bed rested on that looked more expensive than ten years of rent of his shitty apartment. And in the far distance, the edge where the city meets the sea, a priceless view that took his breath away, that few would ever enjoy.

But Izana didn’t even spare a glance at the marvel outside his window nor in their direction, more obsessed with something - someone? - huddled under him, only reluctantly leaving where he was cuddled against your soft skin when Hase let out a loud, annoyed sigh. No doubt the former Red Dragonflies Captain didn’t care to be here.

“Looks like we have guests, baby girl.” Izana whispered into your ear, before leaning down to press one last soft kiss to your lips, though your unblinking gaze never once moved from where it was fixed on the ceiling. Yet as he pulled away from you and the light pouring softly from the ceiling fell once more on you, Takemichi watched on with horror as every inch of skin revealed was littered with injuries of all kinds. Ugly yellow and green ones with clear teeth marks decorating your shoulders and collarbones, older purple ones that layered and overlaid again and again over each other, scars and fresher cuts long and short running in every direction that carved a twisted trail across your limbs and body. Almost as if they were markings of a devotee, though he doubted any of them were voluntary.

Hase grimaced at the sight, but said nothing, quickly averting his eyes as a fluffy towel was pulled over the vile decorations on your skin, the pure, innocent whiteness of the fur a sickening contrast to what everyone knew lied beneath. But the similarly white-haired man only hummed as he slipped his robes back over himself before expertly maneuvered your motionless body from the plush bed and into his arms like you were a life-sized doll, allowing Takemichi a flash of his own scarred arms and hip, the raised welts catching the daylight against his tanned skin for a single breath; what looked like your name scrawled again and again into his arms permanently.

Though all your injuries paled in comparison to the gaze that were carried in those doe eyes of yours as you were carefully lowered into an armchair, Izana ensuring that you were propped up and leaned against the soft backing of the curved frame before letting go. Gone was the confidence and assurity, the fire in your gaze that you had leveled at Takemichi just a mere few hours ago, when you had requested - no, not requested, demanded - he looked out for Mikey and Ken-chin and the rest of your precious Toman friends. You were but a shell of the self Takemichi had met, and your empty eyes reflected as much, that gaze looking right past him and into the abyss, at something no one else could see - you might as well have been dead if not for the steady rise and fall of your chest.

So fixated on you, lost in your blank look was Takemichi that he didn’t even notice Izana’s sickeningly loving smile running from his face as those unblinking violet eyes slid away from you, nor the gun, retrieved from a nearby dresser drawer, being held loosely in his grip as he turned back to face them. Two swift shots, and instantly Naoto let out a shrill cry of pain, hunching over as far as his tight restraints allowed him to. Takemichi whipped around, the spell broken, just in time to catch the tears spilling freely as the younger man’s eyes squeezed shut, the blood spurting forth from both his shins staining his black pants. Izana barely seemed bothered, the lack of care at the agony unfolding in front of him obvious in that nonchalant gaze. “Tachibana Naoto. You killed my Mikey.” Announced as if such a painful memory was worthy of a death sentence.

Wait. How did Izana know that? Catching a glimpse of Naoto’s black eyes, it was clear even through the pain that the other didn’t know either - it had only been him, Naoto and Mikey at the scene. So who? Then the gun was turned on him, and Takemichi found himself having other things to worry about.

“Hanagaki Takemichi.” The muzzle lowered, the new Toman boss tilting his head as he considered the twenty-six year old. “You’re supposed to be for Kisaki.” And there it was, that wretched name again - Kisaki Tetta. Was it Kisaki who did this to you as well, like he did to everyone else? Was he the one common denominator tying all these miserable timelines together? Alas, all Takemichi had were more and more questions, and a woeful lack of answers.

Running one hand through your soft hair, your face was nudged in his direction, Izana pressing his face side by side with yours. “Come on sweetheart, you recognise him don’t you?” He mumbled, lifting one of your limp hands in a vain bid to help you wrap your fingers around his gun, to which he lifted to point directly at Takemichi, the glimmer of a silver band from around your fourth finger catching his blue eyes for a moment. “That scum that was always hanging off of Mikey, remember?”

The gun went off, and for that moment, Takemichi felt his heart stop, his body hunching over automatically. Did you..? Did he? But the clink of metal hitting marble rang out from behind him, and you still didn’t respond (and Takemichi starting to think you never will again, not in this timeline), the white-haired man simply sighed, retrieving his gun from you - a missed bullet. “No matter. Maybe we should try carving your name into them again,” he cheerfully suggested, swapping the deadly weapon out for a small blade, the dull scalpel having long been caked in someone else’s blood. “You twitched the last round I did that.”

Naoto began to thrash with all his might as Izana rounded around your armchair, though the detective only succeeded in toppling him and his chair to the ground; the plush carpet and the awkward angle he found himself in made it impossible to budge any further. This was it, Takemichi thought, the cold sweat beading on his forehead making him shiver, his clammy hands refusing to even let him try and tug at the duct tape around his torso and arms. This death was going to be the worst.

Bang - a single gun shot rang out right as Izana stepped away from you. And then a second shot rang out from right beside him, and the time leaper whirled around, Hase's still smoking gun a mere meter away from where his head was. But it wasn’t pointed at him or Naoto. Even the man who now ruled Tokyo in Toman’s name was momentarily confused, glancing down at himself as if to check whether any red patches were blossoming, though that small quirk of his lips was back when none did. “You missed.”

Your head lolled to the right, and the dead weight pulled the rest along. A pause, the world falling silent save for Takemichi’s ears rang with the sound of his heartbeat thumping away. All eyes followed as your lifeless body tumbled off the chair, falling to the carpeted ground with a quiet thud, unmoving. Chaos erupted like a bat out of hell. Takemichi couldn’t quite tell who was screaming, what was happening, his vision blurring with hot tears that stung at his eyes. Was he screaming? Was it Izana? Why was he crying?

Falling to his knees with your name wailed out in a pained cry, the heartwrenching sight of Izana’s hands tugging at your arm like a child, at your hair to try and rouse you one more was enough to pluck at something in the time leaper’s heart, those violet eyes scrunching with the feeling of tears running even as the man broke into a laugh. “H-he didn’t hit you, did he? He missed! G-get up! Stop playing with me!”

The way your limbs were sprawled under you made you seem like you were fast asleep, though the blood pooling and soaking the once-spotless carpet underneath you told a different tragedy. Those empty eyes didn’t change even after your passing, still staring past Takemichi in the vast beyond.

“Y-you can’t! I won’t allow it! G-get up!” The Toman boss was all but a wreck, trying to help you up again and again, only for your body to slip from his trembling grip every time. “Please, please! Get up!”

“I can’t live without you, please.” A quiet murmur, the laughter died away as reality finally set in, Izana allowing you to fall for the final time, crazed smile wiped from his face. You really were gone.

“I-I-” Hands covered with your blood, he shakingly stood, turning to face the silent, solemn blue-haired man, and although the tears kept falling, it wasn’t just devastation in those violet eyes. It was pure rage burning in his usually emotionless gaze - and Takemichi understood. Even if you had been unresponsive all this time, you had still been there, a source of superficial comfort for the other to cling to. And that years-old comfort bandage had just been ripped away.

“W-what did you do?! HASE!” Scalpel gripped in a white-knuckled hand, your once boyfriend leapt the short throw at Hase, who instantly swung out at him with a roundhouse kick, his black shoe a blur as it cut through the air. Izana was fast to dodge, having somehow already anticipated the move, but the blue-haired man was faster, switching mid-kick to instead swing out with his fist. And it caught the other straight in the gut, knocking the air from him. Izana dropped like a rock with a choke, hitting the carpeted floor with nothing more than a muffled thud.

Silence. Around them, the whirl of the air conditioning was a small relief from the deathly quiet that fell like a thick cloak over the bedroom, the smell of iron impossible to remove from their noses. It was over.

A soft mumble, just barely audible from where Takemichi was restrained, as Hase knelt to gently arrange your cooling body into something more peaceful and graceful as befitting who you were in life before sliding your eyes close, his black pants dampening with your blood barely given a second thought. “Rest in peace, Boss.” It felt wrong to be here watching this, a gentle intimate gesture by a man so stained reserved only for you.

‎

“Well, that’s that,” Hase stated bitterly, reaching out as if to run his fingers through your hair, though he caught himself and wretched his hand back. “She won’t be coming back. And we’ll be gone before he wakes up.”

"He's not dead?" Naoto mumbled disbelievingly, attempting to nudge Izana with his foot, halting when his earlier bullet wounds flared up again. “Fuck that hurts like a bitch.”

The former Red Dragonflies’ delinquent stood, reaching to pull over a dresser stool with one hand and to grab a crystal decanter with the other. He didn’t bother with the small matching glasses. “We promised Boss we wouldn’t kill him. Even if she’s gone, I’ll keep holding myself to that. He’ll probably kill himself later anyway.”

Takemichi took a shallow breath, trying to compose himself. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t the end. He could still change the future, he could still save everyone like he promised himself he would, but as much as that gaze would haunt him, Takemichi needed to know what went wrong. “W-what happened, Hase-san?” How did things turn out this bad?

Hase didn’t answer him immediately, the crystal letting out a chime as it was replaced onto stone counters, reaching into his pocket to pull out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. The two watched as he lit up, letting out a sigh as he exhaled, the smoke hanging from between two fingers as the tired man slumped back into the chair. “Furusawa died."

Those two words seemed to echo, carried through the still air by the light breeze of the air conditioning, a hollow statement that carried with it so many memories. So much pain, even if those weary gray eyes failed to show any. "It was an ambush, fifty men with assault rifles jumped Furusawa when he was out alone. That fuckhead was a monster to the end, took most of them with him and badly injured the rest."

Popping open the top of the decanter, the weary delinquent turned hitman looked like he had aged far more than the twelve Takemichi had time leaped, the usual strength in his posture fading as he took a drink straight from the bottle, the bags under his eyes and the creases on his face seeming to lengthen with the shifting daylight, the clouds outside floor-to-ceiling windows drifting past casting shadows across the room. "We've always suspected it was Izana and Kisaki behind the attack even if they claimed it wasn’t, not that it mattered. Furusawa's death broke Boss. She was never the same after, retreated into herself."

“How long has it been, six years? Seven?” He let out a dry chuckle, running one ungloved hand through his hair. "I should have let him kill Izana. Maybe Boss’ll be alive and happy."

Takemichi swallowed dryly as he watched Hase take another drag of his cigarette, thoughts zipping through his mind faster than bullet trains with the sudden dump of information. This was the gold mine he had been looking for all this time, insights into the other half of the story that was all but opaque - no Reds would talk to him no matter how he tried, rebutting his efforts with a simple ‘That’s not our story to tell’.

"I did everything for her. Anything. I killed them right here. Whoever Izana said could bring her back, I killed them all: Takeshi, Shou, Shoji, Jun. Even my own fucking boyfriend." Swirling the amber liquid inside its crystal bottle, Hase couldn’t seem to bring himself to look at them, instead opting to take a straight swallow of whisky as he lived through those minutes again, the usual burn of alcohol down the throat seemingly missing as the man immediately took another gulp. "Two bullets to the back of his head. Isao never did let me break up with him though. Not even at the end."

A pause. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Hase laughed, though the harsh, empty bark could barely be called one, the regret lacing his tone and weighing in his eyes clear to all. “Maybe because there’s no one else to listen.”

“Um- Hase-san uh-” The once-delinquent felt his voice fade when those empty gray eyes turned on him, but Takemichi could only swallow his hesitation and fear. He needed to know. “How did Mikey become like that?” You would have never let Mikey walk down such a dark path after all, and Takemichi doubted that the once boisterous Toman President would have ever left your side knowing you were in such a horrid condition. “Is Kisaki involved?”

That name drop earned him a raised eyebrow. “They made him believe she died with Furusawa. He couldn’t take the news, broke him differently. As for Kisaki, we took notice of him, but he disappeared and appeared one day in the ranks of Toman, and there was nothing more we could do. Boss forbade us from messing with Toman.”

“So what will you do now?” Takemichi blinked, turning to look at Naoto. The detective looked a lot worse for the wear, slumping as far as his restraints let him, his words all but a slur he could barely understand - it was clear that the pain and blood loss was getting to the Tachibana sibling. He needed to get the two of them out soon.

“Make sure Boss gets her resting place, maybe go visit Koji if he’s still kicking, then find Furusawa in hell.”

A groan of pain from the floor was the unspoken bell, Izana shifting slightly where he laid though still failing to wake. The towering man stood, crushing his cigarette out on the counter. “Right, time to go. It’ll be a pain when Kisaki returns.”

Takemichi squirmed in his seat. "Um, Hase-san, could you untie us please?" He didn’t quite fancy the idea of being left behind to deal with the fallout.

“Sure.” Retrieving a small knife from the inside of his jacket, the duct tape that had held them back fell away with a swift cut to each side, the time leaper giving his sore limbs a quick stretch before helping a barely conscious Naoto off his chair, Hase having wandered away back towards what was once your armchair. If what Hase said was true, then they needed to get out of here quickly.

“One, two, and-” The younger Tachibana let out a groan as Takemichi hauled him off the chair, the two narrowly avoiding toppling over with Takemichi almost losing his footing with the sudden weight. “I got you, I got you. Hase-san, we should g-”

A familiar shot rang out. A sharp stab of pain in his chest, then two as Takemichi fell to the floor with a cry, taking Naoto down with him. It hurts. Everything hurts. His ears were ringing again, his vision blurry with tears. Feels like his shirt was drenching with something. Blood? His? Someone was calling him, but Takemichi couldn’t hear anything, not with his own screams filling his ears, not until a weak slap to his cheek shook him out of it. “Takemichi!”

His gaze focused on a now visibly pale Naoto, the detective’s hand shaking with the strain of having to reach up to hit him.

“Good, you’re not dead yet. Would have made me feel bad if you died so quickly.” The voice came from the edges of his vision, that striking mob of blue-hair that sauntered back into his field of sight still perfectly gelled despite the ongoings of the day. “What made you think you’re leaving here alive?”

A new lit cigarette hung from his lips, though it was the muzzle of that same wretched gun that ended your life that was smoking once more, the shadow cast over him blocking the overhead ceiling light enough for Takemichi to watch Hase casually sliding out the magazine to check the number of rounds left before reloading it with a click. “Say your goodbyes or whatever. I’ll put you two out of your misery.”

‎

Twelve years in the past, the day’s horrors similarly had yet to pass for the poor souls gathered around a non-descript entryway just off the main shopping streets of Shibuya, men in neatly-pressed black suits could only watch on in a mix of horror and utter admiration as the Vice Captain of the Red Dragonflies bodily lifted the spotless jeep above his head, metal groaning under the stress while the man looked barely a breath off. “Give me back Boss!”

They knew who he was of course - how could they not with their own heir having being part of the same gang - but with their specific orders not to engage this particular monster in any way, there was not much they could do but cling on for dear life and pray to whatever god out there to watch over them.

Luck was on their side this fine day, as the plain wooden door was thrown open.

“Mamoru Furusawa!” Came that sharp lash of his tongue, and the monster of a man paused, car still hauled above his head as a familiar head of black-haired stepped out, clad in a simple blue yukata, wooden judo jo tucked neatly under one arm. “What did I say about throwing my cars around? You put that down now.”

The car alarm went off with a screech as Furusawa sheepishly replaced the vehicle back in its lot along the street under the watchful eye of the former Second Generation Red Dragonflies’ boss, as the side street started to flood with more men clad in a variety of outfits and covered neck-down in tattoos similar to Furusawa’s, seemingly pouring out from every doorway and alley along the street.

“Been a while, Shoji,” Hase’s voice rang out in greeting as he stepped out from the shadow of a vending machine, his half eaten bagel disappearing into the depths of his jacket pocket. “When did you get back to Tokyo?”

As if on cue, the other three Wings made their appearances from the various nooks and corners, and Shoji blinked. Had they always been this stealthy? “Sometime last month,” he admitted, throwing up one arm in mock surrender. “Sue me, I was caught up with work.”

A pause, the alley stilling as the yakuza’s made men tasked with protecting the boss’ son eyed the delinquents wearily, afraid that they would be the one to ignite the fire. What now?

“Come here you fucking piece of shit!” Faster than they could turn, Jun already had Shoji’s head tucked under one arm, furiously rubbing his knuckles into the top of that mob of black-hair, as Masashi gingerly boinked the same head with the end of the judo their former boss had just been holding. “Trying to keep secrets from us already huh? You’re fucking turning into Boss!”

Koji let out the laugh he had been attempting to stifle, and the alley seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Fuck Furusawa! Put me down!” You could hear Jun’s ear-piercing cursing and swearing even from deep within the maze of rooms, carefully folding and packing away the small amount of belongings you had brought along with you, and even the minor scuffle echoing down otherwise empty corridors as Shoji led the troop down into the hideout. “Yes, she is back, no Furusawa, you will use the hallways like they are meant to be used. And yes, I will ask Koji to charge every last cent to you if you tear through my walls.”

“She’s just through here.”

An almost stampede of footsteps and your door burst open, and five echoes of ‘Boss’ shouted into the small bedroom had you wincing at the volume.

Instantly swept up into the familiar, comforting arms of your oldest friend, you instinctively ran one soothing hand through that mob of brown and pink hair. “I’m sorry I burst at you, Furu.”

You didn’t need to apologize to him, and Furu had always insisted that you never needed to, that he couldn’t care what wrong you had inflicted on him as long as you were safe. But you knew when you were wrong, and you simply couldn’t go on leaving that mistake unresolved. Not after what you had gone through with your own brother - you would never let anyone suffer through that like you had.

Very carefully set back on your two feet, your Vice Captain’s giant hand came to rest ever so gingerly on your head with a gentleness reserved only for you. “Sorry for snitching on you Boss.” Though Furusawa’s sharp eyes and easily distracted mind had already zeroed in on something else, and with the lightest touch he could muster, picked up your wrist, the yellow and green handprints left having faded away into a light purple after a frantic icing session. “You’re hurt.”

The gleam of silver from said hand immediately caught another pair of eyes, and Hase leaned in to get a closer look. “A wedding ring?” Came that skeptical, disgusted voice - no doubt everyone present already knew you had met Izana in private against their wishes.

“He did this, didn’t he?” Koji prodded, Masashi nodding along. “What happened?”

"A lot," you sighed out, tugging off the ring and slipping it into your pocket. There was no point in hiding it anymore from your friends - like what Takeomi said, they really were just worried about you. “Izzy asked me to marry him, and that he wanted to merge his new gang with ours under me.”

You knew how toxic your relationship with the tanned boy was; that didn’t need to be said, but all it took was one simple question from Jun to break the camel’s back. “Why don’t you just fucking leave him be?”

Why? Why indeed?

Unable to stop the fat tears that burned their trail down your cheeks, you were grateful when Furusawa wordlessly turned your face into his shirt - your best friend somehow always knew what you needed before you thought of it. “I-I can’t. I can’t let him go.”

And they watched as you buried your face and shame away like you always had - so many years had they stood by, watching you hurting yourself for the sake of a sick, tormented soul in the name of love - and so many years have they tried to save you from yourself. But time and time again you always went crawling back. “He- Izzy’s the last link I have to nii-san. I can’t.”

They watched silently as you allowed yourself to sort out your turmoil of emotions, Furu stroking your hair as you composed yourself. What else could they do?

A few minutes of silence was what was need for your sniffling to die down, and there was a certain resolution in your eyes when you finally looked back up again, your eyes reddened.

“I’m going to tell them everything.”

“Boss, I don’t think that’s a good idea either.” “No, don’t fucking do that.”

You blinked. Your Reds… didn’t want you to talk to the Toman boys? “I shouldn’t?” You repeated incredulously, glancing at Jun and Koji who had spoken in unison. But that was exactly what Furusawa had did yesterday - you had thought that they were the ones who had prodded the man into action.

Jun slapped Koji on the shoulder, and the blind man sighed, taking up the unspoken torch. “Boss, we think your friends are too uh- volatile to take that kind of information in one go. Too overprotective, like how Izana was.”

Having promised yourself that you would try your best to listen to your trusted friends more, you let their words sink in. Ah, you could see what they were saying and where they were coming from. “They are, but they have a right to know as well.”

“Maybe you should try giving them some first, and depending on their reaction give more,” your Third Wing suggested, his white cane coming to rest in front as he leaned back onto a bookcase. “You should be careful around them.”

A chime went off on your phone.

“Well, time to go home,” you accepted the handkerchief offered to you by Koji, gently dabbing your eyes dry before returning it to the man with a smile as thanks. “I’ll keep in mind what you said, Jun, Koji, but I still want to try and fill them in.”

“I’ll walk you home, Boss,” Furusawa immediately offered, but you waved him down.

“I need to apologise to Mikey and the others as well first. But feel free to swing round later when I’ve settled them down.” Pulling your phone from your pocket, you texted a short message to your Toman friends, the ding carrying with it your apologies and your assurances that you would see them home within the next hour. You heaved the bag over your shoulder. “I’ll see you boys later.”

‎

The piece of bitten taiyaki hung listlessly from his hand as Mikey stared out into the open ocean, his mind a thousand miles away and two hours in the past from where his body was. The waves lapping at the wall under him were mild, the outgoing tide having started to draw out towards the calm sea, reflecting the vibrant colors splashed across the sky as it went.

He knew not to take anybody’s words at face value, let alone trust those falling from a stranger’s mouth, yet Mikey couldn’t quite shake off what Kisaki had just told him. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, as much as he wanted to just write off the other as a trouble stirrer, the Toman President simply couldn’t despite it all just being hearsay. That delinquent had been right - you were still hiding secrets from them. From him. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in your life except for them, your Toman friends. The friends that had spent countless nights and days beating back any scum that had dared to try worming their way into your life, that had dared to steal your attention and love away from them. The same friends that had formed a gang just for you, one that revolved around you like the earth did the sun, that existed just to keep you safe. You were supposed to be theirs, and only theirs. Lavishing your love dishing out those priceless cuddles and forehead kisses, spending your time with them or for them, being theirs forever and ever. Being his.

And it was all their fault, that blond, spectacle-touting delinquent agreed. Those dirtbag Red Dragonflies that had come crawling out of the woodworks, those trash-eating flies you lovingly called friends that sullied you, that dragged you back into the dark underground he had been trying to protect you from. That had once let you get tainted and hurt. But he could help Toman. He could help Mikey get you back to his side.

A caw of a seagull, and then two as the sun slowly sank towards the distant horizon, the beams of sunlight growing thinner as the day neared its end. What else were you hiding in your past? The chime of his phone broke the peace of the seaside, thought the familiar voice calling his name ever so sweetly that Mikey had used as his ringtone for the past two years failed for the first time to bring any relief or any childish joy into Mikey’s darkening heart.

‎

You took a deep breath. It was the last small hill before your house, and you could already hear your friends mulling about just ahead. Above head, the first of the street lights flickered to life with a soft buzz as the night sky crept ever further, swallowing up what was left of the daylight. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation by any length, given how overprotective your boys had been even before this mess you pulled them into, but you resolved to at least see it through to the end. Taking the last few steps that brought you fully over the hill, it seemed your initial assumptions were correct, your boys failing to see your silhouette popping up over the darkening horizon, too lost in their thoughts or the anxious pacing and/or rocking up and down the asphalt.

"Hey."

Their heads were a blur with how fast they turned, and in an instant you were swamped. It was a miracle you weren’t thrown backwards from the sheer force of being tackled. “I’m sorry for running off like that. You boys shouldn’t have been dragged into what was a fight between me and Furu.”

“You’re back,” Kazutora whimpered, burying his face into your shirt which quickly drenched with his tears. “You’re back.” You rested one hand on the top of his head, a sad smile pulling at your lips - he must have gone through so much.

Yet you quickly noticed there was one familiar blond mob missing from your huddle - it wasn’t like Mikey to miss any chance to monopolize your hugs. “Mikey?”

Your friend continued to stay more than an arm’s length away from you. "How much have you been hiding from us?" Came the flat question that hid the boy’s boiling anger, to which you internally sighed. And here you go.

“Nothing that you boys have asked me about,” you held up a hand before the Toman founders could jump in, and they paused, allowing you to continue. “I have never lied to you boys about anything you asked me about. I don’t lie. But I’ve not said much about my past.”

You felt Mitsuya and Baji pull away, and those once huddled into you made space for the lilac-haired and black-haired boys who each grabbed at the hem of your shirt and skirt. Looks like they knew about that too even, most likely from one of your Wings if you had to guess - you didn’t fault your friends for outing you, not anymore. And you didn’t try to turn away as Mitsuya gingerly tugged up your shirt, while Baji pulled at your skirt with a quickly reddening face. Inch by inch, the gnarly scar that decorated your hip came into the dying evening light. The still of your neighbourhood was broken by a loud wail from Kazutora and the glances of horror between you and the carving into your skin, the duo color-haired boy once more throwing himself at you, the welling tears pouring from watery eyes.

Draken failed to hide his shaking clenched fist as he leaned in to get a better look, you shivering from the cool breeze on your exposed skin as the delinquent traced the scar with the tip of one equally cold finger. “Who did this?”

“Izana,” you sighed out, and even though your words were mostly lost amidst the panic induced by the reveal of something so gross being present on what was supposed to be your innocent self, it seemed Mikey didn’t miss it. He already knew that as well, but there was no doubt the Toman President knew more than his fellow founders - the blond-haired boy taking the opportunity to stalk directly at you, grabbing you by the wrist.

“So if I break your leg and carve my name into you, you’ll forgive me too?” Mikey whispered, and you froze in his grip, his hand placed exactly where Izana had, covering the fading purple bruise. “You’ll be mine forever and ever?”

But the Toman President was forced to release you just moments later as he dodged a steel pipe that struck and bit into the floor where he stood.

“I knew it,” Kazutora whispered, a one eighty from his miserable state seconds earlier, though his words carried clear through the still air, constricted sandy brown pupils quaking as they stared down an unmoving Mikey. And you could only watch as you nursed your aching wrist once more. “Y-you were trying to keep her all for yourself. From the start.”

But Mikey all but ignored the accusations, those abyss eyes fixed directly on you. “How much more are you keeping from us?” He repeated firmly, though before you could cave to his demands, a roar of a motorcycle, followed by a rush of stomps in your direction, and the familiar mob of brown and pink hair roared over the horizon as Furusawa came flying towards the gathered Toman boys. “Let Boss go!”

“Furu!” You called out, but it was too late.

Draken instantly stepped away from you, hand outstretched in protection as he moved to be between you and Furusawa, with Baji and Mitsuya quickly falling into line in a protective circle around you. The Toman President though, had a different idea, and a few quick steps brought him face to face with the massive beast of a man.

“Mikey! Stop!” You were too slow to stop the Toman President from lashing out, his leg a blur as it whirled at Furusawa, though that signature white boot was easily avoided. And Furusawa only grinned at the provocation, straightening to his full height as his chocolate eyes sharpened.

“Nice kick, kid.”

“No," Your blond friend spat back at you. "You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn't for them.” The word was spat out so venomously that even you reeled back - was that really your Mikey? The Mikey that loved your handmade taiyakis and tried so hard to break down your bathroom door? “I’ll kill them.”

Both boys were quickly stopped in their tracks though when Pah, who had up till now been simply watching from the sideline stepped forward unnoticed. All it took was a bash to the back of both heads - Mikey’s, who had been busy staring down and trying to intimidate a very unmoved Furusawa, and Kazutora’s, who had been busy staring down Mikey, the hands wrapped around his steel pipe twitching with the itch to beat out transgressions, be it real or assumed - for the hostility to instantly break down. Both boys seemed to have been shaken out of their respective foul moods and straight back into the needy boys you remembered from just yesterday - before any of this drama went down, though the Toman Vice Captain had other ideas as the two tried to come crying back to you for kisses and hugs.

“No. Mikey, Kazutora, you aren’t staying here tonight,” Draken ordered, folding his arms as he moved himself in front of you, all but blocking the two from your sight. “Go home.”

And in the face of unyielding anger at the stunt that the duo had just tried to pull - right after your return to them too - your two crestfallen friends, one more stoic than the other, had little choice except to turn to leave, Furusawa watching them from the corner of his eyes with crossed arms.

“Mikey. Kazutora.” Both boys paused, though only Kazutora turned around, watering eyes wiped hastily on his sleeve. You knew Mikey was listening, even if those abyss eyes never did lift off the tarmac road. “I forgive you. I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

“Boss, you-“

“That’s enough, Furusawa. Let’s call it a night okay?”

‎

Even hours later, huddled among your friends, their whimpers slowly fading away into light snores and mumbles of your name, you were still wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. Mikey had reminded you so much of Izzy that fateful night - you still lived through that nightmare in your dreams, though it had faded away over the years.

You recalled that it had been a quiet night, a few sparse hours spent alone in the dead of night in a vain bid to finish your piling homework; with your days usually packed back to back with classes followed by gang life (or more so both clashing in a constant fight for your time), surrounded by precious friends who brought with them their own lively vibrance, you rarely ever have time to sit down and chip away at work. Pausing for a mere few seconds to take a sip of tea and wonder what the rest of your friends were up to, the rain pouring outside didn’t help in your attempt to force yourself to stay awake, the pitter patter of droplets against the wide glass window panels a lulling, calming sound; a siren’s call tempting you to give in to your drowsiness.

Alas, you could only try your best to focus one more on the paper in front of you, the words and numbers starting to dance before your eyes even as you ran your pen over them, pointing out each one and imprinting it into your mind. You absolutely had to get this done tonight - there was no other time in the next week, what with the sudden influx of matches to officiate.

But fate had other ideas despite your desperate attempt to defeat your looming deadlines, the attention that you had just barely managed to refocus on your fifth practice test of the night drawn away by the familiar sound of your front door creaking as it swung open, and you sat up, the mental fatigue instantly draining away. Did something happen? What started as light footsteps that grew into a thunder of frenzied pounds up the flight of stairs only served to feed your growing concern, and you stood, your chair screeching as it was dragged across the wooden floor - it was unusual, highly unusual in fact - for any of your Reds to find you at this hour if there wasn’t an emergency that required you on scene.

And when your door was thrown open with a bang, revealing a drenched, wide-eyed Izana glancing wildly around your room before that gaze landed on you, your gut sank. You hesitated. The churn of doubt was unmistakable - the same instinct that warned you away from running headlong into danger countless times. Something wasn’t right with the boy you were facing down. Pushing aside the small voice in the back of your head screaming at you to run, to fight even (unthinkable, you rebutted yourself - not the man you love), you advanced forward cautiously, fingertips trailing lightly across the worn wooden top of your desk as if to ground yourself. “Izzy? What happened? Are you okay?”

“Y-you’re-” Izana’s pupils were completely constricted, chest heaving with his labored breathing, beads of water dripping off strands of white hair that contrasted with the rest of your unlit room. “You knew.”

An accusation - the weight of his words weren’t lost on you. Pausing as you reached the end of the table, you tilted your head. “Knew what?”

“T-that Shinichiro isn’t my brother. That he had a real brother.” Bitter, bitter words, laced with betrayal, with hurt. Izana had treasured the relationship he had with Shinichiro - the older delinquent was his idol, and you had lost count of the number of hours you had sat with that mob of white-hair in your lap, listening to Izana ramble away about everything and anything he had done and talked about with the older Sano.

You sighed, lifting your hand from the table to pinch the bridge of your nose. Of course he would find out, you had told Shinichiro. It was better to rip the bandage off earlier than let it sit and stew. Alas, the older former Black Dragon leader had disagreed, and forbade you from spilling the secret. “Mikey.”

“I knew it,” he whispered, the name leaving your lips all but taken as a sign of your deflection. A sign of your betrayal. “You were going to leave me. Like everyone else. For Mikey.”

“Izzy, I’m not,” you assured, as you tried to hide your trembling hand from your boyfriend.The last thing you wanted to do was trigger him even more when he was already in such a vulnerable state. You’ve never seen him like this. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

But he couldn’t hear you, his eyes completely constricted, his mind in turmoil and his ears filled with those treacherous whispers that escaped from the back of his mind.

A blink, and Izana had already crossed your bedroom. A swing at you you never saw coming, and then a crack. You remembered the sharp pain shooting up your leg that seemed to resonate through your entire body, the tears that instantly welled and broke free from your eyes as you went down with a cry, hitting the floor with a thud. He- Izzy struck you.

You tried to stand, lifting your torso off the ground shakingly with your hands, but your right leg simply refused to move, the agonizing pain from attempting to force your body to do so knocking you back to the ground. It was broken. Izzy broke your leg. But your boyfriend wasn’t done - those familiar gentle tanned hands, the same hands that had just yesterday been the one to ever so kindly taken yours and led you down festive lanes of vibrant color and sound, wrapped around your neck. And began to squeeze.

Izana laughed, even as fat tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto you, his shaking empty violet eyes fixed firmly on you. “Y-you can’t leave me. You can’t. I-I won’t let you. Never.”

“I-iz-zy, I ca-‘t br-eat-” The few words you could gasp out breathlessly, your face starting to tint blue, before Izana released you just as the edges of your vision started turning black.

A hum on his lips, Izana stood, leaving you lying on the ground gasping for air as he wandered over to your study desk, picking something from your stationary holder, before returning. Pulling up your shirt to reveal unmarked skin, the white-haired boy extended what sounded an awful lot like your penknife, and you froze as the cold tip of the blade touched your hip. He wouldn’t, would he?

“Izzy- stop-“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He pressed down, your scream piercing the night as he began to drag. “It-it’s love. I’m leaving my name for love. Just a while longer okay? Just a bit more. We’ll never be apart again.”

You didn’t remember much after your world had gone to black - just flashes of images, voices, so many voices overlapping while your eyes remained closed, mind desperately trying to shut out the pain reeling through your body. Were they yours? Were they Izzy’s? Every part of you felt like it was on fire.

A sickening crack of bones, the sound of flesh sinking into flesh and the grunt of someone taking the hits. You vaguely recall opening your eyes once more to the dark of your room, the unmistakable flash of pink that caught the light of the streetlamp outside your windows and the silhouette of a fist rising and disappearing telling you everything you needed to know.

Your throat was hoarse, and your lower body was all but unmovable, but still you tried again and again to lift yourself up. Furu, stop, you wanted to say, though you weren't sure if you managed to say those words out. You could barely tell if Furusawa even did stop pummeling your boyfriend into the ground, your vision completely blurred with the effort it took to open your eyes.

“For fuck’s sake Furusawa! We - Boss - hospital -“ Hase. Your eyes fluttered close once more.

And then it was the blinding beams of the harsh unforgiving hospital lights shining down at you from the ceiling that you stirred to, and the rest was history.

You turned in your bed, a groan emanating from behind you from where Baji had been fast sleep, the boy whining as he immediately started trying to huddle closer, arms attempting tugging you back into his cuddle, though Draken’s wrapped around your waist stopped any movement away. Right up against your bed, Furusawa sat fast asleep, head nodded forward and unmoving - you never understood how the man could get a good night’s rest in such an awkward position, but you supposed he had had worse (and not for the lack of trying too, you had offered to both your spare room, and to bring the spare mattress into your room, but Furusawa had declined both).

You reached out to run one hand through his surprisingly soft hair, and your oldest friend stirred but didn’t wake. So much Furu had done for you, so much the two of you had been through together. This road you were walking, you couldn’t give them up again for your own happiness, not the same friends who you had started this path for at the beginning, yet neither could you simply let go of your past or future for your Reds. The delicate balance you had been so carefully balancing ever since your past started merging with your present - it wasn’t going to last much longer, and you were determined that even when it does finally come crashing down, it was you who would cushion that fallout. Not your Reds, not your Toman boys, and not Izzy. And that meant there was only one option left for you.

‎

Five more minutes, Jun told himself, cerulean eyes staring straight into a matching pair attached to a sweating Takemich awkwardly blinking back at him. Five more minutes, and if still nothing happened, he would leave and forget this entire absurdity. This entire situation was already so out of character for someone that thrived on logic and order like he does that the Red Dragonflies’ Second Wing was at a loss as to what to feel, yet still he persisted. What was he thinking, coming all this way on such a ridiculous hunch?

A time traveller? Seriously? Real life wasn’t one of those sci-fi stories like those Masashi reads; there was zero possibility that time travelling was real, no fucking way. Jun felt stupid even having said it out loud to Hase with nothing but hearsay as proof - that sideeye he got was especially telling as to what the First Wing thought. Plus that dumb kid didn’t even look older.

But it was the same unshakable gut feeling that had never failed to guide his battle instincts screaming and kicking that drove him to at least check it out, especially so given how uncanningly the stars seemed to align even in the sole week that Jun had been keeping an eye on this blond-haired kid. The split personalities that this Takemichi kid seemed to switch between seemingly at random, though subtle, had been validated by Hisao’s careful probing at Jun’s direction. And no matter which way he turned the other’s behavior, it didn’t match what he understood as borderline personality disorder.

The teacher had long fallen silent, now resigned to having a seat at her desk instead, her protests of the intrusion during her class by this man who was clearly too old to be a student of this school having gone completely ignored. And with the addition of long blond hair and shock blue eyes, and one very well worn baseball bat, it could be argued that she did make the right choice to not to engage, Jun mused to himself, tapping his prized bat against his leg, even if he wasn't in his red jacket today.

“Is that Matsuno Jun-”

“I think it is-”

“… baseball player who attacked the other…?”

“He looks so scary!”

“-think he would sign my baseball card?”

“Tsk.” Jun clicked his tongue, one foul glance at the source of the mumbles, combined with the threatening ring of his baseball bat hitting metal, was enough to silence them. “What a fucking waste of my time.” Of everything he did, including baseball, battle strategy and even chess, he hated waiting the most.

Four more minutes.

‎

One heartbeat, and Takemichi gasped, blue eyes flying open, both hands shooting to wrap around his gut where he had just been shot. He was… alive? The subtle throbbing pain from being shot, and the shadow of death that had hung so close, still lingered in his subconscious even though there was no such wound on his fourteen year old body. “HUH?! Where am I- Matsuno-san?” As if om cue, the blond-haired boy reared back. “Why are you so close?”

And the final piece of the puzzle fell into place, the Second Wing's eyes lighting up like warm christmas lights on a winter night.

Jun stood in a flash, single-handedly hauling Takemichi up from his seat by his shirt collar. "I fucking knew it!" He exclaimed, a fierce smile pulling at scarred lips, as he tossed the boy over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing more than a bag of potatoes. "You're coming with me."

There was no other information revealed - what Jun knew, why he was forcing Takemichi to come with him in what seems to be the middle of class (again), or why one of the Captains of the Red Dragonflies was at his middle school looking for him to begin with. But alas, all he had were questions and a woeful lack of answers.

Somehow, the once horror-inducing scene of delinquents like him (third years again this time, it seems) littering the corridors no longer surprised or frightened Takemichi as much as the first time, though it still did bring that awful sinking feeling to his gut. On more normal days he would attempt to shuffle past and avoid stepping on the groaning seniors, but much alike Mikey and Draken, it seemed that Jun held no such desire for pleasantries, simply stomping his way through any stray limbs or hairs in his path without a care for the cries of pains. Nothing Takemichi could do but wince and mumble apologies from his perch.

“Ah Matsuno-kun, I can walk…”

“I fucking know that!” The former baseball star pushed him off his shoulder with little fanfare, and Takemichi barely caught himself on his feet. “Better not try to fucking run, you hear?”

“Um-uh where are we going?”

Jun snorted, baseball bat coming to rest on the shoulder he had just occupied - a clear threat. “You'll see when we get there. Now shut it, shithead.”

‎‎

"Stand up.” Those two words were enough to draw Takemichi’s gaze straight to the centre of what seemed to be a fighting ring of sorts, a steel cage rising from the sights of the ring to meet in the centre many metres above, the noise of the giant exhaust fans above doing little to drown out those very pointed words.“You aren't done until I say you're done."

And under the glaring artificial light, that mob of blue-hair was unmistakable, be it now or twelve years in the future. Takemichi couldn’t say if it was a good thing that Hase looked absolutely in his element in what looked more and more like those underground fighting rings his classmates loved to whisper about, half-naked amidst the bright spotlights with bandages wrapped around his wrists.

“Hase!” The members of the First Division winced in unison at the sudden screech from the front door. “Need to talk to you about that fucking issue!”

“Five more minutes. You got the proof?”

“He recognises us today, but not yesterday,” Jun announced proudly, pushing Takemichi forward straight into another red jacket. “Tell him, shitbrains.”

“Isn’t that just split personality disorder?”

The boys in red shuffled nervously away as Jun swung his bat round in anger, the wood leaving a large crack in the cement where it struck. “It’s not! Fuck! I’m telling you it’s fucking different!”

The blue-haired man boredly dodged another two pronged attack, ducking under an arm while stepping back from a kick, retaliating with two quick strikes to each face with open palms, sending them hurling and crashing into the steel bars of the fighting cage. “Too slow, work on your coordination more. And I’m asking, Jun, where’s the proof?”

“The proof is fucking him! This fucking fuckhead!”

“What, you need help with getting information too?” Hase rolled his eyes, but his tone was a teasing one, and he signaled a pause, much to the relief of his two division vice-captains who collapsed on the ground with a sigh. Their hell was over. “Whatever, you are right on time anyway. Someone toss him in the ring.”

Takemichi couldn’t help but flinch as those uncomfortably familiar gray eyes were turned on him as he was manhandled into the cage by several obedient members, a trigger to his subconscious left over from his time in the future. Even though he instinctively knew that this Hase in front of him wasn’t the same that turned his gun on him, the time leaper couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the only difference between this set of eyes and the one that had shot him point blank was your active presence. And no doubt Hase definitely picked up on that, that already suspicious gaze sharpening, though he held back from commenting.

“Takeshi, Shou, you two need a lot more practice.” The First Wing turned to address the rest of his division gathered. “And so do the rest of you. I expect you all to up your spars in the next few weeks. I don’t have time for every single one of you bastards, so make use of Shou and Takeshi.”

There was a mumble of ‘Yes Captain’ that went around the room, and Hase nodded. “Everyone out.”

The fighting arena cleared under three minutes, with several boys in red entering the ring to carry out two very tired, very bruised boys, Takemichi only able to enviously watch as they disappeared outside the thick reinforced bars, and then behind the thick steel entrance doors - how he wished he had never come here.

“I guess Jun was right,” Hase grumbled, and the blond-haired delinquent whirled back around. “You know who we are.” Takemichi attempted to scramble back slightly as the First Wing approached him, though he didn’t get far.

“Ahhh- I mean I was at that fight ahaha…”

“I fucking told you he’s a time traveler,” the Second Wing grumbled.

Takemichi felt the fist bury itself into his stomach before he registered seeing it fly, the single blow forcing all the air from his lungs right before the onset of gut-wrenching pain moments later, the weight of the punch only magnified with the deceivingly gentle hand rested on his back that stopped him from flying back and mitigating its force. The hum of the large industrial fans above him drowned out the thud of his collapse onto the thinly padded floor, the blond-boy only managing to heave and dry-heave as he struggled to catch his breath, fat tears brimming at his eyes and breaking free to roll down his cheeks as the agony seemed to radiate through every inch of his poor body. But Hase had little sympathy, simply staring down at the downed Toman member. “I fucking hate liars,” said man mumbled, reaching into his pocket for his pack and pulling out a fresh cigarette.

“For fucks sake, can you fucking smoke outside?!” Jun complained, dropping into a nearby chair, a muffled thud as his baseball bat came to rest on the cracked concrete. "Fucking stinks." But ultimately he did nothing more but mumble more as Hase lit himself a new stick - this was very obviously Hase’s home turf, and Jun was but a guest.

“So are you going to start talking or not?”

“W-what am I supposed to say?” Takemichi stammered out as he clamoured to his knees, barely catching his breath.

Hase shrugged. “Either prove you’re a time traveler or you’re not. Stop this fucking goon from continuously coming to waste my time and fill my schedule.” He raised his fist. “And don’t lie.”

‎

“Thank you for taking the time to meet me on such short notice, Shiba-san.” You waved them in, your light, fairy-like footsteps leaving nothing but a mark where you had trodden across freshly-steamed carpets, as opposed to the heavy albeit cautious steps of Taiju’s. The clatter of boots and shoes alike against polished wooden floors was all but filled the air for the next few seconds as the rest of the audience fell into position, Furusawa taking his usual stand behind your camelback sofa, and Taiju’s two men, Inui and Kokonoi you heard, behind his, pristine white uniforms gleaming against the Tenth Generation Black Dragon leader’s blood red.

A red that was a tad too bright, too vibrant for your own liking, but who were you to question it?

“I’ve heard the tales about you from Inupi,” Taiju’s voice shook you from your musing, and you turned your gaze to meet that sharp yellow gaze.

“Nothing but good things, I hope,” you teased back, your gaze shifting to meet a familiar pair of icy blue eyes. “It’s good to see you again, Inui-san.”

Said boy held up his hand with a quick dip of his head. “Inupi, please.”

You nodded. “Sorry it’s just me and Furu here today. Hase had something come up, he couldn’t make it.” Receiving the murmurs of acknowledgement, you pressed on, the smile falling from your face as you shifted gear. “Well, let’s get straight into business. I want to merge the Black Dragons under the Red Dragonflies.”

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curatoroffiction · 2 years

Text

A Loving Homage To “Dark Mage Solomon”

“All Magic Comes With A Price” is the first title in an amazing 3-part series for “Dark Mage Solomon” written by @beels-burger-babe, where she wrote about Solomon under the influence of the magic of his pacts, losing his soul and abusing the main character (You, in place of the reader) as a result. It’s a graphic and heart-wrenching story. Absolutely amazing. I’ve linked it, and I cannot recommend reading it enough. She’s one of my favorite “Obey Me!” fanfic authors. 10/10, highly recommend perusing her goods if you’re a fan of the series. She finished the Dark Mage Solomon series today and I found myself wanting more, so I ended up writing my own blurb to continue off of the story pieces she left to the reader’s imagination. This is a fan-made piece that’s designed to pick up where she left off in her three-part collection for her Dark Mage Solomon series.

WARNINGS:

- MAJOR SPOILERS for @beels-burger-babe‘s “Dark Mage Solomon” series.

- Mentions of physical and emotional abuse

- Ya’ll this is so much darker than my usual works. Hahahaha.

- Obsessive and addictive behaviors from Solomon

- Semi-mind-control/influence?

- Asmodeus cries a lot

- THIS IS NOT A STAND-ALONE PIECE. It’s meant to be read after you read the entirety of the Dark Mage Solomon series written by @beels-burger-babe

===========================================

Resolutions In Broken Memories

It's been some time since your pacts returned, but the brothers haven't stopped fawning over them. They'd long-since mourned their losses. The moments they felt the burn of your separation, they thought this connection to you was lost forever. To see the gift of having them returned was something out of a fantasy, and none of them can seem to fully believe that they still get to have this special connection to you.

Oftentimes, you find them caressing their marks absent-mindedly while cuddling you. At first, it seemed really cute, but once the haze of the spell's initial 'fix' wore down, you began to realize it was a bit strange how fixated on your marks they were.

You began to ask questions.

The brothers, Diavolo and Barbatos, Simeon and Luke had all discussed your condition thoroughly before you really came out of your stupor. They came to the unified conclusion that if you wanted to know what happened, it'd be in your best interest to walk you through it again. After all, the fear that caused you to break down, the fear that caused the spell to activate, was the fear of having permanently lost your connections to the brothers. Now that you had those back, conversations surrounding what happened to you previously would be easier, or, at least less dangerous to have.

Still, they can’t help but be afraid of what will happen to you if you’re pushed into a place of panic again.

They still don't understand how strong this spell is, and all attempts to break it have ended poorly. Solomon's power may be gone from him, but the footsteps of his actions in the past echo forward, marking you with the sorcerer's influence.

The charm stands as one last glimpse of the immense power he wielded before he got caught.

---

Asmodeus in particular has been struggling to leave your side. He gently caresses his mark on your skin, eyes listless when he thinks you can't see. You gently caress his head, holding him close, letting him take all the time he needs.

You, after all, don't know what's happened to you.

"Asmodeus?" Your voice saying his name is a blessing for him to hear. His eyes look to yours as he glances away from your mark. "Can I ask.. why is it you guys keep caressing my marks? I feel like.. Well I feel like something strange happened. Something bad. But I don't remember anything happening."

Asmodeus' fingers stop against your skin, and his expression darkens. He averts his gaze and you feel your stomach drop. Whatever it was that happened, it was so painful to him that he couldn't even find the words to express everything. You gently stroke your fingers through his hair, your thumb softly rubbing along his cheek. You gently murmur to him; "I'm here. You can talk to me about it. I promise."

".. Something.. happened to you. But, because of what happened to you, there's a spell on you." He begins slowly. He'd worked through this in his head a thousand times since you'd lost your memories, in case he'd have to be the one to tell you. "... Because.. of.. ah.." You can see his eyes welling with tears as he speaks. "Because of the spell.. if you feel unsafe... the spell will do things to make you feel safe again.. But.." You gently caress his head, cooing gentle praises to him for being so brave in telling you about this, and it gives him just enough strength to continue. "... We don't know what it'll do. ... Something did happen to you, but.. Until the spell is gone, there's a powerful and unknowable influence that reacts to your emotions."

"And such a spell would be incredibly dangerous if I was upset while under its influence." You finish and he nods. You gently tug him in closer, massaging into his back. "... Thank you. Knowing that much at least gives me a sense of what's happened. ... If it really is that powerful and dangerous, then, it's okay if I'm in the dark a little longer. I'm happy right now. I feel safe." Asmodeus clings to you and you hold him close. He begins crying quietly into your shoulder, and you warmly massage into his back.

Whatever it is, you're okay being there for him right now. It could be the spell and how it calms you, but, you're content here. You're content to just experience this moment with him, knowing just a fraction of the whole story.

Asmodeus just sobs as he remembers what he did to you. Every caress from you when he knows you can’t remember his actions.. just feels like a burning singe to his skin. The nightmares have lessened, but knowing that they weren't just nightmares- Rather memories of him hurting you- has been killing him. Every reassuring and comforting murmur from your lips makes him feel selfish in a way he can't put to words right now.

All he can say is repeated apologies. Begging you for forgiveness with every quiet sob. You gently massage into his back, affectionately telling him it's okay. You'll be okay.

And in every sense of the word, you truly believe that you're safe.

---

Solomon has been searching, scrounging, trying to find any source of power he can scrape together. Something, anything to let him feel in control again.

He hasn't felt this helpless in a very long time.

The brothers took care to shut down any networks of magic users from accepting or helping him. Diavolo made it clear to all of Devildom that any demons found consorting with the once-powerful sorcerer would find themselves answering to him directly.

No matter how far he went, what realm he consorted with, he was unable to find anyone willing to make a pact or allow him to borrow their power.

The sorcerer finds himself leaning on the oldest of magics he ever learned - The ones that first allowed him to connect with demons. Spells forged of candles and written words, chalk marks and sacrifices. Spells cast through loss. Through spilt blood.

Without the pacts, without his connection to any demons, he finds that no stretch of the of his sacrifices are able to generate even remotely enough power to communicate with beings outside the three realms.

It's been months of scraping through to find a way to recover even an ounce of his old power, and in that time, his mind has begun to change once again. Now no longer under the influence of his pacts, he finds himself having more vivid memories of his time with you.

With much less of a rose-tinted glass to peer through.

There's many a night he spends curled up as your screams ring through his core and fill him with a sense of dread. As he's forced to quit his magic cold-turkey, he's also forced to come to terms with what he did to you while he's at his most powerless.

And his most sober.

He begins to realize what a monster he made of himself. For the first time in his life, he realizes just how dangerous greed can be.

Because ultimately, this was the fruits of his own greed.

His greed for power, his greed for you, his greed for control..

He’s still trying to establish definition where the lines blurred. Did he want power to help you? Or was it to control you? Did he want you because you were powerful? How much of his actions were for you?

And how much of this was for himself?

He'd deluded himself in the thick of it that he'd been doing this all for you, for your benefit.. But, with the clarity of his senses so barren of outside influences.... He finds that he's struggling to come to terms with those same excuses.

---

The brothers don't leave you alone for too long. You sleep in the arms of someone who loves you every night. Tonight, it's Mammon's turn. He likes to sleep in your room, because it was the way that he felt closest to you. He gently tugs you into his arms, hand warmly caressing the back of your head, cradling you close. You sleepily wrap your arms around the demon and moment by moment, you drift deeper into sleep.

But Mammon can't sleep.

Ever since you were taken, he'd been struggling with coming to terms with having failed you as much as he did. Lucifer had caught onto his feelings of guilt and tried to alleviate them for him, but..

He was your protector.

He gently breathes, holding your body like a delicate memory. A memory of when he's felt his best. A memory of when he's been his best.

Your body begins to tremble. The spell was strong, but it was common for your unconscious mind to grieve in your sleep. He surrounds you with warmth, tugging the blankets up to keep you comfy, resting his head atop yours. Your body soon relaxes into his touch, but not without that damned glow.

The glow of the spell.

Every time he saw it, it only made him angrier.

The brothers have watched as Solomon's spell has continued to soothe you. Forcing you into a comfortable state. It infuriates Mammon to think of what Solomon would have put you through if he hadn't fucked up as royally as he did. The demon's anger bubbles and festers as he securely holds you.

In truth, he’s terrified that you may never be able to experience fear again. Will you ever be able to make your own choices regarding your safety again?

It's common for the brothers who stay with you at night to wake up exhausted the next morning. You're always worried about them, but they promise you they'd be worse off if you slept alone.

The exhaustion is from the emotional labor of their fears.

---

The day started off like any other - The only difference was that little notification you found on your phone.

A notification from someone you didn't recognize.

Opening your messages, you see that you'd spoken with them a lot. Your last message to them was something about telling them that you'd arrived at their house.

You start flitting through your texts with this person. You're confused. Why don't you remember them? Why can't you remember this person at all? Who were they? Who were they to you? As you read through your old texts, you begin to see the picture being painted; They were your friend. For over a year, in fact. You had messages going back to when you first arrived in Devildom. You had messages about things happening with the brothers. Messages where you lamented over homesickness. Messages where he told you about experiments. Every time he offered you food that he made, you always declined. You two would go out together alone. He helped you with injuries and healed you. You helped him with magic and testing things. He cared about you, and you cared about him. Your texts make it evident enough to you.

You begin to look through your call history. The last time you'd ever gotten a call from this number was months ago, and his call correlated with the chunk of memories of time that you knew you didn't have.

Whatever this person was to you, they were connected to whatever was going on with you in the now.

Solomon's message to you this morning is just;

[Can we talk?]

You pause, staring at the screen. You're not really sure what to say. On one hand, you'd finally get answers, but... On the other hand, were they worth it?

The brothers kept mentioning that you were under an incredibly difficult to remove spell, and that while under its influence, your emotional state and well-being was a trigger-point for the spell. This person might have something to do with that. You could ask one of the brothers about this person, but with how protective they've been lately, would they let you pursue these answers?

You take your time to think about it. You don't respond right away.

---

Classes went smoothly, and for the majority of the day, you almost forgot about the message from your mystery person. That is, until you're checking your messages on the walk home and you see another notification from him.

[I noticed you didn't respond for a lot of hours, so I figure you don't want to talk. That’s fair. I just wanted to apologize. I know that's probably really empty, considering what I did to you, but.. I'm sorry. The magic is gone, and it's been.. sobering.]

You decide to text him back. [I'm gonna be real, I don't know who you are or what it is you're apologizing for. It sounds like you sucked.]

[You.. don't know who I am?]

[No. Are you the reason there's a spell on me that everyone's been freaking out about?]

---

It takes Solomon a moment to respond. You don't know, but he's panicking on the other end. You don't know him. It hurts so much, but he's also elated. You don't know him! For a moment, he has a brief rush of relief that you don't remember what he did to you.

But that's quickly replaced by a flood of guilt as he realizes, you don't remember what he did to you.

Solomon stares at his D.D.D. You're responding, you don't know who he is, but he's already been so selfish with you to this point. His breath hitches in his throat as he knows what he has to do, and he hisses in frustration as he begins to carefully force himself to type.

---

[If you don't know who I am, then, I don't think we should be talking. I hurt you. Badly. I think I probably know what it is you're referring to about the spell. ... In which case, yes, I think I was the cause. I'm sorry.]

[If you cast it, can you remove it?]

[... No. I can't. Not anymore.]

[What's preventing you from removing it?]

---

Solomon stares at his screen. He's spent the last month trying to find a way to get the power to undo his mistakes, only to find a full power embargo in every direction.

The clarity of the distance from that power allowed him to see how he'd been changed by the magic. How he'd allowed himself to obsess over getting what he wanted, whatever the cost. The man that was left when the magic was gone was just a husk of who he once was. A husk that realized just how much he used you.

In the quiet, he came to understand just how much he'd wanted you for himself. For the acclaim. For the love. For your power. He'd gotten so used to making pacts to get what he wanted. To control those he admired. When he saw you, his rising star, growing and learning and coming into your own... He admired that in you.

He admired you so much, that he wanted your power and your strength and your acclaim all for himself.

But he couldn't make a pact with you. You weren't a demon.

He'd dealt with demons for so long, collecting and borrowing their power... So meeting someone like you, who was so powerful and strong, only to know that he couldn't take that power for himself?

The greed he had was so immeasurable that it permeated and rotted every facet of his soul.

He got hungry, to outmatch you. Collect more and more pacts. If he couldn't have your power, he would match it. Exceed it! He might not have wielded the power of the seven, but he would wield an army that could swallow them if he must.

It was because of this that he had become so obsessed with collecting power. He saw you achieve what he couldn't, and he couldn't stand it. Envy. His desire to have that power only for you to be able to achieve it within a year..? You'd even been able to bring Lucifer under your control.

Solomon was convinced he was the greatest sorcerer that ever lived, until you got the one pact he'd lusted for since he began his pursuit of magic. Lucifer Morningstar. The blow to Solomon's pride ran deep. Deeper than the rot of his greed. His wounded pride was what really drove his actions.

He needed to feel important again.

You were already more accomplished than him in gathering power. And who were you? Just some random person plucked from the human realm. A nobody. The wrath bubbling under the surface of his senses sickened him. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to put you in your place.

And that initially scared him.

It's why he had to make a promise to himself that he wouldn't.

He was never satiated. A glutton for that which fed his desire to be admired. No matter the cost.

When he couldn't have your power, and he refused to hurt you, he had to find another option to soothe his burning hunger. All it took was you coming to him with that broken wrist for him to remember how fragile you were, despite your success.

So fragile. Unlike him, you couldn't live forever.

His pride mended itself as he convinced himself that you needed him. It was so easy to believe too. A sweet comfort of a lie that tugged at the edges of his mind. Of course he was still important. Of course he was still amazing. He was your protector. He was the one who would keep you safe. Your mentor. Your friend. Your confidant.

He told himself that you wanted his protection. But.. The driving force at the very core of his actions was his desire to possess that which he admired.

His desire to possess your magic. And when he couldn’t possess it, he decided to destroy it.

He hated how his veins itched for the magic. For the control. For the strength. Every pang of craving for that power just wracking his senses with the guilt.

Even now, his mind runs a mile a minute to try to use you, and he finds himself disgusted. Even now, he's still hungry to possess you. He keeps finding his mind trying to find a way to get you to meet him alone. A thought he repeatedly shoves out of his mind to the best of his ability.

He's fighting so hard against it. Against the cravings. Just that alone is taking so much energy. He stares at his screen, helpless. Sloth tugging at his soul, begging him to give in, to take the easy way out.

It'd be so easy to isolate you again.. And this time he could do it right..

Solomon drops his D.D.D to the ground between his legs as he clutches his skull. He's a mess. His eyes, grey without a single speck of their old golden hue, stare at the device.

You deserved an answer.

Could he give you one without losing control again?

---

[My magic was removed. For good reason. I no longer can practice it. I'm.. I'm sorry. I can't undo the damage I've caused.]

[What damage did you cause?]

---

How does he answer THAT? Do you remember NONE of it? What of your pacts? Is this.. Is this the work of his charm? His stomach drops.

Did he doom you to live in a passive stupor for the rest of your life?

They're calm again. Happy. We could get them alone and this time try it right. This could be good for us! The thoughts swirl against his chest as he grips his head.

The desire to be close with you again soaks into his core, and he has to let it wash over him like a bad headache.

He can't use you again.

He forces himself to remember your body, limp and almost lifeless in his arms. He did that to you.

He can't trust himself with you.

---

You watch your screen as Solomon types and then stops repeatedly.

This goes on for a while. So long, in fact, that you put your D.D.D away and just enjoy the company of the brothers for a movie night. It isn't until you're heading to the kitchen to grab some snacks that you feel your D.D.D buzz.

You lean against the kitchen island as you read it.

[I.. used you. To soothe my own insecurity. In doing so, I destroyed your pacts with the 7 brothers. I isolated you from the outside world for months. I lied about your whereabouts to our friends. I cast a charm on you to try to force you to feel safe again, so you'd finally be happy.. ... I don't know the extent of what that charm has done to you, but I think that might be the spell that the others are so worried about.]

Your mind fuzzes over as you try to remember. Why can't you remember? And what's more, you're not even.. scared. You're not even scared that you don't remember.

The longer this charm has sunk into your senses, its passively calming effects have taken root.

[... I can't remember any of this. Why can't I remember any of this?]

---

Why CAN'T you remember any of this? Solomon feels his stomach flip-flop as he clutches his device.

[I'm.. not sure. It's possible it's connected to the charm.]

[My pacts are fine though. So, if you did something to them, it didn't stick.]

His eyes widen.

Your pacts were... fine?

You'd been able to recover the unrecoverable?

Could he.....?

He shakes his head. He needs to know more. No- You need to know more. He doesn't need closure. You do.

“This isn't about you. You can’t make this about you.” He utters this to himself, hissing the words like a curse against his own weakness as he takes up your chat again.

[Ask the brothers about your pacts. They should know more.]

---

"Hey, everything alright in here?"

You look up to see Belphegor standing in the doorway. His expression is warm as he found you safe and sound. But when he sees you looking to your D.D.D instead of gathering snacks, he does feel nervous.

You set the device aside and look lost in thought. "... Belphie, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course." He comes alongside you and leans against the island with you.

"Did something happen to my pacts with you guys?"

His heart drops. Why are you asking about that? He reflexively begins looking you over as he panics visibly, looking for his and his brother's marks.

They were all still there.

He breathes a sigh of relief, resting his forehead against your shoulder, but his reaction alone is quite the answer to your question.

".. I think I'm ready to hear about what happened to me. Can you please tell me?"

"... C'mon. We should go talk to the others about it."

---

The movie paused, the brothers gently ease you into it, telling you about what Solomon had done to you. How he'd ripped you from your pacts. The immense physical and emotional abuse you endured. How he abused his control over Asmodeus, and the violent nightmares the demon endured as a result. How Asmodeus felt so helpless as he was forced to do Solomon's bidding.. How, even now, the charm he cast on you is preventing you from being able to remember any of it. They explain that they don't even know the scope of the charm's strength, but that it's already shown to shift the reality of your body and mind to make you feel safe, so it's very dangerous.

So much begins to make sense.

Belphegor sees you thumbing your D.D.D as you listen, and it clicks to him that there was probably a cause to this conversation.

"... Did someone bring it up to you? Is that why you're asking about it?"

"... Someone with the username 'MonSOLO' has been texting me today-" But before you can finish your sentence, several of the brothers have shifted into their demon forms.

Just the man's username is enough to put them on high guard for yours and Asmodeus' safety.

And, knowing the story now, it makes complete sense.

Mammon is the first to blurt out "HE'S GOT NO RIGHT" followed by Asmodeus going fetal, hugged and caressed by Beelzebub. Belphegor is silent, but his expression is visibly pissed. Satan's smiling, but you can feel the murderous intent behind it as he begins to speak up.

"No no, this is perfect. Now we can tear him limb from limb ourselves. Right? This has to breach something. Right??"

Asmodeus didn't realize that hearing that Solomon had re-entered your lives would hurt him as much as it did. He's in shock.

Lucifer is deep in thought as Satan continues ranting vividly on how he's going to gut Solomon. Mammon angrily griping, unsure of who to direct his frustrations at. Beelzebub is tending to Asmodeus. Belphegor is just stuck between rage and fear.

Leviathan is actually the one who focuses in on you.

You're... eerily calm.

Even though you’ve just heard some of the worst possible news, you’re, for the most part, unreactive. They're all panicking and in a flurry of intense emotions, you're just sat as normal as ever.

So he cuts through the noise to ask you a question that makes everyone freeze as they wait for your answer. "___, did you text him back?"

...

".. Yeah. We got to talking." You're slow to respond. The brothers begin to move to listen, each watching you carefully. All of their thoughts and fears and anger put on the backburner. "... I didn't know who he was, but it looked like we had an extensive conversational history in our chat. He apologized, and I didn't really know what to do with that, so I told him I didn't know who he was or what he did. He was actually the one who told me to ask you guys about what he did to my pacts."

"I don't trust it! I don't trust him! He lied to our FACES for months! JUST LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO ASMODEUS!" Mammon is quick to make his opinions well-known. "HIS APOLOGY MEANS NOTHING."

"You're not going to accept his apology, are you?" Beelzebub speaks up, looking to you with concern.

"... I don't know. I feel like, I need this spell to be gone before I can choose how to handle this."

The brothers are quiet in your conclusion. They'd had you ripped away from them once before, and were scared of the damage Solomon could still do to you. Lucifer speaks up, breaking the silence. "You won't be seeing him without one of us with you as protection. Is that understood?" His words are harsh and commanding, but his tone is gentle. He's worried about you. This is the best way he can give you the freedom to make your own choices, without losing you again.

The last thing you need is seven controlling demons after what you’ve been through.

"I understand. It sounds like there's a lot I don't know about him. I'd feel safer with one of you guys around anyway."

"I can't do it." Asmodeus croaks, his eyes listless as he stares at the ground. "I can't be around him." Belphegor reaches over to gently massage into his brother's back. He knows especially how hard this has been on Asmodeus.

Watching Asmodeus, you wonder to yourself if you'll feel similarly when the charm is taken off.

It's so hard to imagine yourself that scared.

The brothers agree that Solomon will be kept away from Asmodeus. None of them would ever force him to see that man again. Asmodeus seeks the comfort of your arms, and you caress him and gently coo comforts to him, forgiving him for everything he did when he was under Solomon's control. His tears flow hotly as he cries, clutching you close, sobbing as the grief washes over him. He can't stop apologizing, to which you gently massage into his back and reassure him that he's already been forgiven.

---

After a long and lengthy discussion, you're able to plan for a meeting with Solomon. A meeting in which, under the care and watch of both Luke and Simeon, as well as the protection of Lucifer, Satan and Belphegor, and the oversight of Barbatos, you'll be able to have a discussion with the sorcerer about the charm he put on you. He's expected to bring every article and paper and note he has on the charm, so it may be dissected by Satan and Belphegor.

If there's a chance to undo this charm, they will find it.

-----

End of chapter

-----

This is a Tumblr-Exclusive piece, but I write other cool stuff over here:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuratorOfFiction

#Beels-burger-babe #Obey Me #Obey Me!#Dark Mage Solomon #Dark Mage Solomon Continued #A loving homage #Reader-Insert #Reader Insert #Reader #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fanfiction of Fanfiction #Yandere Solomon #Yandere #Angst

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