#green light

The Lorde of the Mood Ring.

Solar Power Tour

Prettier Jesus and her incorrigible raw aesthetic appeal. - The Lorde

For context, this was somewhere around the time MC already left the gang and was planning to move to Nagoya so yeah, Shin is just going through a lot :-(

“You’re not an excuse for me to look after them. I would’ve still done it, regardless." 

There’s so much fondness in his eyes that you could drown and be content to never catch your breath again from staring into them. 

"Then would you let me look after you?”

pairing:shinichiro sano/gn!reader

content tags:childhood friends. angst and hurt/comfort. slice of life ft. gangs. idiots to lovers. old friends trying to reconnect but are being dumbasses about it. they don’t deserve the friends to lovers tag because they’re stupid and pining. draken gets a cameo. we’re moving to the semi-roommates arc. veeery self-indulgent domestic fluff and food love language with a hint of suggestive content at the end. 

a/n: yesss, the sano family chapter! holy fuck, this is probably the longest chapter i’ve written for this fic (8k ~ never again) but i have to establish a lot of things—and honestly, anything for the sanos.

m.list ❁ read on ao3

Everything was asleep, but you weren’t.

There’s always a wistful part of you that made you feel as if you were being left behind in the raw, unaffected hours before daybreak.

Alcohol-induced headaches never numbed the feeling enough, but you didn’t feel so alone this time. You woke to the baby hairs behind his neck, his eyelashes; brushed by a fingertip. They fluttered from sleep, and from an article you read some time ago, that meant he was in a state of dreaming, REM sleep or whatever. You hoped it was a good dream.

The both of you didn’t shower last night so you caught a whiff of the izakaya, the laundry soap on his clothes, his sweat.

It’s a comfort. How real Shin felt next to you on the bed, wrapped all over each other.

You’d been together for awhile so you had to wonder why committing to this hadn’t crossed your minds.

It wasn’t as if you two didn’t lack the awareness of how much you acted like you never had any boundaries, though he’d probably hate you knowing now that he had a pimple behind his ear, that his face was rough and a little oily in the morning.

Shinichiro would act like you never had bad skin, like you didn’t put as much effort in your appearance as he did, like he hadn’t filled out since then and he still had to catch up to you. You wondered whoever told him that he wasn’t interesting. His rejections were most likely the root for the insecurity though those were also a series of misjudgments and tough luck on his part, all hard-bitten lessons about heartache.

He probably collected them like bruises yet he still took the blow of a joke graciously.

Twenty consecutive rejections were a record though it was over before the hurt would taint his decisions, lacking the toxic relationships one recklessly accumulated before arriving at the age of thirty. You would rather he never go through any of that. He’s had enough. You wondered if you were. Just enough to not wake him but still find a place in his arms.

You really wished it wasn’t so early.

But then Shinichiro woke up a little later on, lumbering to the bathroom.

Upon his return, he snuggled back to you, muttering to your hair that you should quit pretending, and you sagged against him with a sigh.

“You don’t sleep like that. You snore, you sleep-talk over the phone,” he recalled in a mumbling daze, making you ask what you ever said on the other line. You didn’t feel as chagrinned as you should, though this was the first time you realized he’d been waiting out longer on you after passing out on your midnight calls.

“It’s in gibberish language, I can’t tell.” For that, you shoved him a bit, rankled.

“Get off me.”

“No.”

You didn’t fight him when he squeezed you tighter into his hold, as if he could fit you nicely in his ribcage.

At 4:42am, you lost your motivation in badgering him back to sleep.

You had alluded before that you’re taking sleeping meds, but Shinichiro knew how you struggled.

He still told you that you looked like a nightmare, and you weren’t taken aback by his words, cracking a smile. Then you shouldn’t be too comfortable around one.

His observation wasn’t meant to be an insult, though he couldn’t ignore how your eyes were all watery and bloodshot from a mild hangover. He got up again to bring you a glass of cold water.

“Did you love all of them?” you asked, unexpectedly.

“Hm?”

“The women who rejected you,” you stopped mid-drink when he raised a brow at you. “I’m not taunting you.”

Shinichiro watched the smooth line of your throat bob, finishing your glass. “Sort of. It depends,” he replied. “Most are just, you know, crushes.”

Then he fished out a packet of painkillers from the drawer of his nightstand and waved it at you, which you declined. “And the others? Last time I tallied, it was still seventeen rejections.“

"You missed out,” he shrugged. “Not that my love life is that amazing back then anyway.”

“It’s a little different falling for adults, though.” You melted back to your pillow, pulling up the sheets to your chest. “Like you really get to know each other, but it’s harder. Sweeter, sometimes. It’s fun for awhile too until one of you suddenly talks about the future.”

Agreeing, Shinichiro let out an amused exhale. “Talking about the future is always the deal breaker.”

The truth was it had never gotten that far with him, though he reflected back on the time he was rejected because he was a mechanic.

Low income and prospects; he’d never be introduced to her affluent parents, who shunted her off to Keio with expectations that demanded more of her than it did to him. Junko was an intern in the hospital his grandfather frequented for his hypertension.

It’s almost love at first sight at the hallway, spilling instant coffee all over himself. She drank house blend from the upscale, rooftop cafes that had the best views of the city skyline. The first sign was noticing how her Tokyo was different from his, how their passions unaligned. He’d like to believe there’s almost a middle ground in dimples, scribbled cupholders, and grievances over board exam stress.

Junko confessed that he granted her the kind of peace that she hadn’t repossessed in her life before paying for his coffee and leaving him.

Shinichiro figured it’s for the best when she never knew he used to be in a gang.

As it turned out, Bakery girl also didn’t know much about your history.

She wanted to marry. I didn’t.

That should speak for itself.

He thought about your parents, and then about his.

It’s sad and complicated.

“So are we gonna have this discussion too?”

“I’m not thinking that far yet,” you nestled yourself to him. “You disappointed?”

“No, not really. I’m,” he wanted this, whatever solace he found with you. He’s keeping it. “I’m fine with this for now.”

Even though he did play with the idea on how your name would sound like with Sano.

“Yeah. Me too,” you loosened up, and he didn’t tease you for overhearing your sigh, relieved but melancholic. “But one day, we’ll be coming back to that.”

“One day,” Shinichiro echoed back with a nod, seeming to be serious, though he’d been lost for awhile over the sight of your bedhead, the side of your cheek that’s all puffy and chafed from his pillow. “I’ll be waking up next to you every morning.”

“Then you’re going to have to put up with me in a week.”

“You put up with me everyday.”

“You’re not bad.”

You gave him a bemused look. Stunned by your sincerity, he recuperated after another second.

“You aren’t either.” His lips creased up into a smile. “Everyone will love to see you again.”

Eyes wide with disbelief, you blurted out, “like this? So suddenly?” 

“It’s just breakfast,” said Shinichiro, sinking a little over a disheartened, “unless you don’t want to.”

“No, I’d love to,” you said, blinking up at him. “It’s just that I didn’t bring a gift.”

Climbing down the flight of stairs, you’re tempted to ask if they remodeled the house.

The furniture wasn’t exactly placed like how it was in the space of your memory, but everything was still there; all sweeping traditional interior lined with cedarwood, sliding doors and shelves arrayed with modern fixtures, books, antiques. They had a new TV. You swore the old choba-dansu should be next to the window, though the kotatsu was still in the heart of the other room, sprawling against the tatami.

There’s something about the floorboards weighing under your foot that made you ache. You used to race each other here, pulses of wood joined with laughter.

Your eyes wandered to the family pictures on the walls, the narrow hallways, the way the morning light spilled gold into the kitchen, warm with the smell of cooking, and then there was Emma.

She wasn’t tiptoeing to reach the faucet on the sink anymore, but she’s standing over it with an apron on her waist and a scrunchy tied on her blond hair. Yawning on her palm, she anticipated to greet him from the doorframe but then he dragged you in with him by the arm.

“Look who’s here,” said Shinichiro.

A surprised blink, followed after her spine straightening. Her drowsiness melted off from the stutter of your name, aware and awake from your presence, but she didn’t radiate unsettlement; just shock and awkward recognition.

“Hi Emma,” you said with a wave, almost biting your tongue once a small voice crept at the back of your head, remember me? “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Emma nodded to you with a meek smile. Then she shot an assuming glance at her older brother, who offered nothing but a close-eyed smile beside you.

Making an apologetic gesture with your hand, you said to her that you didn’t mean to barge in unannounced, and he took that as his cue to explain himself, inviting you for a night after a reunion with your friends.

She assessed it with a hum though it didn’t last long when she still had meals to prepare, kindly asking him to pull out a few more ingredients from the fridge before he returned to his routine. He was on rice duty, though she did most of the work because she trusted neither of her older brothers in cooking at all. More trouble than its worth.

Shinichiro looked about ready to quip back, though he conceded with a sigh and she was gracious to not recount all of his mishaps in the kitchen while folding eggs from the omelette pan. After his morning coffee, he shortly left the both of you to wake up Mikey.

You insisted on helping, despite her not really needing it when she was halfway done with the dishes, giving the steaming pot of miso soup a stir and then resuming back to cutting the slab of mackerel into five parts, the meat pink and glistening against her knife.

Emma considered you after asking you to wash the vegetables and handing you another cutting board to chop up the green onions for the soup and the store-bought natto. Then you went about on other simple tasks, like slicing the tamagoyaki and portioning the natto and broccoli gomaae, setting them all in a crockery on the table. The bowls of rice would soon follow.

When you learned that she did this everyday, you told her that she was amazing.

She flustered over the compliment and denied it with a shy wave of her spatula, just after a soft hiss sizzled under the fish fillets and she turned them over, their skin seasoned and lightly crisped.

Humble, you thought, but you remained to be at awe. She’d really grown a lot.

Her grandfather would walk in the kitchen not long after; the morning newspaper tucked in his armpit.

With Emma occupied on pan-searing the mackerel, you began to prepare his tea.

Where his little brother got the rotten disposition to talk back to him, Shinichiro blamed it entirely on you.

He didn’t often have to remind him to be on his best behavior because they didn’t get a lot of visitors, aside from friends or a distant relative. But we got a guest today. You listenin’ there, Manjiro?

Heard you two come here last night, muttered Manjiro with a big yawn, head tipping back down after his mussed-up hair had been brushed, kept back from falling over his face with a knot. 

Comb on his hand, Shinichiro asked why he was still awake, but he provided an answer for himself with a quick glance to his Toman jacket, hanged up neatly on the divider shelf, next to the laundry and clothes baskets; one of them was piled up with wrinkled shirts, disarranged. His socks were mismatched on the other basket, and he’d have to remind him about folding them later. 

Manjiro would walk out of his room with him, carrying his towel around to the kitchen. 

Old, pliant thing. The color’s all dull and faded, seams unraveling into snags. Emma never hesitated bringing up that it should be thrown away, no matter how she dutifully washed it for him. He still clutched it from the tip, like how he would asleep – for all his fourteen years.

You recognized it too.

“I can’t believe you still have that towel.”

Manjiro cast his gaze up at you, unblinking and expectant. He looked a little younger, somehow.

Then he ignored the remark, asking you about the state of your clothes.

Emma was demure enough to keep the question to herself, though when he raised it with a twist of his towel, her eyes shone with curiosity and speculation, peering up at you and him with the furtive indication that the thought had lingered in her mind for awhile.

Shinichiro stepped in, explaining that it’s because you got so wasted last night that you threw up on yourself. You elbowed his gut for being too crass and he doubled over, which hauled in snickers from his siblings.

“Well, it’s true!” he coughed.

“Shut up, Shin.”

His grandfather was unquestioning, but he cleared his throat and it registered to everyone as a scold.

A slice of egg roll was wedged between your chopsticks, and you brought it to your mouth, catching on a hint of mild sweetness. Your father’s tamagoyaki was always on the sweeter side because he firmly believed that’s how Kanto-style should taste like. Your older sister never preferred making it the way he did, but you figured this was a little closer to home.

So was the gentle clatter of dishes, murmurs of thanks, appreciative hums.

You and Shinichiro’s elbows brushed, right after he reached the soy sauce to a sleep-cranky Mikey, who mumbled something about Ken-chin being late only to be reminded that it was a Saturday, no school – again.

Emma chewed on her fish slowly as she listened in between them, caught off guard of your pleasant remark about the spread. It’s received with a glad, bashful smile, followed after talks about the recipe, dashi stock, then yourselves. A rundown of your lives, bulleted with small and uncomplicated questions, good-natured replies. Grandpa would acknowledge them with a nod. More of a listener, he wasn’t too meddlesome to pry more, unlike Shinichiro who’d prod with a comment every now and then.

Mikey was keen enough to keep up with the conversation, even though it seemed like he’s more content shoveling down his breakfast, cheeks full, bits of rice on the corner of his mouth.

He’s the one you actually had to look out for, but you felt oddly shortsighted around him.

Same eyes, same face. You’re still taller than him, but he’d grown a few inches. His hair too, partially tied. He’s lost a lot of baby fat. He wasn’t all lanky limbs like Shin used to be, but he had more muscle to him, gained from years of martial arts … and street fights, you’d assume.

Invincible Mikey, they called him nowadays, and it wasn’t like you doubted his reputation.

“Eat your vegetables,” chided Emma. You’re on her side regarding that.

“Don’t want ‘em.” Mikey pushed away his plate of broccoli gomaae.

“Give ‘em over here.”

“Shin-nii!”

“Shin!”

“What? He’s gonna waste it.” Shinichiro slid the gomaae atop his rice mixed with natto after Mikey gladly handed it to him.

You’d learn from Emma that he usually preferred spinach over broccoli, that she’d been attempting to get him to eat the latter to no avail. That he’d always polish her food off his plate anyway.

Mikey stuck out his tongue at Emma, who sniffed at him in annoyance. Her response was more mature than spitting out a protest, though you’re watching things differently again: two children wrangling over a petty argument that they’d soon forget after breakfast was over.

You didn’t notice Shinichiro catch you staring at them and he pretended to not notice how your eyes softened, sneaking in his slice of egg roll on your plate.

Grandpa didn’t reprimand all of you for a second time, savoring his meal after one last bite of rice.

Letting you stay here for a week went on smoothly than what you’d expect.

There wasn’t a lot of fuss about your situation – just sympathetic nods and similar, appraising expressions – and it wasn’t like you were in dire need of a place to begin with. You couldn’t gauge their thoughts, but perhaps everyone had been more accommodating to Shinichiro. He’d just nudge you that it’s because you’re welcome here.

You didn’t dwell on it, though you’d compensate for their hospitality by being reliable around the house.

Shin snorted, assuring you that you were likely more dependable around here than his own little brother. Emma let out a short huff, amused and agreeing, while the both of you gathered the dishes to be put into the sink.

With a slight furrow to his brow, Mikey swiped him with a kick under the table.

Shinichiro jerked up in pain, attempting to retaliate back, which had Mikey mock him, “you call that a kick?" 

"I’ll show you a kick, you little—" 

The telephone chimed in. Shinichiro elected himself to pick it up from the hallway before padding back to the kitchen later with his jacket and keys. 

"I forgot I have to get a shipment today,” he told you.

“Ah, it’s okay. You should go,” you said, understanding. “I’ll just commute back." 

He nodded. "I can still drop you off—" 

"I’ll do it.”

The both of you stared at Mikey, who just promptly offered to give you a ride, and before you could mutter a word, he had already hopped off his chair, heading to his room to get his motorcycle key. Then you turned to Shinichiro. He shrugged and sent you a look that seemed to tell you, can’t turn him down now once his mind’s all set.

Shinichiro trusted you with his life, but he didn’t let you drive his little brother in a motorcycle ever since you got a kick out of rampaging through the road.

Once upon a time, Mikey was seven and you were seventeen. You passed by his elementary school and saw him with a bunch of middle schoolers who were sore and curled-up on the ground. It’s a pattern, you knew. It’s familiar to you, but you honestly had no clue what to do with him.

You figured you ought to do what your older sister would when you sauntered off with him to the convenience store to buy a box of plasters, bottled water, and a dorayaki.

Sitting on the curb, Mikey was picking at his skin from the dirty, bloody scrapes on his arm without a flinch of pain and he dully kept at it until you cleaned them up for him with a splash of water and some wet wipes. Again, he didn’t flinch, but you figured he’d always been like that. You’d never caught him break into a cry once.

He must’ve hit something sharp because you knew he was never in the receiving end of a fight. It wasn’t unlike him to be careless, though.

Arm rubbed with antiseptic and patched up; he was already gobbling down the last of his dorayaki when he asked you why you bought the Anpanman band-aid.

You shrugged. ‘Cause you’re a brat.

Mikey didn’t watch Anpanman anymore. You didn’t really care, but you thought kiddie band-aids were cute and kind of funny-looking. He retorted that your sense of humor was stupid, though he had no qualms about you bringing him back home or not telling his older brother how you drove slow enough that he had a nap on the backseat.

There’s a drool stain on your hoodie that he didn’t apologize for, but it became some unspoken secret between the both of you.

“Now, I’m the back seater,” you stated.

Mikey didn’t mention if he forgot about it. The truth was you didn’t mind if he did, but you were coming to grips that you weren’t actually sure how to talk to him anymore. It’s the same thing with your late nephew all over again.

You thought about asking him about his studies though he’s probably indifferent about it, and you couldn’t take yourself seriously when you felt like an elderly person just for even considering on broaching the topic so you scrapped it, mulling over his gang, Keisuke. Maybe Haruchiyo. Did Senju continue to tail after them? Did all of them still hang out?  

Recalling the trio made you rekindle the bond that you had with their older brothers, a bunch of menaces too. Though you snapped out it, figuring it was awkward to mention them this early, given the incident with Shin’s motor shop. How was he ever since that happened? Did he cry? Did he grow up a little faster?

“Do you still drive a bike?” asked Mikey, voice overlapping with the crackle of the exhaust. He coasted to the route outside his neighborhood. 

“Nope,” you said, smacking your lips around the answer, as you grappled on the handles from the sides of his motorcycle. Shin’s. Used to. 

“Thought you’d been spending time with him.”

“Shin drives,” you shrugged. “He thinks I’ll go back to my old habits if I did,” you weren’t sure why you told him that. It wasn’t a lie, but it awfully felt like you’re trying too hard to sound cool. It’s a bit frustrating.

He nodded. “I saw you in his shop, sometimes.”

“I didn’t see you,” you admitted.

“You missed.”

He’s being obscure.

You weren’t sure if it’s a teenager thing or it’s just a Mikey thing.

There wasn’t much talking after that. Perhaps, something in the road spoke louder to the two of you.  

There’s a bend in the path, sloping up to the streetscape, and it was a rush since then, all wind and motion. He sped through the glaring light. 

You closed your eyes for a moment; so bright, stars swam behind your eyelids. Your chest pounded. Something in the air knocked off the breath from your lungs, hair flailing wildly behind you. It made your mouth twitch, but it’s the engine that cackled out for you. 

Peeking through your lashes, you almost mistook Mikey’s hair for sunlight. 

Then you gawked at the sky through the glass of commercial buildings, streaked orange-bronze from the wake of the day, and Shibuya almost felt uncrowded with all the blurred whizzing that went about noticed and unnoticed. 

Mikey didn’t drive like his older brother, and thankfully, he didn’t drive like you. He drove like there wasn’t traffic, hindrances. Like he owned all the roads and boundaries, bent them to his will, conquered. It’s devastatingly free-spirited, and you contemplated of Kamikaze. If one could be embodied in a boy when paths cleared for him, rip-roaring through them in the blaze of a motorcycle.

After passing under the narrow shadow of the JR Yamanote line, the rumble of the train overhead, he asked you for directions and you obliged. 

It only took him about eight minutes to arrive at your place. Shin would’ve gone for fifteen. Or twenty, if he’s in the mood for a detour. 

Once you swung your leg back, dismounting from the motorbike, you thanked him for giving you a lift. Then you mouthed him off about how he should probably wear his helmet, lifting it off your head and handing it back to him. 

Of course, he’s not inclined to listen, but it’s acknowledged with a shrug. 

“Uh, Mikey,” you started.

“Mm?”

“Want some apple juice?”

“Sure,” then he parked his bike outside the house, careful to not tip over the potted geraniums.

“We could’ve been roommates, you know.”

“Emma already prepared a room.”

What used to be his parents’ bedroom.

“Besides, you should clean up yours,” you quipped.

“I told you I will.” Shinichiro crossed his arms stubbornly, sitting down on the futon.

He knew that you didn’t really believe he was a slob and his bed was always made; a virtue that served as a routine reminder that he grew up under his grandfather’s discipline. Back then, it’s either the whack of a slipper or a well-kept bed.

Despite that, he wouldn’t deny that his bedroom was still a little dusty and cluttered with a shirt or two here and a few random objects there, left to linger because of procrastination.

Basically, a room, you concluded anyway as you flipped a page from one of his magazines, some reader’s digest about auto repair. You pulled that out from an old, dog-eared stack where you also found his broken headphones and his Kawasaki Ninja diecast.

Shinichiro thought your words might’ve been a jab about yourself until it dawned on him that he couldn’t recall what your bedroom used to look like.

Nowadays, it was bare and neat in a way that it felt like something was missing, like a memory had been misplaced somewhere. Because all he could recollect were the times you spent most of your idle afternoons in his house since it neighbored the dojo and it was larger and more vacant before his siblings toddled their way into his home.

“It’s not like we haven’t slept together,” he tried not to wince from his words.

You lifted a shrug, unloading all of your things from your bag. “Sleep here, if you want.”

“I used to.” Shinichiro lied flat on his back against the quilted spread, hands dovetailed behind his head. He stared at the familiar creases on the ceiling. “When I was waiting for my mom,” to come back.

It was quiet for awhile until your weight dipped from his side, laying down with him. Both of your eyes were on the light on the center of the room, round and opalescent like a glass moon.

“I’ll sleep in your room tonight,” you decided. “Sounds good?”

Shinichiro closed his eyes. Felt the fan, felt you closer. “Nah, I’ll sleep here.”

Send me our group photos from the izakaya, you reminded him because he forgot to do it the other day.

You didn’t have to ask him about their contacts when you already had them listed in your phone. There’s an address on a paper napkin in Wakasa’s handwriting that you kept folded the other night. You planned to meet him and Benkei in the gym.

Shinichiro tagged along with you, admonished there by Wakasa who nonchalantly warned him that his membership was at the verge of being terminated for not showing up to actually do anything with it. Benkei was about to reach you a registration form, but you asked if you could just use his membership instead.

They didn’t mind as long as it was put into good use. Shinichiro believed they probably wanted to hang out with you some more. He remembered the times the three of you sparred in the open field while he watched from the sidelines, and then the tap of a stolen Malboro pack, all king-size cigarettes. A familiar shadow stretched out behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

Senju stepped in the gym sometime later on, and he waved at her, no longer asking where her older brother had gone.

“What’re you doing out here?” asked Shinichiro, finding you outside the old dojo in the middle of the night.

You didn’t acknowledge him for awhile as you perched yourself on the engawa; a broad, sturdy thing, but the varnish had long since flaked off the floorboards, losing their sheen to dust and age. You couldn’t believe the dojo was closed for good, but your childhood was still entombed here, under the heart of your palm. “I used to wait for Akemi-nee on this spot.”

“You mean where you moped?” he was about to smoke though he deflated upon realizing that his lighter was left behind his room, patting for it from his empty pockets.

“I didn’t mope. She was always taking too long and I was bored,” you shrugged, hugging your leg to your chest, while the other dangled on the ledge. Your gaze averted from him. “Then your mom would bring me inside and give me snacks.”

Shinichiro hesitated before crouching down to sit beside you. “She always did that.”

You nodded. “She’s really nice.”

His mother was the one that actually taught you how to solve fractions when you struggled in math in the second grade. No one had patience for you back then. Your older brother was never around and your older sister gave up on you, letting you copy her answers instead. Your parents were too busy signing divorce papers and the teacher proceeded with the next lesson.

You never understood why she didn’t call you stupid for having failing marks or why she still fed you when you got a question wrong. She often made onigiri because there’s too much rice left around. It just tasted like any other onigiri, but after a bite, you always felt full.

“I didn’t think anyone could be that nice. Even got Takeomi bawling the first time we all had dinner at your house.”

Shinichiro reminisced; his mouth slanting up from the memory. “Mom thought she screwed up the dish or something.”

“I thought he was acting weird, but I think I understand now,” you mused with a soft, reflective hum. “Your mom was everyone’s mom.”

“Manjiro’s mom too,” he said, a shade pensive. “I wish he got to meet her.”

“He seems pretty content, though,” you noticed. “He has everyone.”

Then your chin leaned on your knee. A half-smile. “He’s always had you.”

There’s a trade off in trying to learn more from each other.

Shinichiro taught you the basics, like the difference between screwdrivers and Allen keys. How to replace a tire, how to assemble flat pack furniture.

He even taught you how to properly clean an oven and stove top because he felt like roping you in on a chore that he didn’t want to do all by himself for the nth time. You sighed, pulling out a scrubbing brush and a box of baking soda in the cupboard under the sink as he instructed. Both of your wrinkled hands would reek of grease and artificial lemon from the stainless-steel polish.

Despite his excuses, you still taught him how to organize his documents. It’s an incredibly mundane and un-fun task, but you reminded him that it would help him a great deal one day than keeping all of his bills, tax forms, and everything else mixed-up in one place inside a drawer. It extended passed files when you two began to sort out his miscellanea of tools, DVDs, CD albums, photos, motorcycle magazines, and secondhand manga in his room.

Inside the tin box in his closet was a stack of letters that he never had the heart to get rid of.

Then you would go about teaching him how to use a spreadsheet; how to burn files on a CD; how to mend holes on his clothes so he didn’t have to bother his little sister anymore; how to cook salmon without burning the skin off, along with the kitchen.

Although grateful, Emma would call him out for being biased as hell and Mikey had a good laugh out of it because they knew he didn’t listen to anyone before just to get it right. Shinichiro would compensate by helping her make onigiri with the leftover fish, just like how he taught her years ago, and Mikey would steal one for you and himself when they weren’t looking. You didn’t snitch on him, watching TV together in the living room, sticky rice on your fingers.

You weren’t expecting to enjoy the variety show, but perhaps why you did was because the game was absurdly cruel and the comedians managed to get a chuckle out of you. Grandpa was missing out on the best part, snoring from his chair with a cup of cold, forgotten tea on his hands, and while Mikey was amused, he was a few blinks away from dozing off himself.

The both of you, however, weren’t paying attention midway when Shinichiro and Emma joined in to watch, joshing each other with wry glances. On the couch, he flopped next to you with an arm on your shoulder while you plucked out the rice stuck on a strand of his hair, making you wonder how long his siblings had confirmed their suspicions about you two after catching them share a look.

Not minding, you figured it was a pleasant night. It was one of many nights, and before you knew it, you often invited yourself in their home without being asked to.

Ryuguji Ken wasn’t the kind of person you had expected.

The Sanos were fond of him. You’re convinced they had already taken him in as one of their own.

Grandpa – with his tendency to misremember names, not from senility – would recall his right. Whenever Mikey was planning to eat dinner at home, Emma would prepare him a meal too; interestingly, plated with more care and an extra notch of rice or tsukemono than the others. Shinichiro and Mikey always had something to say about him, a story or a mention in passing.

Sometimes, you felt as if the boy had already been introduced to you when his name cropped up in conversations. Draken. Ken-chin. Ken.

Something you’d carelessly pick up later on, foregoing formalities with an abrupt leap to his first name. It’s a slip that no one seemed to mind, but you’d still attach an honorific when referring to him.

You met him at the motor shop, just moments after Shinichiro had been standing with you on the counter while waiting for the water to boil from the electric kettle. Seafood instant ramen, a debate over some scene from a French romcom, an eyeroll that had his fingers on the belt loop of your front jeans, tugging you to him playfully. Hand to his chest, you had to push him away when the both of you heard the growl of motorbikes coming to a halt.

Shinichiro sulked over his cup noodles, even after greeting Mikey and Ken from the door. You turned a heel behind you.

Tall kid.

Ken towered everyone in the room.

The dragon tattoo could’ve given off a different impression at first glance, though what riveted your attention was how remarkably polite he was.

Hand on your hip, you stared pointedly at Mikey. “You got a cool friend. Ken-kun has manners. What happened to you?”

That earned you snorts from both Ken and Shinichiro, who began discussing something about a broken muffler.

On the other hand, Mikey might as well have threatened you with a smile. You smiled back.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Shinichiro-kun and Mikey.”

“Oh, I get Shin.” You waved from the couch, and then you darted your eyes on his little brother, slurping on instant ramen. The cup noodles would be placed back on the coffee table, empty. Shin will be pissed when he comes back.

Ken seemed to share the same sentiment with a sigh. Tolerant but familiar of him, his bottomless stomach, habits, and all.  

“But what’d Mikey have to say about me? I doubt he’s had a high opinion.”

Ken looked confused. “He actually—"

“I told him that you were a shitty delinquent,” interrupted Mikey.

His tone held no spite. Something about it sounding flat and deadpan rolled off as droll to you that you couldn’t help but wheeze out a laugh. You wondered if you’re just in a good mood or nostalgic.

If you were his age, you would’ve already chucked the nearest object at him and he would’ve effortlessly dodged it.

There’s a mirthful upturn of his lips, and before you could throw a jab at him, Mikey beat you to it when he mentioned your tattoo to Ken, acquainting a dragon to another.

Sitting on the floor of Emma’s room, you stared curiously at the eyeshadow palettes on the low table. Autumn and neutral shades. There were charcoal eyeliners and pastel tubes of mascara. As she went about searching for a good color on you, she noticed that you seemed more comfortable with makeup, despite choosing to be barefaced most of the time.

You thought you’re just more neutral about it. “My older sister used to put some on me.”

Emma plucked out a brush from a blue polka-dotted pouch. Leaning up on your face, she began dabbing eyeshadow on you, a smoky brown shade of Cinnamon. Then another one that was likely named after some kind of spice. “Oh. She gave you makeovers?”

You didn’t know how to word it without stealing away the sunlight in her eyes. “Sort of.”

Sometimes, you even pilfered her concealer just to cover the bruises on your face, which had you receiving an earful of reprimands and a worried scowl that made her look twice her age. You used to retort that she’d get wrinkles like that and she’d always snap back that you’re a dumbass for using the wrong shade for your skin tone. Akemi helped you fix it anyway.

None of you wanted to alert your mother about what happened because the both of you would rather not be scolded for your mess and you never wanted to stress her out more than she already did for you.

“Your older sister’s lucky,” said Emma, deftly tracing your lid with an eyeliner pencil this time. “You’re not fussy about it at all.”

Even if that was true, you were relieved that she was only going to work on your eyes. It wasn’t the wrong foundation that was a turndown, but it was removing everything daubed on your face once this was over.

“Ah, I’m assuming those two are?” you asked, which came out more as a statement.

Emma was too occupied perfecting the stroke of your eyeliner to nod in response. Her face was endearingly scrunched up in determination that you couldn’t help but smile a little.

You listened to her recount about the time Shinichiro obliged to her whims, but he washed the makeup off him right after because he hated breaking out from it. Mikey didn’t want anything on his face, but he allowed her to do whatever she wanted on his toenails.

The trouble was he’d taken the pedestal for being the messiest nail job she had to put up with because he never stayed still and he had this awful habit of absentmindedly cracking his toe knuckles whenever he was bored.

In the end, her resilience pulled through when her work on his toenails turned out nice with a coat of dark green polish, but that was a long time ago.

Emma sighed exasperatedly. “Boys.”

You chuckled.

When she was done after a last touch of mascara, you almost didn’t recognize yourself when she handed you the mirror.

“Not bad. You got talent for this.”

Emma perked up at that.

“You’re gorgeous,” she said with pride before bowing her head down to her shoulders and blurting out with pink cheeks, “I mean, you’ve always been, but I was right! Eyeliner looks so good on you.”

You nodded and took another glance at your reflection, liking how simple and subtle the eye makeup was on your face. To Emma, the simplicity mattered when it should bring out the beauty of your eyes or somewhere along those lines.

Without warning, she took two snapshots of you, scrutinizing them with an approving hum.

“Uh, Emma,” you started. “What are you going to do with those pictures?”

She was still typing on her phone. “Sending them to Shin-nii. Just wanted to know his opinion.”

Then she flashed you a sweet, guiltless smile that hadn’t been guiltless at all.

“What was that?” Shinichiro breathed out.

You didn’t mean to whisper it against his ear, though your fingers had wandered far under his belt, curving on his hip to retrace an old scar; the shape of a graze wound, not a birthmark.

The gunshot rung back into your ear, somewhere in the cold rain, and he was pressed against you, saving you again, though the way he saved you now wasn’t as intense on the bed but it was desperate all the same; his tongue in your mouth, clothes chafing.

“Chiba,” you repeated, feeling stranded.

That had him sighing against your jaw, streeling down your neck with his mouth pursed on your skin. “We’re making out,” he said, “and you’re thinking about the war we had there.”

“Against my older brother,” you recalled the gun, Shin’s blood on your hand, and you clasped tight on his hip to stop the bleeding but all you saw was red, rage.

He called out your name in concern, a whisper to your collarbone.

“Sorry. I kind of ruined it,” you sighed, long and husky, “what we’re doing.”

“Not exactly …” his fingers pulled the loose strap of your tank top back into place, thumb running up your skin. “What’re you thinking?”

“Your spit,” you said.

Shinichiro swallowed on nothing.

He was about to peel himself away from you though you reached out to grip his thigh just to ground him back on your lap. A startled noise lodged up his throat. Stay.

“Okay,” he ceded, but there was something gentle and earnest in his gaze that made it harder for you to deflect him. “What are you really thinking?”

After trying and failing to recline comfortably on the pillow, you rose up to lean against the headboard and he shifted closer to you. “Chiba, you,” you confessed in a quiet murmur. Somehow, you weren’t afraid of losing him that time. “Just that I almost lost myself … does that make sense?”

“You were upset.” Shinichiro stilled, watching you unbutton his pants. Then you hooked two fingers on the waistband to tug it down to the jut of his hip bone.

The scar was puckered up, ugly. The kind that tore deep and jagged into skin, even if it’d been a graze. It shouldn’t belong in his body, like all the others.

“I hate remembering how much I was.”

Shinichiro had looked so raw and messed-up that he shouldn’t even be standing after taking so much beatings, persevering through and through. Black Dragons won for it, but nothing sounded triumphant with all the shouting and the police sirens; the rain that kept pouring violently as if the pavement hadn’t been drenched in blood and battle enough.

The howl of your older brother’s laughter when you began to pummel him to a coma …

There’s no mortification on his face when he yanked up his pants to shield your eyes from the scar.

“You didn’t know how much I wanted to kill him.”

But he did.

Grasped your hand to draw slow circles on the inside of your wrist, lowered down to your lap. He’s vying for you. It made his eyes darker, unwavering, but they held the same, imploring stare he gave you all those years ago. It’s impossible to look away.

“But that isn’t you,” Shinichiro said, holding you back again, but Seisaku’s blood wasn’t on your fist.

It was his hand, gently prying it open to intertwine his fingers through yours, and you brought his knuckles to your mouth, recalling what you’ve wanted to protect for so long.

“You had to be such an idiot.” Because you were going to end everything once and for all and he didn’t have to see how much of a monster you were for it. “You were supposed to be rushed in the hospital by Takeomi and the others. Why’d you come back?”

Shinichiro said it like it’s the most obvious thing to ever form out of his mouth.

“I came running back to you.”

With a broken leg. For that, you’d really let him do anything to you at this moment.

“Seisaku’s a bad aim too. Didn’t even hit right,” you heard him say, thinking he shouldn’t be patting his hip as if it was just a scratch, but his grin didn’t spread out broad and foolish because he knew you well enough that it didn’t alleviate you. “We’re both so busted up anyway. Figured we should go to the hospital together. You know how I don’t like that place.”

“I wasn’t the one who almost got shot,” you said, miffed.

“I’d rather it never be you.”

You’d take a bullet for him. He’d hate you for it, but you still would.

“Besides you’re the studious one.” You have a future, he’d reminded you back then and right now, shaping around your name in a light, affectionate note. “Who would’ve brought me lecture notes and homework so I could keep up with my classes?”

While you were checked out on the same day you were brought in the ER, Shinichiro wound up in the hospital for weeks. He never stopped complaining how going to the bathroom was such a pain in the ass, but he was actually just bitter that he had no girlfriend to take care of him.

Everyone bullied him for it anyway. His siblings visited him with you to torment him further. He sobbed every time, but one could mistake it for laughter.

Then he continued on, “who would’ve looked after everyone when I wasn’t around?”

“You’re not an excuse for me to look after them. I would’ve still done it, regardless.”

There’s so much fondness in his eyes that you could drown and be content to never catch your breath again from staring into them.

“Then would you let me look after you?”

You blinked at him before screwing up your lips in thought. “But I’m not in a hospital bed. Don’t have a bullet in me or broken bones.”

He huffed. “You don’t have to be, smartass.”

You chuckled, and perhaps, it eased him a bit from his exasperation. “Well, you’re acting as if you hadn’t been looking after me.”

Shinichiro fell back to you, slinking the length of his body over you like a hot tide, and you’re under him with the stifling need to wrench off his shirt just to recall what his naked stomach felt like over yours.

Your hands wove on each side of his face, thumb lingering on the swell of his lower lip, red and tender with a bruise. That’s for biting you earlier. 

“You have, all this time,” you pried just a bit more, parting his mouth open for a warm, unfurling drawl of your name.

“Shin,” a faltering whisper, “why do you look sad …”

He just craned his head to you, noses touching, but it’s a blur once your lips met. His jaw had gone slack and your tongue was wet and slow, slower, until the kiss petered out and you’re left pondering what went wrong.

Shinichiro burrowed himself to you, spilling out a sigh on the hollow of your collarbone.

You stared at the ceiling, not knowing what to say, where to start, how to make him feel better. Your throat ached and your voice failed you. Your hands were in another language; clumsy, clinging on the small of his back where you’re trying to tie yourself to him.

He could’ve torn himself away from you. The thought really hurt, but you had no words to tell him that or something else as he only tucked you into him, embracing every dark, despairing secret he hadn’t heard – except your heartbeat.

The next morning, you rose up early for an interview. Though you woke two hours prior to your set alarm so you decided to just slip on his ratty, wool cardigan over your tank and prep up again for a spectrum of questions with pre-memorized answers.

Shinichiro rubbed the sand in his eye when he squinted on your notes, laying down on his stomach in a bundle of sheets, when he started with an unwittingly droning tell me about yourself.

It wasn’t deliberate about last night though he noticed a subtle pause, then the stiltedness of your voice that trailed after gradually answering in a manner that advertised confidence, checking all the hallmarks of what made you a competent candidate.

It’s rehearsed, but he thought you were really cool. The way you could switch up dispositions like that, even when you’re all cozy and casual with him.

You’d pass with flying colors, he’s sure. You weren’t all that inclined to feel the same. It’s not a matter of lacking self-esteem, but you’re just a little jaded about the dreary ordeal of job hunting all over again.

He’d help you slip into the sleeves of your suit jacket and then drive you to the company building within a district of skyscrapers and corporate households that would’ve urged him to retreat inside one of the tiny store fronts that was probably owned by someone else’s grandparents or the backstreets of a nearby shopping complex where they often led to a path that connected the train station and the local morning market.

Shinichiro could’ve already wandered far though he chose to wait outside on a bench instead.

His lips tilted up around a cigarette, recalling how he bent down to press a good luck kiss on your forehead and you reacted awkwardly from the suddenness, averting your eyes away. You bit your lip. Uh, let’s go around the city after this, all right?

Later on, you’d spot him first and sit right next to him, making a disappointed whine when you’re left with nothing to inhale from the stub of his cigarette. He’d prop a fresh one between your lips to watch them pucker just a bit once the smoke seeped in and he knew what you’d taste like for the rest of the afternoon.

Then rain fell, hard.

The weather was so volatile these days that he wondered if the season was still somewhere in mid-spring, and before the both of you could even reach the parking lot, you ran to the promenade with your suit jacket draped over your heads, despite his protests about it getting ruined.

You didn’t care until the two of you found shelter in the small oasis of a waiting shed.

Perched on the bench, he slid off your skewed headband and adjusted it back into your hair, though you pulled it out and stuck it to him instead. A few strands poked out from his ears after the thin, black teeth of the hairband gently grazed his scalp.

You stared at him, hair fringing over your eyes in wet, messy tendrils. “Just wanted to know what it looks like on you.”

“Ridiculous,” Shinichiro said with a snort.

“No,” you said, captivated for a slow moment where your knuckle brushed on his jaw. “Not at all.”

“Sure,” he managed out, his chest thrumming—nah, it’s just the rain. “So, um, how was it? The interview.”

You shrugged noncommittally. “Like what you’d expect.”

A week from now, you wouldn’t get the job.

You wouldn’t appear as dejected about the news as he was, but it was a callous acceptance. That wouldn’t deter you from your pursuit, lining yourself up on interviews from different companies, well-versed with all the back-and-forth, the bargaining.

Shinichiro never doubted you, though he hoped you could find the one that would make you genuinely excited. You didn’t believe in that anymore. He did for your sake.

“Why don’t you just work in the shop?”

“I’m no good at fixing things, Shin.”

“You could learn. Maybe, you could try to remember what I say for once.”

“I remember some things,” you said, but it wasn’t a promise. “But I think that should be a sign that I’m not meant to be a mechanic. I’ll just have to live as one vicariously through you,” then you winked at him, making him resign to the shake of his head, arms folded over his chest.

Shinichiro peered up. The rain wasn’t letting up any time soon. One of you was definitely going to catch a cold.

He wanted to bring up what the both of you talked about last night, though you seemed already passed it with your head on his shoulder. You never spoke about your older brother or anything else about him for a long time.

Your arm was curved around his waist, hand just a shy away from his hip. He hung himself to your warmth.

“Ken’s planning to work part-time.”

“Well, don’t underpay him,” you said, not skipping a beat.

Shinichiro frowned – because, of course, he won’t – but he figured you liked the kid, even though most of your interactions so far had been head nods and small talk over the weather and Manjiro.

“So Mikey too?” you asked, poking his knee with a finger.

“He’s always got a place there when he’s done being a gang leader.”

You beamed at that. “What about Izana?”

A cold, despondent pause. Shinichiro listened in to the restlessness.

“He doesn’t live near Tokyo anymore,” was his reply.

“Oh,” you muttered.

“He actually doesn’t want to see me.”

Hate, his mind provided. My little brother hates me.

“Shin …” hands interlocking; all he tried to feel was you.

Though the rain didn’t stop.

“And I’m a terrible older brother.”

part eight❁m.list❁part ten (tba) 

No, GL!MC was never jealous of the girls Shinichiro confessed to. They were actually jealous of Takeomi, of all people. It was mutual for him lol. I like their friendship-rivalry over Shin, even though he loves them both – to the point of tears.

✨https://www.clickasnap.com/Mardelina✨

there are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.