( when the music comes to an end, everything else stops along with it. samatoki doesn't waver, standing tall and proud in front of juto and riou despite the staggering pain that pulsates deep inside of him. the bright flashing lights are dizzying almost. there's tension in the air, thick and heavy, ripe with all the blood, sweat, and tears they laid bare for all of central to see. samatoki knows they've given it everything they've got, fought off the hungry wolves with everything they could and couldn't afford to lose, and yet a singular question echoes within his head. it's overwhelmingly loud despite what he wants to believe otherwise: is it enough? he isn't delusional at all; he knows who his opponents are, and how powerful they are and how slim of a chance they have for winning against them, but a tiny part of him is clawing its way through the noise.
there's only one person he can blame for why this is even on his mind right now.
(win, ichiro had told him, you better go out there and win next time, as he looked up at samatoki after suffering through buster bros' defeat, with his mismatched eyes full of fire and another emotion he didn't expect to see: hope. it incited a flood of things samatoki couldn't explain, things he couldn't fully understand, and it took everything in him to respond with the bravado and pride he's well known for. they were going to win with or without that brat's encouragement.)
the crowd is silent once ichijiku took the stage, snatching the microphone from the announcer like she's offended he was too slow in handing it to her. samatoki can't stand her. he wants to destroy the world she conquered and created for herself so badly, just so he can see the look on her face. he clenches both fists together once she starts talking, all snark and without a care for what happens next, and the only thing that holds him back from lashing out is juto gripping him by the shoulder. there's no point in losing face now. it's out of their hands anyway, and now it's all up to the central crowd to decide who they deem worthy to crown as kings. all eyes turn to the large monitor overhead as it counts down, mad trigger crew versus matenrou. it's down to the wire until the very end.
samatoki doesn't realize he's holding his breath —
the screen flashes gold, and it shows a wolf's face rather than a skull.
— and he exhales, not out of relief, but a bitter recognition and acceptance of the results. it tastes like ash in his mouth, crumbling before his hand can reach out to offer jakurai a congratulatory shake. if nothing else, at least this is a man he doesn't mind losing to, even if the concept of losing when they got so close burns him from the inside-out. yokohama's territory will shrink today along with ikebukuro and shibuya, but he knows that isn't the worst of it. the worst part, he thinks, is how he doesn't know if he'll be able to face ichiro now, considering what went down between them before the final battle took place. win, ichiro said, he wanted samatoki to win, but it just wasn't meant to be this time around. )
Tch... how annoying.
( samatoki doesn't waver, not even when he mutters these words under his breath, but somehow, maybe because of how bright the lights keep pulsing in front of his eyes, the whole world stumbles with him. the last thing he hears is someone calling out his name before what he sees doesn't matter anymore. everything goes black, and slowly — he starts to fall. )
[ hours after his own battle, ichiro's still aching.
samatoki's raps have a way of leaving scars. it's something that he came to reckon with a long time ago, on his first day with the dirty dawg. all three of them came at him to see if this kid they brought was good enough to stand up to them, and each verse they spat was different. ramuda was merciless; jakurai's, mental. samatoki's just hurt, a wave of violence bought on by the clever words that spat out of his mouth. ichiro went down over and over, knocked to his knees by each of them in any given moment, but he never stopped. even if he was counterattacking from the floor, he held that hypnosis mic in his hand for the first time and fell in love.
(he held samatoki's hand for the first time that day, as he held it out to help him back up to his feet, and fell in love then, too.)
now, through the years that have passed, it still hurts. samatoki went from his ally to his rival, his worst enemy for reasons that are still too fresh to talk through, and he lost to him. these territory battles happen so often maybe he should get used to it: he should get used to samatoki with that microphone in his long fingers, cutting into him like a sucker punch every time he let his guard down for even a second. protecting his brothers during their battle had left him more wounded than ever, and samatoki went in for the kill.
he was never good enough to catch up to him, something that used to be exhilarating and now is just frustrating. samatoki has always been this unreachable figure and even now--even as the leader of his own group, with his brothers, even as he's gotten better, learned more than ever, innovated, changed, even now--
even now, samatoki stood over him. the petty part of him that's still nineteen wanted to spit in his face when he put his hand in his hair and yanked his head back, but he didn't. the emotions were so overwhelming (anger, worry, defeat--something else, something that he wanted to call hatred but it wasn't quite there) that he didn't. instead, stubborn and wild-eyed, not so defeated, ichiro latched boldly onto that final emotion he couldn't understand and ran with it, staggered to his feet and found samatoki, and hugged him.
win.
when he looked up at him then, it wasn't ichiro the enemy, ichiro the leader of buster bros. it was ichiro the shitty little prodigy with the golden tongue, looking up at samatoki like he was the greatest thing in this entire world, looking up to him. it's a fire that never died, no matter how much water he poured on it. ichiro can say "i can't believe i ever respected you", but he still does.
standing in the crowd (jiro and saburo at his side), he lets them lean against him and clenches his fists in the pockets of his bomber jacket. listening. watching. down here in the pit away from the stage it feels different, and he catches himself in the atmosphere, watching not mad trigger crew itself or matenrou itself, but samatoki. his eyes are on him the entire time. come on, he hisses, come on, waiting for the battle results.
and in the end, all he sees is the wolf's face, too.
it hurts. it hurts to feel like buster bros' defeat was for this, just another day of ikebukuro getting smaller and smaller. it's not fair: he's fighting for his life to keep the territory alive, to keep the grandpas who ruffle his hair and the people he does favors for happy and living their lives like they're supposed to. who knows where it's going to come from. who knows what kind of people are going to get moved, shuffled away from his home. what's going to be taken from them, today.
but in this moment, ikebukuro is not what he's thinking about. not at first. ichiro feels his heart fall into his stomach, and then--his eyes move away from the screen. samatoki's verse was incredible, delivery flawless, after he'd barely scraped by beating ichiro. ichiro's quick enough to know what's coming, and his feet are moving before his brain even processes.
he's running, shoving people out of his way, men, women, he doesn't care. ichijiku is looking, there's a call for security, but he doesn't care, as his hand grabs onto the barrier stopping the crowd from getting to the stage and he leaps over it like the delinquent he always was. the same delinquent who did the same all over this goddamn city, running with a group of people he called his family. it's that delinquent's voice that rings out of the crowd like a shot with a-- ] Samatoki-san!
[ because ichiro can lie to himself and to the people around him all he wants. he can tell himself he's hateful and angry and he despises samatoki (and he's certainly angry, he certainly hates what he did) but it's not busujima or iruma who catches samatoki when he falls. it's ichiro, sliding to his knees and making it just in time to cradle his body so it hits into his chest instead of the floor. ichiro gets a second of looking at him that is so, so honest, his eyes wide with worry, the concern the only thing on his mind as he tries to shake him awake--
ichijiku's goons have to tear him away from him. ichiro's foul tempered and snappy as he frees his arms, as she makes a comment about his behavior to the microphone (you can always pretend to be a show dog, but you're still just an obedience school dropout, aren't you), but ichiro shakes it off and follows the medic team to the back room where they treat injuries.
where, hours ago, he was sitting, brooding, refusing any sort of medical attention himself. he'd lost any real sensation of pain by then, anyway, focusing instead on the fact that his lips felt like they were tingling, and not from a cut. samatoki's words back to him echoing in his head drowned out the noise. keep chasing me, ichiro. you'll catch up one day. it sparked the challenge that he used to want, found something underneath rival and lifted it back to the surface, reminded him that maybe they were supposed to be something great. that all he'd ever wanted was not to chase him, but to stand equally at his side.
he's still thinking about it now. samatoki's been treated, and it's only then that they let him into the room (hypnosis mic left in the care of jiro, because ichiro might be an obedience school drop out, but he knows which hoops a good boy has to jump through and he'll drop his head and do it if it means he can get in that room.)
ichiro can't bring himself to hate him. not now. the palpable feeling of relief that comes with the sound of a heart monitor beeping steady and strong sweeps away the bitter taste of iron in the back of his mouth when he opens the door and shuts it behind him. because ichiro cares. maybe that's the reason why it still hurts. maybe that's the reason why he thought hate instead of love, because the wound is so fresh that love doesn't feel like an option.
didn't feel like an option.
in this quiet hospital room, the beeping acts like a lullaby to an already exhausted ichiro, who folds his arm and puts them on samatoki's bed to stare at him, his mind a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts, too much to sort through when the battle's finally done. when he closes his eyes and drifts off waiting for samatoki to wake up, head against his own forearm, dark eyelashes smudges against his pale cheeks, love isn't so much in the past tense.
it's starting to feel like an option, again. buried, somewhere underneath everything else, that little spark is still alive.
( and hours after his own battle, samatoki is aching too.
the city lights are so bright, so much brighter than the ones on the stage somehow, and they pulse in time with ikebukuro's heartbeat — all the people going home from work, the high school students enjoying their night out after school is over, and everyone else trying to find their place in this world. this is the backdrop samatoki finds himself in as he's flicking a flame out of his lighter, leather jacket and slicked hair included. he tries it once, twice, but it refuses to do anything at all, leaving him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a whole lot of frustration.
laughter filters through the air, bright and cheery, wholesome enough that samatoki knows it couldn't ever belong to that little shit ramuda. he doesn't even need to look up to know who it is, because ichiro is already in front of him, waving a mic in his face to take his attention away from his nicotine craving. a challenge. an offer. a promise he never wants to forget. it's only when his lighter comes to life and his cigarette is lit that he finally looks up. suddenly, the two of them are all that matters in this world. he is ichiro's only focus, and ichiro is his.
samatoki-san, ichiro calls him, and it's all he really needs to say for samatoki to understand what he wants, but he keeps going with his trademark shit-eating grin, best two out of three, let's go. i won't lose this time! it's always so disarming, the way ichiro looks at him with so much love, waiting for him to say yes like he always will —
but that's what breaks the illusion every single time, without fail. the ichiro of today wouldn't look at him like that, doesn't look at him like that. not anymore. not after what he did (and couldn't stop himself from doing). just the mere thought of the other is enough to send either of them into a blind rage, and nowadays all they could focus on is how much they hate, and hate, and hate — so living through this again, even when it's just a dream, it hurts. it mixes all the good feelings with the bad ones; it drowns him, it suffocates him. it shoves him into an ocean that's always too eager to let him sink.
when he stirs, the first thing he hears is someone arguing. i don't care what you think, i want to stay right here! versus you don't even know what you really want, do you? samatoki thinks he can make out juto's voice, can practically hear the furrow in his brows as he resists the urge to let out an exasperated sigh. whoever it is the cop is arguing with is obviously too stubborn to leave, but samatoki never manages to find out who it is as sleep catches up to him yet again.
the dream rewinds, and then fast-forwards in the next split-second. it takes him back through the familiar alleyways and into the building the dirty dawg crew has claimed as their own. it's not much, it's falling apart in some places, but it's home. ramuda and jakurai are talking in the make-shift kitchenette, voices hushed and intimate. ichiro is asleep on the couch, using samatoki's lap for a pillow. samatoki remembers protesting this whole arrangement, says something along the lines of how they're gonna be late to their own battle if ichiro decides to nap at a time like this. of course, and samatoki knows this best, there's no denying ichiro what he wants once he pulls out all the stops — puppy dog eyes and all — and so samatoki is stuck feeling like his legs are going to cramp out the longer this brat sleeps.
he never wakes ichiro up, never really gets a chance to, because the next thing he sees is that familiar stage with its blinding lights. the crowd is chanting their crew's name wildly, and ichiro is on the floor, holding him back with a strong grip on his ankle. samatoki-san, please, if you push it—
you think i care?
and that was the end of it.
samatoki wakes up to a mouth that tastes like cotton, the steady beeping of a machine, and a familiar mess of black hair right next to him. there are dots dancing in his line of sight as his eyes gradually find their focus, and he shakes those away to get a better look at where he is. oh. somehow he doesn't remember getting hurt enough to be stuck here, but it all comes back to him in bits and pieces. the battle against ikebukuro took its toll on him, and being the idiot he is, he never told anyone about it and went on to face matenrou like that. maybe that's why they lost, he thinks bitterly, it's all his fault like it always has been. if neither juto nor riou were there to support him... who knows if he would have been able to do anything at all?
now that he finally got that out of his system (feeling sorry for himself is never a good look), he pushes himself up slowly, the mattress shifting along with the movement. there's a sharp pain that cuts through his entire body when he does so, hissing out of instinct, probably loud enough to awaken the only other occupant in the room. samatoki's stubborn persistence keeps him going until he's almost upright, but it's obvious he pushed himself too fast, too soon, since the pain isn't really going away. he gives up halfway through, cursing under his breath as his head settles on the pillow again. somehow he narrowly misses hitting ichiro in his failed attempt, and really, who knows why it took him this long to realize he isn't alone here.
at first, there's anger — a whole lot of it. it's bad enough this his mind can't escape ichiro in his dreams but now he has to be the first thing he sees in the waking world too? there used to be days where that was the best thing in the world, waking up the next day with ichiro still curled up next to him, but now... nowadays, it just...
he doesn't know. he doesn't know what it should make him feel anymore.
maybe it isn't anger. maybe it's more like heartache, a pain so raw and dangerous that it still cuts him deep whenever it comes up like this. because at the end of the day, samatoki still cares too. he still cares for ichiro a whole lot, more than he's ever willing to admit to himself or anyone else. no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to hate him. it doesn't matter how much it hurts, how it nearly killed him to watch ichiro walk away and be unable to chase him. it doesn't matter how messed up his head is now that ichiro is here, sleeping by his bedside like nothing ever broke between the two of them, tempting him to reach out and run his fingers through his hair even when he isn't awake.
he stops himself before his fingers get anywhere close, thinking he doesn't deserve it, settling for placing his arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to look at ichiro anymore. it's probably better this way, to keep his distance. the two of them can never go back to how they were back then; too much has happened, too many bridges burned. )
... How long are you gonna stay asleep here, you brat?
( he might as well wake him up now so he can send him away. it's just better this way, since the alternative just doesn't feel like an option. not to him, at least. )
[ ichiro had met plenty of resistance when he came up with this idea, but it wasn't from his brothers. part of it was himself, a neverending love-or-hate kind of war that's been going on inside of him since the day he let go of samatoki and let him walk away. the other part was samatoki's new teammates. busujima, silent and stony faced, iruma cold and calculating; the same people who had hurt his brothers hours before. if ichiro had been paying attention to either of them he could have shut them down so much sooner, could've stopped this fight and led the buster bros to victory--but samatoki gives ichiro tunnel vision.
samatoki aohitsugi is a bright light, because for so long, he was ichiro's lighthouse. a singular point of joy in this world that he refused to let go of when he needed it the most. him and nemu were his family when his family despised him, and samatoki--samatoki was his other half. they were inseparable. jokingly told they were two of a kind, that together they forgot the rest of their team. perfect in battle, perfect together, ichiro tripping over his too-big feet and face first into love with him felt like a natural conclusion.
maybe it was ichiro's stubbornness that got him into this room, his pictured naievete in the eyes of someone like iruma, but that dirty cop couldn't begin to understand this situation. ichiro said as much, practically snarling at him, but he'd come in peace, and he'd forced himself to bow his head.
maybe it was just a natural conclusion, too. maybe iruma was a sadist, or maybe he cared. ichiro didn't, not right now.
things between them did fall into that natural conclusion, once. maybe that's why nothing about this feels right--there's nothing natural about their relationship anymore, a scratch across a record that's broken it beyond repair. he misses and he wants and hates (tries to hate) (can't) and there's not a battle that can fill that void. the love of his family has solidified ichiro and made him the strong person he is today, helped him choose the path that he'll never stray from, but at his foundation, there is a crack with samatoki's name on it. this can't be their conclusion, screaming at each other over their microphones, wounds so cutting because they knew each other so, so well.
watching samatoki fall made him think that; i don't want this to be the end.
when samatoki first stirs, ichiro does too. his brow furrows and he's slipped from a dreamless, mostly restless sleep as his body tries to recover from the brutality of a hypnosis mic battle. (he remembers falling asleep with his head on samatoki's lap, once after one, samatoki telling ramuda to fuck off when he tried to wake him up, when ichiro was already awake. he'd stay there for hours with his eyes closed if it meant samatoki's fingers would keep running through his hair.)
just like then, he doesn't lift his head. at least not right away. not with the hiss, or the shift of the mattress. it's only the sound of samatoki dropping back into the pillow (defeated, maybe, and how long has he been that way?) that ichiro's eyes flicker open.
(he's been defeated like that longer than today. it was still in his eyes when they battled this morning. ichiro's always been clever. he's always been able to read samatoki like a book.)
he doesn't make eye contact, either. immediately, ichiro is hit with a wave of feelings--relief that he's awake, anger that he lost, guilt for being here, shame for even thinking that way, and something buried deeper. by the time samatoki has his arm over his eyes, he's pushed himself up to a sitting position again, and ichiro regards the person who was his everything on the bed beside him.
the distance between them is palpable.
ichiro breathes through his nose and tries to push the unsureness aside. to barrel through like he always has.
what ichiro decides on saying is: ] You look like shit. [ but it's not harsh or hateful. just observing the obvious, a shade of the eighteen year old who never seemed to smile. his expression doesn't reveal any of the things going on, doesn't reveal the sound of his heart thudding so hard against his ribcage he could beatbox with it. ]
Edited (catching really important typos an hour later.png) 2019-02-28 22:49 (UTC)
if you feel bad i'm coming to canada to punch you (tdd)
[ it's another day that the dirty dawg logo is plastered across the screens all over ikebukuro. all over yokohama. ichiro's gotten good with his mic, picking it up as fast as any of the other members of the dirty dawg, spitting rhymes so fast it makes people dizzy. and he and samatoki--god, he and samatoki, they make the best team ever. the four of them feed off of each other easily, but with samatoki, it's like they're predicting each other's sentences. like he already knows what's going to come out of his mouth. it's so easy.
ichiro's in love with him. he's in love with him, with his house, with his sister and the way they give him something he hasn't had in a long time--a family. a sense of normalcy. his brothers don't question where he goes, the damn orphanage head doesn't (well, perhaps he does, but ichiro doesn't give a shit), there's no school tomorrow, and they won.
and today, family or not, nemu's not home.
ichiro stumbles through the door with samatoki when he unlocks it, practically shoving it open as he whoops, turning around into samatoki's space as he comes in behind him and grinning, wild and dangerous and delighted, eyes brighter than the stage lights. ] Samatoki-san, that was sick.
[ the anger that he wears like a cloud seems to have evaporated. he's turned to a puppy in front of samatoki, his tail wagging a mile a minute, his cheeks flushed, letting the thrill of victory chase it all away. they won, and all he can think about is the rhymes of the person he admired, the look on his face when they practically dropped their mics, in unison. the trust he felt when they hit their mics together.
( once the lights went off, and the dirty dawg logo flashed on screen, the crowd went wild with changing their crew's name. ichiro looked like he was having the time of his life, like he just conquered the world, and samatoki couldn't help but be captivated by the sight of him. it leaves a big enough impact that he still sees ichiro like that in his head, even many hours later, after they've fled the excitement and left for the aohitsugi household.
they stumble in together, with ichiro turning around to face him with the brightest grin, bright enough to combat the lights on the stage. the house is empty and silent save for their presence and the sound of ichiro's voice carrying down the halls. he laughs with him, practically seeing the puppy dog ears and tail perk up at every syllable. the adrenaline hasn't left him either. or maybe ichiro's energy is just that infectious.
he reaches out to ruffle his hair affectionately, his fingers lingering in that messy mop of black hair. )
Yeah? You were pretty good yourself, Ichiro. You've gotten better.
( he's almost too sad to retrieve his hand, but he has to just so he can take his boots off before moving further inside. nemu is going to kill him otherwise. and while he waits for ichiro to do the same, he's shedding off his jacket too. )
[ it's not like it was with kuukou, with naughty busters, or even working with the bigger stairway to heaven at large. being with the dirty dawg--being with samatoki--doesn't' feel nearly as much like survival. the busters were one of the things ichiro did to survive, still working jobs he hated to save the money to get his brothers out of the orphanage.
the dirty dawg is... it's fun. it's challenging ichiro in a way he'd never really been challenged before, because he was a natural with the hypnosis mic from the minute one fell into his hands (enough that the s2h goons were jeering at him for kissing the boss's ass, unbelieving that someone as young as ichiro and kuukou could be as good as they were). samatoki was the first one to actually make things hard for him, and jakurai and ramuda, once they all met, were no different. it was a whole other level.
and samatoki, from enemy to friend to mentor to something else, to someone who sticks in ichiro's ribcage and makes his heart do backflips, has been there every step of the way. that hair ruffle gives him that flutter, and he ducks his head a little into the affectionate grin, not even putting up the prerequisite grumbling about being treated like a little kid, because the praise makes him light up.
for once, behaving himself, he leans down to toe out of his sneakers (he too has been victim to nemu nagging him, which was simultaneously cute and terrifying) and watches samatoki's back as he changes out of his jacket, leaning against the wall with his shoulder. ] Obviously. I still have to beat you, someday.
[ the glee softens for a minute, just enough as he watches samatoki's back in front of him, and ichiro taps into his easy confidence as he says something laced with more meaning than it first puts on, picking up on a thread of something he's ignored since the first time they met and pulling for the first time. ] ...I want to stay by your side.
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inhale my emotions, a heart of heaven &hell ( after the battle )
there's only one person he can blame for why this is even on his mind right now.
(win, ichiro had told him, you better go out there and win next time, as he looked up at samatoki after suffering through buster bros' defeat, with his mismatched eyes full of fire and another emotion he didn't expect to see: hope. it incited a flood of things samatoki couldn't explain, things he couldn't fully understand, and it took everything in him to respond with the bravado and pride he's well known for. they were going to win with or without that brat's encouragement.)
the crowd is silent once ichijiku took the stage, snatching the microphone from the announcer like she's offended he was too slow in handing it to her. samatoki can't stand her. he wants to destroy the world she conquered and created for herself so badly, just so he can see the look on her face. he clenches both fists together once she starts talking, all snark and without a care for what happens next, and the only thing that holds him back from lashing out is juto gripping him by the shoulder. there's no point in losing face now. it's out of their hands anyway, and now it's all up to the central crowd to decide who they deem worthy to crown as kings. all eyes turn to the large monitor overhead as it counts down, mad trigger crew versus matenrou. it's down to the wire until the very end.
samatoki doesn't realize he's holding his breath —
the screen flashes gold, and it shows a wolf's face rather than a skull.
— and he exhales, not out of relief, but a bitter recognition and acceptance of the results. it tastes like ash in his mouth, crumbling before his hand can reach out to offer jakurai a congratulatory shake. if nothing else, at least this is a man he doesn't mind losing to, even if the concept of losing when they got so close burns him from the inside-out. yokohama's territory will shrink today along with ikebukuro and shibuya, but he knows that isn't the worst of it. the worst part, he thinks, is how he doesn't know if he'll be able to face ichiro now, considering what went down between them before the final battle took place. win, ichiro said, he wanted samatoki to win, but it just wasn't meant to be this time around. )
Tch... how annoying.
( samatoki doesn't waver, not even when he mutters these words under his breath, but somehow, maybe because of how bright the lights keep pulsing in front of his eyes, the whole world stumbles with him. the last thing he hears is someone calling out his name before what he sees doesn't matter anymore. everything goes black, and slowly — he starts to fall. )
no subject
samatoki's raps have a way of leaving scars. it's something that he came to reckon with a long time ago, on his first day with the dirty dawg. all three of them came at him to see if this kid they brought was good enough to stand up to them, and each verse they spat was different. ramuda was merciless; jakurai's, mental. samatoki's just hurt, a wave of violence bought on by the clever words that spat out of his mouth. ichiro went down over and over, knocked to his knees by each of them in any given moment, but he never stopped. even if he was counterattacking from the floor, he held that hypnosis mic in his hand for the first time and fell in love.
(he held samatoki's hand for the first time that day, as he held it out to help him back up to his feet, and fell in love then, too.)
now, through the years that have passed, it still hurts. samatoki went from his ally to his rival, his worst enemy for reasons that are still too fresh to talk through, and he lost to him. these territory battles happen so often maybe he should get used to it: he should get used to samatoki with that microphone in his long fingers, cutting into him like a sucker punch every time he let his guard down for even a second. protecting his brothers during their battle had left him more wounded than ever, and samatoki went in for the kill.
he was never good enough to catch up to him, something that used to be exhilarating and now is just frustrating. samatoki has always been this unreachable figure and even now--even as the leader of his own group, with his brothers, even as he's gotten better, learned more than ever, innovated, changed, even now--
even now, samatoki stood over him. the petty part of him that's still nineteen wanted to spit in his face when he put his hand in his hair and yanked his head back, but he didn't. the emotions were so overwhelming (anger, worry, defeat--something else, something that he wanted to call hatred but it wasn't quite there) that he didn't. instead, stubborn and wild-eyed, not so defeated, ichiro latched boldly onto that final emotion he couldn't understand and ran with it, staggered to his feet and found samatoki, and hugged him.
win.
when he looked up at him then, it wasn't ichiro the enemy, ichiro the leader of buster bros. it was ichiro the shitty little prodigy with the golden tongue, looking up at samatoki like he was the greatest thing in this entire world, looking up to him. it's a fire that never died, no matter how much water he poured on it. ichiro can say "i can't believe i ever respected you", but he still does.
standing in the crowd (jiro and saburo at his side), he lets them lean against him and clenches his fists in the pockets of his bomber jacket. listening. watching. down here in the pit away from the stage it feels different, and he catches himself in the atmosphere, watching not mad trigger crew itself or matenrou itself, but samatoki. his eyes are on him the entire time. come on, he hisses, come on, waiting for the battle results.
and in the end, all he sees is the wolf's face, too.
it hurts. it hurts to feel like buster bros' defeat was for this, just another day of ikebukuro getting smaller and smaller. it's not fair: he's fighting for his life to keep the territory alive, to keep the grandpas who ruffle his hair and the people he does favors for happy and living their lives like they're supposed to. who knows where it's going to come from. who knows what kind of people are going to get moved, shuffled away from his home. what's going to be taken from them, today.
but in this moment, ikebukuro is not what he's thinking about. not at first. ichiro feels his heart fall into his stomach, and then--his eyes move away from the screen. samatoki's verse was incredible, delivery flawless, after he'd barely scraped by beating ichiro. ichiro's quick enough to know what's coming, and his feet are moving before his brain even processes.
he's running, shoving people out of his way, men, women, he doesn't care. ichijiku is looking, there's a call for security, but he doesn't care, as his hand grabs onto the barrier stopping the crowd from getting to the stage and he leaps over it like the delinquent he always was. the same delinquent who did the same all over this goddamn city, running with a group of people he called his family. it's that delinquent's voice that rings out of the crowd like a shot with a-- ] Samatoki-san!
[ because ichiro can lie to himself and to the people around him all he wants. he can tell himself he's hateful and angry and he despises samatoki (and he's certainly angry, he certainly hates what he did) but it's not busujima or iruma who catches samatoki when he falls. it's ichiro, sliding to his knees and making it just in time to cradle his body so it hits into his chest instead of the floor. ichiro gets a second of looking at him that is so, so honest, his eyes wide with worry, the concern the only thing on his mind as he tries to shake him awake--
ichijiku's goons have to tear him away from him. ichiro's foul tempered and snappy as he frees his arms, as she makes a comment about his behavior to the microphone (you can always pretend to be a show dog, but you're still just an obedience school dropout, aren't you), but ichiro shakes it off and follows the medic team to the back room where they treat injuries.
where, hours ago, he was sitting, brooding, refusing any sort of medical attention himself. he'd lost any real sensation of pain by then, anyway, focusing instead on the fact that his lips felt like they were tingling, and not from a cut. samatoki's words back to him echoing in his head drowned out the noise. keep chasing me, ichiro. you'll catch up one day. it sparked the challenge that he used to want, found something underneath rival and lifted it back to the surface, reminded him that maybe they were supposed to be something great. that all he'd ever wanted was not to chase him, but to stand equally at his side.
he's still thinking about it now. samatoki's been treated, and it's only then that they let him into the room (hypnosis mic left in the care of jiro, because ichiro might be an obedience school drop out, but he knows which hoops a good boy has to jump through and he'll drop his head and do it if it means he can get in that room.)
ichiro can't bring himself to hate him. not now. the palpable feeling of relief that comes with the sound of a heart monitor beeping steady and strong sweeps away the bitter taste of iron in the back of his mouth when he opens the door and shuts it behind him. because ichiro cares. maybe that's the reason why it still hurts. maybe that's the reason why he thought hate instead of love, because the wound is so fresh that love doesn't feel like an option.
didn't feel like an option.
in this quiet hospital room, the beeping acts like a lullaby to an already exhausted ichiro, who folds his arm and puts them on samatoki's bed to stare at him, his mind a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts, too much to sort through when the battle's finally done. when he closes his eyes and drifts off waiting for samatoki to wake up, head against his own forearm, dark eyelashes smudges against his pale cheeks, love isn't so much in the past tense.
it's starting to feel like an option, again. buried, somewhere underneath everything else, that little spark is still alive.
(maybe it never went away.) ]
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the city lights are so bright, so much brighter than the ones on the stage somehow, and they pulse in time with ikebukuro's heartbeat — all the people going home from work, the high school students enjoying their night out after school is over, and everyone else trying to find their place in this world. this is the backdrop samatoki finds himself in as he's flicking a flame out of his lighter, leather jacket and slicked hair included. he tries it once, twice, but it refuses to do anything at all, leaving him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a whole lot of frustration.
laughter filters through the air, bright and cheery, wholesome enough that samatoki knows it couldn't ever belong to that little shit ramuda. he doesn't even need to look up to know who it is, because ichiro is already in front of him, waving a mic in his face to take his attention away from his nicotine craving. a challenge. an offer. a promise he never wants to forget. it's only when his lighter comes to life and his cigarette is lit that he finally looks up. suddenly, the two of them are all that matters in this world. he is ichiro's only focus, and ichiro is his.
samatoki-san, ichiro calls him, and it's all he really needs to say for samatoki to understand what he wants, but he keeps going with his trademark shit-eating grin, best two out of three, let's go. i won't lose this time! it's always so disarming, the way ichiro looks at him with so much love, waiting for him to say yes like he always will —
but that's what breaks the illusion every single time, without fail. the ichiro of today wouldn't look at him like that, doesn't look at him like that. not anymore. not after what he did (and couldn't stop himself from doing). just the mere thought of the other is enough to send either of them into a blind rage, and nowadays all they could focus on is how much they hate, and hate, and hate — so living through this again, even when it's just a dream, it hurts. it mixes all the good feelings with the bad ones; it drowns him, it suffocates him. it shoves him into an ocean that's always too eager to let him sink.
when he stirs, the first thing he hears is someone arguing. i don't care what you think, i want to stay right here! versus you don't even know what you really want, do you? samatoki thinks he can make out juto's voice, can practically hear the furrow in his brows as he resists the urge to let out an exasperated sigh. whoever it is the cop is arguing with is obviously too stubborn to leave, but samatoki never manages to find out who it is as sleep catches up to him yet again.
the dream rewinds, and then fast-forwards in the next split-second. it takes him back through the familiar alleyways and into the building the dirty dawg crew has claimed as their own. it's not much, it's falling apart in some places, but it's home. ramuda and jakurai are talking in the make-shift kitchenette, voices hushed and intimate. ichiro is asleep on the couch, using samatoki's lap for a pillow. samatoki remembers protesting this whole arrangement, says something along the lines of how they're gonna be late to their own battle if ichiro decides to nap at a time like this. of course, and samatoki knows this best, there's no denying ichiro what he wants once he pulls out all the stops — puppy dog eyes and all — and so samatoki is stuck feeling like his legs are going to cramp out the longer this brat sleeps.
he never wakes ichiro up, never really gets a chance to, because the next thing he sees is that familiar stage with its blinding lights. the crowd is chanting their crew's name wildly, and ichiro is on the floor, holding him back with a strong grip on his ankle. samatoki-san, please, if you push it—
you think i care?
and that was the end of it.
samatoki wakes up to a mouth that tastes like cotton, the steady beeping of a machine, and a familiar mess of black hair right next to him. there are dots dancing in his line of sight as his eyes gradually find their focus, and he shakes those away to get a better look at where he is. oh. somehow he doesn't remember getting hurt enough to be stuck here, but it all comes back to him in bits and pieces. the battle against ikebukuro took its toll on him, and being the idiot he is, he never told anyone about it and went on to face matenrou like that. maybe that's why they lost, he thinks bitterly, it's all his fault like it always has been. if neither juto nor riou were there to support him... who knows if he would have been able to do anything at all?
now that he finally got that out of his system (feeling sorry for himself is never a good look), he pushes himself up slowly, the mattress shifting along with the movement. there's a sharp pain that cuts through his entire body when he does so, hissing out of instinct, probably loud enough to awaken the only other occupant in the room. samatoki's stubborn persistence keeps him going until he's almost upright, but it's obvious he pushed himself too fast, too soon, since the pain isn't really going away. he gives up halfway through, cursing under his breath as his head settles on the pillow again. somehow he narrowly misses hitting ichiro in his failed attempt, and really, who knows why it took him this long to realize he isn't alone here.
at first, there's anger — a whole lot of it. it's bad enough this his mind can't escape ichiro in his dreams but now he has to be the first thing he sees in the waking world too? there used to be days where that was the best thing in the world, waking up the next day with ichiro still curled up next to him, but now... nowadays, it just...
he doesn't know. he doesn't know what it should make him feel anymore.
maybe it isn't anger. maybe it's more like heartache, a pain so raw and dangerous that it still cuts him deep whenever it comes up like this. because at the end of the day, samatoki still cares too. he still cares for ichiro a whole lot, more than he's ever willing to admit to himself or anyone else. no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to hate him. it doesn't matter how much it hurts, how it nearly killed him to watch ichiro walk away and be unable to chase him. it doesn't matter how messed up his head is now that ichiro is here, sleeping by his bedside like nothing ever broke between the two of them, tempting him to reach out and run his fingers through his hair even when he isn't awake.
he stops himself before his fingers get anywhere close, thinking he doesn't deserve it, settling for placing his arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to look at ichiro anymore. it's probably better this way, to keep his distance. the two of them can never go back to how they were back then; too much has happened, too many bridges burned. )
... How long are you gonna stay asleep here, you brat?
( he might as well wake him up now so he can send him away. it's just better this way, since the alternative just doesn't feel like an option. not to him, at least. )
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samatoki aohitsugi is a bright light, because for so long, he was ichiro's lighthouse. a singular point of joy in this world that he refused to let go of when he needed it the most. him and nemu were his family when his family despised him, and samatoki--samatoki was his other half. they were inseparable. jokingly told they were two of a kind, that together they forgot the rest of their team. perfect in battle, perfect together, ichiro tripping over his too-big feet and face first into love with him felt like a natural conclusion.
maybe it was ichiro's stubbornness that got him into this room, his pictured naievete in the eyes of someone like iruma, but that dirty cop couldn't begin to understand this situation. ichiro said as much, practically snarling at him, but he'd come in peace, and he'd forced himself to bow his head.
maybe it was just a natural conclusion, too. maybe iruma was a sadist, or maybe he cared. ichiro didn't, not right now.
things between them did fall into that natural conclusion, once. maybe that's why nothing about this feels right--there's nothing natural about their relationship anymore, a scratch across a record that's broken it beyond repair. he misses and he wants and hates (tries to hate) (can't) and there's not a battle that can fill that void. the love of his family has solidified ichiro and made him the strong person he is today, helped him choose the path that he'll never stray from, but at his foundation, there is a crack with samatoki's name on it. this can't be their conclusion, screaming at each other over their microphones, wounds so cutting because they knew each other so, so well.
watching samatoki fall made him think that; i don't want this to be the end.
when samatoki first stirs, ichiro does too. his brow furrows and he's slipped from a dreamless, mostly restless sleep as his body tries to recover from the brutality of a hypnosis mic battle. (he remembers falling asleep with his head on samatoki's lap, once after one, samatoki telling ramuda to fuck off when he tried to wake him up, when ichiro was already awake. he'd stay there for hours with his eyes closed if it meant samatoki's fingers would keep running through his hair.)
just like then, he doesn't lift his head. at least not right away. not with the hiss, or the shift of the mattress. it's only the sound of samatoki dropping back into the pillow (defeated, maybe, and how long has he been that way?) that ichiro's eyes flicker open.
(he's been defeated like that longer than today. it was still in his eyes when they battled this morning. ichiro's always been clever. he's always been able to read samatoki like a book.)
he doesn't make eye contact, either. immediately, ichiro is hit with a wave of feelings--relief that he's awake, anger that he lost, guilt for being here, shame for even thinking that way, and something buried deeper. by the time samatoki has his arm over his eyes, he's pushed himself up to a sitting position again, and ichiro regards the person who was his everything on the bed beside him.
the distance between them is palpable.
ichiro breathes through his nose and tries to push the unsureness aside. to barrel through like he always has.
what ichiro decides on saying is: ] You look like shit. [ but it's not harsh or hateful. just observing the obvious, a shade of the eighteen year old who never seemed to smile. his expression doesn't reveal any of the things going on, doesn't reveal the sound of his heart thudding so hard against his ribcage he could beatbox with it. ]
if you feel bad i'm coming to canada to punch you (tdd)
ichiro's in love with him. he's in love with him, with his house, with his sister and the way they give him something he hasn't had in a long time--a family. a sense of normalcy. his brothers don't question where he goes, the damn orphanage head doesn't (well, perhaps he does, but ichiro doesn't give a shit), there's no school tomorrow, and they won.
and today, family or not, nemu's not home.
ichiro stumbles through the door with samatoki when he unlocks it, practically shoving it open as he whoops, turning around into samatoki's space as he comes in behind him and grinning, wild and dangerous and delighted, eyes brighter than the stage lights. ] Samatoki-san, that was sick.
[ the anger that he wears like a cloud seems to have evaporated. he's turned to a puppy in front of samatoki, his tail wagging a mile a minute, his cheeks flushed, letting the thrill of victory chase it all away. they won, and all he can think about is the rhymes of the person he admired, the look on his face when they practically dropped their mics, in unison. the trust he felt when they hit their mics together.
(maybe something more than that, too.) ]
:blobsad:
they stumble in together, with ichiro turning around to face him with the brightest grin, bright enough to combat the lights on the stage. the house is empty and silent save for their presence and the sound of ichiro's voice carrying down the halls. he laughs with him, practically seeing the puppy dog ears and tail perk up at every syllable. the adrenaline hasn't left him either. or maybe ichiro's energy is just that infectious.
he reaches out to ruffle his hair affectionately, his fingers lingering in that messy mop of black hair. )
Yeah? You were pretty good yourself, Ichiro. You've gotten better.
( he's almost too sad to retrieve his hand, but he has to just so he can take his boots off before moving further inside. nemu is going to kill him otherwise. and while he waits for ichiro to do the same, he's shedding off his jacket too. )
Maybe one day, you'll catch up to me.
packs my bags ig
the dirty dawg is... it's fun. it's challenging ichiro in a way he'd never really been challenged before, because he was a natural with the hypnosis mic from the minute one fell into his hands (enough that the s2h goons were jeering at him for kissing the boss's ass, unbelieving that someone as young as ichiro and kuukou could be as good as they were). samatoki was the first one to actually make things hard for him, and jakurai and ramuda, once they all met, were no different. it was a whole other level.
and samatoki, from enemy to friend to mentor to something else, to someone who sticks in ichiro's ribcage and makes his heart do backflips, has been there every step of the way. that hair ruffle gives him that flutter, and he ducks his head a little into the affectionate grin, not even putting up the prerequisite grumbling about being treated like a little kid, because the praise makes him light up.
for once, behaving himself, he leans down to toe out of his sneakers (he too has been victim to nemu nagging him, which was simultaneously cute and terrifying) and watches samatoki's back as he changes out of his jacket, leaning against the wall with his shoulder. ] Obviously. I still have to beat you, someday.
[ the glee softens for a minute, just enough as he watches samatoki's back in front of him, and ichiro taps into his easy confidence as he says something laced with more meaning than it first puts on, picking up on a thread of something he's ignored since the first time they met and pulling for the first time. ] ...I want to stay by your side.