Snoo𑁍

You stare harder.

She seems physically pained. “Tokyo Manji Gang? Toman? The delinquent gang that runs this entire side of the city? He’s their leader?”

Ah.

So your partner is a truant crime boss.

Fantastic.

You raise your hand.

Your teacher doesn’t even look up from his attendance sheet. “No, you may not switch partners.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“But you were going to.”

You lower your hand and sigh. “Okay, but my partner isn’t here.”

“He’s never here.”

“…That should be the first red flag right there.”

Your teacher pinches the bridge of his nose. You feel bad for him. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the Meiji period.

“Just… find him,” he says weakly. “Work it out.”

You’re about to argue about fairness, about not being partnered with a literal urban legend but the bell rings, and twenty students flood the hallways, leaving you with your backpack, your half-finished worksheet, and a headache.

You stare at the name again.

Manjiro Sano.

Whoever he is, he’s not dragging your grade down.

You’ll hunt him down yourself if you have to.

-----

Finding Mikey turns out to be harder than you thought.

You ask one classmate where he usually is. They faint.

You ask another. They run away.

Eventually you corner a third, who trembles through an explanation that you should “try the parking lot” like that means anything.

The parking lot is empty.

Then someone else suggests the shrine.

The shrine is empty.

Finally, by pure accident, you overhear some first-years whispering about “Mikey-san and Draken-san” being at “their spot,” which apparently everyone knows about except you.

And that’s how you end up here.

In front of them.

Toman.

A whole cluster of them, lounging around abandoned bikes, laughing, shoving each other, wearing matching jackets, and collectively radiating the kind of chaotic energy that warns normal people to turn around and walk away.

You are not normal people.

You march straight up to the nearest one.

He stops mid-sentence, staring at you like you’ve just approached a wolf pack holding a report card.

“Um. Hi.” You adjust your backpack straps. “I’m looking for Manjiro Sano.”

Five heads swivel toward you.

A tall boy with blonde hair, definitely Draken, gives you a long, assessing stare like he’s trying to figure out if you’re suicidal or just clueless.

“Why,” he finally asks, “are you looking for Mikey?”

“I’m his project partner.”

Silence.

The type that has weight.

The type that says whole gangs have been wiped out over less shocking statements.

Draken clears his throat. “Come again?”

You hold up your assignment paper like a badge. “Group project. He’s my partner. He hasn’t been in class since the beginning of time, so I need him to do his part.”

Someone chokes.

Someone else drops their cigarette.

Draken rubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re serious.”

“Yes?” You glance around. “Should… I not be?”

Before Draken can answer, a voice floats in from behind him, light, airy, singsong.

“Drakeeeeen, did you eat the last dorayaki? I told you I was saving that-”

A small figure hops off a bike and walks closer, pout already forming.

Blonde hair. Big dark eyes. A lollipop in his mouth.

Mikey.

He looks nothing like a terrifying gang leader should look. He looks like a boy who makes trouble because he thinks it’s fun. He looks like he hasn’t attended a single class in months.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He tilts his head.

“…Who’re you?”

“I,” you say, stepping closer, “am the person whose grade you’re ruining.”

The entire gang audibly inhales.

Mikey blinks at you once, twice, like a cat processing a new toy. Then, slowly, a smile curls onto his lips.

“Oh,” he says. “Class stuff.”

“Yes. Class stuff.” You cross your arms. “You are my partner. You are failing. Actually, both of us are failing, because of you. So get up. We have work to do.”

The look on their faces is priceless.

A mix of horror, awe, and mild respect.

And Mikey? He just grins wider, leaning in with a glint in his eye like he’s found something interesting for once.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking you up and down. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Only when my GPA is endangered.”

Draken mutters, “This is insane,” under his breath.

Mikey pops the lollipop out of his mouth, points at you with it, and says:

“Alright. I’ll help you.”

Everyone stares at him.

“You will?” you ask, surprised.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “You came all the way here. That’s kinda cool.”

You blink, taken aback.

Then…

“Great,” you say briskly. “Let’s go.”

Mikey hops up immediately, following you like a duckling.

Toman watches their leader get dragged away by a random classmate like he just imprinted on you.

Draken calls after him, “DON’T SKIP, MIKEY!”

Mikey calls back, “I’M NOT SKIPPING, I’M STUDYING!”

Then he turns to you with an eager expression that should not exist on the face of a known menace.

“So,” he says brightly, “what’s the project about?”

You exhale.

This is going to be hell.

------

You drag Mikey back to school like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

It isn’t.

People stop and stare as the two of you walk through the gate: you with your backpack, him with his hands tucked into his pockets and a lollipop in his mouth, looking like he’s on a casual stroll instead of being forcibly escorted to class.

You can practically hear the rumors writing themselves.

“Is that… Mikey?”

“Why is he here?”

“Who’s that with him?”

“Is she… his girlfriend?”

You ignore it all, focusing on your actual mission: the project.

“Take off your shoes,” you say, pointing at the entrance cubbies.

Mikey squints at them like they’re an unfamiliar species. “Oh, right. School rules.”

“You remember those?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Draken used to yell at me about it.”

You can imagine it. You don’t have to try very hard.

Once you’ve swapped shoes, you march him down the hallway. He keeps drifting, getting distracted by posters and windows and literally nothing. Twice you have to grab the back of his uniform jacket to stop him from wandering off.

“This is boring,” he says eventually.

“You haven’t even started yet.”

“I can feel it.”

You roll your eyes and shove the classroom door open.

Every head snaps toward you.

Then the room collectively stops breathing.

Someone whispers, “No way.”

Someone else reaches for their phone like they want to document this rare, possibly mythical occurrence.

Mikey looks around, visibly unimpressed. “Smells like chalk.”

“That’s because it’s a classroom,” you mutter. You point at his assigned seat, empty since the dawn of time. “Sit there.”

He plops into the desk, spinning slightly on the chair, legs stretching out. He slumps back like he’s at home, eyes flicking over the whiteboard.

Your teacher looks like he might faint.

“M-Mikey,” he stammers from the front, clutching his attendance sheet.

Mikey lifts a hand lazily. “Yo.”

The class is buzzing now, whispers bouncing off the walls.

“He actually came.”

“Who brought him?”

“That girl is insane.”

You ignore the buzzing, tug your notebook out, and slide into the seat next to his. The moment you do, the whispers change tone. More pointed. More curious.

You pretend not to hear any of it.

“Okay,” you say, flipping to a blank page. “The project is on post-war economic reforms. We need to pick a specific policy, research its effects, and do a presentation.”

Mikey stares at you with the most offended expression you’ve ever seen. “Post… what now?”

“Post-war economic reforms.”

“Why can’t we do something cool? Like… famous fights in history.”

“Because that’s not the assignment.”

He slumps further, cheek squishing against the desk. “School sucks.”

“You wouldn’t know,” you mutter. “You’re never here.”

He grins sideways at you. “But I’m here now. For you.”

Your heartbeat does a stupid little jump.

You squash it immediately.

“For the project,” you correct him sharply.

“Mm,” he hums, smile not budging. “Sure.”

-----

The after-school library is painfully quiet.

Mikey is not.

He drums his fingers on the table. Taps his foot. Tilts back in his chair. Tilts too far, almost falls, then catches himself with a laugh that makes three people look over and shush him.

You slap your hand down on the stack of textbooks between you.

“Focus.”

“Can’t.”

“Try.”

“Don’t wanna.”

You inhale through your nose and exhale through your teeth. “Okay. New approach.”

He perks up slightly. “Does it involve food?”

You blink.

Pause.

Absolutely recalibrate your whole plan.

“…It can.”

His eyes brighten instantly. “I like this approach.”

You dig into your bag and pull out the small paper bag you brought, because some annoyingly soft part of you anticipated this. You pull out a neatly wrapped dorayaki and set it on the table.

Mikey goes very still.

“Is that-”

“Yes,” you say. “And you can have it if you answer five questions correctly.”

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The air between you feels loaded, like some unspoken challenge has been issued.

Finally, Mikey leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes shining with determination you haven’t seen once in class.

“Alright, partner,” he says. “Teach me.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Just a little.

“Okay,” you say, pointing at a paragraph. “What was one of the goals of the post-war economic reforms?”

Mikey squints at the page, lips moving as he reads. You watch his eyes track the lines, a little slower than you expected, but steady.

“…To reduce the power of large… conglomerates,” he reads carefully, then glances up. “So rich guys couldn’t control everything?”

“Exactly,” you say, pleased. “That’s one.”

His gaze flicks to the dorayaki. “Four more.”

You work through questions. You simplify things where you can, connect it to stuff he’d care about.

“So basically,” you say, tapping the page, “they broke up economic power so one group couldn’t dominate everything.”

“Like how Toman doesn’t let other gangs run our turf,” he says without missing a beat.

You pause.

“…Sure,” you say slowly. “Kind of.”

His whole face lights up. “I get it now.”

You stare at him.

It hits you that he isn’t stupid. Not even a little. He’s just... unbothered. Uninterested. Floating through life on his own orbit.

But when something hooks him, when something connects, he’s sharp.

You’re weirdly gratified you were the one to make that connection.

Five questions later, he’s chewing happily on his dorayaki, crumbs dotting his lips. You’re surrounded by open books and scattered notes, and somehow, progress has been made.

“Not bad,” you admit, scribbling down your half of the outline. “You might actually pass.”

He leans back, watching you as he chews. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“You always work this hard?”

You shrug. “Someone has to.”

“That why you came to find me?”

“Someone had to.”

He hums thoughtfully, sucking some filling off his thumb. “You’re kinda scary.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“In a good way,” he clarifies immediately. “Like Draken. Just smaller. And cuter.”

Your pen stutters.

You refuse to dignify that with a response.

------

Word spreads fast.

By the second study session, Toman is aware.

You know this because when you show up at Draken’s bike shop, at Mikey’s invitation, no less, there’s a row of delinquents pretending very badly not to watch.

“You’re back,” Draken says when you step in, wiping grease off his hands. His gaze darts to the stack of notebooks you’re carrying. “You really got him doing schoolwork?”

“Trying,” you say. “He invited me.”

Draken snorts. “That’s a first.”

Mikey is perched on an overturned crate, swinging his legs, half-empty bag of snacks beside him. He brightens the second he spots you.

“Oi, partner!”

The word makes something flutter in your chest. You press it down and drop your bag at his feet.

“Alright,” you say. “Today we’re working on our presentation structure.”

He frowns. “Didn’t we already study?”

“Knowing things is step one,” you say. “Explaining them without sounding like an idiot is step two.”

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically.

You sit beside him on the crate, knees bumping. It’s a tight squeeze, but you don’t move away. Neither does he.

“Okay,” you say, opening the notebook and angling it between you. “Look. We divide it like this-”

As you talk, filling out a rough outline, you can feel eyes on you.

You glance up.

Half of Toman is leaning around doorways, peeking from behind shelves, very obviously eavesdropping.

You stare.

They freeze.

Mitsuya raises a hand weakly. “Don’t mind us.”

“This is creepy,” you say flatly.

“Don’t worry about them,” Mikey says, reaching over your arm to steal a pen just because it’s yours. “They’re just curious.”

“About what?” you demand.

He shrugs, leaning so close his shoulder presses into yours. “You.”

Your face heats.

You try to hide it by pointing aggressively at the notebook. “Focus, Sano.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says cheerfully.

The others exchange looks.

You hear someone whisper, “She just told Mikey to focus and he listened.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Are we watching our boss get housebroken?”

You snap your head up. “I can hear you.”

They vanish.

Mikey bursts out laughing, head tipping back, eyes crinkling. The sight does something dumb to your chest.

You don’t join the gang. You don’t start hanging around all the time. But you become… a presence. An exception.

And Toman, bizarrely, gets used to it.

------

A week later, you’re back in class, project presentation looming.

You’re at your desk, flipping through index cards, when one of your classmates, Tanaka, you think his name is, eternally smug, sidles up to you.

“Hey,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “How’s it going with Sano?”

You don’t look up. “Fine.”

“He even shows up for you,” Tanaka says with a laugh. “That’s impressive.”

There’s something in his tone you don’t like.

You hum noncommittally.

“He’s not actually doing anything, though, right?” Tanaka continues. “I mean, you’re obviously carrying the whole thing. He’s just… there.”

You pause.

Your pen freezes mid-word.

Slowly, you look up.

“What?”

Tanaka shrugs, careless. “It’s Mikey. He doesn’t do schoolwork. Honestly, sensei should’ve just given you a new partner.”

Anger sparks, hot and automatic.

You think of Mikey squinting at paragraphs in the library. Mikey connecting economic reform to gang turf like it’s the most natural comparison in the world. Mikey actually trying because you asked him to.

You narrow your eyes. “He’s doing his part. We both are.”

Tanaka snorts. “Sure. Look, it’s not a big deal. Some people just aren’t cut out for this stuff. Delinquents like that? They’re just dead weight in class.”

You’re halfway to standing when a shadow falls over your desk.

“Say that again.”

Mikey’s voice is quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance up.

He’s standing behind Tanaka, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded but sharp. The energy around him has shifted, still, but dangerous, like the air before a storm.

Tanaka stiffens. “M-Mikey-”

“I said,” Mikey repeats calmly, “say that again. About me being dead weight.”

Tanaka swallows. “I-I just meant-”

“And about my partner,” Mikey adds, tilting his head, smile not reaching his eyes. “Say that part again.”

The room has gone silent. Everyone is watching now.

You stand quickly, stepping between them before this becomes a disciplinary hearing… or a funeral.

“Mikey,” you say, lightly pushing at his chest. “It’s fine.”

He looks at you, expression shifting, the hard edge softening immediately.

“Is it?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Because we’re going to get a better score than him anyway. Right?”

You hold his gaze, willing him to drop it.

There’s a beat of tense silence.

Then Mikey smiles again, genuinely this time. “Right.”

He looks over your head at Tanaka, expression mild but eyes still icy.

“You heard her,” he says. “We’re gonna beat you. So maybe focus on your own project and stop talking shit about mine.”

Tanaka bobbles his head in a frantic nod and retreats like his life depends on it.

You exhale slowly.

Mikey watches Tanaka go, then looks back at you. “You okay?”

You blink. “I should be asking you that.”

He snorts. “That guy’s annoying, but I don’t care what he says about me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then why did you get mad?”

At you, the smile turns softer. “He doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”

Something in your chest flips over.

You look away fast, shoving your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary. “Whatever. Just… don’t start a fight over me.”

He hums thoughtfully. “What if I finish a fight over you?”

“Mikey.”

“I’m kidding,” he says, laughing. Then, quieter, “Kind of.”

You should be exasperated.

You are.

You’re also weirdly, stupidly touched.

------

You’re at Draken’s shop again.

It’s late, the sky outside fading into navy, streetlights flickering on one by one. The shop smells like oil and metal and something faintly sweet from the bakery down the road.

The others have cleared out already, leaving you, Mikey, and Draken.

You’re hunched over the workbench, index cards spread out, scribbling last-minute notes. Mikey is perched on a stool, swinging his legs, reciting his part of the presentation under his breath.

“Post-war reforms… aimed to decentralize economic power and-”

“-and weaken the Zaibatsu conglomerates,” you prompt.

He snaps his fingers. “Right. Those guys.”

“You’re getting it,” you say, genuinely impressed.

“Only ‘cause my teacher’s so scary,” he says lightly.

“I’m not your teacher.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Draken walks by, towel over his shoulder. “He giving you trouble?”

“No more than usual,” you say.

“Hey,” Mikey protests.

Draken chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Can’t believe you got him to study. You’re a miracle worker.”

You shrug, pretending that doesn’t make you a little proud. “Bribery helps.”

Mikey grins. “She makes really good snacks.”

“Is that so?” Draken looks intrigued. “You bringing any next time?”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” you say quickly. “The project is tomorrow.”

Both of them look at you.

Mikey’s smile falters just a fraction.

“Oh,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, waving it off. “Just thought we’d keep… y’know. Hanging out.”

Your heart does a weird, wobbly thing.

You look down at your cards. “We can still hang out. It doesn’t have to be for a project.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should.

When you peek up, Mikey is staring at you with a look you haven’t seen before, something open and almost vulnerable.

“…Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, like the sun rising. “Then I’ll do extra good tomorrow.”

You snort. “That’s not how that works.”

“Sure it is,” he says. “If I do good, sensei won’t yell, and you’ll be in a good mood, and then you’ll wanna see me again.”

“You’re so sure of yourself.”

“Aren’t I right?”

You want to say no.

You don’t.

Instead, you shake your head and shove your stack of cards at him. “Again. From the top.”

He groans dramatically, but obeys.

As he stumbles through the first sentence, you catch Draken watching the two of you from across the room, a knowing little half-smile on his face.

You ignore him.

Or try to.

------

You’re packing up later when you realize you’ve been at the shop for hours.

You stretch, your spine popping, and wince. “Ow.”

“You okay?” Mikey asks.

“Just stiff,” you say. “Too much sitting.”

“Here,” he says.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he steps behind you and places his hands gently on your shoulders. His thumbs press into the muscles at the base of your neck, kneading.

You go rigid.

“Mikey, what are you-”

“Relax,” he says softly. “Just a bit.”

You consider protesting. You really do.

Then his thumbs find a knot and press just right, and your eyes flutter shut against your will.

“See?” he murmurs. “You work too hard.”

“You study too little,” you mumble.

He laughs quietly, warm breath brushing your ear. “We balance each other out.”

It’s alarmingly intimate, standing here in the quiet of the shop with his hands on you, his chest a solid presence at your back. Your heartbeat picks up, loud in your own ears.

“Okay,” you say abruptly, stepping forward out of his hold. “That’s enough. We should go. It’s late.”

He lets his hands drop but doesn’t look offended. If anything, his smile turns softer. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says simply.

You sigh, defeated. “Fine.”

You walk side by side under the streetlights, shadows stretching long behind you. The night is cool, city noises distant.

“So,” he says eventually, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the sky. “What are you gonna do after this project? Keep being top of the class? Get some fancy job?”

“Maybe,” you say. “I just… want options. I don’t want to be stuck.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

“What about you?” you ask, curious. “You ever think about that? Your future?”

He shrugs. “Not really. I’ll take care of Toman. Take care of everyone. That’s enough for me.”

You look at him.

His profile is lit by the streetlamp, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He looks younger like this, softer, but there’s a weight in his eyes that’s older than either of you.

“You’re already taking care of everyone,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, surprised, then smiles. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You reach your building too soon.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, rocking on his heels. “So. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echo. “Don’t be late.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “I’d never.”

You give him a look.

He laughs, waves, and turns away.

You watch his back grow smaller down the street, oddly reluctant to go inside.

You only move when he glances back once, catches you still staring, and grins.

You absolutely do not slam the door quickly after that.

-----

You’re nervous.

You’ll never admit it out loud, but your fingers fidget with the edge of your index cards as groups go up one by one. Your leg bounces under the desk.

Mikey, on the other hand, looks… relaxed.

Too relaxed.

He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed like he’s about to nap.

“Mikey,” you hiss. “Stay awake.”

“M’awake,” he mumbles.

You jab him in the arm with your pen. “Our turn is next.”

He cracks one eye open, looks at you, and smiles. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

You do not feel less worried.

“Next group,” sensei calls, looking at his list. “Sano and (Last Name).”

You stand, smoothing your uniform, heart thudding.

Mikey ambles up beside you, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered. When you reach the front, he casually leans down and mutters, “Hey.”

“What,” you whisper back.

“If I mess up,” he says with a grin, “you’ll fix it, right?”

You roll your eyes. “Just read the cards.”

He laughs and turns to the class.

You start.

You introduce your topic, voice more steady than you feel. You’ve done this a hundred times in your head, practiced your lines, your pauses. It comes easily.

Then it’s Mikey’s turn.

He takes his card.

Your heart stops.

He looks at it.

Then looks up.

There’s a beat where you’re terrified he’s going to say something completely off-topic. Or blank. Or walk out.

Instead, he says, clear and confident:

“One of the major goals of the post-war economic reforms was to break up the power of the zaibatsu, big corporations that controlled a lot of Japan’s economy before the war.”

The class blinks.

He continues, warming up.

“By doing this, the government wanted to stop too much power from being in the hands of a few families. That way, more people could compete in the market, and the economy would be more stable.”

He glances at you.

You nod subtly.

He relaxes, shoulders loosening.

“It’s kinda like… if one gang controlled all the turf in Tokyo,” he goes on, casual but surprisingly articulate. “It looks strong, but if anything happens to that one gang, everything falls apart. But if there are more groups, spread out, the whole thing doesn’t crumble so easy.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the room, but not mocking. Intrigued.

You hide a smile.

He just did what you’ve been doing for days, connected it to his world, his rules, so it makes sense.

You finish the final part of the presentation together. He doesn’t freeze once. When he falters, you pick up the sentence. When you blank for a moment, he jumps in with an example. It’s… smooth.

It’s weird how easy it is to talk when he’s next to you.

At the end, there’s a small pause.

Then, unexpectedly, your classmates start clapping.

Not just polite taps.

Actual, impressed applause.

Your teacher looks like he might cry again.

“T-that was very good,” he says, visibly moved. “Clear, engaging, excellent use of examples. I’m… pleasantly surprised.”

Mikey beams.

You exhale, tension draining out of your shoulders.

You catch Tanaka’s expression in the back, sour and begrudgingly impressed, and fight the urge to smirk at him.

You and Mikey return to your seats. Your legs feel a little wobbly.

“That was fun,” Mikey whispers once you’re seated.

“You’re insane,” you whisper back. “You just freestyled half of that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You can’t argue with that.

When grades are posted later, you see it.

Top score.

You stare at the number for a full five seconds.

Then, involuntarily, you grin.

A hand appears next to yours, ruffling your hair from behind.

“See?” Mikey crows. “Told you we’d beat that guy.”

You swat his hand away, but you’re still smiling. “You did good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” you say honestly. “In a good way.”

He tilts his head, eyes crinkling. “Then I’m happy.”

You look up at him, about to say something more, something like you really tried or thank you, but sensei shuffles by then, clearing his throat.

“Sano,” he says, hesitant. “I, ah. I hope to see more of this… effort from you. In the future.”

Mikey scratches his cheek. “No promises, sensei.”

Your teacher deflates.

“But,” Mikey adds, glancing at you, “I might show up sometimes. If my partner’s here.”

Sensei blinks.

You choke. “I’m not your-”

“Thank you for your hard work,” sensei says to you quickly, like you’re the only thing standing between his sanity and collapse. “Truly. You’ve done a great job.”

You bow politely, murmuring a thank you, and then you’re dragged away by Mikey’s hand on your sleeve.

-----

You end up outside the school gate without really meaning to. One moment you’re packing your bag, the next you’re being herded along by Mikey’s unstoppable momentum.

He finally stops under a tree just beyond the gate, where the street is quieter. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling his face with light.

“So,” he says.

“So,” you echo.

He rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets, looking at you with a brightness that makes your chest warm. “We make a pretty good team.”

Your lips twitch. “Apparently.”

“Top score,” he reminds you.

“I can read.”

He laughs.

Then, suddenly, he sobers a little.

“Hey,” he says, shifting his weight. “You know how you came to get your partner back from the dead?”

“He wasn’t dead, just truant.”

“Same thing,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway. I was thinking.”

You cross your arms. “Dangerous.”

He ignores that. “I don’t really care about school stuff. You know that.”

“I picked up on it, yeah.”

“But.” He pauses, looking at you. Really looking. “I liked this. Doing something with you. Building it together. Watching you get all serious and bossy.”

You feel your face heat. “That’s not-”

“It is,” he insists, grin tugging at his lips, then softens. “You worked really hard. For both of us. No one’s ever done that for me. Not like that.”

You blink.

Something in your chest squeezes painfully.

“You’re important to me,” he says simply. “So I was thinking…”

He steps closer.

Your back bumps lightly against the tree trunk. You didn’t even realize you’d moved.

He’s close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of brown in his dark eyes, the way his lashes cast little shadows. His smile is smaller, more genuine than the lazy grins he shows everyone else.

“…You should keep being my partner,” he finishes.

You swallow. “For… school?”

“For everything,” he says, without missing a beat.

Your heart stutters.

“Mikey-”

“I mean,” he goes on, eyes darting briefly to your mouth before snapping back up, “you can yell at me when I skip class. Drag me to the library. Make me snacks. I’ll walk you home. Scare off annoying guys. You know. Partner stuff.”

“That’s not what partner stuff means,” you say weakly.

He hums. “It is if I say so.”

You stare at him.

The worst part is that he sounds… sincere. Like in his own skewed, simple way, this is how he says I want you around and I like you and don’t go anywhere.

Your throat feels tight all of a sudden.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intend.

He leans in just a fraction more, eyes flicking over your face. “Is that a no?”

You hesitate.

You think about the first day, staring at that cursed partner list, cursing whatever fate married your grade to a delinquent myth. You think about the parking lot, the shrine, the Toman hangout. About textbooks and dorayaki and late-night walks home.

About the way he stood between you and a rude classmate like it was nothing.

About the way he looked when he thought you might not want to see him after the project.

You exhale.

“It’s…” You lick your lips, nerves crackling under your skin. “It’s a maybe.”

He grins, bright and unstoppable. “I can work with maybe.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no,” he counters.

You open your mouth, then close it.

He laughs, delighted, and in that moment, caught between annoyance and fondness, you slip.

“If you want me to keep being your partner,” you say, trying to sound stern and failing, “you have to promise to show up. At least sometimes. I refuse to be seen as the person dating a ghost.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

You replay your own words in your head.

Dating.

You want to sink into the ground.

Mikey’s smile does something oddly slow. It softens, widens, shifts into something you’ve never quite seen on him before, something almost reverent.

“Dating, huh?” he says, voice a little hoarse with poorly concealed glee. “You thinking that far already?”

“I- That’s not what I meant-”

He steps even closer, bracing one hand against the tree trunk near your head, caging you in without touching. His face is only inches from yours now.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do, helplessly.

His gaze is steady. His voice drops.

“If we were dating,” he says slowly, “would you let me do this?”

He leans in, close enough that his forehead brushes yours, that you can feel his breath fan across your lips. He doesn’t close the distance completely. Just hovers there, waiting, asking.

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

You could push him away.

You don’t.

“…Maybe,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker, satisfaction flashing through them.

Then he pulls back half an inch and taps your forehead gently with his own, like a soft little headbutt.

“Okay,” he says, and somehow his smile is even warmer. “I’ll earn it.”

“You… what?”

“The right to do more ‘dating stuff,’” he says matter-of-factly. “If my partner wants it.”

You’re certain your brain has melted.

He straightens up finally, hands sliding back into his pockets, expression turning playful again.

“Until then,” he says, voice light, “I’ll settle for this.”

He reaches down and takes your hand.

Your fingers slot into his like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your brain short-circuits again.

“Mikey-”

“Walk me home,” he says with a grin. “Partner.”

You should say that’s backwards.

You don’t.

The boys pause.

Every one of them turns, blinking dumbly, because what the hell.

You’re crossing the street in a flurry of white and pink, your little heeled Mary Janes tapping against the concrete. Your cardigan is pastel and prim, your lips glossy and red like a maraschino cherry, and your hair curls perfectly in place—but your eyes burn. You look like a porcelain doll with a murderous streak.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, already stepping in like you own the lot. The Soc holding the knife stutters, lowering the blade like it’s suddenly too heavy.

One of them mutters your name. You're from the neighborhood. You're someone’s cousin, someone’s sister, a proper sweet Soc girl. You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. And yet—

You shove the nearest one away from Ponyboy with manicured hands and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Get back in your car and go home before I scream bloody murder.”

They hesitate. But you're you. And they’re not about to lay hands on a girl like you.

“Tch. Whatever. Freak,” one spits, shoving his hands in his jacket as he backs off. The others follow, grumbling, but not dumb enough to stick around.

The Mustang roars and speeds off into the dying light.

And Ponyboy… he just sits there, eyes wide as saucers, like a stray cat that’s just been scooped up from traffic and doesn’t know whether to bite or purr.

You crouch in front of him, skirt poofing slightly on the knees, careful of your curls, and your voice changes. Soft now. Like marshmallows melting over cocoa.

“Oh, honey,” you coo, already pulling your pink embroidered hankerchief from your pocket. “Did they hurt you bad?”

Pony can only shake his head, his throat thick, eyes stuck on your perfectly curled lashes as you lean closer and dab gently under his jaw. He’s got a shallow cut, nothing too bad, but you fuss over it like he’s been stabbed in the heart. And maybe, in some ways, he has been.

Your fingers are warm and you smell like strawberries and ivory soap and expensive perfume. “You poor thing. What were you even doing out here alone?”

“I-I was just walking,” he mumbles, still completely dazed. “I didn’t think—”

“I know, baby,” you soothe. “Boys like that don’t fight fair. You shouldn’t be walking alone like that.”

He blushes. Because you called him “baby.” And you’re touching him. And your skirt’s swaying with the wind and you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Even through the adrenaline, even through the fear—he’s thinking maybe this was the best night of his life.

And from a few yards away, the gang is just staring.

Dallas, Two-Bit, Darry, Soda, Johnny, Steve—all of them. They’d been ready to charge in, fists flying. But you beat them to it. You intervened first. And now Pony’s practically being babied on the sidewalk by a dolly dream in Mary Janes.

Two-Bit whistles low. “If she bends over one more inch, I swear, I’m gonna see heaven,”

Dallas elbows him. “Shut up, man. I’m tryna watch.” his eyes are fixed shamelessly on the edge of your skirt, a wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. “Bet she’s wearin’ lacy ones, too. Betcha a quarter, man”

“Shut up,” Johnny hissed, though his cheeks were red, eyes wide.

Darry's brows are raised all the way into next week.

Soda? Soda’s smiling like an idiot. “That’s gotta be the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Meanwhile, you’re still petting Pony’s hair, gentle and maternal. Like maybe you see more than a scared little greaser boy. Maybe you see something soft underneath all that dust and panic. Or maybe you just like underdogs.

“You wanna walk me home?” you ask sweetly, standing up and holding out your hand like a princess offering her slipper.

He blinks. “Me?”

You smile. “Of course, you. I don’t feel safe without someone brave.”

He takes your hand, still red and scraped, and lets you pull him to his feet. And just like that, Ponyboy Curtis is walking a girl, a society girl, home.

“Damn,” Dallas muttered. “I think I’m in love.”

“You’re in lust, that's what you are” Darry corrected.

“Same thing,”

You made a little cooing sound that shot straight through his chest and made his knees go wobbly. You pulled him inside, one arm wrapped around his waist as you guided him to the couch like he was your baby brother and not a greaser who’d just been in a street war.

And then you turned on Dallas.

“You!” you scolded, eyes blazing as you poked a manicured finger into his chest. “You’re the one who let him go! You’re supposed to be the older one!”

He just grinned, leaning on the doorframe, blood still dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Hey, don’t scold me, baby. I fought for your little puppy boy, didn’t I? Took out two Socs juust for ya.”

You shoved his shoulder, making him stumble inside, and he laughed. “You love it when I’m all beat to hell.”

“I do not!” you huffed and then softened, sighing as you took his hand and dragged him over to the couch. “...Well, maybe just a little.”

They collapsed side by side like two overgrown children, and you went into nurse-mode like you’d been born for it. You straddled Pony’s knees, gently dabbing his busted lip with cotton, and he was blushing hard, eyes wide and dumb.

“You’re real pretty, y’know that?” he mumbled.

You smiled sweetly, brushing his hair back. “Baby,” you whispered, cupping Ponyboy’s cheek so gently it made him whimper. “You’re a mess.”

“I feel okay,” he said, lying through his teeth.

“Sure you do,” you cooed, dabbing at his bloody lip, “just like a puppy after a car ride.”

Pony melted. Full-on puddle. He nuzzled into your palm like you were the sun, a little dazed smile on his face.

Dallas, not to be outdone, growled playfully and leaned in close, his breath hot and heavy. “What about me, darlin’? No sugar for the junkyard dog?”

You glanced at him sideways and let out the smallest sigh before stroking his jaw with your other hand, nails soft on his skin. “You look like someone tried to barbecue you, Dally.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough, “let’s say you’re the only girl I’d crawl through hell for.”

Dallas was sprawled out like a smug mutt, legs spread wide, bruises on full display, blood drying on his neck. He was watching you like a dog begging for scraps, his voice all gravel and heat.

“Think you missed a spot,” he drawled, lifting his shirt up to reveal a very dramatic-looking bruise on his ribs. “Right here. Hurts bad.”

You rolled your eyes but complied, leaning over him, your soft hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, smoothing over the wound with cool pressure. He hissed through his teeth, eyes fluttering.

“Jesus, man” he muttered. “Your hands are like magic.”

“Maybe if you didn’t pick fights, you wouldn’t need ‘em,” you said sweetly, fingers now stroking along his lower back.

“You gonna spank me, sweetheart?” he grinned up at you, all teeth and bruises. “’Cause I’ll take it.”

You smacked his shoulder lightly, trying not to laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

You tried to ignore him, but your hands were already back on Pony, who had slumped against your chest like a tired kitten, eyes half-closed as you carded your fingers through his curls.

“C’mere, baby,” you whispered, pulling him closer, letting him lay his head in your lap while you stroked his scalp and whispered soft, silly comforts. “You were so brave tonight. I’m real proud of you.”

You brushed his, now blond, hair back from his forehead, gently massaging his scalp, and he let out a soft sigh that sounded a lot like a purr.

“I think I died,” he mumbled. “Am I in heaven?”

“No, sugar,” you chuckled, smiling down at him, “but I promise you’re safe.”

And Dally —oh, Dally was practically drooling, watching your soft hands drift over Pony’s hair, your fingers under his collar now to check the bruising on his neck, your voice so gentle it could’ve rocked him to sleep.

So, of course, he had to ruin it.

“You gonna touch me like that too, sweetheart? I bite, but I swear I’ll wag my tail.”

You looked him dead in the eye and cooed, “You’d bite, huh?”

“Might even bark.”

You leaned in real close, fingers skimming the edge of his bruised ribcage, making him suck in a breath. “Then be a good boy, Dally. Sit. Stay.”

He groaned, flopped back, head tilted, grin wide. “I love when you talk mean.”

He scooted closer too, resting his head on your thigh right beside Ponyboy’s. You gasped, trying to pretend you weren’t enjoying every second of this ridiculous mess.

“I ain’t movin’,” Dally mumbled, eyes closing. “You smell like heaven and taste better.”

“You’re not licking me again, Dallas Winston,” you warned, flicking his forehead.

“No promises.”

💌 sok's yap: guys, i deadass wrote and made everything today cuz this was fully occupying my mind and idk it seemed fun to write <333 and I like writing silly smau's i hope yall like spiderwon as well and go check out my smau series: 'back to brisbane'

💌 criticism is always welcomed in a nice manner and pls lmk any tips for writing cuz this is just my second fic😦😦

also, the banner is fully mine, do not steal nor claim as yours; however the pictures used in the banner and the divider isnt mine >:

*⁀➷perm taglist! {comment to be added or removed >.<}

🎱 @effiemjch @enhypens-hoe @lassiie 🎱

copyright ©hoonsocks 2025.