#mucho

 Haruchiyo was beautiful. Not just “for a guy,” but beautiful in an absolute sense. Anyone with eyes could see it. The way his long, well-kept hair framed his face. His soft features. Those long, thick lashes and the crystal-clear eyes that always seemed to see a little too much. His skin was flawless, and his slender frame didn’t give away how strong he actually was. Nothing about him or the way he looked hinted at danger. His beauty was the kind people associated with artwork displayed behind glass in quiet galleries, or with perfectly edited magazine photos of western models. Images polished so much they almost looked unreal. Not that most of Toman’s members knew much about that kind of thing. Still, maybe that was exactly what pulled them in at first. What made some of them linger a second too long, stirred curiosity and in a few cases, feelings they would rather not examine too closely. 

But none of that truly defined Sanzu Haruchiyo.

What actually defined him, what wiped away that fascination and replaced it with a quiet sense of caution, sometimes even fear, was how unpredictable he was. The way his mood could flip without warning. The casual cruelty that crept into his smile when things turned violent, like violence wasn’t just a tool to him but something closer to instinct. 

One of the newer recruits had seen it himself just a few weeks ago. Another newbie his age had laughed, loud and careless, asking what someone like Haruchiyo was even doing here. Joking that he would be better off bent over tables for the guys who were actually useful to Mikey rather than following him around like a lost puppy.

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before a fist brutally connected to his face. One moment Haruchiyo had been standing there, expression unreadable and the next, there was blood on the floor and a pained scream ringing through the air. It happened so fast no one had time to step in. And afterward, Haruchiyo didn’t even look particularly angry. If anything, he looked mildly inconvenienced, like he’d just dealt with a small, irritating problem. And honestly, that was exactly what it had been to him.

Unfortunately for everyone else, it wasn’t only blatant disrespect that could set the sixteen-year-old off. Sometimes a careless comment about Mikey was enough. Praise worded the wrong way. A joke that drifted a little too close to mockery. Words that could be twisted, if someone felt like twisting them. And Haruchiyo always did.

The punishment usually followed right away. A broken arm. A shattered jaw. A finger bent the wrong way.

Violence was almost a daily thing when you lived the kind of life they did. It was expected, and when it came to rival gangs, sometimes even looked forward to. Stupid fights and petty arguments inside the group weren’t unusual either. That’s what happened when you packed a bunch of hormonal teenagers with too much anger and not enough direction into the same space, most of them chasing ambitions a lot less idealistic than their leader’s. Bruises healed and grudges faded quickly. 

But violence involving Haruchiyo was different. It was cold and precise. The kind of violence that felt almost surgical. He carried it out with complete disregard, not just for whoever was standing in front of him, but for himself too. There was no empathy in it. No real distinction between Toman and non-Toman. Once he crossed that invisible line, it was like nothing else existed. Nothing mattered except Mikey.

It was as if Haruchiyo would gladly throw himself away just to fracture, shatter, and break whatever stood in the king’s way. As long as he remained useful. As long as it meant protecting Mikey. It didn’t matter how ugly it got. How far he had to go. How much blood ended up on his hands or how much damage he took in return. He’d destroy himself just as easily as he’d destroy anyone else if it meant staying by Mikey’s side. That, more than anything, was what made him dangerous.

His cold unpredictability, paired with that unsettling lack of empathy, made him almost impossible to approach. And so, quietly and without anyone really saying it out loud, the members of Toman all came to the same conclusion: it was safer to stay away from Haruchiyo Sanzu. To lower their voices when he passed and to speak of certain things only once he was out of earshot.

Relief came in the form of Mutou Yasuhiro. Mucho. Tall, imposable Mucho with his stoic expression and immovable build, gave the illusion of structure amidst the chaos and a sense that someone had their hands on the reins. Someone who could contain what resisted being contained. Ever since Haruchiyo had been placed under his supervision, the outbursts had become a little less frequent. Not gone. No, definitely not gone. Just rarer. Still, when they did happen, and Mucho decided the reason was justified, he let the younger boy do as he pleased. Watching from the sidelines, sometimes with the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes and a silent fascination in his eyes. Though, deep down, in a hidden corner of his mind he would never allow himself to share with another soul, Mucho had to admit the truth: Sanzu Haruchiyo frightened him.

It wasn’t the physical danger he posed to the others that unsettled Mucho. He knew his own strength. There were maybe one or two people in all of Toman who could face him head-on, and one of them was Mikey. No, what set Haruchiyo apart and stirred a sense of fear in him was something easier to miss. Beneath the violence was calculation. Beneath the impulse, intent. He was treacherous, and worse, painfully patient. The kind of person who could wait without losing focus, who could stretch a plan out as long as it took until the outcome was certain.

Mucho had never been the type for that kind of game. He wasn’t a strategist who enjoyed dragging things out or circling a problem until it collapsed under its own weight. He preferred the blunt, violent approach Haruchiyo sometimes showed as well. Meet obstacles head-on. Crush problems with sheer force and the refusal to back down. There was something reassuring in that kind of simplicity to him. Maybe that was why, even with all his authority, Mucho sometimes caught himself watching Haruchiyo a moment longer than necessary. Not wondering if the chaos would break loose again, but when, and where it would land.

Their first meeting might have looked distant or even cold to anyone watching from the outside, mostly because both of them were naturally reserved. Sanzu was used to being alone, and Mucho was a man who spoke little and chose his words carefully. Still, to his surprise, it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable or hostile as Mucho had expected after hearing all the stories about the younger boy. Instead, there was a sense of calm between them, an unspoken understanding that most likely stemmed from the fact that their cooperation had been a direct order from Mikey and therefore left no room for doubt in Haruchiyo’s eyes.

For the first few days, the blond followed him around without saying much. He learned Mucho’s routines, quietly adjusting his own pace to match them. Before long he was already reading Mucho’s patterns, anticipating instructions before they were even spoken. It was subtle, but effective. They ate lunch together when schedules allowed, sitting across from one another or side by side, exchanging brief remarks about upcoming meetings or discussing the current situation with one of the rival gangs. The conversations were sparse and practical, often followed by long stretches of silence neither of them felt compelled to fill. The kind of quiet where both parties were still figuring out the shape of the other’s presence.

Their first genuine exchange came later, at a Toman meeting. Haruchiyo arrived alone this time, separate from Mucho, riding in on a hotpink Kawasaki GPZ900R. It was the first instance since they’d begun working together that he hadn’t shown up on foot or picked Mucho up with his car. The engine cut cleanly, the bike rolling to a smooth stop before he swung his leg over it. Even from a distance, it was obvious the machine was kept in exceptional condition.

“Nice bike,” he said at last. “Didn’t know you rode.”

Haruchiyo straightened, pulling off his gloves with deliberate care before setting them down on the seat. “I do.”

Mucho stepped a little closer, slowly circling the motorcycle. The paint was flawless. No scratches along the frame, no grime clinging to the wheels or dulling the exhaust. It looked less like something that had been ridden and more like something that had been carefully preserved.

“I’ve always liked Kawasak,” Mucho said. “Solid engines. Reliable.”

Haruchiyo’s expression shifted to something Mucho hadn’t seen before. Interest, unguarded and brief, flickered in his eyes.

“This model especially,” Haruchiyo said. “changed everything when it came out.” He rested a hand lightly on the handlebar, thumb brushing near the throttle without actually touching it. “The balance, the speed. It responds well if you know how to handle it.”

“You sound like someone who rides a lot,” Mucho remarked, glancing over the spotless frame again. “Hard to tell though,” he added mildly. “It looks brand new.”

Haruchiyo stiffened. It was subtle, but noticeable enough for Mucho to catch. “I take care of my things,” he said, his voice a little sharper than before. “Doesn’t mean I don’t use them.”

Mucho lifted his hands in a placating gesture, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

There was a short pause. Haruchiyo glanced down at the bike, scanning it as if checking for flaws that weren’t there. His fingers brushed over the seat in an absent, almost habitual motion. When he looked back up, his tone had evened out again.

“Took a while to get my hands on one,” he said. “Finding it in good condition wasn’t easy.”

 “I can imagine,” Mucho replied. “Most people don’t bother keeping them like this.”

Haruchiyo shrugged. “Most people don’t appreciate them properly.”

The comment landed somewhere between defensiveness and pride. Mucho let it sit, nodding once. “Well,” he said, stepping back, “you’ve got good taste.”

Haruchiyo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his gloves again and put them in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

For the first time Haruchiyo heard a genuine laugh from Mucho. 

__________________________________________

“Wear this.” Mucho’s voice was calm, but his gaze lingered on Haruchiyo with a quiet expectation as he held out a piece of black fabric.

“Maybe then the others will keep their eyes to themselves.”

He was certain Haruchiyo would take it as a reference to his scars, but that wasn’t the whole of it. If anything, it was probably self-preservation. After spending a few weeks around him, learning his routines, riding together, and slowly discovering a few shared interests, something about Haruchiyo had started getting under Mucho’s skin. He couldn’t quite name it. All he knew was that he would rather not feel it at all.

Haruchiyo reached for the fabric without hesitation. He took it from Mucho’s hand and put it on without a word of protest. He didn’t ask why. And if the thought had crossed his mind, he kept it to himself, probably settling on his own explanation instead. Mucho studied him for a moment and sighed inwardly. Only slightly better.

The fabric covered the scars and hid most of the younger boy’s face, which had been the idea. But what Mucho hadn’t factored in was how much more Haruchiyo’s eyes stood out against the black now, sharp and unnervingly intense. Eyes that looked like they could cut straight through someone. They were full of suspicion too. And yet, despite all that emotion sitting so close to the surface, they still seemed strangely empty.

Mucho wasn’t someone who usually got stuck on things like that. He didn’t overanalyze a stare or try to read too much into a teenager’s body language. But over the last few days, he kept catching himself glancing over at Haruchiyo again and again. The thought wouldn’t let him go.

His subordinate had started to feel like a riddle Mucho couldn’t quite solve. Like the answer was right there, sitting at the tip of his tongue, only to disappear the moment he tried to grasp it.

“Got something on my face, Captain?” Haruchiyo’s voice cut through the silence, carrying a hint of challenge. “You’ve been staring a lot lately.”

And truthfully, Haruchiyo hated it. He hated being looked at like that. His whole life it had been the same routine - people staring, whispering, acting like they had him all figured out before he’d even said a word. And now his own captain was doing it too.

Mucho blinked, clearly caught off guard, and looked away like someone had snapped him out of a trance.

“Just lost in thought, kid,” he said, deliberately dismissive. The situation was obviously uncomfortable for him, and he wanted out of it as quickly as possible. “Nothing personal.”

Haruchiyo let out a quiet scoff.

“Then you might wanna think in another direction,” he muttered. “Because it’s creeping me out.”

Some days, Mucho felt like they had gotten a little closer. They weren’t anything close to friends, but he had started to think he’d at least closed the distance between them. That Haruchiyo tolerated him, if nothing else. That maybe, in his own strange way, he was letting Mucho in as much as someone like him ever would.

But moments like this proved the exact opposite.

Every time Mucho took one step toward Haruchiyo, the boy took two steps back. Emotionally and physically.

And it wasn’t always obvious. Sometimes it was very subtle, barely visible in the way Haruchiyo’s shoulders stiffened, or how his eyes narrowed the moment someone came too close. Other times the reaction was immediate. If Mucho reached out without thinking, a quick hand on his shoulder or his arm brushing against Haruchiyo’s while they walked, Haruchiyo would recoil like he’d been burned and immediately create distance between them. What followed after usually felt like an invisible wall snapping into place between them. Solid. Impossible to get through. Every genuine attempt at connection bounced right off it, as easily as a ball hitting stone.

In some ways, Haruchiyo Sanzu reminded Mucho of an abused cat, all teeth and claws when cornered. Ready to lash out at anything that stepped into its space, even if it meant no harm. Mucho flinched every time, purely on reflex, like someone pulling their hand away after touching a hot stove. And yet, after enough time passed, he’d find himself doing it again. Trying again, as if the sting of rejection had already faded and his mind had conveniently forgotten the discomfort in favor of something else. It was ridiculous. And yet he couldn’t stop.

Haruchiyo, on the other hand, was unsettled for entirely different reasons. He had to admit, reluctantly, that the past few weeks hadn’t been as bad as he’d imagined. Back in his old division, he’d never exactly been well liked. Not that he cared about the approval of those extras anyway. But before, during his time in Toman, he hadn’t been directly assigned under anyone and could move around as he pleased. Well. Maybe not at his side. More like a few steps behind him. Still, it had been enough. Mikey’s presence had always been his anchor, his excuse, his shield, and his entire motivation.

The thought of being assigned to a new division, of being placed under someone else’s authority, had filled him with a quiet sense of dread at first, even if it had been Mikey’s order. He had kissed his autonomy goodbye and braced himself for the conflicts that would follow. Not knowing much about him, Haruchiyo had expected the captain to be the type who barked orders just to hear his own voice. Someone loud and self important, throwing his rank around like it made him untouchable. Like it meant something. Someone like Kiyomasa. But reality couldn’t have been further from the picture he’d built in his head.

Mucho wasn’t a man of many words. He didn’t boast in front of others, didn’t puff out his chest and act bigger than he was. He was hard to provoke and even harder to impress. Tall and intimidating, closed off, yet somehow easy to read at the same time. He stood tall and intimidating, closed off, yet somehow easy to read at the same time, like an open book that gave you all the info you needed if only you knew which page to turn.

Mucho was what he did.

He stood by his actions and let them speak for him. He was honest in a way that was hard for the younger teen to understand, and demanding in a way that felt fair, never pushy. Maybe that was exactly why the new division didn’t feel like punishment after all.Even though Haruchiyo technically served under Mucho, they didn’t have to spend as much time together as they did. They could have kept things strictly professional. Captain and subordinate, nothing more. But somewhere along the way, it started happening on its own.

One ride turned into another. Shared silence became routine. Passing conversations stretched longer than they needed to.

And Haruchiyo hated that the familiarity was starting to feel… almost welcome.

Because there was something dangerously comforting about it. Something that made him want to turn around and walk straight back to Mikey before he could get used to it. Before he could start wanting it.

Sharing things with Mucho felt wrong. Unnatural. To be fair, he never gave the older captain much to work with in the first place. He kept things cordial and surface level. Still, their conversations weren’t boring. They talked about movies, music, engines, bikes. Always bikes. That was easy to talk about. But the moment a conversation drifted somewhere more personal, Haruchiyo shut it down immediately. He would redirect it, guide things back to safer ground and steer the topic into neutral territory, away from anything with real weight.

He didn’t like sharing parts of himself. Just the idea made his chest tighten, something sour rising in his throat as if his body rejected the possibility outright. Vulnerability was messy, and completely unwelcome. Whether it was in his surroundings or within himself, he needed cleanliness and structure. A clean cut and a direct approach with no room for doubt or complications. No room for anyone to see inside.

Bikes weren’t the only thing they had in common, though. To his surprise board games gave both boys an escape. Truthfully, he hadn’t coined the older man as someone who found enjoyment in Shogi. But like so many times before Haruchiyo stood corrected. And so they played whenever time allowed. Equals on the board. Even though Haruchiyo claimed the slightly longer winstreaks, always one or two wins ahead of the older captain. It ignited a sense of pride in him. He knew Mucho was intelligent and, more importantly, that he didn’t hand out wins, didn’t go easy on him because of his age or rank. Which meant every victory was earned. And that made it addictive.

He’d learned to read the little signs: the crease that formed between Mucho’s brows the moment he realized he was trapped, the subtle jaw clench, the tiny shift in posture when he recalculated only to see it was too late. Mucho didn’t make a scene, but the faint sour edge to his expression and the quiet sting to his pride were there for anyone paying attention. And Haruchiyo did. Getting a win against him felt like winning twice.

“No luck today either, Captain, huh?” he teased, his tone mocking but lacking any real venom. “Maybe you could learn a thing or two from the younger folk.”

Mucho shot him a glare and took a long sip from his soda, his left arm resting loosely on his thigh as the cool liquid slid down his dry throat. The can crinkled faintly under the pressure of his grip, condensation dampening his palm. He made a mental note to go for another vending machine run soon; they had been at it for a while now, the warmth of the afternoon luring them into one of the larger parks near the river.

The whole scene around them almost felt comical in how peaceful it was. The park stretched wide and green, freshly cut grass giving off that sharp, earthy smell that always hung in the air during early spring afternoons. Cherry blossoms were already past their peak, but petals still drifted lazily from the trees whenever the wind picked up. They scattered across the paved paths and sometimes landed on the wooden table between them. Families occupied the open spaces further down, children’s laughter ringing out as they chased one another across the lawn, while older couples claimed shaded benches beneath the trees, engaged in quiet conversation. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, followed by the metallic rattle of a bicycle passing along the path.

And right in the middle of it all sat the two of them. Black Toman uniforms, hunched over a shogi board like a pair of old men killing time. Haruchiyo could have sworn he caught a few weird looks from people passing by. Eyes lingering a second too long on the contrast between their intimidating uniforms and the oddly calm scene of them playing board games in the park. But today he wasn’t in the mood to care. He felt calm. Unguarded, at least as unguarded as Sanzu Haruchiyo ever let himself be.

It was the middle of spring and the temperature was steadily climbing. In a few weeks early summer would roll in, bringing that suffocating humidity that turned their black uniforms into quiet torture. Later that afternoon they had a Toman meeting to attend, but with no better plans for the Saturday and the hours stretching lazily before them, they had ended up here again, as they often did lately.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook with a win,” Mucho finally said, setting the can down beside his boot. “Next one’s mine for sure.”

A gust of wind swept through the park, lifting strands of Haruchiyo’s long hair as he started gathering and rearranging the shogi pieces, already getting ready for the next round. He was still wearing the black mask Mucho had given him. In fact, ever since that day, Mucho hadn’t seen him without it once.

Admittedly, Mucho had expected the younger boy to wear the mask begrudgingly for a few days before eventually ditching it. But whether it was obligation, a bit of newfound comfort, or simply the relief of not getting stared at in public, he couldn’t really tell. The fabric hid the scars, sure. Still, it did nothing to dull the ridiculous beauty of the boy underneath it, and it definitely didn’t shield anyone from those sharp, damning eyes.

Mucho had wanted to ask about the scars for a while now. At first he figured they were leftovers from some brutal fight with a rival gang. But after spending more time around Haruchiyo and actually getting a good look at them, it became clear they were older. Too cleanly healed to be recent.

Even with the curiosity nagging at him, the question never came. If it was something he needed to know, Haruchiyo would have told him by now. And considering the younger boy barely shared anything about his life before Toman, it felt ridiculous to assume he would open up about something that personal. Even if Mucho asked. Still, it bothered him more than it probably should have.

“Ready for your third loss of the day?” Haruchiyo asked, tugging the mask down just enough to take a sip from his drink. After sitting in the sun for almost two hours, the soda had gone lukewarm, most of the bite gone from the fizz. The sweetness still clung faintly to his tongue though. He pulled the mask back into place with practiced ease, then picked up one of the shogi pieces and slid it across the board. He set it down with quiet confidence and motioned for Mucho to make his move.

They kept playing like that for a while.

People continued drifting past. Shadows stretched a little longer as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The breeze carried more warmth now, threading through their hair and stirring the leaves above them. Light filtered through the branches and scattered across the table in shifting patches of sun and shade. Somewhere up in the trees, a bird called out every now and then, the sound blending with the faint hum of the city beyond the park.

Haruchiyo leaned forward over the board, shoulders slightly hunched. His body cast a narrow shadow behind him across the wooden planks. Across from him, the crease between Mucho’s brows returned, deeper this time, carving that familiar line of concentration into his otherwise steady expression. It wasn’t looking good again.

And this time it actually chipped away at Mucho’s pride. Haruchiyo could tell. Unlucky for him, Haruchiyo wasn’t the kind of person who would ever let someone win out of sympathy. First of all, it just wasn’t in his nature to give up a victory. Especially not the quiet thrill of slowly cornering his opponent until there was nowhere left to go. Second, Mucho was a proud man. A third loss in a row would sting, sure. But getting pitied by one of his own subordinates would probably hurt his pride a lot more. That much Haruchiyo understood.

So the middle schooler picked up another piece and set it down with a soft click near one of Mucho’s last defenses, sealing the outcome.

“For fuck’s sake,” Mucho groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back slightly on the bench. “I’m really out of it today, huh.”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

Mucho didn’t need to see the full expression under the mask to know Haruchiyo was wearing a smug, shit eating grin. It showed in the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the unmistakable glint of satisfaction in them.

And despite himself, Mucho felt the corner of his own mouth twitch upward. “Whatever. I’ll let you have this one. But don’t get too used to it, Sanzu.”

His voice was light, almost careless, but there was something close to anticipation in it. That familiar competitive spark was still there, untouched by the losing streak. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to these matches. Not that Mucho lacked company. Most nights were spent in dimly lit bars thick with cigarette smoke and low conversation, the air heavy with cheap alcohol and music that hummed through sticky floors. Other evenings he wandered the streets with a few trusted friends, the kind of aimless roaming that came with youth and too much restless energy. And sometimes, when the mood was right and the timing lined up, the night ended in the bed of some random chick he’d met along the way. The names rarely stuck until morning.

Mucho didn’t consider himself exceptionally attractive by any conventional standard. Still, there had to be something about his height, the solid build of his arms, and that constant intimidating presence that seemed to work for a certain kind of woman. Not that he complained. Or particularly cared. It was just another way to pass the time. Another outlet to burn off tension in a way that punching someone in the face never quite managed to do. Still, none of those distractions offered the same calm satisfaction as watching Sanzu lean over a board with calculating eyes, or feeling the slow burn of pride when he managed to corner him back. 

Mucho checked his watch and let out a quiet breath as reality started creeping back in. The afternoon light had shifted around them without either of them noticing. Shadows stretched longer now across the grass and pavement.

“’Bout time we head to the meeting,” he said, pushing himself up from the bench and brushing nonexistent dust off his uniform. “Don’t wanna keep the boss waiting.”

Haruchiyo didn’t need to be told twice.

He started gathering the shogi pieces carefully, dropping them one by one into the linen pouch. The board folded neatly in half, the hinges lining up perfectly before he tucked it away with the bag. Even something as simple as packing up carried that same precision that seemed to follow him everywhere.

They left the park soon after, the late afternoon air warmer now, heavier against their skin. Gravel crunched under their boots as they walked toward the parking lot where Haruchiyo’s black car waited a little apart from the others. It was polished to the same near perfect standard as his bike, the surface catching the light without a speck of dust on the hood.

Haruchiyo fidgeted briefly while digging his keys out of his pocket. A soft electronic click unlocked the doors, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet lot.

He slipped into the driver’s seat without hesitation, adjusting the mirrors almost automatically. Mucho settled into the backseat on the passenger side, long legs stretching out with a low exhale as the door shut with a solid thud. The interior of the car carried a faint, clean scent devoid of clutter or personal touches. Everything was in its place. As always.

And for a brief moment, before the engine started, the silence between them felt heavier than it had back in the park.

__________________________________________

The meeting was already in full swing as the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky. The warmth slowly bled out of the air, and the breeze moving through the crowd carried the first real chill of evening with it. Most of the Fifth Division stood gathered near the front on Mikey’s right side, their dark uniforms stark against the fading light. Mucho stood still among them, arms loosely crossed over his chest, his expression as unreadable as ever. Haruchiyo stood a little ahead of him, posture straight, hands tucked into his pockets.

At the front, Mikey and Drajeb addressed the group. Mikey’s voice cut cleanly through the low murmur of the crowd as he talked about Moebius. About the need to crush them before their arrogance grew any worse. About how Toman was done tolerating the kind of disrespect they had already let slide for far too long.

Something was mentioned about Pah’s friend, about the girl who had been attacked and left in such a brutal state that she was currently fighting for her life in a hospital not far from here.

And yet, strangely enough, Haruchiyo wasn’t looking at Mikey.

Mucho noticed almost immediately. Not because Haruchiyo was expressive, but because it was strange for him to focus on anything else when Mikey was around. Usually the blond leader was the only thing in the world that seemed important enough to hold his attention. But now Haruchiyo’s gaze was fixed somewhere else. It was locked on the skinny blond kid standing not far from Mikey’s side. Takemichi Hanagaki.

Mucho didn’t know much about him beyond what he’d overheard, but even that had been enough to paint a picture. Some pathetic middle schooler who had somehow stumbled into their world and survived long enough to become a recurring presence, a stray that Mikey had decided was worth keeping. 

There had been talk a few weeks ago about Kiyomasa and his humiliating encounter with Mikey’s foot, and not long after that, word had spread like wildfire through Toman’s ranks that Mikey had developed an interest in the kid for reasons no one fully understood.

Mucho hadn’t paid him much attention. Takemichi didn’t interest him in the slightest, not as a fighter, not as a threat, not even as entertainment, and the kid was so painfully easy to tune out that Mucho often forgot he existed the moment he was out of sight.

 But Haruchiyo clearly couldn’t. There was something in the way his eyes followed the boy. Mucho noticed the faint tension settling into Haruchiyo’s shoulders as he watched him. It triggered that same quiet sense of unease Mucho always felt whenever Haruchiyo locked onto something with that kind of intensity. It wasn’t jealousy in the usual sense. Mucho doubted Haruchiyo was the type to openly compete for someone’s attention. But there was a possessiveness in him that ran deeper than that. A loyalty twisted into something sharper, something destructive. Anything Mikey acknowledged automatically became one of two things: Sacred. Or a threat.

Mucho filed the observation away, already knowing he would bring it up later if the right moment came.

The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later. The crowd quickly broke apart, the air filling with excited chatter as people split into smaller groups. Laughter carried across the lot like the idea of a fight with Moebius was nothing more than a fun weekend plan. Some gathered to talk strategy, others wandered off on their own, and a few just lingered behind.

Mucho watched as Haruchiyo turned on his heel abruptly, far too stiff for someone who had been calm earlier that afternoon, and it was obvious even without seeing his face that his mood had soured. Mucho followed without a word, his longer stride closing the distance easily, until he was walking just behind him.

“Care for a drink?” Mucho asked after a moment, tone casual on purpose.

Haruchiyo didn’t stop. “Tch,” was the only response he gave. The sound was sharp and dismissive. If Mucho hadn’t spent the last few weeks figuring out Haruchiyo’s moods, he might have taken it as a flat no. But by now he knew better - anything that wasn’t a direct refusal could be treated as a yes.

So Mucho simply adjusted his direction a little, guiding them away from the thinning crowd and toward a convenience store a few blocks away. The kind of place that sold cheap alcohol to teenagers without asking questions, mostly because the clerk behind the counter clearly didn’t care enough to bother. Especially when the customers in question looked like delinquent gang members.

The walk there was quiet and more than once, Mucho glanced at his vice captain, trying to read the angle of his eyes or the slight tension in his hands stuffed in his pockets. The streetlights flickered on one by one as the sky fully darkened, casting a pale orange glow across the pavement, and by the time they reached the konbini, the air had cooled significantly. 

Mucho headed straight for the drinks aisle. He grabbed a couple cans of cheap beer without thinking too much about it. They weren’t good, but they would do the job fast enough. He expected Haruchiyo to wait by the door, arms crossed, looking impatient like he usually did.

Instead, the younger boy wandered toward the shelves on the opposite side of the store. His long fingers hovered over different packages for a moment before he finally picked up something small in a plastic container. He dropped it into the basket.

 Mucho raised an eyebrow. “…Didn’t take you for someone with a sweet tooth,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low enough that the clerk wouldn’t hear.

Haruchiyo didn’t look at him, but Mucho noticed the tiny pause in his movements. “It’s not like it matters,” Haruchiyo muttered. His tone was flat, but there was something faintly defensive underneath it, like he’d just been caught doing something embarrassingly human.

Mucho hummed, amused. Without thinking too much about it, he reached for another item nearby, a small packaged pasty. He had noticed Haruchiyo glance at it earlier before quickly pretending he hadn’t. When they got to the counter, the clerk barely reacted. He scanned the alcohol and other items with the same bored indifference he probably applied to everything else in his life. Mucho paid without any trouble, not bothering to hide that he was buying for two.

They stepped back outside and started walking again, still without speaking. This time they headed toward a small park nearby, where the noise of the city softened into the background. Trees lined the path, their branches casting long shadows as they moved deeper into the quiet.

Eventually, they ended up in a corner away from the main walkway, where a few benches sat half-hidden beneath the canopy of branches, and Mucho dropped down onto one of them with a slow exhale, stretching his legs out in front of him as he cracked open the first can with a sharp hiss. Haruchiyo sat down beside him and for a moment, as the distant city faded behind the rustling leaves and the soft chirping of insects, Mucho had a brief, dangerous thought. This almost felt… domestic.

He handed the younger vice-captain a drink. Haruchiyo took it, fingers brushing against the can for the briefest second, and if Mucho hadn’t been watching closely, he might have missed the way the younger boy’s shoulders loosened slightly as he brought it to his lips.

“So that Hanagaki kid…” Mucho started bluntly, not bothering to ease his way into the conversation. Subtlety had never really been his style anyway. If he wanted a reaction, the fastest way was usually the most direct one. Maybe part of him was even hoping Haruchiyo would latch onto the topic so they had something new to pick apart together, even if Mucho himself didn’t feel strongly about the boy either way.

Haruchiyo scoffed immediately, the sound sharp with open contempt. “Don’t get what Mikey sees in him.”

“He’s completely useless,” Haruchiyo continued with a quiet sneer. “Can’t fight, cries all the time, and keeps sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. But might probably has his reasons.”

Mucho shifted on the bench, lifting one leg so his foot rested against the wood while he leaned back slightly, stretching out his shoulders. His muscles felt tight today, coiled with a restless sort of tension that made him think it might be time to hit the gym again.

“Hard to imagine what that motive would even be,” he said with a quiet hum. “But you’re probably right.” He tilted his head a little, glancing sideways at Haruchiyo. “Mikey’s always been full of surprises. But you’d know that better than anyone.”

Mucho was well aware he was stepping onto thin ice. Using the rumors about Haruchiyo’s connection to Mikey as an opening wasn’t exactly subtle. Then again, subtlety had never been his strong suit, and even if it had been, he doubted Haruchiyo would fall for it. The boy had a habit of seeing straight through people. Sometimes the only way to get anywhere was to push a little.

Maybe if he approached it openly enough, Haruchiyo would be thrown off balance just long enough to open up.

“Hm…” Haruchiyo hummed absently.

For a moment he didn’t look at Mucho at all. His gaze drifted somewhere past the trees, focused on nothing in particular. “That might be true,” he said eventually. “But there are things about him no one can predict. Not Draken.”

A small pause followed.

“Maybe not even Mikey himself.”

It wasn’t entirely clear what he meant by that. Still, Mucho could tell there was more behind those words than Haruchiyo was willing to explain out loud. It showed in the way his eyes lingered somewhere far away, unfocused for a moment, as if he was looking at something only he could see. Like he had just brushed against an old memory.

Mucho did not push the topic. He knew they were not there yet, and any attempt to dig deeper would only end the conversation entirely. For a while he simply sat there, letting the quiet stretch between them while the faint rustling of leaves filled the small park.

Eventually he spoke.

“You watch him like a guard dog,” he commented, his voice calm even as he mentally prepared himself for the reaction that was almost certain to follow.

Like clockwork, Haruchiyo snapped back. “Watch your mouth.”

There it was - that bite and bark again. Rank clearly meant nothing to him when his temper flared. The venomous defensiveness, the hostility that so often turned outward toward anyone who stepped too close. Mucho had seen it countless times directed at other members. Still, it was not quite the same when it was aimed at him. Or maybe he only wanted to believe that.

Mucho stayed calm and didn’t rise to it. “Relax,” he said evenly. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

He paused for a moment before adding, more quietly, “It just looks exhausting.”

There was no mockery in his voice. No pity either. Just a faint trace of sympathy buried so deep most people would probably miss it entirely.

Haruchiyo did not respond right away.

Instead his eyes settled on Mucho and stayed there longer than usual, studying him with that same piercing focus he used when he tried to read someone. For a while he simply stared at Mucho, eyes locked onto him as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface of his words. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it.

One hand reached up behind his neck, squeezing briefly at the tense muscles there. Then he let out a sigh that felt strangely uncharacteristic for someone like him.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “It’s what I chose.”

A motorcycle roared past somewhere nearby, the engine echoing down the street before fading into the distance. Not far from them a group of teenagers laughed loudly, their voices drifting through the warm evening air.

Mucho tilted his head slightly.

“Are you sure you are not forgetting something else in the process?”

Haruchiyo frowned faintly. He did not understand the question. More accurately, he did not understand the implication hidden inside it.

For the past few years his life had revolved around Toman. Around Mikey. Around making sure everything remained exactly the way it was supposed to be. Making sure people stayed loyal. Making sure no one stepped out of line or stood in Mikey’s way. That he had a purpose. That he was doing something right for once.

The days passed quickly when you lived like that. Weeks slipped by before he even noticed. Seasons changed without leaving much of an impression. He rarely stopped to think about what his own life looked like outside of that narrow path.

Well. Sometimes he did.

There were nights when the thoughts crept in anyway. Usually when his mind had nothing left to focus on. Sometimes a movie triggered them. Sometimes it happened during the quiet hours after a long day, when the usual noise finally faded and there was nothing left to distract him.

That was when his mind drifted back home. Back to Takeomi. To Senju. Back to a time when he had still been a kid who laughed easily and wanted nothing more complicated than spending time with his friends.

Even then something had always felt slightly wrong.

No matter what he did, someone always seemed ready to blame him for something. He never acted quite the right way. Never responded exactly how he was supposed to. Whenever something went wrong, the responsibility somehow found its way back to him. Sometimes it was Senju’s mistakes. Sometimes it was the pressure placed on Takeomi by parents who were never there. Somehow Haruchiyo still ended up carrying a piece of it.

All he had wanted back then was to belong somewhere. To hear someone say he had done well. That he had done something right for once. Takeomi never made him feel like he managed either.

And when Senju broke that toy plane, the fragile balance he had built around himself cracked completely. The disappointment and anger that followed did not stay confined to the house. It reached Mikey too.

Mikey had been different. Mikey had been his escape. The friend he admired. The person he wanted to impress more than anyone else. So when Mikey lashed out that day, violently enough to send Senju spiraling, when skin tore and blood spilled across the ground, Haruchiyo didn’t argue. He didn’t fight back. 

He smiled. And something inside him simply broke.

A fire ignited in its place. A bitter, spiteful flame that did not point toward Mikey at all. It turned inward.

He could not lose this too. He didn’t care what it would cost.

In the years that followed he never allowed himself to notice the gradual distance forming between them. The way Mikey and the others drifted away piece by piece. The way their conversations grew shorter. The way he was included less often. Or maybe he noticed and simply refused to acknowledge it.

His focus remained fixed on Mikey alone. As long as he stayed close to him, as long as he remained useful, the world still had a center. That meant he was not truly alone and the rest stopped mattering.

He abandoned Senju and Takeomi. Left behind the family that had rarely given him anything except expectations and blame. Worse still, they had become the reason his only escape had turned on him in the first place. Sometimes he wondered if that was where the hatred had started.

He hated them for it.

He hated all of it.

Most of all, he hated himself.

So he made a promise instead.

He would be useful. He would serve a purpose. Do whatever it took to prove he had value, that he deserved to stand where he was. And if something or someone had to be destroyed along the way, it didn’t matter. Even if the thing that ended up breaking was himself. As long as, in the end, he could prove that he was worth something.

The faint rustle of aluminum pulled Haruchiyo back to the present. Mucho had shifted the can in his hand, the thin metal crinkling softly under the pressure of his grip before he took another slow sip.  

Haruchiyo had not spoken. His posture had barely changed. To anyone else he would have looked exactly the same as before, shoulders slightly forward, gaze resting somewhere ahead in the darkened park. Something had pulled him away for a moment. Mucho noticed the reaction.

Haruchiyo felt it immediately. That quiet awareness settling on him again. His skin prickled faintly and a low sense of unease crept up the back of his neck.

He hated that.

Distractions irritated him. Unpredictable shifts in conversation irritated him even more. New impulses meant uncertainty, and uncertainty meant losing control over the direction things were moving in. In his mind, that kind of instability was something to be avoided whenever possible.

So he did what he always did.

“And what about you?” Haruchiyo asked, turning his head slightly toward Mucho. “You got nothing to get you through the day?”

The sharp edge had faded from his voice. The words carried the familiar teasing tone again, the kind that suggested mockery without committing fully to it. Anyone who did not know him might have assumed he was simply trying to provoke a reaction.

Mucho knew better. It was deflection, clean and efficient. Still, he took the bait.

“Oh, I do,” Mucho replied easily.

He leaned back slightly on the bench, resting one arm along the backrest while the other continued to idly turn the can between his fingers.

“The gym helps,” he said after a moment. “Keeps my head straight.”

Haruchiyo glanced at him briefly but said nothing. Mucho continued anyway, his tone calm and unhurried.

“Bikes too. Nothing clears your head faster than a long ride at night when the streets are empty.” He gave a quiet huff of amusement under his breath. “The guys in the division keep things busy as well,” he added. “Running drills, settling stupid arguments before they turn into real fights, making sure nobody does something so reckless it drags the rest of us down with them.”

Haruchiyo scoffed faintly. “Sounds exhausting.” he said, repeating the captain’s earlier words.

Mucho shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

He rolled the can slowly between his palms again, the aluminum catching the dim light filtering through the trees.

“Then there are the other distractions,” he continued after a beat. “Bars when the night gets too long. Friends when I feel like hearing someone else talk for a change. Sometimes a girl if the night’s going that way.”

The admission was casual, almost careless. There was no attempt to make it sound impressive. “I keep busy,” Mucho finished with a quiet shrug. “Plenty of ways to burn through a day.”

Haruchiyo studied him more carefully now.

“I know where my loyalties lie,” Mucho added after a short pause, his voice dropping slightly as he glanced sideways at Haruchiyo. “That part’s never been a problem.”

Another small turn of the can between his fingers.

“But loyalty doesn’t mean forgetting yourself either.”

The words settled into the quiet between them. Mucho did not elaborate. He simply lifted the drink and took another slow sip. The words had been blunt in the way only Mucho could manage. Direct, honest, and strangely uncomplicated. Haruchiyo found himself looking at him a moment longer than intended.

It was not the content of what Mucho had said that caught his attention. People talked about things like that all the time. Nights out, friends, distractions, ways to pass the hours when there was nothing better to do. Most of it barely registered when it reached his ears. Conversations like that usually slid right past him without leaving much of an impression. No one ever bothered explaining those things to him anyway. Most people assumed he would not care, and they were usually right. 

Still, this time he did not feel the usual urge to shut it down or brush it aside. Because beneath the simple list of distractions and routines, Haruchiyo could hear what Mucho was actually saying.

Mucho had things that anchored him. Things that filled the empty spaces between obligations and loyalty. Things that allowed him to move through the day without letting any single part of it swallow the rest of his life whole. The message was simple: There were other ways to live. Other ways to stay loyal without letting it become the only thing that defined you.

Haruchiyo ignored it.

The thought that Mucho had caught on to him so quickly left a faint unease behind. Most people never got that far. They did not try, and if they did, the attempt usually ended quickly. Haruchiyo made sure of it. A sharp remark, a cold stare, the quiet hostility that warned people to keep their distance. Eventually they all did.

Mucho had seen those same edges by now. The temper, the violence, the parts of him the others avoided. Most people would have stepped back after that, satisfied with keeping their distance.

Mucho simply stayed, but not because the structure of the division demanded it. There were easier ways to keep things professional, easier ways to lead without lingering around park benches or wasting hours on pointless shogi matches.

Mucho could have kept his distance. He chose not to.

The realization settled somewhere in Haruchiyo’s chest, quiet and unfamiliar. Being looked at was nothing new. People had stared at him his entire life. But this felt different in a way he could not quite place.

The feeling lingered for a moment before he forced it down.