— i gave you all that i had (but it wasn’t enough).
. bonten!mikey ft. f!reader
. heavy angst, alcoholism, sexual themes, manga spoilers, toxic relationship
. 2.2k
happy hour. you give up on trying to mitigate your misery with endless tv zapping and stop off at a local bar near your place. the offered beverage is bland but the prices are modest enough to let you afford your discontent every time you require it.
it's all you've known for the past year —a dreary round of eating, working, getting wasted, and trying to sleep. an exhausting routine that has stripped you of your essence and transmuted you into nothing but an empty shell.
so, like most nights, at one o'clock you sit on the bar stool with your figure slumped against the counter.
you stopped cracking peanuts half an hour ago and fully devoted yourself to getting as drunk as possible (appetizers can't sweep away your sorrows but ten glasses of cheap bourbon will).
you take your fifth bourbon in one smooth shot and ask for another. the bartender mumbles something you can't quite fully grasp because you're too busy grousing about the lights above you (how the fuck do they get more blinding with each drink you down?)
upset, you groan and hide your face between your arms, slapping your forehead against the wooden surface.
then, “bad night?” a velvety voice caresses your ears.
you peek at the owner with a side glance. he wears a tight-lip smile and you can't help but mimic it. his’ is seductive, yours is mocking.
you make your first assumption of the night: he isn’t from around.
if he were, he’d know that the party’s always over once you arrive. he’d know he’s better off anywhere else than by your side cause you’re more of a nuisance than a blessing.
you think of telling him to fuck off for a merciful second but... he's there. right next to you. attractive, warm, and inviting and you can’t resist the temptation of finding out just how far can you push things this time.
cause you’re so fucking lonely.
so you straighten your back and try not to slur as you ask, "aren't you going to invite me for a drink?"
your eagerness doesn't go unnoticed as the stranger chuckles. his eyes rest briefly on your empty glass. or your cleavage (you don’t really care enough to notice).
you almost grimace at the pet name. he’s so horribly predictable but you're desperate enough to let it slide.
instead, you flaunt a pleasant smile. pretty and submissive, they like you better like that. "yes, please".
his lips shift upwards into a victorious grin. he immediately lifts two fingers toward the barman.
you’re going to fuck him, you think. somewhere not far from there. maybe the back of your car. maybe in a sketchy, cheap, and dirty motel room. the only question is how you’ll get there. if you’re lucky enough to get there.
but you’re not a lucky girl (when have you been, honestly?)
“she’s fine. you can fuck off, man.”
you almost laugh at his revolting punctuality. flirty-guy next to you isn't so diverted by the sudden ill-mannered guest.
"what did you say?" he counters, taking a stand.
you rest your chin on the heel of your palm and sigh. you feel your headache intensify. the barman stops and watches the scene unfold, face shadowed with qualm as he holds two glasses full of liquor in his hands.
you throw a hushed ‘pst’ in his direction and he glances at you. you nod at the glasses and wave your pointer finger back and forth. ‘keep ‘em coming’. so he slides one of them over the counter to your hand.
from the corner of your eye, you see sanzu open his vest and flash his gun to the guy.
the macho staring contest ends right there.
defeated, the man in front of him slaps a couple of bills over the counter and bids goodbye once he receives the message. he throws a look at you over his shoulder as he walks away — half-disgusted, half-ashamed. ‘sorry’ you want to yell but it’s not your fault that things turned out this way (not entirely, anyways).
you're quick to bury your guilty feelings in your drink before reaching for the other one. you're willing to down it too but your new pink-haired companion beat you to it.
“that’s enough,” he orders as he snatches the glass from you. a few drops of alcohol manage to fall on your hand and you quickly pick them up with your tongue like a wretched, thirsty stray.
"party pooper," you grumble, rolling your eyes.
you look to your right, avoiding sanzu's gaze. you expect to see at least someone else seated beside you (a replacement, hopefully, for guy number one) but find no one, instead. then, you look a little further —and there's not a single soul in sight. music no longer blasts through the speakers.
it’s still dirty, and messy but the place is fucking dead.
you turn abruptly to sanzu and raise an eyebrow in question. sanzu throws a half-smirk in your direction. an answer. one that you pick up immediately and abhor.
you try to dart but your legs get all tangled and you trip (maybe it was the alcohol, maybe your desperation kicking in). sanzu is quick to grab your arm, steadies you, and throws you back to the stool as if you were just a rag doll.
"tch, he already knows you're here so stay put, bitch," he barks.
sanzu despises you. he's never told you explicitly so but he isn't hard to read: he's mikey's left hand and yet, far too often, he's degraded to playing babysitter.
and he's aware that him being mikey's most trusted man has everything to do with him being in charge of you. he's supposed to be ¿honored? but working as a cock-blocker must be a lot less fun than ramming a gun into someone’s head, you suppose.
he hates your power (that you didn't ask for).
and he hates what you represent (you don't blame him, you hate yourself too).
your head starts pounding. the alcohol is starting to wear off too soon. you search for the barman cause there's no way you're doing this not fully wrecked (when was the last time you did something sober anyways?), but he's nowhere to be seen.
and sanzu, who was just a second ago by your side, has disappeared like a shadow in the night.
hell’s bells, irony blows.
your antagonist is standing at the other end of the bar.
how long did it take him to get there? how long has he been staring at you in silence?
you turn your head to the front. you try to ignore him. you really do. but his eyes are screaming at you. you feel pressure on your head (and one on your heart) and you can't help but scoff and inquire:
"so you're just going to observe me in silence like some fucking creep?" you ask, staring straight ahead.
mikey utters no word as he saunters toward you. his heavy boots echo in the now empty place (he’s used to this, bringing death to where there used to be life).
"at this rate, you'll leave me friendless," you bleat, when he doesn't answer.
then, he deadpans: "men like him are not your friends."
a breathless chuckle leaves your lips, "oh and you are?"
you feel him take a sit next to you. against your better judgment, you turn your head and look at him.
you really take a look at him this time.
the tips of his hair brush his shoulders, and the dark circles that used to ring his eyes have dissipated. he doesn’t smell anymore like stale cigarettes and yesterday’s beer. he's no longer the spitting image of his dead half-brother.
and that would've lit a flame of hope inside your chest if you didn't know that picture by memory.
he's always managed to look fine. so as long as he didn't allow a single glimpse of his slowly-rotting core —not even to you.
"i do care about you," mikey assures, not even a little sheepish.
(you think he's full of bullshit).
"you have a funny way of showing it."
"yeah, yeah. it's better like this, i'm safer. blah, blah, blah," you spit.
you heard it all before. and time may pass but his speech remains the same as on day one.
he left you, but he didn't really leave you behind. he uses and abuses his power to find you. bribing third parties, emptying bars at his will.
(oh, how you wish to return to the old days when the most harmful thing he did was to throw stones at random thugs).
his so-called need to protect is suffocating and demeaning.
they whisper so when sanzu —or whoever fits for the job— spooks away every suitor who approaches you.
you're isolated. lonely. and still deeply in love with the major source of your pain.
your chin wobbles and you take a deep breath before you speak again, "i'm fucking exhausted, mikey. you say you’re protecting but look at me!” you choke on your words. your hands collide flat against your chest. rage and aching mix all together in your body.
your pointer finger shakes in the air as you lift towards him, “and this is not on me. i'm a wreck but this... this is you. it's you not letting me go. i-it’s you glued to me like a fucking shadow. you say you love me but you're destroying me."
he sits there immobile for a beat too long. and you think, this is it. he's finally given up (finally, mercy).
your suffering won't end here but you have to start somewhere.
you dare to lift yourself from the chair with hope. you try to walk away but he catches you by the arm and presses you against his body. you trash in his arms but, ultimately, it’s impossible to fight him. you can’t resist the warmth of his skin that bleeds through his shirt, and you can’t dismiss his hushed sorry’s against your ear as he tries with all his strength to keep you by his side. you see his effort, you sense his desperation and he seems to share your anguish.
because maybe, just maybe... “let’s go home.” you beg in a whisper over his neck. your hands are gripped together tightly behind his back. you don’t want to let go. you won’t let go just yet.
mikey presses his nose against the top of your head and sighs. he doesn't answer. he gifts you a peck, softly nods, and takes your hand.
you follow him in silence, your eyes fixed on your linked palms. it’s been a while —far too long. and though memories splash your foggy mind, his touch feels fresh —no, not fresh, foreign (he's not your mikey, hasn't been in a while) (but you're so wretched that you'll accept him as he comes, even if it destroys you).
he directs you to his car, opens the door, and lets you in. you want to say something more once he settles into the pilot’s seat but you find yourself too exhausted and tense to find the words.
(mikey chooses to stay silent as well).
you don't need to remind him of the way back home. he's driven down the same road hundreds of times. and you remember it well: the wind in your hair, your arms around his core, hands flat against his chest. velocity, romance —invincibility. you were infinite. untouchable.
he promised no one would hurt you as long as you stayed by his side.
(he never told you he was the only one allowed to destroy you).
"don't leave me," you mutter, once you feel the car stop.
"don't leave me," you beg while he carries you inside your apartment.
the pillow under you is chilly. you reach out to him, and your hand grazes his skin. "please, don't leave me."
it's your last attempt. you don't care if he stays for pity, you don't mind if he lies once again. but you need him by your side, you should've never parted ways. you belonged to each other. you've always had.
mikey's stiff back is all you see.
it could've been seconds, it could've been minutes. it felt like an eternity. but mikey finally breathes, "ok".
the weight of the world dissapears from your shoulders.
mikey lays down next to you and you welcome him into your arms. his head rests over your chest, and his arm goes around your stomach.
peace. you're both at peace, at last.
half an hour ago, this scenario seemed impossible. and now you were embracing each other, reminiscing when you were nothing but two teenagers in love.
you wish you could go back to those times.
you once promised you were going to marry him.
yet all you've done is try to save the last bits of the sano manjiro you once knew.
"will you stay with me forever?" he asks. his voice pierces your skin.
you don't even think your answer, "of course i will."
