Takemichi turned the corner to his building, the drizzle now reduced to a light mist clinging to his shoulders. He paused mid-step when he spotted two familiar figures waiting by the entrance.
Mikey leaned casually against the railing, arms crossed, while Draken stood beside him, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. As soon as Mikey spotted him, his entire posture straightened, eyes scanning him from head to toe like a scanner before a cheeky grin bloomed across his face.
"Takemitchy," Mikey greeted brightly, voice laced with feigned innocence. "You're not dead. That's good."
Draken gave a quieter nod. "Yo."
Takemichi blinked. "Wait—how long have you two been standing out here?"
Mikey waved the question off with a flick of his hand. "Doesn't matter. You can pay us back by cooking."
"You're the one who invited yourself over. Again," Takemichi said flatly.
"Exactly," Mikey replied, walking toward the door without shame. "I'm a guest. Feed me."
Draken snorted under his breath as Takemichi unlocked the building door, already sighing. "You're impossible."
Still, as they filed into the elevator, he glanced at Draken. "And what do you want to eat?"
Draken shrugged. "I'm good with anything. My favorite's hot curry, though."
"Curry it is, then."
Mikey gasped. "You traitor. You know my favorite is omurice!"
Draken and Takemichi snorted.
"Betrayal," Mikey whined dramatically behind him. "I opened my heart to you. And this is how I'm repaid."
"You opened your stomach," Takemichi corrected dryly. "And I like Draken better. He doesn't try to eat before the food's even on the table."
"I was taste testing," Mikey huffed, but he was already toeing off his shoes at the genkan with a smug smile tugging at his mouth.
Draken leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed as he watched them bicker. "This is gonna be good."
Takemichi only sighed again as he took off his poncho, already heading toward the kitchen. "You guys are lucky I like you."
"Damn right you do," Mikey chirped, dropping onto the couch like he owned it.
Takemichi moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from the misty drizzle still clinging to him. The warm scent of spices and sauteed onions already filled the apartment, making Mikey's head peek over the counter like a curious cat while Draken leaned back in one of the kitchen stools, watching with mild interest.
"You look like a pro," Draken commented, chin resting on one hand.
Takemichi glanced back with a sheepish smile. "Papa made sure of it. You don't survive in a Vongola household without knowing how to cook—or dodge knives."
Mikey raised a brow. "He threw knives at you while cooking?"
"No!" Takemichi paused. "…Just near me."
"That's definitely not better," Draken muttered.
While the curry simmered, Mikey's gaze flicked toward Takemichi's side profile, suddenly quieter.
"So," he said, poking at a chopstick like it had offended him, "you met my brother?"
Takemichi stiffened slightly, nearly dropping the ladle.
"I—uh… Yes." He flushed, cheeks reddening as his brain immediately conjured the memory of Mist and Cloud flames flickering at Izana's fingertips.
He'd felt it.
The layered personality, the cloudy, protective isolation. The way it curled inward on itself. It had taken him years to read flames with such clarity, trained under the sharp eye of his papa. Not many could interpret the depth of a person's flame just by color alone—and even fewer knew just how revealing that was.
He shouldn't have done it.
He hadn't meant to.
But knowing someone that intimately without them knowing felt… wrong. And oddly vulnerable.
"...He was interesting," Takemichi said slowly, almost absentmindedly, as he chose each word like a puzzle piece. "Kind of quiet."
Mikey narrowed his eyes slightly. "You're blushing."
Takemichi blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "Huh?!"
Mikey leaned forward, eyes suspicious and tone flat. "Is he handsome or something?"
Takemichi turned redder. "Wha—no! I mean—yes? But not like that! That's not why I—!" He groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my god."
"This just keeps getting better." Draken chuckled behind them.
Takemichi peeked up, defeated. "It's not about his face, okay? It's… his flames."
He cursed himself internally the moment it left his mouth.
Mikey's eyes narrowed. "His what now?"
Takemichi pressed his lips into a line. "...Nothing."
"Takemitchy."
"Nope."
"I heard you."
"You heard wrong."
Draken raised a brow. "You said flames."
Takemichi turned to them both, hands on his hips. "I can't say anything. Seriously. It's a mafia thing. There are rules."
Mikey leaned on the counter, pouting. "You're not in the mafia now."
"Doesn't matter," Takemichi huffed. "I can't tell you. It's classified, and even talking about the word 'flames' is already pushing it."
Mikey gave him a look that clearly said, 'I don't care, I'm nosy,' but didn't press.
"You're a pain," he muttered, flopping dramatically across the counter.
"You're a worse one," Takemichi muttered back, stirring the curry a little more aggressively than necessary.
Draken hid a grin behind his hand.
Despite the awkward tension, the smell of the curry was rich and perfect, and the warmth in the kitchen grew—not just from the stove, but from the strange, comfortable silence that followed. Like whatever tension had sparked was settling back into the gentle rhythm they'd found before.
"You're lucky I like cooking," Takemichi muttered again under his breath, half-heartedly glaring at Mikey, as he finally seated. Draken having helped set the table and plate the dishes.
"Yeah," Mikey replied, smug as ever, "I really am."
Draken had just taken his first bite of the curry—eyes widening in quiet appreciation—when something clicked behind them.
"…Wait," he said slowly, chopsticks hovering mid-air, "you said his flames. That means Mikey's brother's in the Mafia, too?"
Takemichi flinched slightly, then gave a resigned nod. "He kind of is. Once someone gets the powers, they're part of it."
Draken whistled low, clearly impressed, while Mikey—who had been pouting into his plate the entire time—visibly stiffened.
"Oh," Mikey muttered, expression souring.
Takemichi blinked at him. "What?"
"At least you won't see him again," Mikey grumbled, stabbing his curry like it had personally offended him.
Takemichi winced. "...About that."
Mikey slowly looked up, eyes narrowing.
Draken made a quiet "uh-oh" sound under his breath and leaned back to watch the train wreck unfold.
Takemichi scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "So, um… he's kind of new to his powers. And I, uh… I offered him to teach him. Just a little."
Silence.
Mikey stared at him. Blank. Flat.
Then—without blinking—he asked in the driest voice Takemichi had ever heard, "Is he taller than me?"
Takemichi stared back in confusion. "Huh?"
"Is. He. Taller."
"...He kind of is?"
Mikey's face fell into something dramatic and mournful as he slumped over the counter. "He's a tall, mafia power-wielder with a sad backstory, isn't he? That's cheating."
Takemichi was still halfway to understanding what was happening when Mikey rolled over and dramatically flailed one arm toward Draken.
"Ken-chin. Ken-chin, help. My brother's a thief. He's trying to steal our Takemitchy."
Draken didn't even flinch, just calmly sipped his tea. "I mean, technically, Takemitchy isn't yours to steal—"
"Not helping!"
Takemichi, red-faced and sputtering, tried to defend himself. "I'm not anyone's—I'm just helping him learn basic control! It's not like I'll harmonize with him or anything!"
Mikey made a horrified gasp. "Wait, is that like a secret love confession in mafia terms?!"
"No!" Takemichi cried. "It's not even a thing! You made that up!"
Draken laughed into his cup.
Mikey grumbled something under his breath about tall people and mysterious brothers and how, 'if Takemitchy cooks for him even once,' he's disowning his entire family.
Takemichi sighed, poking at Mikey's shoulder with a clean spoon. "You're the most dramatic person I've ever met."
"You like it," Mikey shot back, still sulking but now taking another bite of curry.
Takemichi rolled his eyes, but the kitchen felt warm again even if Mikey was still pouting. Even if Takemichi was pretty sure he'd be interrogated later over what exactly he planned to teach Izana.
Still. This was nice.
They were nice even when they were ridiculous.
Especially then.
Draken rested his elbow on the table, leaning slightly toward Takemichi as Mikey continued sulking into his bowl like a wounded cat.
"Anyway," Draken said, voice pointedly loud as he turned away from Mikey's muttering, "this curry's seriously good, man. Like, restaurant-level."
Takemichi immediately perked up, his eyes brightening as his chest puffed with pride. "Really? You mean it?"
"Dead serious," Draken said with a nod, chewing thoughtfully. "You could open your own place if you wanted to."
Mikey, not to be outdone, shoved another mouthful into his mouth. "Best curry ever," he mumbled, cheeks puffed. "I'm not even mad about the betrayal anymore."
"You totally are," Draken said dryly. "Your brother is taller, after all."
"Ken-chin."
"Okay, okay." Draken held up his hands in mock surrender, then glanced back at Takemichi. "So, besides cooking—what else do you like to do? Any hobbies?"
That made Takemichi pause.
He blinked, lowering his chopsticks, expression turning a little uncertain.
"I mean…" he started slowly, "I know a lot of things. My papa tends to… teach me stuff. A lot. Like, if I ever show even a little interest in something, he's already drafted a six-month training schedule with practical application tests."
Draken stared. "You're joking."
"I'm not," Takemichi said, lips twitching into a helpless smile. "I once said I liked the idea of flower arrangement and suddenly I was training with an ex-Yakuza who now runs a wedding planning business."
Mikey snorted. "What about music?"
"I know how to play the violin, piano, guitar, and the transverse flute."
"Arts?"
"Calligraphy, oil painting, sculpture, charcoal, and performance arts. I did break-dance once. Regretted it immediately."
Draken raised an eyebrow. "Sports?"
"Judo, soccer, fencing, swimming, and, uh… horseback archery. Papa called it 'character-building.'"
Mikey let out a long, dramatic groan. "You're good at everything already."
"No!" Takemichi insisted, flailing his hands. "That's the thing. I'm trained. Not good. I never got the chance to just… be bad at something. To like it just because I liked it, not because I was supposed to master it."
Both boys went quiet at that.
Draken's brow furrowed slightly.
Mikey, surprisingly, was the one to speak first.
"Then you start now," he said simply, but his voice was steady. "You're here. You got time. You can learn anything. Badly."
Draken nodded. "We'll help. Just tell us what sounds fun, and we'll start from there."
"Can I be horrible at it?" Takemichi asked, half-joking.
"Please be horrible at it," Mikey said flatly. "I need something to make me feel better after losing the height war."
Takemichi laughed—bright and full—and something warm settled in his chest.
Maybe he'd try drawing.
Or skating.
Or messily painting a wall just for fun.
"Well, it has to be somewhat practical… I want something I can use in a future, you know?"
"That's the only hint we get?" Mikey asked, tapping his spoon against his now-empty bowl. "You want something practical?"
Takemichi nodded sheepishly. "Yeah. Like… useful, but fun. Something that's mine, I guess."
Draken leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Alright. Let's throw out some ideas, then."
"Knitting," Mikey said first.
Takemichi tilted his head. "I mean… it could be. I know how to use needles to attack, but not as a way to create."
Both guys looked at him blankly until Draken said with a straight face, "Knife throwing?"
"I know that already, though it's not really practical."
Mikey grinned. "Depends on the company you keep."
Draken and Takemichi ignored him. Draken even giving it some thought before offering, "Soap making?'
"Origami," Mikey chimed.
"Woodworking."
"Pet training."
"Plant growing!"
"I already grow basil and cherry tomatoes," Takemichi mumbled. "Papa says if you don't know how to grow what you cook with, you don't deserve it."
"Of course he does," Draken muttered.
There was a pause, and then Draken snapped his fingers. "What about clothes?"
Takemichi blinked. "Clothes?"
"Yeah." Draken gestured vaguely. "Like, learning to make them. Or even just start with mending. It's practical, it's creative, and you've probably never had to patch a ripped sleeve before."
Mikey perked up. "Oh, yeah! We've got a friend who's super into that. He makes cool stuff—like, actually cool. He even designed our gang's uniforms."
Takemichi tilted his head, curious. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, you'll like him. Bit intense, though. Total perfectionist."
"Sounds like someone I know," Draken muttered under his breath.
Takemichi smiled at the idea. Sewing? Designing his own things? It was something quiet, something practical, and something no one had forced on him.
He'd never even considered it before.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah. I think I'd like to try that."
Mikey grinned. "Sweet. We'll introduce you to him. He's kind of weird, but he's good people."
Takemichi smiled faintly, the idea blooming warm and new in his chest.
Something small.
Something his.
Maybe it really was a good place to start.
.
.
Also, if you want to support me and read chapters ahead, go to my p@treon: JorieDS
PS. I finished editing a part where Reborn comes to visit Takemichi and I'm just so happy about it! (Chapter 35, so it'll be a while for you yet, sorry. Though Reborn comes in chapter 31, so that's a spoiler to you)