What's up, danger?

The air in Naha was heavier than Yokohama, thick with salt and sun, the kind that clung to skin and made everything feel slightly unreal. Theseus Aisuruhito stood outside the motel with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the other hand gripping a sketchbook like a lifeline. The building behind them was chipped and faded, its neon sign flickering like a heartbeat on the edge of sleep. They had arrived three days ago, alone but not unprepared, having stitched together enough funds from commission work, distant relatives, and sheer stubbornness to secure a room downtown. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was theirs, a space carved out of the world by will and necessity. Four years later, it would still smell faintly of acrylic and instant noodles, but on this morning, it was just the beginning.

Their hoodie hung loose over a black dress, the skull emblem peeking out beneath the folds like a secret. The striped jacket was too warm for the weather, but comforting in its weight. A halo of white and red hair framed their face, half defiance, half exhaustion. The pin badge on their lapel — a silver flame, gifted by Kojiro Nanjo himself, glinted in the morning light, a quiet symbol of belonging to a world most people didn’t know existed. But today wasn’t about S. Today was about surviving their first day at a new school, in a new city, with nothing but caffeine and adrenaline to keep them upright.

The school was a blur of unfamiliar voices and fluorescent lights. The teacher introduced them with the kind of practiced detachment that came from years of rotating faces. “This is Aisuruhito Theseus,” he said, stumbling slightly over the name. “Transferred from Yokohama. Please make them feel welcome.” A few students glanced up, most didn’t. Theseus bowed politely, murmured a greeting, and scanned the room with the kind of guarded curiosity that came from years of learning how to read people before they had a chance to read you.

And then — a spark. A boy with messy red hair and a hoodie that looked like it had survived a dozen wipeouts raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment. “Hey. You can sit here if you want,” he said, gesturing to the desk beside him. His voice was warm, casual, like he’d already decided they were interesting. Theseus hesitated, then nodded, sliding into the seat with a quiet kind of relief. The boy leaned over, grinning. “I’m Reki. You skate?”

They blinked. “Not really. Not yet.”

Reki’s eyes lit up like someone had handed him a challenge wrapped in possibility. “Cool. I’ll teach you.”

By lunchtime, the edges of the day had softened. They sat beneath a tree in the courtyard, trading bites of convenience store sandwiches and stories that felt half-formed. Reki talked fast, hands moving like he was sketching in the air, describing tricks and boards and the rush of downhill speed like it was a religion. Theseus listened, occasionally sketching him in the margins of their notebook — the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He asked about Yokohama, about their art, about the badge on their hoodie.

“You’re in S?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “That’s Joe’s pin, right?”

They nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind their ear. “He gave it to me. I help out at Sia La Luce sometimes.”

Reki whistled low. “You’re cooler than you look.”

They smirked. “You’re louder than you look.”

He laughed, and it felt like something cracked open between them — not a bond, not yet, but the beginning of one.

The walk home was slow, sun-drenched and quiet. Reki insisted on showing them the way, board tucked under his arm, talking about Dope Sketch and the local skate scene like it was the most important thing in the world. When they reached his house, a cozy, slightly chaotic place with potted plants and laundry fluttering on the balcony, he paused at the gate.

“You wanna come in?” he asked. “My mom’s cool. She won’t mind.”

Inside, the air smelled like curry and comfort. Masae Kyan greeted them with a smile that felt like sunlight, fussing gently over their tired eyes and mismatched socks. She asked about school, about their motel, about whether they’d eaten enough. Theseus answered quietly, unsure how to respond to kindness that didn’t ask for anything in return.

Later, as the sky turned lavender and the cicadas began their evening chorus, Masae pulled Reki aside and whispered something. Then she turned to Theseus, her expression soft.

“If you ever need a place to stay,” she said, voice low but steady, “you’re welcome here. No pressure.”

Theseus stared at her, heart thudding like a drum in a quiet room. No one had said that to them before. Not like that. Not without strings.

“Thank you,” they said, and meant it.

Later, after the house had settled into its nighttime hush, Theseus lay curled beneath the blanket, sketchbook open but untouched. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the distant hum of cicadas outside. They could hear Reki in the next room, laughing at something on his phone, the sound muffled but familiar. It was strange, how comforting it was — the presence of someone just beyond the wall, the knowledge that they weren’t alone.

They stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible constellations between the cracks in the plaster. The motel had always felt like a waiting room, a place between places. But here, in this quiet house with its curry-scented warmth and soft-spoken hospitality, something shifted. It wasn’t home. Not yet. But it was a place to land. A place to rest.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

The bathroom was small, cluttered with half-used bottles and fading stickers on the mirror, but it felt like a sanctuary. Steam curled from the sink like breath, and the overhead light buzzed faintly, casting everything in a soft, golden haze. Theseus sat on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn up, sketchbook resting on their lap like a shield. The red side of their hair, vibrant, defiant, hung heavy over one eye, damp from the shower and tangled from sleep. The white side was already bleached to near-translucence, a ghost of its former shade. But the red… the red was stubborn. It clung like memory.

Reki stood beside them, sleeves rolled up, gloves snapped on with theatrical flair. “You sure about this?” he asked, holding up the bleach like it was a potion. His grin was crooked, but his eyes were careful, watching for hesitation, for the flicker of doubt that might mean stop.

Theseus nodded, voice low. “I want it gone. I want it purple.”

Reki didn’t ask why. He didn’t press. He just knelt beside them, gently parting strands with gloved fingers, the touch clinical but kind. The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable, like the pause between verses in a song that hasn’t finished singing.

“I used to mess up my hair all the time,” he said, voice soft. “Bleached it once with lemon juice and nearly fried my scalp.”

Theseus huffed a laugh, the sound catching in their throat. “Sounds like something you’d do.”

Reki shrugged. “I was trying to look cool. Didn’t work. But you… you’ll look sick with purple.”

The bleach stung, sharp and chemical, but Reki’s hands were steady. He worked in sections, careful not to tug, not to rush. Theseus watched him in the mirror, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips moved silently as he counted minutes. It was strange, being cared for like this. Not out of obligation, not out of pity. Just… because.

They sat on the floor while the bleach processed, legs stretched out, heads tilted toward each other like flowers leaning into light. Reki handed them a can of soda and opened one for himself, the hiss of carbonation loud in the quiet.

“You don’t talk much,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

Theseus shrugged. “Words feel heavy sometimes.”

Reki nodded, sipping slowly. “Yeah. But you don’t have to carry them alone.”

The timer buzzed. Reki stood, rinsed the bleach with practiced ease, and towel-dried the strands until they were pale and raw, like canvas waiting for paint. Then came the dye, a rich, electric violet that shimmered in the bowl like something alive. He applied it with reverence, like he was painting something sacred.

“Theseus,” he said suddenly, voice low. “That name… it means ‘my beloved,’ right?”

They froze, heart thudding. “Yeah. It does.”

Reki didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly: “It suits you.”

An hour later, the dye was rinsed, the towel draped around their shoulders, and the mirror fogged with steam. Theseus stared at their reflection, half-white, half-purple, haloed in colour and contradiction. The violet shimmered under the light, catching the edges of their jaw, their cheekbones, their eyes.

Reki stood behind them, arms crossed, a proud grin tugging at his lips. “You look like a comet,” he said. “Like you’re about to burn through the sky.”

Theseus blinked, throat tight. “Thanks,” they whispered.

He nudged their shoulder. “Anytime.”

The sun was still low when Reki dragged Theseus out of the house, a half-eaten melon pan in one hand and his board tucked under the other. The streets of Naha were quiet, washed in pale gold and the scent of ocean wind, and the skate park he led her to was tucked behind a row of shuttered shops, its ramps still slick with dew. Theseus blinked against the light, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, the purple in their hair catching fire in the morning sun.

“You’re gonna hate me by the end of this,” Reki said cheerfully, tossing his board down with a clatter. “But you’ll thank me later.”

Theseus raised an eyebrow. “That’s ominous.”

Reki grinned. “Nah. It’s tradition.”

The board he handed them was scuffed and stickered, the grip tape worn smooth in places. It felt heavier than expected, like it carried history. Theseus stepped onto it cautiously, one foot, then the other, wobbling like a newborn deer. Reki watched with his arms crossed, nodding approvingly.

“Okay, not bad. You’ve got balance. Now let’s ruin it.”

The first hour was mostly falling.

Reki taught with the kind of chaotic energy that made everything feel like a game — shouting encouragement, demonstrating tricks with exaggerated flair, and laughing every time Theseus hit the pavement with a groan. But beneath the noise was precision. He corrected their stance, adjusted their footing, explained the physics of momentum like it was second nature.

“Theseus, you’re thinking too much,” he said, crouching beside them after their fifth wipeout. “Skating’s not about control. It’s about trust. You gotta trust your body to catch you.”

Theseus stared at the board, breath shallow, palms scraped raw. “That’s hard.”

Reki softened. “Yeah. It is. But you’ve done harder.”

He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a fact.

It happened just after noon, when the sun was high and their limbs ached from repetition. Reki had stepped back, letting them try alone, and Theseus pushed off with tentative force, rolling forward, knees bent, arms out. The board wobbled, but didn’t tip. The wind caught their hoodie, the wheels hummed against the concrete, and for a moment — just a moment — they felt it. The rush. The flight.

They reached the end of the ramp and stumbled off, breathless and grinning.

Reki whooped from the sidelines. “That’s it! That’s the spark!”

Theseus laughed, the sound raw and real. “I didn’t fall.”

Reki jogged over, ruffling their hair with a gloved hand. “You will. But now you know how to fly first.”

They collapsed on the edge of the park, sipping canned coffee and watching the clouds drift like lazy thoughts. Reki stretched out beside them, legs sprawled, his board resting against his knee.

“You’re gonna be good,” he said, not looking at them. “Like, S-level good.”

Theseus shrugged, tracing the rim of the can with a finger. “I just want to feel like I belong.”

Reki turned, eyes serious for once. “You do. You did the second you stepped on that board.”

They didn’t respond, but something in their chest loosened — like a knot untied by sunlight.

Chapter 2: Two thousand surroundin' us

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The morning began with the soft hum of cicadas and the distant clatter of mopeds weaving through Naha’s narrow streets. Theseus had woken early, not out of eagerness but necessity — their body still adjusting to the rhythm of school days after years of living by commission deadlines and caffeine crashes. The motel room was quiet, the air thick with humidity and the scent of last night’s instant curry. They dressed slowly, pulling on their striped jacket and lacing their mismatched shoes with practiced care, the purple in their hair still fresh, still strange, still theirs. The pin badge on their lapel caught the light as they stepped outside, a small glint of rebellion against the ordinary.

School was a blur of fluorescent lights and half-heard instructions. The classroom buzzed with the low hum of adolescence, desks scattered like chess pieces, and the teacher’s voice droning through the morning announcements. Theseus sat beside Reki, who had already claimed them as his own — not possessively, but protectively, like a big brother who’d decided they were worth keeping. He cracked jokes under his breath, passed notes with doodles of skateboards and cats, and elbowed them gently whenever they started to drift. Langa sat behind them, quiet and observant, his pale blue hair catching the sunlight like frost. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was always something that made Theseus pause — a question about their art, a comment about the way they tilted their head when thinking, a quiet kind of curiosity that felt like a mirror.

The day passed in fragments. Math was a blur of numbers that refused to settle. History was a lecture on Meiji-era reforms that made Theseus’s eyes glaze over. They dozed off briefly during literature, forehead pressed to the desk, only to be nudged awake by Reki with a whispered, “Oi, you’ll get drool on your sketchbook.” Lunch was konbini sandwiches eaten under the shade of a vending machine, the three of them sprawled on the pavement like cats in the sun. Reki talked fast, hands animated, describing a new trick he’d almost landed last night. Langa listened with the kind of quiet intensity that made everything feel important. Theseus sketched them both in the margins of their notebook — Reki mid-laugh, Langa with his chin resting on his hand — and didn’t show them the drawings.

After school, the air was thick with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. Reki slung his board over his shoulder and turned to Theseus with a grin. “You coming to Joe’s?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Langa nodded beside him, and the three of them set off down the street, their boards clacking against their backs, their footsteps in sync. The walk to Sia La Luce was familiar now — palm trees swaying overhead, vending machines humming quietly, storefronts glowing with the soft neon of early evening. The café was warm and golden, filled with the scent of grilled meat and basil, the walls lined with photos and skate memorabilia. Joe stood behind the counter, arms crossed, a towel slung over his shoulder, and raised an eyebrow as they entered.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he said, voice teasing but fond. Reki rolled his eyes and flopped into a booth, Langa sliding in beside him. Theseus hesitated for a moment, then sat across from them, the vinyl seat cool against their legs. Joe brought over plates without asking, pasta for Reki, salad for Langa, and a bowl of curry rice for Theseus, extra pickles on the side. They ate slowly, the conversation drifting from school to skating to the upcoming S matches. Reki talked about a new board design he was working on, Langa asked about grip tape preferences, and Joe chimed in occasionally with advice that sounded more like philosophy.

Theseus didn’t say much, but they listened. They watched the way Reki leaned into his words, the way Langa’s eyes softened when he smiled, the way Joe’s presence filled the room like a hearth. It was strange, being here — not as a customer, not as an outsider, but as someone who belonged. The badge on their lapel felt heavier tonight, not in burden, but in meaning. They were Icarus Belova in the underground, but here, they were just Theseus. Just a kid with split purple hair and scraped palms and a sketchbook full of people who didn’t mind the quiet.

When the meal was done and the plates cleared, Joe handed Theseus a small cup of espresso, strong and bitter, and said, “You look like you need this more than anyone.” They took it with a nod, fingers curling around the warmth, and sipped slowly as the conversation faded into comfortable silence. Outside, the sky had turned indigo, the stars just beginning to blink awake. Reki stretched, groaned dramatically, and declared, “Tomorrow, we skate. No excuses.” Langa nodded in agreement, and Theseus smiled, the kind that didn’t need words.

They walked home together, boards slung over shoulders, laughter echoing down the quiet streets. And for the first time in a long time, Theseus didn’t feel like they were waiting for something to begin. It already had.

The air at S was different, charged, alive, humming with the kind of energy that made your bones vibrate. It wasn’t just the music, or the crowd, or the scent of sweat and asphalt. It was the feeling of being seen and unseen at once, of stepping into a world that ran parallel to the one above, stitched together by adrenaline and rebellion. Theseus stood near the edge of the track, hoodie zipped to the throat, fishnet sleeves peeking out beneath striped cuffs, black boots scuffed and heavy against the concrete. Their hair, half white, half purple, caught the glow of the floodlights like bruised starlight, and the badge on their lapel gleamed like a secret. They looked like a shadow stitched from eyeliner and caffeine, a ghost with a heartbeat.

Kaoru Sakurayashiki, here known as Cherry Blossom, stood to their left, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind his glasses. He didn’t speak much, but his presence was sharp, deliberate, like a scalpel held in reserve. Kojiro Nanjo, Joe, leaned against the railing on their right, arms bare, tattoos catching the light, his usual smirk softened into something quieter. Between the two of them, Theseus felt strangely safe — not protected, exactly, but acknowledged. Like they’d earned their place here, not just through proximity, but through persistence.

The crowd roared as Reki and Langa rolled up to the start line, boards clutched like weapons, eyes bright with anticipation. Shadow loomed beside them, face painted, grin wide, the kind of chaos that made the air taste like danger. Theseus watched Reki closely — the way he bounced on his heels, the way his fingers tapped against his board like a drummer warming up. He looked nervous, but not afraid. Langa, by contrast, was still as ice, his gaze locked forward, unreadable and calm. Together, they were a storm waiting to break.

“Icarus,” Kojiro murmured, voice low, “you ever seen Reki race Shadow before?”

They shook their head, eyes never leaving the track. “Only clips. Never live.”

Kaoru adjusted his glasses, tone clipped. “It’s reckless. But he’s not stupid.”

The countdown began, five, four, three, and the crowd leaned in, breath held, hearts syncing to the rhythm of the lights. Theseus felt it in their chest, the thrum of possibility, the ache of memory. Reki had taught them to skate, had picked them up off the pavement more times than they could count, had laughed when they cursed and cheered when they landed their first trick. Watching him now, poised and burning, felt like watching a star they’d helped light.

The race exploded into motion. Boards hit pavement with a crack, wheels screamed, and the three riders vanished down the track like sparks in a wind tunnel. The crowd surged, shouting, chanting, the music rising to meet the chaos. Theseus didn’t cheer. They watched. Eyes sharp, breath shallow, fingers curled into the sleeves of their jacket. Kaoru muttered something about trajectory. Kojiro leaned forward, murmuring under his breath, half commentary, half prayer.

Reki took the first curve wide, Langa tight behind him, Shadow barreling forward like a wrecking ball. The lights blurred, the track twisted, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to three streaks of colour and the sound of wheels against concrete. Theseus felt their heart stutter, then catch, then soar.

When Reki landed a trick mid-turn, flipping his board with a shout and a grin, the crowd erupted. Langa followed with a smooth, impossible slide, and Shadow cackled as he launched himself into the air, spinning like a firework. It was chaos. It was art. It was S.

And Theseus, standing between Kaoru and Kojiro, dressed in black and stitched together by adrenaline and eyeliner, felt something settle inside them — not peace, exactly, but purpose. This was their world. These were their people. And whether they were racing or watching, falling or flying, they belonged.

The race was chaos in motion, wheels screaming, boards carving through the concrete like blades, the crowd a living organism of noise and heat. Reki had taken the lead early, his movements erratic but full of heart, every trick thrown like a challenge to gravity itself. Langa followed close behind, smooth and silent, a ghost on wheels. Shadow was a storm, unpredictable and loud, his laughter echoing through the canyon of the track. Theseus stood frozen at first, arms crossed tight over their chest, eyes locked on the blur of red hair and reckless joy that was Reki in his element. They didn’t mean to care this much. They didn’t mean to feel it in their ribs.

But then Reki landed a trick mid-turn, a wild, impossible flip that should’ve sent him flying, and stuck it with a shout that cracked through the air like thunder. The crowd roared. Kaoru muttered something under his breath, impressed despite himself. Kojiro let out a low whistle. And Theseus… Cracked.

“Come on, Reki!” they shouted, voice raw and sudden, cutting through the noise like a flare. “You’ve got this!”

Their hands flew up, fists clenched, eyes wide and shining. The words felt strange in their mouth, too loud, too vulnerable, but they didn’t care. Reki was flying, and they were flying with him. For a moment, they forgot the weight of their jacket, the badge on their lapel, the years of silence stitched into their sleeves. They were just a kid cheering for someone who had taught them how to fall and get back up.

Kojiro turned to look at them, a slow smile spreading across his face — warm, proud, the kind that made you feel like you’d done something right just by existing. Kaoru didn’t say anything, but his lips twitched, and he glanced at Theseus with a softness that was rare and deliberate, like a nod from someone who didn’t give them out easily. Between them, Theseus felt like a child flanked by strange, reluctant parents — one loud, one quiet, both watching them with something like affection.

Reki didn’t hear the shout, not in the moment. But he felt it. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared, the way his grin widened, the way he pushed harder into the final stretch. Langa matched him, and Shadow howled behind them, and the race blurred into light and speed and the kind of joy that only came from chasing something with your whole heart.

Theseus didn’t stop cheering. Not until the finish line. Not until Reki skidded to a halt, breathless and laughing, arms raised in triumph. Not until Langa bumped his shoulder with a quiet smile and Shadow collapsed in a dramatic heap, declaring them both “worthy adversaries” with theatrical flair.

And when Reki turned and spotted them in the crowd — hoodie zipped to the throat, eyes bright, fists still clenched — he grinned like he’d won something bigger than the race.

Theseus grinned back, heart pounding, cheeks flushed, and whispered to no one in particular, “I think I get it now.”

Kojiro clapped a hand on their shoulder. Kaoru adjusted his glasses. And the night kept burning.

The moment the race ended, the crowd erupted into a wave of cheers and neon-lit chaos, but Theseus didn’t hear any of it. Their heart was pounding too loud, their breath caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. Reki had done it — wild, reckless, radiant Reki had pulled off the impossible, and Langa had matched him move for move, silent and graceful like a blade in flight. Shadow was already laughing, sprawled on the pavement in theatrical defeat, but Theseus didn’t care. Their feet were already moving before they could think, boots slapping against concrete as they sprinted toward the finish line, hoodie flapping behind them like wings.

“Reki! Langa!” they shouted, voice cracking with emotion, louder than they’d ever been, louder than they thought they could be. “You did it! You actually—holy shit, you did it!”

They reached them breathless, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and launched into a bouncing, chaotic celebration, jumping up and down, fists in the air, hair flying, laughter spilling out like soda shaken too hard. Reki turned, startled, then grinned so wide it looked like it might split his face. Langa blinked, then smiled too, soft and quiet, the kind that made Theseus want to draw him in charcoal and gold.

“You guys were amazing,” Theseus said, voice still loud, still trembling. “I couldn’t sit still—I had to—God, you were flying.”

Reki laughed and pulled them into a side hug, sweaty and warm and full of adrenaline. “You saw that flip? I thought I was gonna eat pavement!”

“You almost did,” Langa said, deadpan, and Reki shoved him playfully.

Behind them, Kaoru and Kojiro approached at a slower pace, the crowd parting around them like water. Kojiro had his arms crossed, but his smile was unmistakable, proud, amused, the kind of look someone gives when they’ve watched a kid they care about finally shine. Kaoru’s expression was more reserved, but his eyes were soft behind the glasses, and when he looked at Theseus, it was with something like quiet approval.

“Well,” Kojiro said, clapping a hand on Reki’s shoulder and then ruffling Theseus’s hair with a grin, “I think that calls for a celebration.”

Kaoru raised an eyebrow. “You’re paying?”

Kojiro rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m paying. You think I’d let my apprentice and their chaos crew go hungry after a win like that?”

He turned to the three of them, gesturing toward the exit with a flourish. “Sia La Luce. On the house. You earned it.”

Theseus blinked, stunned, then grinned — wide and real and a little teary. Reki whooped, Langa nodded, and the five of them walked off together, boards slung over shoulders, laughter trailing behind them like sparks. For once, Theseus didn’t feel like a ghost in the crowd. They felt like part of the fire.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped into Sia La Luce, the golden glow of the restaurant spilling out like warmth from a hearth. The scent of grilled meat and basil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint trace of espresso and the low hum of conversation. Theseus was still buzzing from the race, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, their hoodie half unzipped and hair wild from cheering. Reki and Langa flanked them, both radiant in the way only skaters fresh off a win could be — sweat-slicked, grinning, and vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Kojiro led the way, one arm slung casually around Kaoru’s shoulders, the other gesturing toward their usual booth like a king returning to his court.

“Theseus gets the window seat,” Kojiro declared, voice loud and proud, the cadence of Joe still lingering in his tone from the race. “Winning cheer deserves a winning view.”

Kaoru rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, sliding into the booth with the kind of practiced grace that made it look like he’d never tripped in his life. Reki collapsed beside him, arms sprawled, head tilted back with a groan of satisfaction. Langa sat quietly, fingers tracing the condensation on his water glass, eyes flicking toward Theseus every so often with a soft kind of curiosity. And Theseus — still dressed in full emo armor, fishnet sleeves and combat boots and a hoodie that looked like it had survived a war — sank into the seat with a sigh that felt like exhaling a storm.

Kojiro disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, shedding the persona of Joe like a jacket hung by the door, and returned with plates balanced in his arms like offerings. Pasta drowning in sauce for Reki, a delicate salad for Kaoru, grilled fish for Langa, and for Theseus, a bowl of curry rice with extra pickles, just the way they liked it. Kojiro had a steak the size of his ego, and he sat with them briefly, sipping espresso and listening to the retelling of the race with the kind of patience only someone who’d seen it all could offer.

Theseus didn’t talk much at first, content to listen, to sketch the curve of Reki’s grin in the margins of a napkin, to trace the way Langa’s eyes softened when he smiled. But when Kojiro nudged them and said, “You were the heart of that crowd tonight,” they looked up, startled, and saw Kaoru nodding quietly beside him.

“You belong here,” Kaoru said, not as a compliment, but as a truth.

And for the first time in a long time, Theseus believed it.

They stayed late, laughter echoing against the walls, plates scraped clean, stories traded like secrets. And when they finally stepped back into the night, the stars above Okinawa blinking like distant applause, Theseus felt full, not just of food, but of something deeper. Something like family. Something like fire.

Notes:

Eat, Hyrdrate and Rest <3

Chapter 3: Travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us

Chapter Text

The night had settled into a soft hum by the time they reached Reki’s house, the kind of quiet that wrapped around the streets like a blanket. The stars blinked overhead, scattered and shy, and the air smelled faintly of rain and warm pavement. Theseus walked between Reki and Langa, hoodie sleeves tugged over their hands, boots scuffing the sidewalk with each step. The adrenaline from S had faded into something gentler — a glow in the chest, a looseness in the limbs, the kind of tired that felt earned. Reki was still buzzing, recounting the race with wild gestures and half-shouted reenactments, while Langa offered occasional commentary in his soft, deliberate way. Theseus mostly listened, smiling quietly, sketching the rhythm of their voices in their mind like lines on a page.

When they reached the gate, Reki turned with a grin. “Miya’s already here. He’s been hogging the TV and eating all the snacks.”

Theseus raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” Reki said, pushing open the door. “He’s like a gremlin, but with better hair.”

Inside, the house was warm and cluttered in the way only lived-in homes could be. The scent of leftover bento lingered in the air, and the soft glow of the living room lamp spilled across the floor like honey. Miya Chinen was curled up on the couch, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen as his character executed a perfect combo. He didn’t look up until the door clicked shut, and then he paused the game with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re late,” he said, eyes narrowing at Reki. “I was about to start without you.”

Reki flopped onto the couch beside him. “We were celebrating. Shadow got wrecked.”

Miya snorted, then turned his gaze toward Theseus. His eyes flicked over the striped jacket, the fishnet sleeves, the purple hair still damp from sweat and wind. He tilted his head, curious and calculating, then blinked slowly.

“You’re Icarus, right?” he asked. “From S?”

Theseus nodded, unsure how much to say. “Yeah. But you can call me Theseus.”

Miya stared for a moment longer, then shrugged and scooted over to make room. “Cool. You look like someone who’d draw cursed fanart and then cry about it.”

Reki burst out laughing. Langa smiled behind his hand. Theseus blinked, then grinned. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

Miya smirked, satisfied. “You’re weird. I like you.”

The rest of the night unfolded in soft, chaotic waves. They played video games until their eyes blurred, trading controllers and insults with the ease of people who didn’t need to impress each other. Reki made popcorn and burned half of it. Langa fell asleep with his head on a pillow and one sock missing. Miya curled up beside Theseus at some point, leaning against their shoulder without asking, and didn’t move for the rest of the night.

“You’re like a big sibling,” he mumbled, half-asleep. “But cooler.”

Theseus didn’t respond right away. They just looked down at him — this sharp, brilliant kid who saw through people like glass — and felt something settle in their chest. Not responsibility. Not pressure. Just… care.

“Thanks,” they whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Reki was snoring by then, sprawled across the floor like a starfish. Langa had shifted in his sleep, hand curled near his face. The room was quiet, lit only by the flicker of the paused game screen and the soft glow of the hallway light. Theseus sat there, surrounded by warmth and noise and the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return, and felt, for once, like they didn’t have to earn it.

They belonged. And that was enough.

The night had folded itself into quiet, the kind that hums low and steady beneath the skin. Reki’s living room was dim now, lit only by the soft glow of the paused game screen and the hallway light spilling in like moonlight. Langa had drifted off first, curled into the corner of the couch with one arm tucked under his head, his breathing slow and even. Reki was sprawled on the floor, one leg flung over a pillow, mouth slightly open in sleep, his hoodie bunched up around his ribs. The chaos had settled, the laughter faded, and in its place was something softer, the hush of comfort, the weightless kind.

Theseus sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee, pencil moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Miya was tucked against their side, head resting on their shoulder, their jacket draped over his small frame like a blanket. He hadn’t asked for it, just reached out, tugged it around himself, and leaned in without a word. Now he was half-asleep, thumb brushing the edge of the fabric, breathing warm against their arm. Theseus held him close, their arm curled protectively around him, and kept drawing.

They sketched in silence, the curve of Reki’s grin even in sleep, the way Langa’s hair fell across his forehead, the way Miya’s fingers curled like a cat’s paw against their side. Each line was a thread, each shadow a memory. They didn’t know how long they’d been drawing, only that the ache in their chest had grown louder, fuller, until it felt like it might spill out through their fingertips.

They’d never had this before. Not like this. Not the kind of quiet that didn’t feel dangerous. Not the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything in return. Growing up had been noise and tension, rooms that felt too small, love that came with conditions. But this, this was warmth. This was Reki’s snoring and Langa’s stillness and Miya’s trust, curled against them like he’d known them forever. This was family, not by blood, but by choice. And it made their heart ache in a way that felt holy.

Miya shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, and Theseus brushed a hand through his hair, gentle and slow. He didn’t wake. He just leaned closer, jacket slipping off one shoulder, and Theseus tugged it back into place with a tenderness that surprised them.

They wanted to cry. Not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of it — the love, the safety, the quiet miracle of being seen and held and wanted. Miya saw them as a sibling. Not a stranger. Not a shadow. But someone to lean on, someone to trust. And Reki, loud and golden, had pulled them into his orbit without hesitation. Langa had offered silence that felt like understanding. Kojiro and Kaoru had watched them cheer and smiled like proud parents. It was too much. It was everything.

Their pencil paused. The sketch was unfinished, but it didn’t matter. They closed the book gently, set it aside, and let their head rest against Miya’s, eyes fluttering shut. The room was still. The night held them.

And for the first time in years, Theseus felt like they didn’t have to be brave. They just had to be here.

The room was steeped in silence, the kind that only comes after laughter has burned itself out and sleep has settled like dust. Theseus had drifted somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, sketchbook still open on their lap, pencil resting loosely in their fingers. Miya was curled against their side, breathing slow and even, their jacket still draped over his shoulders like a shield. Reki was snoring softly on the floor, one arm flung over his face, and Langa hadn’t moved in hours, his body folded into the couch like he’d melted there. It was peaceful. It was warm. It was everything Theseus had never known they needed.

And then the alarm went off.

A shrill, mechanical screech shattered the quiet, cutting through the room like a knife. Theseus jolted upright, heart hammering, pencil clattering to the floor. Miya groaned and buried his face in their side. Reki flailed dramatically, knocking over a pillow and muttering something about ghosts. Langa blinked awake, confused and blinking like a cat caught in the rain.

“What the hell—” Theseus started, breath catching.

Reki sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Oh! Right. Horror stories. We said 3am.”

Theseus stared at him. “You set an alarm?”

Reki grinned, unapologetic. “Of course I did. It’s tradition.”

Miya groaned louder. “You’re all insane.”

But he didn’t move. He just curled deeper into Theseus’s side, jacket slipping slightly, and muttered, “I’m not telling the first story. I’m too cozy.”

Theseus blinked, then laughed, the sound shaky but real. The adrenaline from the alarm was fading, replaced by the absurdity of it all. They looked around at the half-asleep chaos: Reki trying to find his flashlight, Langa sitting up with his hair sticking out in every direction, Miya still tucked against them like a sleepy cat. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

They picked up their pencil, flipped to a fresh page, and began to sketch again, this time, not just the outlines of faces, but the shape of this moment. The way Reki’s grin lit up the dark. The way Langa’s quiet steadiness anchored the room. The way Miya trusted them enough to stay close, even when the world got loud.

And somewhere between the lines, between the laughter and the lingering fear, Theseus felt it again, that ache, that fullness, that quiet miracle of being part of something. Not just a group. Not just a scene. But a family.

Theseus looked down at him, at the way he clung to their side like he’d always belonged there, like he’d known them longer than a few hours. His trust was so complete it made their chest ache. They’d never had this — never had someone lean into them without flinching, never had a room full of people who didn’t ask them to be anything but present. And Reki, loud and golden, had pulled them into his orbit like it was the most natural thing in the world. Langa, quiet and steady, had offered space without question. Kojiro and Kaoru had smiled at them like proud parents when they cheered. It was too much. It was everything.

They swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind their eyes. The sketchbook was still open on their lap, filled with half-finished lines, Reki mid-laugh, Langa’s soft profile, Miya curled against their side like a cat. The pencil could wait. The story could wait. This moment was already a story.

“I’ll go first,” Theseus said, voice low but steady.

Reki perked up. “Ooh, spooky Icarus mode?”

Theseus smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

They didn’t tell a ghost story. Not really. They told a story about a kid who lived in a motel, who drew monsters to keep the real ones away, who learned to skate because someone offered a hand instead of a warning. They told it like fiction, but everyone in the room knew it wasn’t. Miya didn’t move. Reki didn’t interrupt. Langa watched with quiet eyes. And when the story ended, there was silence, not awkward, not empty, but full.

Reki reached out and bumped their knee. “That was a good one.”

Miya mumbled, “You’re my favourite sibling now.”

The words hit like a stone dropped into still water. Theseus blinked, once, twice, and then the ache that had been building all night cracked open. Their chest tightened, breath caught, and tears welled up before they could stop them. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet unraveling — the kind that comes when someone says something so gentle, so unexpected, that it breaks every wall you didn’t know you were still holding up.

Reki noticed first. He sat up from the floor, blinking sleep from his eyes, and leaned forward. “Hey… hey, Theseus?” His voice was soft now, stripped of its usual chaos. “You okay?”

Theseus tried to nod, but the tears spilled anyway, slow and silent, tracing down their cheeks as they stared at the sketchbook in their lap. It was all there, all the love they didn’t know how to hold. All the family they hadn’t known they could have.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered, voice cracking. “I just… I’ve never had this before. Not like this. Not people who… who feel like home.”

Reki scooted closer, wrapping an arm around their shoulders without hesitation. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, firm and gentle. “You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to cry.”

Langa sat up too, moving quietly to their other side, his hand resting lightly on their knee. “We’re here,” he said simply. “You’re not alone.”

Miya stirred, blinking up at them, and frowned. “Did I say something wrong?”

Theseus shook their head, wiping at their cheeks with the sleeve of their hoodie. “No. You said something perfect.”

Miya hesitated, then reached up and tugged the jacket tighter around himself, leaning into them again. “Good. ‘Cause I meant it.”

Reki glanced down at the sketchbook, still open on their lap. “Did you draw us?”

Theseus nodded, voice barely audible. “I draw what I don’t want to forget.”

Reki smiled, soft and proud. “Then you better keep drawing. ‘Cause we’re not going anywhere.”

They sat like that for a long time, tangled in blankets and quiet comfort, the sketchbook resting between them like a shared memory. And Theseus, surrounded by warmth and love and the kind of safety that didn’t ask for anything in return, let themselves cry. Not from sadness. From fullness. From the miracle of being seen and held and wanted.

The room had settled again, the alarm long silenced, the horror stories faded into laughter and yawns. Reki was sprawled on the floor, half-covered in a blanket he’d kicked off twice already, mumbling something incoherent about cursed vending machines. Langa had curled into the couch, his breathing steady, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. Miya was still nestled against Theseus’s side, their jacket wrapped around his small frame like armor, his thumb absently brushing the edge of the fabric as he blinked slowly at the flickering screen.

Theseus sat with their sketchbook open, pencil resting loosely in their fingers, the last lines drawn soft and unfinished. The ache in their chest had dulled into something warm, something heavy, something holy. They hadn’t meant to cry, hadn’t meant to unravel, but Miya’s words had cracked something open. You’re my favourite sibling now. It echoed still, soft and sharp, a truth they hadn’t known they needed.

Their eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again, slow and reluctant. The sketchbook slipped slightly in their lap. The weight of the day, the race, the cheering, the laughter, the love, pressed down on them like a blanket. Not suffocating. Just… full.

They leaned their head back against the couch, breath slowing, limbs softening. The pencil rolled from their fingers and landed quietly on the cushion. Their arm stayed curled around Miya, protective even in sleep, and their other hand rested lightly on the sketchbook, as if to keep the memory from drifting away.

Reki noticed first, sitting up with a sleepy grin. “They’re out,” he whispered, voice fond.

Langa nodded, eyes half-lidded. “They needed it.”

Miya blinked up at them, then smiled, small, proud, like he’d done something good. He didn’t move. Just leaned in closer, jacket still wrapped tight, and whispered, “Night, Theseus.”

And Theseus, already halfway to dreams, didn’t hear it. But they felt it. In the warmth against their side. In the quiet around them. In the way the world, for once, didn’t ask them to be anything but loved.

They slept. And the night held them.

Chapter 4: What's up, danger? (Danger) - What's up, danger? (Danger)

Notes:

Panic attack warning, previous abuse UNDERTONES, previous neglect UNDERTONES

Chapter Text

The morning crept in slowly, soft and golden, spilling through the curtains in quiet beams that painted the living room in warmth. The house was still, the kind of hush that felt sacred, like the world hadn’t quite remembered to wake up yet. Theseus stirred on the couch, blinking into the light, limbs stiff from sleep and heart already thudding with the strange weight of waking up somewhere safe. For a moment, they didn’t move, just lay there, eyes half-open, listening to the distant clatter of pans and the low hum of voices from the kitchen.

Then they realized they were alone.

Miya was gone. Reki was gone. Langa too. The blanket had slipped off during the night, and their jacket, the one Miya had curled into like a shield, was missing. The sketchbook was still on the floor, closed now, pencil tucked neatly beside it. Someone had cleaned up. Someone had left them behind.

Their breath caught.

Shit. I fucked up. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

The thoughts came fast, sharp, spiraling. Had they cried too much? Had they made it weird? Had Miya pulled away because they’d been too much, too loud, too broken? Had Reki regretted letting them stay? Had Langa seen the tears and decided they weren’t strong enough to belong?

Their chest tightened. The room felt smaller. The light too bright. Their hands trembled as they sat up, heart racing, breath shallow. They needed to leave. They needed to get out before they ruined it more. Before someone told them they didn’t belong after all.

They stood, legs shaky, and moved toward the door, fingers fumbling with the lock. The panic was loud now, roaring in their ears, drowning out everything else. They didn’t hear the footsteps behind them. Didn’t notice the soft call of their name.

Until Langa’s hand touched their shoulder.

“Theseus,” he said, voice calm, steady, grounding. “Hey. You’re okay.”

They froze, breath hitching, eyes wide. “I- I thought- I didn’t mean to— I just-”

Langa stepped in front of them, gentle but firm, his hands raised like he was calming a frightened animal. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “No one’s upset. We’re in the kitchen. Miya’s wearing your jacket. He wouldn’t take it off.”

Theseus blinked, tears already stinging, the panic still clawing at their ribs. “I thought I ruined it. I thought-”

“You didn’t,” Langa said, voice soft as snow. “Come see.”

He guided them down the hall, slow and careful, one hand resting lightly on their back. The kitchen door was open, and inside, the world was still warm. Reki was flipping pancakes with dramatic flair, Miya was perched on a stool with their jacket wrapped around him like a cloak, and Masae was setting out plates with the kind of quiet grace that made everything feel like home.

When they stepped in, Miya looked up and grinned. “You’re awake! I stole your jacket. It’s mine now.”

Reki turned, spatula in hand. “You slept like a log. We were gonna wake you, but you looked peaceful.”

Masae smiled, eyes kind. “Sit down, sweetheart. You’re just in time.”

Theseus stood frozen for a moment, heart still racing, tears still threatening. Then Reki walked over and pulled them into a hug — firm, grounding, no questions asked. Langa sat beside them. Miya leaned against their arm. Masae handed them a warm mug of tea.

Theseus sat down at the kitchen table like they were made of glass, slow, careful, trying not to crack. The chair felt too solid beneath them, the mug of tea too warm in their hands. Their fingers trembled as they lifted it, knuckles pale, the rim clinking softly against the ceramic. No one said anything at first. Reki flipped another pancake with exaggerated flair, humming under his breath. Miya was still wrapped in their jacket, legs swinging from the stool, eyes bright and unbothered. Langa sat beside them, close but not crowding, his presence a quiet anchor.

Theseus tried to breathe normally. Tried to smile. Tried to act like their heart wasn’t racing, like their thoughts weren’t spiraling in tight, panicked circles. They’re just being polite. They’re pretending. They’re going to ask you to leave. You ruined it. You cried too much. You were too much. The thoughts came fast, sharp, relentless. They reached for the plate in front of them, pancakes, syrup, a few slices of fruit, and picked up the fork with shaking hands.

They took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Tried to look normal.

But their hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Masae noticed first. She moved quietly, gently, placing a folded napkin beside their plate and brushing a hand over their shoulder in passing. “Eat slow, sweetheart,” she said, voice low and kind. “You’re safe here.”

Theseus nodded, eyes stinging, throat tight. They didn’t speak, not trusting the words to not break. Just took another bite, trying to keep their face neutral, trying not to let the tears spill. Miya leaned against their arm, still wearing the jacket like a badge, and nudged them with his elbow.

“You’re being weird,” he said, not unkindly. “But I still like you.”

Reki turned from the stove, spatula in hand. “You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, stripped of its usual chaos. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Theseus opened their mouth, but the words got stuck. Their fork clinked against the plate. Their breath hitched. Langa reached out, resting a hand lightly on their wrist, grounding them.

“You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re just… feeling a lot. That’s okay.”

And that was it. The dam cracked. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet spill — tears slipping down their cheeks as they tried to keep eating, tried to keep smiling, tried to hold it all in. But the mask was too thin. The love was too much. The fear was too loud.

Reki sat beside them. Miya leaned closer. Masae handed them a tissue. Langa didn’t move, just stayed steady.

And slowly, slowly, Theseus let themselves be held. Let themselves cry. Let themselves believe that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t ruined anything at all.

The kitchen had settled into a soft rhythm, forks clinking against plates, the low hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from Reki as he recounted a dream involving haunted vending machines and a skateboarding tanuki. Theseus sat quietly, still a little shaken, but held steady by the warmth around them. Miya hadn’t moved from their side, still wrapped in their jacket like it was stitched from safety itself. Langa sat close, calm and grounding, and Masae moved through the kitchen with the kind of grace that made everything feel like home.

When the moment felt right, when their breath had evened out and the tears had dried into salt at the corners of their eyes, Theseus turned to Masae, voice soft, still slightly broken, but clear.

“Thank you,” they said, fingers curled around the warm mug. “For letting me stay. For… everything.”

Masae smiled, eyes kind and knowing. “You’re welcome anytime, sweetheart. You’re part of the family now.”

The words settled deep, like roots finding soil.

By the time breakfast was finished and dishes were stacked in the sink, the sun had risen fully, casting golden light across the pavement outside. Miya tugged on his backpack with a dramatic sigh, still wearing Theseus’s jacket like a cloak of honour. “I’m gonna be late,” he declared, “and it’ll be your fault.”

Reki snorted. “You’re never late. You teleport.”

They all grabbed their boards, Reki’s bright and stickered, Langa’s sleek and quiet, Theseus’s worn and familiar, and headed out together, the morning air crisp and full of motion. They skated in sync, Miya leading the way with practiced ease, Reki weaving beside him, Langa gliding like ice, and Theseus trailing just behind, watching the way the light caught in Miya’s hair, the way Reki shouted encouragement, the way Langa’s silence felt like a promise.

At the school gates, Miya hopped off his board and turned to face them, jacket still wrapped tight. “Don’t forget,” he said, pointing at Theseus. “You’re my sibling now. That means you have to help me with math.”

Theseus laughed, breathless and warm. “Deal.”

Miya grinned, then vanished into the crowd of students, leaving the three of them standing at the curb, boards underfoot, the day stretching ahead.

Reki turned to Theseus, nudging their shoulder. “Hey, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You shouldn’t just volunteer at Sia La Luce. I mean, it’s great and all, but you deserve to get paid.”

Theseus blinked. “I don’t mind helping out.”

“I know,” Reki said, grinning. “But Dope Sketch is hiring. I can talk to the manager. You’d fit right in, art, weird hours, cool people. And you’d actually get money. For food. And art supplies. And more weird jackets.”

Langa nodded. “You’d be good there.”

Theseus looked between them, heart full, breath catching. “You guys are serious?”

Reki kicked off, starting down the street. “Dead serious. Come on, we’ve got school to not pay attention to.”

Theseus laughed, pushed off, and followed, the three of them skating side by side, the morning unfolding like a promise. And for once, the future didn’t feel like something to survive. It felt like something to build.

The pavement hummed beneath their wheels, the morning air crisp and edged with sunlight. Theseus skated beside Reki and Langa, the three of them moving in a loose rhythm, not quite a formation, but something close to it, something that felt like belonging. The city blurred past in soft coloUrs, storefronts yawning open, mopeds weaving through traffic, the scent of fresh bread drifting from a bakery they passed too quickly to name. Their board rolled smooth beneath them, steady, familiar. It was strange to think how far they’d come, how once, just standing on it had felt like balancing on a knife’s edge.

Now, they could skate.

Not perfectly. Not like Langa, who moved like snow, or Reki, who burned with every push. But they could move. They could carve. They could fall and get back up. And that meant something.

They glanced sideways at Reki, who was talking animatedly about a new wheel design he wanted to try, hands flying, eyes bright. He caught their gaze and grinned, nudging their board with his own. “You’re getting fast,” he said. “Kojiro would be proud.”

Theseus smiled, breath catching. Kojiro. Their mind drifted back to their last lesson with him, late evening at Sia La Luce, the restaurant quiet, the ramps behind the building slick with dew. He’d stood beside them, arms crossed, watching as they tried the same trick over and over, falling, cursing, getting up again. He hadn’t said much at first. Just watched. Just waited.

And then, when they landed it, shaky, imperfect, but real, he’d nodded once and said, “You’ve got fire. Don’t waste it.”

It had stayed with them. That sentence. That look. That quiet belief.

Now, skating toward school with the wind in their hair and the city unfolding around them, they wondered, Was it time? Could they race at S? Their first one. Not as a spectator. Not as Icarus in the crowd. But as Icarus on the track. They weren’t sure. They weren’t certain. But the thought didn’t scare them the way it used to.

Reki glanced over again, catching the shift in their expression. “Thinking about something?”

Theseus hesitated, then nodded. “Maybe racing. At S. My first one.”

Reki’s grin widened. “Hell yeah. You’re ready.”

Langa nodded, quiet and sure. “You’ve learned a lot.”

They skated in silence for a moment, the school coming into view, the gates crowded with students. Reki slowed, then turned to Theseus. “Also, I'll talk to the manager at Dope Sketch anyone, you shouldn’t just volunteer at Sia La Luce. You deserve to get paid.”

Theseus blinked. “You did?”

Reki shrugged, casual. “You’re good. You’ve got style. They’d be lucky to have you.”

Theseus laughed, the sound light and real. The school gates loomed ahead, and the day was just beginning. But something in their chest felt steady now, like the board beneath their feet, like the people beside them.

The classroom was washed in pale morning light, the kind that made everything feel a little too awake. The whiteboard was cluttered with equations, the teacher’s voice a steady drone about parabolas and slope intercepts, and the air smelled faintly of pencil shavings and old carpet. Theseus sat near the back, beside Reki, their math book open but untouched, a mechanical pencil twirling between their fingers.

Reki was half-listening, half-doodling in the margins of his notebook — tiny skateboards, flames, a cartoon version of Shadow with exaggerated eyeliner. Every so often he leaned over and whispered something ridiculous, like “What if the parabola was a halfpipe?” or “Do you think Cherry could solve math with poetry?” Theseus snorted softly, but didn’t answer. Their focus was elsewhere.

Their sketchbook was balanced on their lap, hidden just beneath the desk. The page was already half-filled, a rough sketch of themselves mid-air, knees bent, arms out, hair flying like wings. They were drawing themselves skating. Not falling. Not hesitating. Flying. The lines were loose, confident, the kind Kojiro had taught them to trust. Don’t sketch what you fear, he’d said once, watching them hesitate over a trick. Sketch what you want to become.

They shaded in the wheels, the curve of the board, the wind in their hoodie. Reki glanced down and grinned. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Theseus nodded, pencil still moving. “What we were talking about earlier. I'm gonna do it. Tonight.”

Reki’s eyes lit up, wide and proud. “Hell yes. You’re ready.”

The teacher called on someone to solve a problem. Neither of them looked up. Theseus kept drawing, the arc of motion, the blur of speed, the version of themselves that didn’t flinch. And beside them, Reki kept grinning, like he already saw it happening.

Chapter 5: Ayy, didn't know they doubted us

Chapter Text

The night at S was alive, pulsing with music, neon, and the electric tension of wheels against concrete. The crowd shifted like a living thing, voices rising and falling in waves, laughter echoing off the canyon walls of the track. Reki stood near the edge, bouncing on his heels, eyes scanning the crowd. Langa was beside him, calm as ever, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. Miya perched on a railing, legs swinging, tail flicking behind him like a metronome of impatience. Shadow loomed nearby, arms crossed, face painted in his usual chaos, grinning like he knew something no one else did.

“Icarus said they’d be here,” Reki muttered, craning his neck. “They wouldn’t miss this.”

“They’re probably sketching in a corner,” Miya said, half-teasing. “Or having a dramatic moment under a streetlamp.”

Shadow snorted. “Or getting a pep talk from Joe. You know how apprentices are.”

Langa tilted his head, gaze sharpening. “There.”

They all turned.

Through the crowd, three figures approached, unmistakable even in the blur of bodies and light. Joe walked with his usual swagger, arms loose, smile easy, the kind of presence that made space bend around him. Cherry Blossom was beside him, elegant and unreadable, his hair catching the light like spun glass, his gaze fixed ahead with quiet precision.

And between them — Icarus.

Theseus walked with purpose, boots steady against the pavement, hoodie zipped halfway, hair catching the neon in streaks of violet and white. Their sketchbook was tucked under one arm, fingers curled tight around it like a talisman. They looked different tonight, not louder, not brighter, but clearer. Like someone who had chosen to be seen.

Reki grinned wide. “There they are.”

Miya hopped down from the railing, jacket fluttering. “Took you long enough.”

Shadow cackled. “The prodigal skater returns.”

Joe clapped a hand on Theseus’s shoulder, leaning in. “You ready?”

Theseus nodded, eyes scanning the track, heart thudding. “I think I am.”

Cherry Blossom adjusted his glasses, voice cool. “Then let’s see what Icarus can do.”

And the night leaned in, waiting.

Midnight at S was a living thing.

The crowd pulsed with heat and neon, bodies pressed close, voices rising like waves against the canyon walls. Music thumped low and heavy, vibrating through the concrete, through the bones. The track gleamed under floodlights, slick, winding, dangerous. It wasn’t just a place. It was a crucible. A stage. A heartbeat.

Reki stood near the edge, bouncing on his heels, eyes scanning the crowd. Langa was beside him, calm and steady, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. Miya perched on a railing, tail flicking, eyes sharp. Cherry Blossom and Joe lingered nearby, silent but present, their gazes fixed on the start line.

“Icarus said they’d race tonight,” Reki murmured, voice tight with pride and nerves. “Against Shadow.”

Miya blinked. “That’s who they picked?”

Langa nodded. “It’s tradition.”

Shadow was already waiting at the line, arms wide, face painted in chaos, his board humming beneath him like a beast ready to run. He was a legend here — not just for his tricks, but for the way he made the track feel like theatre. He’d been Langa’s first. Now, he’d be Icarus’s.

And then, through the crowd, they appeared.

Icarus walked with Joe and Cherry flanking them like twin shadows. Their hoodie was zipped halfway, fishnet sleeves peeking out, hair catching the floodlights in streaks of violet and white. Their board was tucked under one arm, sketchbook nowhere in sight, tonight, they weren’t here to draw. They were here to fly.

Joe leaned in, voice low. “You’ve got this. Don’t chase him. Ride your line.”

Cherry offered a single nod, precise and deliberate. “Make it poetry.”

Icarus stepped forward, board dropping to the pavement with a clean crack. The crowd shifted, murmuring. Some knew them only as the quiet one who sketched in corners. Tonight, they’d learn something new.

Shadow grinned wide. “You ready, little comet?”

Icarus met his gaze, chin lifted. “Let’s see if I burn.”

The countdown began.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The signal dropped.

Icarus pushed off hard, the pavement biting beneath their wheels, the wind catching in their hoodie like a sail. Shadow was already ahead, a blur of orange and black, cape flaring, laughter trailing behind him like smoke. The crowd roared, neon lights strobing across the canyon walls, but Icarus didn’t flinch. They dropped low, knees bent, weight centered, eyes locked on the track.

The first curve came fast, a tight left bend with uneven pavement and a spray of gravel. Shadow took it with flair, throwing a slide that sparked beneath his wheels, arms wide like a performer mid-bow. Icarus followed, not with drama, but with precision. Their board kissed the edge, toes curled, breath steady. They didn’t chase him. They rode their line. The track dipped into a narrow corridor, graffiti-slick walls, a sudden drop in elevation. Shadow leapt, spinning mid-air, landing with a flourish that made the crowd gasp. Icarus didn’t jump. They crouched, absorbing the descent like a wave, their hoodie flaring behind them like wings. The wind howled past their ears. Their wheels sang. Midway, the terrain shifted, a jagged incline, then a sharp banked turn. Shadow threw a trick, flipping his board and landing sideways, arms wide. Icarus didn’t match him. They accelerated. Their board gripped the curve like a second skin, their body leaning into the angle, every muscle tuned to the rhythm of motion. They passed through clean, fast, silent.

The canyon opened into the straightaway, a stretch of smooth concrete lit by overhead floodlights, the final sprint. Shadow pushed harder, laughter trailing behind him like smoke. Icarus lowered themselves, eyes locked on the finish, breath burning in their lungs. Their board vibrated beneath them, wheels screaming, speed building. Shadow exploded forward,wild, carving the track with abandon. He spun into the first curve with a laugh, sparks flying from his wheels. But Icarus was right behind him, low, fast, focused. Their movements weren’t flashy, but they were deliberate, shaped by Reki’s endless encouragement and Joe’s quiet, relentless drills. They took the curve tight, their board kissing the edge, breath steady. The track twisted, a sharp incline, then a sudden drop. Shadow leapt, spinning mid-air, landing with a flourish that made the crowd roar. Icarus followed, not with a trick, but with speed, slicing through the descent like a blade, hoodie flaring behind them like wings. They didn’t try to match him. They stayed in their rhythm, their fire.

Reki was shouting from the sidelines, fists clenched. “Go, Icarus! You’ve got this!”

Langa watched with quiet awe, Miya with wide eyes and a grin. Cherry and Joe stood still, unreadable, but their silence was full.

The final stretch came fast, a straight shot, a blur of light and speed. Shadow pushed harder, laughing, his board screaming against the concrete. Icarus lowered themselves, muscles burning, wind tearing through their hair. Their wheels sang. Their heart soared.

They didn’t win. But they finished close. Right behind him. Breathless. Glowing. Shadow skidded to a halt, turned, and grinned. “You didn’t burn out.”

Icarus stepped off their board, chest heaving, eyes bright. “I’m just getting started.” The crowd erupted, not for the winner, but for the fire that had flown. For the skater who didn’t fall. For the one who carved their own line.

The moment Icarus rolled to a stop, breathless and burning, the world felt like it had cracked open. The track behind them was still humming — the final stretch echoing with the roar of wheels and the pulse of the crowd — but they were no longer moving. They were standing. Upright. Whole.

They’d cleared the course. Not just survived it. Not just coasted through. They’d skated it. Every curve, every descent, every brutal incline. They hadn’t won, but they hadn’t fallen. And that meant something.

Before they could even catch their breath, Joe was there.

“Icarus!” he bellowed, voice booming over the crowd, arms already outstretched. “You did it!”

Icarus barely had time to blink before Joe scooped them up, arms strong and sure, lifting them clean off the ground like they weighed nothing. They let out a startled laugh, half-choked by adrenaline, and Joe spun them in a wide circle, the world blurring around them in streaks of neon and noise. “You cleared the course!” he shouted, grinning so wide it looked like it might split his face. “You flew, kid! You flew!”

Icarus clung to his shoulders, dizzy and overwhelmed, tears stinging at the corners of their eyes. The crowd was still cheering, but all they could hear was Joe’s voice, proud, loud, unfiltered joy. “You didn’t have to win,” he said, setting them down gently, hands still on their shoulders. “You showed up. You skated your line. You belonged. That’s what matters.”

Icarus nodded, breath catching, chest tight with something too big to name. They looked back at the track, the canyon, the curves, the chaos, and then at Joe, who was still grinning like a proud father. “I didn’t think I could,” they whispered.

Joe leaned in, forehead to theirs for a heartbeat. “You did. And next time? You’ll go even further.” And in that moment, surrounded by floodlights and friends and the echo of wheels on concrete, Icarus believed him.

Joe had just set Icarus down, their boots barely touching the pavement before he pulled them into a crushing hug, spinning them once more for good measure. Their laughter was breathless, shaky, threaded with disbelief. The crowd was still cheering, but it was fading into background noise, replaced by the thrum of adrenaline and the warmth of being seen.

“You cleared the course,” Joe said again, voice thick with pride. “You owned it.”

Icarus nodded, eyes glassy, chest still heaving. “I didn’t win.”

Joe grinned. “Doesn’t matter. You finished it. You flew.”

A few feet away, Cherry stood with arms crossed, his posture immaculate, expression unreadable. The floodlights caught in the strands of his hair, turning them silver-pink, and his gaze was fixed on Icarus with the kind of quiet intensity that made their breath catch. He stepped forward slowly, the crowd parting around him like water.

Joe gave Icarus’s shoulder one last squeeze and stepped aside, letting Cherry approach without interruption. Icarus straightened instinctively, wiping at their eyes, trying to look composed, but Cherry didn’t seem to mind the tears. He stopped in front of them, hands still folded, gaze steady.

“You didn’t fall,” he said, voice low and precise. “You didn’t flinch. You held your line.”

Icarus nodded, unsure what to say. “I tried.”

Cherry's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. “You did more than try.” He reached out, and for a moment Icarus thought he might pat their shoulder. Instead, Cherry adjusted the collar of their hoodie, smoothing it with a careful touch, like he was straightening a medal. “You skated with intention,” he said. “With control. With heart. That’s what makes a racer.”

Icarus swallowed hard, blinking fast. “You think I’m ready?”

Cherry met their eyes. “I think you’re becoming exactly who you’re meant to be.”

And then, softer, almost too quiet to hear:

“I’m proud of you.”

Icarus didn’t speak. Couldn’t. They just nodded, tears slipping silently down their cheeks, and Cherry let them have that moment. No teasing. No lectures. Just presence.

Joe came back with a towel and a bottle of water, ruffling their hair like a proud dad. It shattered something. Not like glass, not sharp, not sudden. More like ice thawing too fast. Like a dam cracking under the weight of everything it had held back for years. The moment Cherry said, “I’m proud of you,” something inside Icarus gave way.

Their breath caught mid-inhale, chest tightening so fast it felt like they’d been punched. Their shoulders curled inward, instinctive, protective, as if trying to hold the feeling in, but it was already spilling out. Their grip on their board loosened, fingers trembling, and they turned slightly, just enough to hide their face.

But Cherry didn’t move. Joe stepped forward, concern flickering across his face, but Cherry raised a hand, not to stop him, but to hold the space. To let it unfold.

“Icarus,” Cherry said, voice quieter now, stripped of its usual precision. “You don’t have to hide it.” Icarus shook their head, tears slipping down their cheeks in silent streaks. Their breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and they tried to speak, tried to say thank you or I’m sorry or I didn’t think I’d ever hear that — but the words tangled in their throat.

“I didn’t think…” they managed, voice cracking. “I didn’t think someone like you would ever…”

Cherry stepped closer, slow and deliberate, and reached out, not to comfort, not to console, but to witness. “You earned it,” he said. “Every fall. Every line. Every choice.”

Icarus’s knees buckled slightly, and Joe was there in an instant, steadying them with a hand on their back. They leaned into him, sobbing quietly now, the kind of crying that came from deep inside, not loud, not messy, but full. Their body shook with it, breath stuttering, hands curled into fists against Joe’s chest. Joe didn’t speak. He just held them, broad arms wrapped around their shoulders, grounding them like a tree in a storm.

Cherry stood beside them, gaze steady, hands folded again. But his silence was different now, not distant, not cold. It was reverent. Protective. Proud. “Icarus,” he said, voice low. “You skated like you meant it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to see.”

Icarus nodded into Joe’s chest, tears still falling, breath still uneven. They didn’t try to stop it. Not this time. Not here. Because this was the moment they’d never let themselves imagine, being held, being seen, being told they were enough. Not for winning. Not for performing. But for showing up. For skating their line.

For being themself.

Chapter 6: Makes it that more marvelous

Chapter Text

High above the track, perched on the rusted scaffolding that overlooked the final stretch, a lone figure watched the race unfold.

He was still, almost statuesque, legs crossed, notebook balanced on one knee. His long white hair spilled over his shoulders like moonlight, catching the glow of the floodlights in pale streaks. The outfit he wore was unmistakable, black and orange, combat-inspired, with sharp lines and bold straps, a clear homage to Katsuki Bakugou from My Hero Academia. It wasn’t cosplay. It was armor. Identity. A declaration.

No one at S knew his real name.

They called him Vultus — Latin for “look.” A skater, yes. A ghost, almost. He rarely raced. He rarely spoke. But he watched. Always watched.

And tonight, he was watching Icarus.

His eyes tracked every movement, the way Icarus dropped low on the descent, the way they carved the canyon walls with precision, the way they didn’t chase Shadow’s chaos but held their own rhythm. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t flinch. He just wrote.

Quick, sharp notes. Observations. Patterns. Potential.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the pen. When Icarus crossed the finish line, breathless and glowing, Vultus didn’t move. He watched Joe spin them in celebration. He watched Cherry Blossom step forward, quiet and proud. He watched Icarus cry, not from weakness, but from the weight of being seen.

And he wrote one last line. Then he closed the notebook. And vanished into the shadows.

The motel hallway was dim, lit by flickering fluorescents that buzzed like tired insects. The adrenaline still clung to Icarus' skin, warm and electric, their laughter echoing faintly off the peeling wallpaper as they fumbled with the key to their room. Their hoodie was half-zipped, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the race and the praise and the spinning warmth of Joe’s arms.

They were still smiling. Still floating.

The door creaked open, hinges groaning like old bones, and they stepped inside, the room small, stale, familiar. A single bed. A desk cluttered with sketches. A cracked mirror. The air smelled faintly of dust and cheap soap. They dropped their board by the wall, kicked off their boots, ready to crash face-first into the mattress and let the night replay in their head like a dream. But then they saw it.

A letter. Folded. Slipped halfway under the door, its corner curled like it had been waiting. They bent down, fingers brushing the paper, and unfolded it with the same hands that had just gripped the edge of a racing board. The same hands that had reached for victory. The same hands that had trembled under Cherry’s praise.

It was a rent notice. Final warning. Their breath caught. The smile faded.

The adrenaline drained from their limbs like water from a cracked cup. The room suddenly felt colder. Smaller. The walls closer. The mattress no longer soft, but sagging. The sketches on the desk looked like they belonged to someone else, someone who could afford to dream. They sat down slowly, letter still in hand, eyes scanning the numbers. The amount due. The date. The threat.

They couldn’t afford it. Not now. Not after new wheels. Not after skipping shifts to train. Not after choosing S over stability. Their chest tightened. The race had felt like flight. Like freedom. But this... this was gravity.

They curled forward, elbows on knees, the letter crumpling in their grip. The motel room was silent now. No cheering. No music. Just the buzz of the light overhead and the soft, steady sound of their breath trying not to break. The facade of Icarus had fallen away.And Theseus sat alone, in the quiet aftermath, wondering how long they could keep flying before the ground caught up.

Final notice. Rent due. Immediate payment required.

Theseus stared at it, the words blurring at the edges, but the meaning was sharp. It cut through the last remnants of adrenaline like a blade. The motel room, once dim and quiet, now felt suffocating, the air stale, the walls too close, the light overhead flickering like a warning.

Their breath hitched. Their chest tightened.

The carpet scratched against their palms as they tried to ground themselves, but the panic was already rising, fast, brutal, unstoppable. Their breath came in short, shallow bursts. Too fast. Too loud. Too much. Their vision narrowed. Their ears rang. Their heart pounded like it was trying to escape their ribs. They clawed at their hoodie, at their chest, at the air, trying to breathe, trying to breathe, but nothing helped. The room spun. The sketches on the desk blurred. The cracked mirror fractured their reflection into something unrecognizable. They gasped — a ragged, broken sound — and reached blindly for their phone, fingers trembling, screen lighting up in their palm. They opened their contacts. Reki’s name was right there. Familiar. Safe. Bright.

Their thumb hovered over the call button. They hesitated.

He’s probably busy. He’ll worry. You’ll be a burden. You should handle this alone.

Their hand shook violently, thumb still hovering, breath still stuttering. The panic surged again, a tidal wave crashing through their chest, and they let out a choked sob, the phone slipping from their grip.

They threw it. Not hard. Not with intent. Just a reflex, a desperate, flailing motion as their body curled inward, forehead pressed to the carpet, tears spilling hot and silent. The phone hit the floor with a dull thud, screen still glowing.

They didn’t see it. Didn’t hear the soft click as the call connected. Didn’t know that Reki was already picking up. They were too far gone, breath coming in staccato bursts, hands clenched, body shaking. The panic was a storm now, full and merciless, and they were drowning in it. They didn’t hear the voice on the other end.

“Icarus?” “…Theseus?” “Hey — are you okay?”

They sobbed harder, curled tighter, the motel room spinning around them like a cruel carousel. The letter was still there. The rent was still due. The world was still falling apart. But somewhere, through the haze, through the static, through the storm, Reki’s voice kept calling.

Reki had been halfway through brushing his teeth when his phone lit up with a call from Theseus. He blinked at the screen, surprised. They’d parted ways not long ago. Theseus laughing, flushed with adrenaline, still glowing from the race. He hadn’t expected a call. Not this soon. Not like this.He answered immediately.

“Hey, you good?”

Silence.

Then a sound. faint, muffled, like static and breath and something breaking. Reki’s heart dropped.

“Theseus?”

Still no answer. Just the distant rustle of movement, a choked sob, the unmistakable sound of someone trying, and failing, to breathe. He didn’t hesitate. He spat out the toothpaste, grabbed his keys, and bolted. The motel wasn’t far, but every second felt like a mile. Reki skated hard, cutting through the night like a flame, his board screaming against the pavement. He didn’t stop to think. Didn’t stop to worry about what he’d say. He just went.

When he reached the door to Theseus’s room, he didn’t knock. He tried the handle, locked. He knocked once, sharp and fast. “Theseus? It’s me. I’m here.”

No answer. He pressed his ear to the door. Heard it, the ragged breathing, the soft, broken sobs, the sound of someone falling apart. “Okay,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Okay, I’m coming in.”

He ran to the front desk, barely got the words out before the clerk handed him the spare key, startled by the urgency in his voice. Back at the door, he unlocked it with trembling hands. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering overhead light. The air was heavy, thick with panic and silence. And there, curled on the floor, hoodie pulled tight, face buried in the carpet, was Theseus. Reki dropped to his knees beside them.

“Hey. Hey, I’m here. You’re okay.” Theseus didn’t respond. Their body was shaking, breath coming in short, shallow bursts, fingers clawed into the carpet like they were trying to hold onto something solid. Reki didn’t touch them yet. He knew better. He just stayed close, voice low and steady. “You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m right here.” He reached out slowly, gently, and placed a hand near theirs, not touching, just there.

“Can you hear me?” he asked softly. “Can you breathe with me?” He inhaled, slow, deliberate. Exhaled. Again. Theseus didn’t match it at first. But their breath began to stutter. Then slow. Then catch. Reki moved closer, finally resting a hand on their back, grounding them.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

And slowly, slowly, Theseus began to come back. Their breath evened. Their body stilled. Their fingers unclenched. They didn’t speak. Not yet. But they turned toward him, eyes red, face damp, and Reki pulled them into a hug, firm, steady, real. “I’ve got you,” he said again. “You don’t have to do this alone.” And in the quiet aftermath, with the rent notice still lying on the floor and the weight of the world pressing in, Theseus let themselves be held.

Reki didn’t let go. He held Theseus close, arms wrapped around their shaking frame, grounding them with warmth and presence. The motel room was still dim, still flickering, still heavy with the scent of sweat and dust and panic, but the storm had begun to pass. Slowly. Carefully. Theseus’s breath was steadier now, though still uneven. Their face was damp, eyes red, fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of Reki’s hoodie like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Reki didn’t rush them. He just sat there, back against the wall, letting Theseus lean into him, letting the silence stretch without pressure. Outside, a car passed. The neon sign buzzed. The world kept turning.

Finally, Theseus shifted. Not much. Just enough to pull back slightly, enough to meet Reki’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to call you,” they whispered, voice hoarse. “I threw my phone.”

Reki gave a soft, crooked smile. “Good aim. I’m glad you did.” Theseus laughed, a broken, breathless sound, and wiped at their face with the sleeve of their hoodie. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’ve seen you fly,” Reki said gently. “I can handle the fall.” That undid them a little more. They looked down at the crumpled rent notice still lying on the floor, then back at Reki, throat tightening again.“I can’t pay it,” they said. “I’m behind. I skipped shifts to train. I bought new wheels. I thought if I just… if I just made it through the race, it would be worth it. That maybe someone would notice. That maybe I’d matter enough to make it work.”

Reki’s face softened, eyes wide with quiet understanding. “I didn’t want to ask for help,” Theseus continued. “I didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t keep it together. I didn’t want to ruin tonight.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Reki said. “You raced. You finished. You flew. That’s not nothing.”

Theseus shook their head, tears slipping again. “I feel like I’m always one step away from falling apart. Like I’m holding everything together with duct tape and hope.”

Reki reached out, took their hand, squeezed it gently. “You don’t have to hold it all alone,” he said. “You’ve got me. You’ve got Joe. Cherry. Miya. Langa. You’ve got us.”

Theseus looked at him, eyes shining, voice barely audible.

“Even like this?”

Reki nodded. “Especially like this.”

The panic had ebbed, but it hadn’t left. It clung to the corners of the room like smokel invisible, but heavy. Their eyes were red, their face pale, and the rent notice lay crumpled on the floor like a threat that hadn’t finished speaking. Reki hadn’t moved far from them since he arrived. He’d knelt beside them the moment the door opened, arms steady, voice low, anchoring them through the storm. Now he sat close, legs crossed, watching them with the kind of focus that didn’t blink. Protective. Fierce. Like he was ready to fight off anything that dared come near. He saw the way Theseus shivered, not from cold, but from exhaustion. From the weight of everything they’d been carrying alone.

Without a word, Reki peeled off his hoodie. It was oversized, soft, worn from years of skating and late-night hangouts. It smelled like pine shampoo and pavement and the kind of warmth that only came from someone who’d always had your back. He held it out.

“Here,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “Put this on.”

Theseus blinked, startled. “Reki, you don’t have to-”

“I do,” he said, already helping them slip it over their shoulders. “You’re shaking.”

The hoodie swallowed them whole. The sleeves covered their hands. The hem fell past their hips. It was warm. Immediate. Like being wrapped in something safe. Something solid. Reki sat back, now in just his t-shirt, arms bare and goosebumped from the chill. But he didn’t care. His eyes stayed on Theseus, scanning for any sign they were slipping again.

He shifted, leaning forward, voice low but steady. “You know,” he said, “my mom asked about you again.”

Theseus blinked, startled. “She did?”

Reki nodded. “She said if things ever got rough, you could stay with us. No questions. No pressure.”

Theseus looked down, fingers curling into the sleeves of his borrowed hoodie. “I didn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Reki said, firm now. “You’d be home.”

The word hung in the air like a lifeline.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You don’t have to stay here, worrying about rent and broken heaters and flickering lights. You can come with me. Tonight, even. We’ve got space. You’d have a bed. A door that locks. Food that isn’t instant noodles.”

Theseus’s breath hitched again, not from panic this time, but from the sheer weight of being offered safety. “I don’t want to be a burden,” they whispered.

Reki scoffed, soft but fierce. “You’re not. You’re family.”

Their shoulders shook, tears slipping silently down their cheeks again, but this time they didn’t curl inward. They leaned toward him, letting the warmth of his words settle into the cracks left by the panic.

“You’re coming with me,” he said. “No arguments.”

Theseus nodded against his shoulder, voice barely audible. “Okay.”

And in that moment, wrapped in Reki’s hoodie, held in arms that had always been ready to catch them.

They weren’t alone.

Not anymore.

The motel room was dim behind them, the air still heavy with the remnants of panic. Theseus stood in the doorway, wrapped in Reki’s hoodie, their board tucked under one arm, the rent notice left crumpled on the desk like a ghost they no longer had to carry. Reki held the room key in his hand, fingers curled tight around the plastic fob. He glanced at Theseus, eyes tired but steady, then nodded toward the front desk.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

They walked together down the narrow hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the carpet worn thin beneath their boots. Theseus stayed close, shoulders hunched, breath quiet. Reki didn’t rush them. He just walked beside them, solid and sure. The clerk at reception looked up as they approached, a bored teenager with earbuds in, chewing gum like it was a full-time job. Reki stepped forward, placing the key on the counter with a quiet finality.

“We’re checking out,” he said. “Room 12.”

The clerk blinked. “Uh… everything okay?”

Reki didn’t flinch. “We’re leaving. Won’t be back.”

The clerk shrugged, tapped something into the computer, and slid the key into a drawer. “Alright. Take care.”

Reki turned to Theseus, who was watching the exchange with wide, uncertain eyes. He reached out, rested a hand on their shoulder.

“You’re not coming back here,” he said softly. “You’re coming home.”

Theseus nodded, throat tight, eyes stinging again, but this time, it wasn’t panic. It was relief.

They stepped out into the night together, the motel behind them, the road ahead open. Reki’s hoodie was warm. His presence was steady. And for the first time in a long time, Theseus didn’t feel like they were running. They felt like they were going somewhere safe.

Theseus stood beside Reki in the parking lot, the night air cool against their flushed cheeks, the oversized hoodie hanging heavy on their frame. Their board was tucked under one arm, the other gripping the strap of their bag like it was the only anchor they had left. The panic had ebbed, but its residue clung to their ribs, a tremor in their breath, a tightness in their throat. Reki didn’t rush them. He just stood close, hands in his pockets, gaze steady. Protective. Like a big brother guarding the edge of a cliff.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

Theseus nodded, but it was small. Fragile. Like the word might crack if spoken aloud. They skated side by side through the quiet streets, wheels whispering against the pavement. The city had settled into its night time hush, windows glowing, trees rustling, the occasional car passing like a ghost. Reki kept pace just ahead, glancing back every few blocks to make sure they were still okay. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough, solid, grounding, a lighthouse in the dark. Theseus’s legs ached. Their chest still felt hollow. But they kept moving. Forward. Toward something.

When Reki’s house came into view, it looked different than it had before, not just familiar, but safe. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow across the steps. The curtains in the front window were drawn back slightly, and the scent of something sweet drifted faintly into the air, cinnamon, maybe. Cocoa. And then they saw her. Masae. She stood in the doorway, arms folded gently, her cardigan wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back, her expression soft but alert, the kind of look only mothers had. The kind that saw everything before you said a word. As soon as she spotted them, she stepped forward.

“Theseus,” she said, voice warm and steady. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Theseus froze for half a breath. Their throat tightened. Their grip on the board faltered. Then they dropped it. They stepped forward, and Masae met them halfway, wrapping them in a hug that melted every last bit of resistance. It was soft. Strong. Real. She held them like she’d been waiting all night. One hand cradled the back of their head, the other rubbed slow, soothing circles between their shoulder blades. Theseus didn’t try to speak. They just buried their face in her shoulder and cried, not from panic, but from the sheer relief of being held. Reki stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with a quiet intensity. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at them, proud, protective, home, said everything.

When Theseus finally pulled back, sniffling and flushed, Masae smiled and brushed their hair from their face. “You’re safe now,” she said. “You’re home.” She reached out and took their hand, guiding them gently inside. The house was warm, not just in temperature, but in feeling. The scent of cocoa and cinnamon filled the air. A mug was already waiting on the counter, steam curling into the air, marshmallows bobbing on top like little lifeboats.

“I made hot chocolate,” Masae said. “It’s your favorite, right? With the cinnamon?” Theseus nodded, voice too tangled to speak, and took the mug with both hands. It was warm. Immediate. Like being wrapped in something safe. Reki stepped inside behind them, kicking off his shoes, watching as Masae guided Theseus to the couch and tucked a blanket around their shoulders. “You’re welcome here,” she said softly. “As long as you need. As long as you want.”

Theseus looked up, eyes shining, voice barely audible. “Even like this?”

Masae smiled, brushing a strand of hair from their forehead.

“Especially like this.”

Chapter 8: What's up, danger? Ayy, don't be a stranger

Chapter Text

The city was quiet in that strange, sacred way only 3AM could offer, not silent, but hushed, like the world was holding its breath. The streetlights cast long, golden shadows across the pavement, and the air had that brittle chill that clung to skin and made every breath feel sharper than it should. Theseus walked slowly, their board tucked under one arm, Reki’s hoodie tied around their waist like a tether to something safe. The bandages Kojiro had wrapped around their palms were snug, still faintly stinging from the antiseptic, but they didn’t complain. Their knees ached. Their shoulder throbbed. But they kept walking.

Kojiro matched their pace, hands deep in his coat pockets, his breath fogging in the cold. He didn’t speak at first, just glanced at them now and then, checking for signs of another stumble, another wince. His presence was steady, like a lantern held just ahead in the dark. They passed shuttered shops and sleeping houses, the occasional cat darting across the road, the distant hum of a train somewhere far off. It felt like the world had folded in on itself, leaving just the two of them walking through the quiet.

“I just wanted to feel it,” Theseus said suddenly, voice low and raw. “The way Reki does.”

Kojiro looked over, brow furrowed. “Feel what?”

“The rush. The rhythm. The belonging.” They tightened their grip on the board. “I know I have my art. I know I can sketch and paint and capture things. But when I watch Reki skate, it’s like watching someone breathe. Like it’s in his bones. I wanted to match that. To be more than just the one who draws everyone else’s fire.”

Kojiro didn’t interrupt. He let the words spill, slow and uneven, like water finding its way through cracks.

“I thought if I pushed hard enough,” Theseus continued, “if I skated until I couldn’t feel my legs, if I bled for it, maybe I’d earn it. Maybe I’d be good enough to stand beside him and not feel like I’m just tagging along.” They stopped walking for a moment, staring down at the pavement. “But it hurts. And I don’t know if I’m chasing something I’ll never catch.”

Kojiro stepped beside them, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re not chasing Reki. You’re chasing your own fire. And it’s already burning.”

Theseus looked up, eyes shining. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Kojiro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think Reki never doubted himself? Never wiped out so hard he thought about quitting? He’s just loud about the joy. He hides the pain in motion.”

They started walking again, slower now. “My dad used to say rest was weakness,” Kojiro said after a moment. “Said if I wasn’t working, I was wasting time. I believed him for years. Thought if I stopped moving, I’d disappear.” Theseus glanced at him, startled. “That’s how mine were too. Not in words, but in looks. In silence. I was always too much or not enough. Too loud, too soft, too… me.”

Kojiro nodded. “Yeah. I get that.” They walked in silence for a few blocks, the rhythm of their steps syncing up, the weight of the conversation settling between them like a shared coat.

“I just want to be someone Reki’s proud of,” Theseus said finally. “Not just someone he protects.”

Kojiro stopped again, turning to face them fully. “He is proud of you. You think he’d give you his hoodie if he didn’t believe in you? You think he’d let you into his house, into his family, if he didn’t see something real in you?”

Theseus swallowed hard, throat tight. “I don’t know. I just… I want to be worth the space I take up.”

Kojiro reached out, ruffled their hair gently, not to fix it, but to remind them they were here. Real. Held.

“You’re not just good enough,” he said. “You’re yours. And that’s what makes you worth it.”

They stood there for a long moment, the streetlamp buzzing overhead, the wind tugging at their sleeves. Then Kojiro nudged their shoulder, gently. “Come on. Masae’s probably got breakfast waiting. And if you limp through the door, Kaoru’s gonna give me that look like I let you wrestle a bear.”

Theseus laughed, soft, real, tired. They started walking again, the house slowly coming into view at the end of the street, warm light spilling from the windows like a promise. And as the sky began to lighten, and the warmth of Reki’s home drew closer, Theseus carried their board like a vow.

The sky was beginning to pale, the stars fading into a soft, bruised blue as the first hints of dawn crept over the rooftops. The world was still mostly asleep, but the porch light at Reki’s house glowed like a lighthouse in the dark, warm, unwavering, waiting. Theseus limped slightly as they walked, the weight of the night settling into their bones. Their skateboard was tucked under one arm, and the bandages Kojiro had wrapped around their palms were snug, still faintly stinging beneath the gauze. Every step ached, but they didn’t complain. The pain was grounding. Real. Kojiro walked beside them, hands deep in his coat pockets, his stride easy but alert. He kept glancing at them out of the corner of his eye, like he was still half-expecting them to collapse again. The silence between them was companionable, filled with the soft rhythm of footfalls and the distant hum of a city beginning to stir.

They were halfway up the drive when the front door burst open with a bang. Masae stepped out onto the porch like a storm breaking, her cardigan flapping in the breeze, hair pulled back in a loose bun, eyes wide with worry and relief all tangled together. Her gaze locked onto Theseus instantly, scanning them from head to toe, the bruises, the bandages, the exhaustion etched into every line of their face.

“There you are!” she gasped, her voice sharp with emotion. “I woke up and you were gone, I checked the bathroom, the porch, the street, I thought—”

She didn’t finish. Her voice caught in her throat, and she took a step forward, arms half-raised, like she wasn’t sure whether to scold or embrace. But before she could move another inch-

“THESEUS!”

Reki’s voice cracked through the air like a firework. He was barefoot, still in pajama pants and a rumpled t-shirt, hair sticking up in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed and sprinted for the door. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and wild with panic. He didn’t hesitate. He launched himself off the porch like a missile, bare feet slapping against the wood, arms flung wide.

Theseus barely had time to brace before Reki collided with them in a full-body tackle, arms locking around their shoulders, legs wrapping around their waist, the force of it knocking the breath from their lungs. They staggered back a step, nearly dropping their board, and let out a startled laugh that cracked into a gasp.

“Don’t do that again!” Reki shouted, his voice muffled against their neck. “I woke up and you were gone and I thought- I thought something happened- I thought-”

“I’m okay,” Theseus whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m okay now.”

Reki pulled back just enough to look at them, his hands still gripping their shoulders like he was afraid they’d vanish again. His face was flushed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth trembled with everything he wasn’t saying. “You idiot,” he said, voice breaking. “You could’ve gotten hit by a car or passed out in a ditch or... or worse. What were you thinking?”

“I just… I couldn’t sleep,” Theseus murmured. “I needed to skate. I needed to feel like I could still move.”

Reki opened his mouth to argue again, but Kojiro stepped in, raising both hands like he was trying to calm a pair of feral cats.

“Okay, okay, let’s not yell at the emotionally fragile teenager who already faceplanted on asphalt tonight.”

Masae’s head snapped toward him. “Faceplanted?”

Kojiro winced. “Uh. Yeah. I found them skating near the river around three. Scraped up, exhausted, clearly running on fumes. I patched them up and walked them back.”

“You didn’t call?” she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Kojiro said, sheepish. “Figured if I brought them back in one piece, I’d earn forgiveness.”

Masae sighed, stepping forward to gently pry Reki off of Theseus. She cupped their face in both hands, her thumbs brushing over their cheeks, her touch feather-light but grounding. “You scared me,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “But I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I’m sorry,” Theseus whispered, eyes stinging.

“You’re home,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

Reki hovered beside them, arms crossed now, still glaring like he wanted to wrap them in bubble wrap and never let them leave again. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft.

Kojiro clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, drama king. Let’s get them inside before Kaoru wakes up and starts monologuing about responsibility and the sanctity of sleep when he sees my location.”

Reki snorted, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Too late. I think I saw his messages set to online.”

Theseus laughed, breathless, aching, but real.

Masae wrapped an arm around their shoulders and guided them gently up the steps, her warmth a steady presence at their side. Reki followed close behind, still grumbling under his breath. The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing the night outside. Inside, the house was warm. The lights were low, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon and tea, and the floor creaked in familiar, comforting ways.

The morning was still young, the sky a pale wash of blue, the air crisp with the kind of chill that clung to skin and made breath visible.

He’d woken up to silence. Just a blinking alert on his phone: Kojiro Ojiro — location pinged near Masae’s residence, 03:42 AM.

Kaoru had stared at it for a full minute, then checked the time again.

1:47 AM — Kaoru: Where are you.

2:03 AM — Kaoru: You left your keys. Again.

2:15 AM — Kaoru: Kojiro.

2:38 AM — Kaoru: If you’ve been kidnapped, blink twice.

3:01 AM — Kaoru: I’m not calling the police unless you’ve actually been murdered. Please confirm.

3:43 AM — Kaoru: Why are you near Masae’s house. Did you sleepwalk. Are you sleep-skating.

Now, standing outside with his phone in hand, Kaoru narrowed his eyes at the screen and began typing again thumbs moving with surgical precision.

4:58 AM — Kaoru: You have 30 seconds to explain why you’re out at dawn, near Reki’s house, with no prior warning, no backup plan, and no visible signs of brain activity.

4:59 AM — Kaoru: I have already drafted your obituary. It’s tasteful.

5:00 AM — Kaoru: Also, I’m assuming you’re with Theseus. If they’re hurt, I will personally revoke your spice privileges for a month.

He hit send, then immediately dialed. Voicemail. He hung up. Dialed again. Voicemail.

Kaoru sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered to himself, “He’s probably patching someone up with napkins and duct tape again.” Across the street, the porch light flickered on. The front door opened. Masae stepped out, followed by Reki, still in pajamas, and Theseus, hoodie tied around their waist, bandaged and blinking in the morning light. Kojiro trailed behind them, yawning, coat slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t slept at all.

Kaoru stared. Then his phone buzzed.

5:02 AM — Kojiro: Found Theseus skating at 3AM. Bandaged them. Walked them back. Didn’t die. You’re welcome.

Kaoru typed back instantly.

5:03 AM — Kaoru: You absolute menace. You couldn’t text me once? Not even a “hey, not dead”?

5:03 AM — Kojiro: Was busy being emotionally supportive. You should try it sometime.

Kaoru rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as cardio. He turned on his heel, coat flaring behind him, and began the walk back to his apartment above Sia La Luce. the quiet hum of the city rising around him, the scent of morning dew and distant espresso drifting through the air. But even as he walked, his phone stayed in his hand. Because Kojiro might be a disaster. But he was his disaster.

And Kaoru would keep texting until he got a proper explanation, or at least a promise that next time, someone would actually answer their damn phone.

The apartment above Sia La Luce was still and dim, the kind of quiet that only came after a long night. The first light of dawn filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across the wooden floor. The scent of dried basil and faint espresso lingered in the air, the signature of a kitchen that never truly slept. Kojiro unlocked the door with a soft click, stepping inside with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His coat was slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp with mist from the walk back. The apartment was warm, familiar, and usually empty at this hour.

But something was off. He paused in the entryway, frowning. There was a pair of shoes by the door that weren’t his, polished, narrow, unmistakably Kaoru’s. Kojiro’s brow furrowed as he stepped further in, the floor creaking softly beneath his feet. Then he saw it. Kaoru was curled up on his bed, still fully dressed in his usual yukata, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other draped across his chest. His phone rested loosely in his hand, the screen still glowing faintly with their chat thread. His glasses were askew on his face, one lens slightly fogged from sleep.

Kojiro blinked. “…What the hell?”

He stepped closer, careful not to make too much noise. Kaoru didn’t stir. His breathing was slow and even, his face relaxed in a way Kojiro rarely saw, the sharp lines of his brow softened, his mouth slack with exhaustion. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders had melted into the mattress. Kojiro crouched beside the bed, peering at the phone still lit in Kaoru’s hand. The last message glared up at him in crisp white text:

Kojiro huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You dramatic idiot.” He reached out, slow and careful, and gently pried the phone from Kaoru’s fingers. The screen dimmed as he locked it, setting it down on the nightstand beside the bed. Then, with practiced ease, he reached for Kaoru’s glasses, sliding them off and folding them neatly before placing them beside the phone.

Kaoru murmured something unintelligible and shifted slightly, his brow twitching as if on the edge of waking. Kojiro froze, hand still hovering near his face. But Kaoru didn’t wake. Kojiro exhaled slowly, then reached out again, brushing a few strands of Kaoru’s hair back from his face. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent — fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary before retreating.

“You could’ve just waited for me to come home,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Would’ve saved yourself the trouble.” He stood, stretching the stiffness from his back, and crossed the room to the wardrobe. The hinges creaked softly as he opened it, pulling out a clean black shirt and his folded apron. He changed quickly, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone used to early mornings and long shifts. Before leaving, he returned to the bedside one last time. Kaoru was still asleep, curled on his side now, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. Kojiro pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, smoothing it down with a tenderness that belied his usual bluster. He adjusted the pillow slightly, making sure Kaoru’s head was supported, then stood back and took one last look, "I love you, Koaru."

The apartment was still quiet. The city was beginning to wake. Kojiro grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, slung his apron over his shoulder, and slipped out into the morning light. Downstairs, the café would be waiting, ovens to preheat, dough to roll, the first customers to greet with sleepy smiles and hot coffee. But for now, as he descended the stairs, Kojiro carried with him the image of Kaoru asleep in his bed, safe and still, the phone finally quiet.

And somehow, that made the day feel a little lighter.

Chapter 9: 'Cause I like high chances that I might lose (lose)

Chapter Text

The light was wrong.

Theseus stirred slowly, their body heavy with sleep, limbs tangled in the blanket like seaweed caught in drift. The air was warm, sun-drenched, and far too bright for morning. They blinked against the golden haze spilling through the curtains, heart already beginning to race. Something was off.

They sat up fast, Reki’s hoodie slipping from one shoulder, hair mussed and sticking to their cheek. The clock on the wall blinked back at them in quiet betrayal.

12:03 PM.

Their breath caught. “Shit.” They scrambled out of bed, socks sliding on the wooden floor, nearly tripping over their sketchbook and the hoodie sleeves dragging behind them. The house was silent, no clatter of skateboards, no Reki yelling about toast, no giggling from his sisters. Just the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside.

“Reki?” they called, voice cracking. “Hello?” The living room was empty. The kitchen was spotless. The breakfast table was cleared, chairs tucked in. Even the front door was locked. No sign of Reki. No sign of his sisters. No half-eaten toast or spilled juice or chaos. Panic bloomed in their chest like a bruise. Had they missed school? Had Reki left without them? Had they...

They bolted to the front door, yanked it open, and stumbled barefoot onto the porch. The sun was high, the garden bathed in light. Masae knelt beside a row of herbs, her sunhat tilted just so, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in the soil. She looked up as the door slammed behind Theseus, her expression calm, her eyes already knowing. “Masae!” Theseus gasped, stumbling down the steps. “I overslept- Reki’s gone- I-”

Masae stood slowly, brushing soil from her palms, and walked over with the kind of grace that only came from years of motherhood. She placed a gentle hand on Theseus’s shoulder, grounding them instantly. “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” she said, voice warm and steady.

“I missed school,” Theseus stammered. “I didn’t mean to- I was going to-”

“I called you in sick,” Masae said simply.

Theseus blinked. “You… what?”

“You needed rest,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “After everything this week, I wasn’t about to let you drag yourself to school half-alive. Reki agreed. He took the girls and left early so you could sleep.”

“But- I didn’t ask- I should’ve-”

“No buts,” Masae said, brushing a strand of hair from their face with her thumb. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re supposed to rest.”

Theseus stood there, hoodie sleeves hanging past their fingers, breath still catching in their throat. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” they mumbled.

Masae’s eyes softened. “You’re not. You’re family.”

The words hit like warmth in cold water, sudden, enveloping, real. She turned back toward the porch, motioning for Theseus to follow. “Now, Miya’s off today. Teacher training. Why don’t you call him? Invite him over. I’m making melon pan later.”

Theseus blinked. “Wait, Miya’s free?”

Masae smiled, already stepping inside. “He’s probably bored out of his mind. Go on. You could use a little fun.”

Theseus nodded slowly, the panic ebbing into something quieter. They pulled out their phone, fingers still trembling slightly, and opened their messages. The screen lit up with familiar names. They tapped Miya’s contact, thumbs hovering for a moment before typing.

Theseus: Hey. You free? Want to come over? Masae’s making melon pan.

They hit send, heart still fluttering, but lighter now. The porch was warm beneath their feet. The breeze tugged gently at their sleeves. Inside, the scent of rising dough and lemon soap drifted through the air, soft and comforting. The day hadn’t started the way they expected.

Theseus’s room was a riot of color and character, shelves stacked with manga volumes like bricks in a fortress, posters layered across the walls in a collage of reds, blacks, and electric blues. Toga Himiko grinned from the corner of the desk, Bakugou mid-blast beside her, Dazai Osamu slouched dramatically near a jar of paintbrushes. Gogol Nikolai and Sigma from BSD shared a floating shelf, their expressions frozen in plastic intensity. The air smelled of acrylic paint, graphite, and the faint citrus of a half-finished candle on the windowsill. The floor was a soft chaos, open sketchbooks, scattered pens, tubes of gouache and acrylic, a half-finished canvas leaning against the wall. In the middle of it all sat Theseus and Miya, cross-legged on a drop cloth, the black skateboard resting between them like a blank canvas waiting to be claimed.

Miya still wore the jacket Theseus had lent him months ago, the one from the first time they met. It was slightly oversized on him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the fabric worn in places from use but still unmistakably theirs. He hadn’t given it back. Neither of them had mentioned it. It had simply become part of him, as it was once apart of them, like the way he always looped his headphones around his neck or carried his sketchbook tucked under one arm.

He leaned forward now, red paint pen uncapped in one hand, his other smudged with streaks of silver and white. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration as he traced the outline of the Spider-Man logo, bold, angular, perfectly centered on the underside of the board. “Theseus,” he said, not looking up, “your room is like if a convention booth and an art studio had a very enthusiastic child.”

Theseus snorted, dipping a brush into crimson. “It’s organized chaos. Mostly chaos.”

“I respect it,” Miya said, nodding solemnly. “Also, I’m stealing your silver gel pen later. That thing glides like butter.”

“You can borrow it,” Theseus said, nudging him with their elbow. “But if you take it, I will hunt you down.”

“Fair,” Miya grinned.

They worked in tandem, Miya sketching the webbed outline, Theseus filling in the red with careful, deliberate strokes. The paint gleamed under the overhead light, catching the edges of the design like a polished gem. The black deck made the red pop, bold and vivid, like it had always belonged there.

“Theseus,” Miya said after a while, sitting back and surveying their work, “this is gonna look sick when you skate. Like, superhero-level cool.”

Theseus smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind their ear. “I wanted something that felt like me. But also like I’m part of something. Like I belong on the ramp.”

Miya glanced at them, expression softening. “You do. You already do.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need filling. Just the sound of paintbrushes tapping against jars, the quiet hum of the fan, and the distant chirp of birds outside.

“Theseus,” Miya said again, quieter this time. “You know you’re not just tagging along, right? You’re part of the crew. Your art, your skating, your you-ness, it matters.”

Theseus looked down at the board, the red logo gleaming like a heartbeat. “I’m trying,” they said. “I want to be good enough.”

“You already are,” Miya said. “But if you ever forget, I’ll paint it on your board in neon pink.”

Theseus laughed, the sound light and real. And as they added the final touches, a thin silver outline, a few stylized web strands curling at the edges, the board transformed. Not just a tool. Not just a surface.A declaration.

And Miya, still wrapped in the jacket Theseus had once offered without hesitation, sat beside them like he’d always been there, a quiet reminder that some bonds don’t need words to stay strong.

The Spider-Man logo was coming to life.

The red paint gleamed under the overhead light, bold against the matte black of the skateboard deck. Miya leaned in with a silver pen, tracing the outer webbing with careful precision, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Theseus sat beside him, brush in hand, adding delicate highlights to the eyes, a soft shimmer that made the whole thing pop.

The room was warm with quiet energy, the hum of the fan, the scent of paint and graphite, the soft rustle of manga pages shifting in the breeze. Toga Himiko watched from the desk, Bakugou glared from the shelf, and Dazai Osamu slouched dramatically beside a jar of brushes. The walls were a collage of color and chaos, and the floor was a battlefield of art supplies.

Then Theseus’s phone buzzed.

They blinked, reaching for it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen.

Discord — strwcherri: HEYYYYY, ARE YOU GONNA DO ART FIGHT AGAIN BTWWW?? ALSO ARE YOU GHOSTING ME ITS BEEN DAYS. IM GONNA NEED THE WEE WOO WEE WOO IF YOU TAKE ANY LONGER TO RESPOND 💕💕

Theseus smiled, thumbs already moving.

Theseus: I’m not ghosting you I’m painting a skateboard with Miya rn

They snapped a quick photo, Miya hunched over the board, silver pen in hand, the Spider-Man logo half-finished and gleaming. Theseus’s own hand was visible in the corner, brush poised mid-stroke. The background was a blur of anime figures and scattered paint tubes.

Theseus: look

Cher responded instantly.

strwcherri: OHMYG THATS SO COOL. OKAY BUT YOU BETTER JOIN NEXT YEAR ICON.

Theseus laughed softly, then locked the phone and tossed it gently onto the bed.

“Cher?” Miya asked, not looking up.

“Yeah,” Theseus said. “She wants me to do Art Fight next year.”

“You should,” Miya said, adding a final curl to the webbing. “You’d destroy everyone. In a good way.”

Theseus smiled, the tension in their shoulders easing. They dipped their brush again, leaned in, and refocused.

The board was nearly done now, red and silver and bold, a declaration of movement and belonging. And beside them, Miya kept sketching, jacket sleeves rolled up, laughter still lingering in the air.

And for a while, the world was just color, and friendship, and the quiet joy of making something together.

The Spider-Man logo gleamed under the soft light, bold and vivid against the matte black deck. The silver webbing caught the edges of the light like threads of glass, and the red shimmered like it had been poured straight from a comic panel. The board lay flat on the drop cloth, drying slowly, surrounded by scattered pens, paint jars, and the quiet hum of satisfaction.

Miya leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. The jacket Theseus had lent him months ago, still his, still worn, hung loose around his shoulders, sleeves pushed up and flecked with red paint. He tilted his head toward the board, then toward Theseus.

“So,” he said, “what do we do while it dries? Stare at it and hope it doesn’t smudge?”

Theseus snorted, wiping a bit of paint off their thumb with a tissue. “Tempting. But I was thinking…” They stood, stretching, hoodie sleeves swinging. “Food.”

Miya perked up. “Food?”

“Theseus nodded. “I’ll buy. My treat. You’ve earned it.”

Miya grinned, already grabbing his phone. “I always earn it. What are we thinking? Onigiri? Udon? Something greasy and glorious?”

“You pick,” Theseus said, already tugging on their shoes. “Just not too far. I don’t want the board to dry alone and develop abandonment issues.”

Miya laughed, standing and brushing off his knees. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re still wearing my jacket,” Theseus said, smirking.

Miya paused. Flipped them off, and continued on.

They grabbed their wallets, locked the door behind them, and stepped out into the afternoon sun, the air crisp, the sky clear, and the scent of melon pan still lingering faintly from the kitchen.

And as they walked side by side down the street, the skateboard drying quietly back in the room they’d filled with laughter and color, the day stretched out ahead of them, full of food, friendship, and the kind of warmth that didn’t need explaining.

They ended up at a ramen place tucked between a stationery store and a laundromat, narrow, cozy, with fogged windows and a handwritten menu taped to the glass. Inside, the air was warm and fragrant, filled with the sound of clinking bowls and soft jazz playing from a dusty speaker in the corner.

They slid into a booth, the vinyl seats squeaking under them. Miya immediately grabbed the menu and pointed at the most overloaded bowl on the list.

“I want this one,” he said. “Extra egg, extra pork, extra noodles. No regrets.”

“Theseus raised an eyebrow. “You planning to skate or hibernate after this?”

“Hibernate on the skateboard,” Miya said, grinning.

They ordered, and soon the table was filled with steam and color, bowls of rich broth, glistening noodles, soft-boiled eggs, and thick slices of pork belly. Miya dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten since the Meiji era.

Halfway through slurping a mouthful of noodles, he paused, squinting at Theseus.

“So. Art Fight.”

Theseus blinked. “What?”

“Cher messaged you,” Miya said, pointing at their phone on the table. “I saw the notification. You sent her a pic of us painting. She’s already planning your downfall.”

Theseus laughed, picking up their phone and unlocking it. Cher had responded with a string of emojis and a dramatic threat to “obliterate you with sparkles and angst.”

“She’s relentless,” Theseus said, smiling. “But I might actually do it next year.”

Miya leaned forward, chopsticks poised. “You better. I want to see you go full chaos mode. Paint explosions. Dramatic lighting.”

Theseus snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m inspired,” Miya said, pointing at them with a noodle. “Also, if you don’t join, I’m telling Masae you skipped out on melon pan for no reason.”

“That’s evil.”

“I contain multitudes.”

They finished their meal slowly, the conversation drifting from art fight strategies to anime debates to whether Bakugou would survive a dinner with Masae (verdict: barely).

The light outside turned soft and golden, casting a gentle glow through the fogged windows of the ramen shop. The jazz playing from the corner speaker had shifted to something slower, more melodic, the kind of tune that made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion, deliberate, unhurried. To all of you, by Syd Matters.

Their bowls were mostly empty now, just a few strands of noodles left floating in rich broth, the eggs long gone, the pork devoured. Miya leaned back against the booth, one leg stretched out, the other tucked under him.

Theseus sat across from him, chin resting on their hand, watching the way the light caught in Miya’s hair, how the steam from the bowl curled upward like a breath. Their phone buzzed again, a soft vibration against the tabletop.

They glanced down.

Strwcherri: OKAY. BUT IF YOU DON'T JOIN ARTFIGHT IM SENDING YOU CURSED AMBULENCE DRAWINGS EVERYDAY UNTIL JULY HASHSHSHSHS

Theseus snorted, thumb tapping out a reply.

Theseus: you already do that

They snapped another photo, Miya mid-lounge, the empty bowls between them, the soft golden light painting everything in warmth, and sent it off with a caption:

Theseus: we’re digesting and glowing. I’ll think about it.

Then they locked the phone and slid it aside, letting it rest against the salt shaker.

Miya raised an eyebrow. “Cher again?”

“Yeah,” Theseus said. “She’s threatening me with memes if I don’t join Art Fight.”

Miya grinned. “Honestly? That’s fair. You’d crush it. You’ve got the style, the drama, the emotional damage.”

Theseus laughed. “Thanks, I think.”

Theseus looked down at their hands, still faintly stained with red paint, then back at Miya.

“I’m scared I’ll mess it up,” they admitted.

Miya shrugged. “So mess it up. That’s half the fun. The other half is making people cry with how good you are."

They smiled, soft and crooked, and the silence that followed was easy, the kind that wrapped around them like a blanket.

Outside, the sky deepened into amber. The ramen shop They snapped another photo — Miya mid-lounge, quieter, the clink of dishes fading, Syd Matters humming low.

And inside, at a corner booth with empty bowls and shared warmth, Theseus and Miya stayed a little longer, not because they had to, but because the moment was too good to leave just yet.

Theseus leaned forward, resting their chin on their hand, eyes distant.

“Hey,” they said, voice low, thoughtful. “There’s someone I keep seeing at S.”

Miya glanced up. “Yeah?”

“They’re always there,” Theseus continued. “Not skating. Not talking. Just… lurking. Sitting off to the side with this beat-up notebook. They write in it constantly. Like, pages and pages. I’ve seen them sketch too, but never anything big. They never join in. Never even look up unless someone wipes out.”

Miya’s expression shifted, recognition flickering behind his eyes.

“They wear a hoodie with the sleeves chewed up,” Theseus added. “And they’ve got this kind of… intense vibe. Not scary, just, like they’re watching everything but not saying a word.”

Miya nodded slowly. “That’s Vultus.”

Theseus blinked. “Wait, you know them?”

"I mean, not know know,” Miya said, sitting up a little straighter. “But yeah. Everyone calls them Vultus. Real name’s Kakeru, I think. They’ve been around forever. Kind of a ghost. People say they rollarskate, but I’ve never seen it.”

Theseus tilted their head. “They seem… interesting.”

“They do,” Miya agreed. “Honestly? They seem really cool. But I don’t want to approach them.”

“Why not?”

Miya shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like- they’ve got this bubble around them. Not unfriendly, just… private. Like if you talk to them, you’re interrupting something important.”

Theseus nodded slowly, picturing the way Vultus sat, legs crossed, pen moving fast, eyes flicking up only when something broke the rhythm of the park.

“I kind of want to talk to them,” they said. “But I don’t want to be weird.”

Miya smirked. “You are weird, stupid slime."

Theseus rolled their eyes, but smiled.

Outside, the light continued to soften, and inside the ramen shop, the conversation drifted, from Vultus’s quiet mystery to the possibility of reaching out, to the way some people carry stories in silence.

And maybe, just maybe, Theseus would find a way to step into that silence and say hello.

The ramen shop had grown quiet, the last few customers lingering over broth and conversation. Outside, the sky had shifted, no longer golden, but streaked with soft pinks and deepening blues. The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement, and the air had cooled just enough to make the warmth of the shop feel like a memory.

Miya stretched, jacket sleeves tugged down again, and stood with a satisfied sigh. “Alright. I’m officially full enough to roll downhill.”

Theseus stood too, brushing off their hoodie and grabbing their phone from the table. “You want me to walk you home?”

Miya blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Theseus said, already stepping toward the door. “But it’s getting dark. I want to make sure you get there safe.”

Miya didn’t argue.

They stepped out into the evening together, the street lights flickering on one by one, casting warm pools of light across the sidewalk. The breeze tugged gently at their sleeves, and the scent of grilled food and autumn leaves drifted through the air.

They walked side by side, not speaking much at first, just the rhythm of footsteps, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the soft rustle of trees overhead. Miya’s house wasn’t far, tucked behind a quiet row of shops and a narrow alley lined with ivy-covered fences.

“Theseus,” Miya said after a while, voice low, “you’re kind of a menace.”

Theseus glanced over. “What did I do?”

“You keep doing stuff like this,” Miya said. “Walking me home. Lending me jackets. Buying me food. Making me feel like I’m not just some gremlin who lives off instant noodles and spite.”

Theseus smiled, soft and crooked. “You’re my gremlin.”

Miya snorted. “Gross. Sentimental. I hate it.”

But he didn’t pull away.

They reached his building just as the last light faded from the sky, the windows glowing faintly from inside. Miya paused at the gate, turning to face Theseus.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?”

Theseus shook their head. “Nah. I should get back. The board’s probably dry by now.”

Miya nodded, then hesitated. “Thanks. For walking me.”

“Anytime,” Theseus said. “Text me when you’re inside.”

Miya rolled his eyes but smiled. “Fine. But only because you’re bossy.”

He slipped through the gate, the latch clicking behind him, and disappeared into the stairwell. A moment later, Theseus’s phone buzzed.

Miya: Inside. Alive. Still full. Still wearing your jacket. Still repulsed at your slimey sappiness.

Theseus laughed, pocketed their phone, and turned back toward the street, the night unfolding around them, quiet and steady.

And as they walked home alone, the skateboard waiting, the stars beginning to blink into view, they felt it again.

Not just safety.

But care.

The night had settled into stillness.

Streetlights cast long pools of amber across the pavement, and the breeze carried the faint scent of rain and ramen broth. Theseus walked alone, hoodie zipped up, hands tucked into their pockets, the skateboard back home drying in quiet triumph. The city was quieter now, just the occasional hum of a passing car, the rustle of leaves, and the soft rhythm of their footsteps.

Their phone buzzed in their pocket.

They pulled it out, expecting a text, maybe Miya sending a meme or Reki asking about dinner, but it was a call.

Teebz 🦇🖤 is calling…

Theseus blinked, then answered.

“Hello?”

“WHY are you walking alone at midnight like a Victorian ghost?” Teebz’s voice burst through the speaker, dramatic and unmistakably theirs. “Your location says you’re halfway to the moon and I know you’re not on a date because you’d have told me.”

Theseus laughed, the sound echoing softly in the empty street. “I walked Miya home. He lives close to the ramen place. I didn’t want him walking alone.”

Teebz gasped. “You’re being responsible? Who are you and what have you done with twin?”

“I’m evolving,” Theseus said solemnly. “Into a slightly less feral version of myself.”

“Gross,” Teebz replied. “I liked you feral. But also, that’s sweet. You’re like a little bat escorting your goblin friend through the night.”

Theseus snorted. “You’re the bat.”

“Excuse you, I’m the bat alpha. There’s a difference, gang.”

They passed under another streetlight, the glow catching on the edge of their hoodie, painting their shadow long and soft across the pavement.

“I’m almost home,” Theseus said. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t freak me out,” Teebz said. “I just saw your dot on the map and went ‘hmm, that’s suspiciously heroic behavior.’ Had to investigate.”

“Well,” Theseus said, smiling, “case closed.”

“Fine,” Teebz sighed. “But next time you go on a midnight ramen quest, invite me. I want noodles and drama.”

“You’ll get both,” Theseus promised.

“Good. Now go home before I start narrating your walk like a tragic anime ending.”

Theseus laughed again, the sound light and real.

“Night, Teebz.”

“Night, Iccy.”

The call ended, and the silence returned, but it felt warmer now, threaded with laughter and the kind of friendship that made even empty streets feel less lonely.

And as Theseus turned the final corner toward home, the skateboard waiting, and the stars blinking overhead.

The streets had emptied, the sky deepened into a velvet blue, and the streetlights cast long, golden shadows across the pavement. Theseus walked slowly, hands tucked into their hoodie, the night pressing in soft and cool around them. The ramen still sat warm in their stomach, and Miya’s laughter lingered like a melody in their ears.

Their phone stayed silent now, Teebz’s call already fading into memory. The city felt distant, like it had curled inward for sleep, leaving only the hush of wind and the occasional hum of a passing car.

By the time they reached the house, the porch light was on — warm and steady, like a beacon. They unlocked the door quietly, stepping inside and slipping off their shoes with practiced ease.

The house smelled faintly of melon pan and laundry detergent. The living room was dim, the kitchen light casting a soft glow across the floor. Masae was there, wiping down the counter, her cardigan draped over her shoulders, hair pulled back in a loose bun.

She looked up as Theseus entered, her expression softening instantly.

“Welcome home,” she said gently. “Did you eat?”

Theseus nodded, voice low. “Ramen. With Miya.”

Masae smiled, setting the cloth aside. “Good. You look tired.”

“I’m okay,” Theseus said, pulling their sleeves down. “Just needed the walk.”

She stepped closer, brushing a bit of hair from their face. “How was your day?”

Theseus hesitated, then smiled. “Colourful. We painted my board."

“I’m glad,” Masae said. “You’ve been carrying a lot lately.”

They nodded, the weight of the week still lingering in their shoulders.

“Oh,” Masae added, glancing toward the hallway. “Reki’s in his room. Langa’s over.”

Theseus blinked. “Langa?”

She nodded. “He came by after school. They’ve been holed up in there for hours. I think they’re working on something skate-related. Or just being loud.”

Theseus smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

Masae reached out, squeezing their shoulder gently. “You can go say hi if you want. Or rest. Whatever you need.”

Theseus nodded. “I’ll check on them.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow spilling from the kitchen and the faint light under Reki’s door. The house creaked gently beneath their feet, familiar, grounding. They moved slowly, hoodie sleeves brushing their knuckles, heart thudding a little harder than it should.

They paused outside Reki’s room, knuckles hovering just above the doorframe. Voices murmured inside, low, laughing, the kind of rhythm that came from years of knowing each other. Theseus knocked gently.

“Come in,” Reki called.

They pushed the door open.

The room was warm, cluttered, alive. Skate parts scattered across the desk, posters peeling slightly at the corners, a half-eaten bag of crisps on the floor. Reki was sitting cross-legged on the bed, gesturing wildly with a screwdriver in hand. Langa was beside him, legs stretched out, watching with quiet amusement.

And they were both wearing each other’s hoodies.

Reki’s was oversized on Langa, sleeves swallowed his hands, the hem brushing his thighs. Langa’s hoodie clung tighter to Reki’s frame, the pale blue fabric soft and worn at the cuffs. It was unmistakable. Unmissable.

Theseus swallowed, trying not to stare.

“Hey,” Reki said, brightening. “You’re back! How’s the board?”

“Dry,” Theseus said, stepping inside. “Looks good. Miya helped.”

Langa smiled. “Spider-Man, right?”

Theseus nodded, shifting their weight. “Red and silver. It pops.”

Reki grinned. “You’ll have to show us tomorrow. We’re thinking of hitting S early.”

“Cool,” Theseus said, voice quieter than they meant.

Reki tilted his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Theseus said quickly. “Just tired. Long day.”

Langa offered a soft smile. “You want to sit?”

Theseus hesitated, then shook their head. “I’m gonna crash soon. Just wanted to check in.”

Reki nodded, eyes warm. “Thanks for coming by.”

Theseus lingered for a moment longer, the laughter between them still echoing, the hoodies still unmistakable. Then they turned, stepping back into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

And as they walked back to their room, past the quiet hum of the house, past the scent of melon pan still lingering in the air, they tried not to think too hard about the ache in their chest.

About how warm it felt to be part of something.

And how cold it could feel to be just outside it.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Theseus lay curled on their side, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, the soft hum of the fan the only sound in the room. The clock on their phone read 11:42 PM. Almost midnight. Almost time for S.

Normally, by now, Reki would’ve knocked.

Even when Theseus said no, even when they were tired, or sore, or buried under blankets and sketchbooks, Reki always came. Always peeked in. Always asked again.

Just in case.

But tonight, the hallway stayed silent.

No knock. No voice. No Reki.

Theseus sat up slowly, heart thudding in their chest. They padded to the door, cracked it open, listened.

Laughter.

Reki’s voice, muffled through the walls. Langa’s too. The front door creaked open, then shut again. Footsteps fading down the street.

Gone.

They didn’t come.

Reki didn’t come.

He forgot.

Because he was with Langa.

Theseus stood in the hallway for a long moment, the silence pressing in like fog. Their throat tightened, eyes stinging before they even understood why.

It wasn’t anger. Not really.

It was something quieter. Something smaller.

A hollow space where something used to be.

They returned to their room, shut the door softly behind them, and sat on the edge of the bed. The hoodie felt heavier now. The room colder. The board they’d painted with Miya leaned against the wall, gleaming faintly in the low light.

And Theseus cried.

Not loudly.

Just enough to feel it.

They didn’t know why it hurt so much. Why this one night, this one missed knock, felt like a crack in something they hadn’t realized was fragile.

They just knew it did.

And in the stillness before midnight, with the sound of wheels long gone, they curled up and let the ache settle.

Not just forgotten.

But left behind.

Theseus lay curled on their side, blanket pulled tight, the glow of their phone screen the only light in the room. It was past midnight. S was already alive, wheels on pavement, music echoing through the hill, laughter bouncing off concrete.

Reki hadn’t knocked.

He hadn’t checked.

He’d just left.

With Langa.

The ache in Theseus’s chest wasn’t sharp. It was slow. Quiet. Like something had slipped out of place and no one noticed.

Their phone buzzed.

Kaoru S.: You’re not at S.

Theseus stared at the message, thumb hovering. Kaoru never messaged without reason. He noticed things. He always noticed.

They didn’t reply.

Another buzz.

Kaoru S.: Reki’s here. With Langa. You’re usually with him. Miya's worried, too.

Still, no reply.

Then another.

Kojiro N. (Joe): Kid, you ghosting us?

Kojiro N.: Koaru says you’re not here. That true?

The screen lit again.

Group Chat Created: “fatherly intervension” Kojiro N. added Kaoru S. and Theseus.

Kojiro N.: Say something.

Kaoru S.: You’re not hurt, are you?

Kojiro N.: Or sick?

Kaoru S.: Or just not coming?

The messages sat there, quiet and sharp. Not warm. Not soft. Just questions. Just absence.

Theseus didn’t respond.

They set the phone down, face-first on the blanket, and curled tighter into themselves. The ache hadn’t gone. It had just settled deeper.

Outside, the night kept moving. S kept spinning. Reki kept laughing.

And inside, Theseus stayed still.

Not just forgotten.

But missing.

S was electric tonight.

The air buzzed with the familiar thrum of wheels on concrete, the sharp scent of ozone and sweat, the pulse of music thudding through the bones of the hill. Floodlights cast long shadows across the asphalt, catching the glint of trucks and the blur of motion as skaters carved through the course. Laughter echoed from the sidelines, mingling with the scrape of decks and the occasional cheer when someone landed clean.

Reki was in his element, flushed from the rush of his last run, board tucked under one arm, grinning as he and Langa leaned against a rusted guardrail near the top of the slope. Langa was sipping from a vending machine can, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tousled from the wind.

They were talking about grip tape designs. Reki was halfway through describing a new flame pattern he wanted to try when a familiar voice cut through the noise behind them.

“Where’s Theseus?”

Reki turned.

Joe stood there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His usual easygoing grin was absent, replaced by something quieter. Kaoru stood just behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable but sharp.

Reki blinked. “Huh?”

Joe nodded toward the crowd. “Haven’t seen them all night.”

Kaoru’s voice was low. “They’re not answering messages.”

Reki’s smile faltered. “Wait...what?”

Joe pulled out his phone, screen glowing faintly in the dark. “I texted. Kaoru did too. Nothing. No read receipts. No reply.”

Kaoru added, “They’re not here. And you didn’t bring them.”

Reki’s stomach twisted.

“I… I didn’t think—” he started, then stopped. “Langa showed up early. We were gonna test the new wheels and...”

“You always check,” Kaoru said, voice flat.

Reki’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Because it was true.

He always knocked. Even when Theseus said no, even when they were half-asleep or curled up in a hoodie with paint still drying on their hands, he always checked. Always asked again. Just in case.

But tonight, he hadn’t.

Because Langa had shown up early. Because he was excited. Because he’d assumed.

And now, standing under the lights of S, with the music still playing and the crowd still moving, Reki felt it, the absence.

Not just that Theseus wasn’t here.

But that he hadn’t noticed.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over their name in his messages. The last one was from yesterday — a photo of the Spider-Man board, freshly painted, captioned “it’s dry now :}”

He hadn’t even replied.

Reki’s chest tightened.

He looked up, eyes scanning the crowd again, as if maybe he’d just missed them. As if maybe they were here, just out of sight, hoodie pulled up, watching from the shadows like they sometimes did.

But they weren’t.

And he knew it.

The crowd roared as Miya and Shadow crossed the finish line, wheels sparking, sweat gleaming, adrenaline still thrumming in their limbs. Miya skidded to a stop with a flourish, Shadow just behind him, both panting and grinning as they high-fived and coasted toward the sidelines.

They spotted the cluster of familiar figures, Cherry, Joe, Reki, and Langa, standing near the guardrail, boards idle, conversation paused. Something in their posture was off. Reki wasn’t smiling. Cherry’s arms were still folded. Joe’s phone was out, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore.

Miya rolled up first, jacket flapping behind him, eyes sharp.

“What’s going on?” he asked, breath still catching. “You all look like someone just wiped out in slow motion.”

Shadow followed, frowning. “Did something happen?”

Joe glanced at Cherry, then at Reki.

“Have either of you seen Theseus tonight?” he asked.

Miya blinked. “No? I thought they were coming with you.”

Reki didn’t answer right away.

Cherry’s voice was quiet. “They’re not here. And they’re not responding.”

Miya’s brows knit. “Wait, what? Did you check?”

Joe’s gaze didn’t move. “Reki didn’t.”

Reki swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the pavement. “I didn’t think to. Langa showed up early and we just… left.”

Miya stared at him. “You always check.”

Reki nodded, barely.

“I know.”

The silence that followed was thick, not angry, but heavy. Miya looked down, then away, jaw tight. Shadow shifted beside him, uncertain.

Cherry’s voice cut through again, low and even.

“They messaged no one. Not me. Not Joe. Not you. That’s not like them.”

Reki’s hands curled around the edge of his board.

“I forgot,” he said, voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to.”

But the words hung there, hollow.

And somewhere far from the lights and the noise and the rush of S, Theseus stayed curled in silence.

The room was still.

The messages sat unread. The group chat, father intervension, had gone quiet. No new pings. No apologies. No knock on the door.

Reki hadn’t come.

Theseus stared at the ceiling, eyes dry now, throat raw. The ache hadn’t faded. It had calcified. Hardened into something sharp. Something that burned low and steady in their chest.

They sat up.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Pulled off the hoodie. Reached for the gear tucked beneath the bed, the gloves, the jacket, the mask. The transformation wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was ritual. Armor. The act of becoming.

Icarus.

The name settled over them like a second skin.

They tied their boots tight. Fastened the straps. Pulled the mask down over their face, the lenses catching the dim light of their room. The board leaned against the wall, gleaming red and silver, the Spider-Man paint job still fresh, still perfect.

They picked it up.

And walked out.

The streets were quiet, but the wind had picked up, cool against their cheeks, tugging at their jacket. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Every step was a promise.

By the time they reached the edge of S, the hill was alive.

Music pulsed. Wheels screamed. Voices rose and fell in waves. Reki’s laugh echoed from somewhere near the top, bright and careless. Langa’s voice followed, softer, steady.

Cherry and Joe stood near the guardrail, still watching. Miya and Shadow had joined them now, boards under their arms, brows furrowed.

But no one saw Theseus.

Not yet.

They stayed in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the floodlights. Hood up. Mask on. Board in hand. Watching.

Waiting.

The ache was still there. But it had teeth now.

And Icarus was ready to fly.

The moment they stepped into the floodlights, the crowd shifted.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Boards slowed.

Icarus was no longer watching from the shadows.

They stood at the top of the slope, gear gleaming under the harsh white light, mask pulled tight, red and silver board in hand. The Spider-Man paint caught the glow like fire. Their posture was still, but the tension in their shoulders spoke volumes.

Reki saw them first.

His breath caught.

“Icarus,” someone whispered.

No one had seen them arrive. No one had expected them. But here they were, silent, cold, and burning.

They didn’t speak.

They dropped in.

The wheels screamed against the pavement, carving a line so clean it felt surgical. Icarus moved like they were built for this, every turn tight, every jump precise, every grind balanced on the edge of perfection. The crowd erupted, but they didn’t hear it.

They didn’t need to.

Anger in their legs. Sadness in their chest. Spite in their grip. Guilt in their lungs.

They weren’t supposed to be this good yet.

But they were.

And they were flying.

Cherry’s eyes widened. Joe leaned forward. Miya’s mouth fell open. Even Shadow, halfway through a drink, froze mid-sip.

Reki didn’t move.

Icarus tore through the track like it owed them something. Like every curve was a question they’d already answered. Like every second was proof, not of talent, but of pain. Of being forgotten. Of being left behind.

Their expression never changed.

Cold.

Focused.

Unreachable.

They crossed the finish line without slowing, board kicking up sparks as they skidded to a stop. The crowd roared, but they didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge it.

They turned.

And walked away.

Not toward the group.

Not toward Reki.

Just… away.

And in their wake, silence followed.

Chapter 10: I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy

Chapter Text

The floodlights of S cast long shadows across the pavement, their harsh white glow softened only by the blur of motion and the hum of music echoing from the speakers. The crowd was still buzzing from Icarus’s run, voices low, speculative, awed. But the skater who’d carved through the course like a blade wasn’t basking in it. They’d stepped away.

Past the edge of the lot, where the concrete gave way to gravel and the noise thinned into wind and distant laughter, Icarus stood alone. Their board rested against their leg, the red and silver paint catching the light in quiet pulses. The mask was still on. Their posture was still. But something in the way their shoulders held, not tense, not relaxed, spoke of weight.

Reki hesitated before approaching. He’d watched the run from the sidelines, heart hammering, mouth dry. He hadn’t known what to say then. He still didn’t. But he walked anyway, slow, careful steps, sneakers scuffing against the pavement, board tucked under his arm like a shield. He stopped a few feet away.

“I didn’t mean to forget you,” he said, voice low.

Icarus didn’t move. Reki shifted his grip on the board, fingers tightening around the edge. “I should’ve come to your door. I always do. I just… Langa showed up early and I got excited and- I didn’t think.”

Still, no response. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the hem of Icarus’s jacket. Reki glanced at the mask, the lenses dull under the floodlights, unreadable. He couldn’t see their eyes. Couldn’t read their face. But he could feel the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. No excuses this time. Just the words.

Icarus didn’t speak. But they didn’t walk away either. They stood there, still and quiet, the ache in their chest not gone, but no longer alone. The apology didn’t fix it. It didn’t erase the sting. But it landed. It was heard. Reki stayed where he was, not pushing, not asking for forgiveness. Just… there. And for a long moment, they stood in the quiet together, the music distant, the crowd behind them, the night cool and still.

Not healed. But not invisible. Not anymore. But they stepped forward. One slow step. Then another.

And before Reki could say anything else, they collapsed into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, body folding into the space between them like something finally giving way. The board clattered softly to the ground. Reki caught them instinctively, arms coming up to hold them steady, breath catching in his throat.

They didn’t sob. They didn’t shake. They just held on. Tight. Like they’d been holding everything in for too long.

Reki didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, arms around them, the night cool and quiet around them, the floodlights casting long shadows across the pavement. And for a long moment, they shared the silence.

The silence between Icarus and Reki lingered, stretched thin across the cool night air. They hadn’t moved since the hug, Icarus folded into Reki’s arms, breath steady but shallow, the weight of everything held in their body finally resting somewhere else. Reki didn’t speak. He just held them, arms gentle, gaze lowered.

Footsteps approached. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. Joe and Cherry came into view, their boards tucked under their arms, expressions unreadable in the dim light. They’d watched the run. They’d seen the hug. And now, they were here.

Joe stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking between the two. “They okay?”

Reki nodded slowly, not letting go. “I think so.”

Cherry’s gaze lingered on Icarus, the way their fingers curled into Reki’s hoodie, the way their shoulders trembled just slightly beneath the gear. He didn’t speak right away.

“They were brilliant,” he said finally. “Too brilliant.”

Joe exhaled. “That wasn’t just talent. That was something else.”

Reki nodded again, throat tight. “I forgot them.”

Neither of the older skaters responded to that. Not directly.

Cherry stepped closer, voice low. “They didn’t respond to us. Not once. That’s not like them.”

“I know,” Reki said. “I know.”

Joe crouched down slightly, setting his board aside. “We were worried.”

Icarus didn’t lift their head. Didn’t speak. But they didn’t pull away either.

Cherry’s voice softened. “They don’t have to talk. Just… We're here.”

Reki glanced down at the top of Icarus’s head, then back at the others. “They know.”

Joe nodded, settling into a quiet crouch beside them. Cherry remained standing, arms folded, watching with the kind of intensity that didn’t need words. And so they stayed like that, the four of them in the quiet edge of S, the music distant, the crowd unaware, the floodlights casting long shadows across the pavement. Not fixed. Not finished. But together.

Then came the sound of footsteps, fast, uneven, sneakers slapping against concrete.

Langa.

He skidded to a stop just beyond the group, breath catching, eyes wide.

“I- sorry,” he said, voice low. “I just saw Miya and Shadow leave. Miya didn’t want to go, but Shadow said it was getting late. He’s driving him back.”

Joe nodded, not looking away from Icarus. “Makes sense.”

Langa stepped closer, eyes flicking between them, Reki still holding Icarus, Cherry watching in silence, Joe crouched like he wasn’t sure whether to speak or stay still.

“What happened?” Langa asked, softer now.

Reki didn’t answer right away. Icarus hadn’t let go.

Cherry spoke instead. “They raced.”

Langa blinked. “I saw the end of it. They were-” He stopped. “They were incredible.”

Joe exhaled. “Too incredible.”

Langa’s gaze settled on Icarus, the way their fingers curled into Reki’s hoodie, the way their body leaned just slightly, like they were holding themselves together by proximity alone. He didn’t ask questions. He just stepped closer, quiet and careful, and sat down beside Joe.

“I’m here,” he said simply.

And that was enough. The five of them stayed like that, gathered in the quiet, the edge of S humming behind them, the night cool and still. No one tried to fix it. No one tried to explain. They just stayed. Together.

The floodlights of S faded behind them, swallowed by the curve of the hill and the hush of the late hour. The adrenaline had long since drained from the air, leaving behind a kind of stillness, not empty, but heavy. The kind that settles after something important has happened. They walked in a loose cluster, no one speaking at first.

Theseus had removed the mask, now tucked under one arm, the board under the other. Their hair was damp with sweat, sticking to their forehead in soft, uneven tufts. The transformation had reversed, not dramatically, not all at once. Just slowly. Quietly. Icarus had flown. Now, Theseus walked. Reki stayed close, just a step behind, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking sideways every few seconds. Kojiro and Kaoru walked ahead, side by side, their silhouettes long under the streetlights. Langa trailed behind, quiet and watchful, his footsteps light.

The night was cool, the pavement still warm from the day. A breeze stirred the edges of jackets and hair, carrying the faint scent of asphalt, distant ramen, and the lingering echo of music from S. No one filled the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was careful. Like they were all holding space for something that hadn’t finished unfolding.

Then, softly, Theseus spoke. “I didn’t mean to race.”

Kojiro glanced back, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You didn’t have to explain.”

Theseus shook their head, eyes on the ground. “I didn’t plan it. I just… needed to move.”

Kaoru’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You moved beautifully.”

Theseus didn’t answer, but their fingers curled tighter around the mask.

Reki looked over, hesitant. “You were amazing.”

Theseus’s voice was flat. “I was angry.”

Kojiro nodded. “That’s allowed.”

They walked a little farther. The rhythm of footsteps on pavement was steady, grounding. The streetlights cast flickering shadows across the sidewalk, stretching their figures into soft, distorted shapes.

“I didn’t know I could go that fast,” Theseus said, voice barely above a whisper.

Kaoru glanced sideways. “You weren’t supposed to be that good yet.”

Theseus gave a small, bitter smile. “I know.”

Reki kicked a pebble down the road. “You scared me.”

Theseus finally looked at him. “Good.”

Kojiro snorted softly. “Still got bite.”

Theseus’s smile faded, but didn’t disappear. They reached the corner near Masae’s, the familiar curve of the street, the soft glow of the porch light in the distance. The house stood quiet, waiting. The curtains were drawn. The front steps were empty.

Kaoru slowed his pace. “You want us to come in?”

Theseus shook their head. “Not tonight.”

Kojiro nodded. “We’ll walk you to the door.”

And they did. No speeches. No apologies. Just presence. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead. Theseus stepped onto the first step, then turned back. The others stood at the edge of the walkway, watching, not crowding.

“Thanks,” Theseus said.

It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.

Kojiro gave a small nod. Kaoru’s gaze softened. Reki smiled, just a little. Langa raised a hand in quiet farewell.

And as Theseus opened the door and stepped inside, the night held steady behind them, not healed, not whole, but held, followed in by Reki and Langa.

The porch light buzzed faintly as the door clicked shut behind them. The house was dim, quiet, the kind of quiet that settled like a blanket after a long, heavy day. Masae had already gone to bed. A single lamp glowed in the living room, casting warm light across the floorboards. Theseus didn’t speak. They slipped off their shoes, set their board gently against the wall, and walked down the hall toward their room. The mask and helmet were still tucked under one arm, their hoodie loose around their shoulders. Reki watched them go, unsure whether to follow, but didn’t.

At the doorway, Theseus paused. “I’m gonna sleep,” they said, voice low.

Reki nodded. “Okay.”

Langa, still standing near the couch, glanced between them. “I’ll stay,” he said quietly. “If that’s alright.”

Theseus gave a small nod, not quite looking back. “Night.”

And then they were gone, door closing with a soft click, leaving Reki and Langa in the hush of the living room. Reki let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I think they’re okay,” he said.

Langa stepped closer, setting his board down beside Reki’s. “They will be.”

Neither of them moved toward the couch. Instead, Reki turned toward the hallway, and Langa followed. They ended up in Reki’s room, small, familiar, cluttered with skate parts and posters. The bed was barely big enough for two, but they didn’t mind. Langa pulled off his hoodie, tossed it onto the desk chair, and climbed in beside Reki without a word. They lay there in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, the silence between them soft and easy.

Reki stared at the ceiling. “I messed up.”

Langa didn’t argue. He just reached over, resting his hand lightly over Reki’s. “You’re fixing it.”

Reki nodded, throat tight. “I hope so.”

And in the room down the hall, Theseus lay curled under their blanket, mask set gently on the nightstand, the ache in their chest quiet now. Not gone. But quieter. They listened to the hum of the house. The soft creak of floorboards. The distant murmur of Reki and Langa’s voices. And for the first time that night, they let themselves breathe.

Reki’s room was dim, the only light a faint spill from the hallway and the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of old paint, fabric softener, and the faint trace of ramen from earlier. Posters lined the walls, skate brands, faded magazine clippings, a few hand-drawn decals curling at the edges. The bed was narrow, barely wide enough for two, but Langa hadn't hesitated.

Their legs brushed first, a quiet touch, tentative. Then shoulders. Then the slow, natural shift of bodies finding each other in the dark.

Reki turned toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You’re warm,” he murmured.

Langa smiled faintly. “So are you.”

Reki reached out, fingers brushing Langa’s wrist, then curling gently around it. Langa responded by shifting closer, wrapping an arm around Reki’s waist and pulling him in until their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled in the quiet, warm and steady. They lay like that, tangled together, the blanket pulled tight around them, the world outside forgotten. Reki’s hand found the edge of Langa’s sleeve and held on, thumb stroking slow, absent circles against the fabric. Langa’s breath was rhythmic against Reki’s neck, grounding. Neither of them spoke. The silence was full; of comfort, of exhaustion, of everything they didn’t need to say aloud. After a while, Reki leaned forward just slightly and pressed a kiss to Langa’s forehead. Soft. Lingering. Reverent.

Langa didn’t stir. Reki let his lips rest there for a moment longer, then pulled back, forehead resting against Langa’s hair. He listened to the quiet, the hum of the house, the distant creak of floorboards, the steady rhythm of Langa’s breathing. He waited. Hoping he was asleep.Then whispered, barely audible:

“I love you, Langa.”

A pause.

Then-

“I love you too, Reki,” came the quiet reply, muffled against his chest.

Reki froze. Langa shifted slightly, just enough to nuzzle closer, his arm tightening around Reki’s waist. "I wasn’t asleep,” he murmured, voice low and warm with exhaustion.

Reki laughed, soft, breathless, almost embarrassed, and buried his face in Langa’s hair. “Of course you weren’t,” he muttered.

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to. Wrapped in each other, they let the silence return, not empty, but full of something steady. Something real. Something that held.

And in the hush of the room, with the weight of the day finally lifting, they drifted into sleep.

The room was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of the phone screen and the faint spill of moonlight through the half-open curtains. The walls were bare except for a few hooks, a jacket draped over the back of the desk chair, and the mask, lenses dark now, resting on the nightstand like a shed skin. The blanket was pulled up to Theseus’s chest, but they weren’t cold. Just still. They lay on their side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other curled around the phone. The house was quiet. Down the hall, Reki and Langa had long since gone still, their voices faded into sleep. The heater hummed faintly. Pipes creaked. The silence held.

On the screen: Group Chat: Fathers Intervention Unread messages: 12

Theseus stared at the name. Their thumb hovered. Then tapped.

The chat opened with a scroll of recent messages, mostly logistics, a few check-ins, a photo of Miya’s shoes left in Shadow’s car. Nothing loud. Nothing chaotic. Just the quiet rhythm of older skaters keeping tabs.

They scrolled slowly, then typed:

Theseus: why the fuck is this chat called “fathers intervention”

A pause.

Then the typing bubble appeared.

Kojiro: because we’re the dads. obviously. someone has to keep you three from setting yourselves on fire.

Kaoru: It was either this or “Emergency Youth Containment Unit.” Kojiro insisted on gravitas.

Kojiro: “Fathers Intervention” sounds like we’re about to stage a heartfelt rescue or confiscate Reki’s soldering iron.

Theseus: it sounds like a cult

Kaoru: It is. You, Reki, and Miya are the reason we drink.

Kojiro: Langa’s not in the cult. He’s like… the exchange student we’re not legally responsible for.

Kaoru: Langa is Reki’s emotional support cryptid. He’s not our jurisdiction.

Theseus: so you’re saying i’m your jurisdiction

Kojiro: You, Reki, and Miya. Our three disasters. Reki’s the golden retriever son. Miya’s the gremlin child. You’re the feral one with a knife collection and a tragic backstory.

Kaoru: And a flair for dramatics. Don’t forget that.

Theseus: i hate this

Kojiro: You say that, but you’re still here.

Kaoru: And you opened the chat. That’s progress.

Theseus stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then they sighed, rolled onto their back, and let the phone rest on their chest. The heater hummed. The house held.

The phone screen dimmed, then lit again as a new message came through.

Kaoru: It wasn’t a joke. It’s what we are.

Theseus blinked at the screen. The shift was subtle. Not teasing. Not dramatic. Just… real.

Theseus: you’re not obligated to be

Kojiro: We know. We chose this.

Kaoru: You don’t owe us anything. But if you ever want to stop being alone- We’d like to make it official.

Theseus: official?

Kojiro: Adoption. If you want it. No pressure. No timeline.

Kaoru: Just… if you ever want to belong somewhere that doesn’t ask you to earn it.

The words sat on the screen like a held breath. Theseus stared at them, chest tight, throat burning in that quiet, invisible way. They didn’t respond right away. Just let the words settle. Let them exist. Then, finally:

Theseus: i’ll think about it

Kojiro: That’s all we ask.

Kaoru: Sleep, Theseus. We’ll still be here in the morning.

The screen dimmed again. Theseus didn’t turn it off. Just let it rest on their chest, the warmth of it grounding. They closed their eyes. Still not asleep. But not alone. And for the first time in a long time, the idea of staying didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a door.

The morning light filtered in through the curtains, soft and gold, casting long stripes across the hallway floor. The house was still, wrapped in the hush of a Saturday not yet fully awake. Somewhere downstairs, the faint clatter of dishes and the low murmur of Masae’s voice drifted up like steam from a kettle. Theseus stood outside Reki’s bedroom door, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands. They knocked once, a soft, polite tap, then cracked the door open.

Inside, the room was dim and warm, the air thick with sleep and the faint scent of detergent and skin. The blanket on the bed was a tangled mess of limbs and fabric. Reki and Langa were curled together in the center, tangled like ivy, Reki on his back, one arm flung over Langa’s waist, Langa tucked in close, face pressed into Reki’s shoulder, hair a soft blue halo against the pillow.

Theseus stared for a moment. Then, without a word, they pulled out their phone, angled it just right, and snapped a photo. No flash. Just the soft click of the shutter.

They didn’t smile. But their eyes softened. They slipped the phone back into their pocket, stepped into the room, and crouched beside the bed. Their fingers found the edge of the blanket and gave it a sharp tug.

“Breakfast,” they said, voice low but firm.

Reki groaned, burying his face deeper into Langa’s shoulder. “Five more minutes.”

“No,” Theseus said. “You’re already late. Masae’s making miso and you’re not missing it.”

Langa blinked awake, bleary-eyed and confused. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up,” Theseus said, standing. “You smell like sleep and regret.”

Reki cracked one eye open. “You’re mean in the morning.”

Theseus didn’t deny it. They turned to leave, but not before plucking Langa’s hoodie off the back of the desk chair and tucking it under their arm like it belonged to them. Neither boy noticed. They padded back to their room, tossed the hoodie onto the foot of their bed, then made their way downstairs.

The kitchen was already alive with quiet motion. Masae stood at the stove, stirring something fragrant. The twins, Nanaka and Chihiro, were at the table, arguing over who got the last slice of tamagoyaki. Reki’s sister, Koyomi ,sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone with a mug of tea balanced on her knee. Theseus hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching.

Masae looked up and smiled. “Morning, sweetheart. You hungry?”

Theseus nodded once. “They’re coming.”

“Mm,” Masae said, turning back to the stove. “I figured. You look like you need feeding more than they do anyway. Sit.”

Theseus obeyed, slipping into the seat at the end of the table. And for a moment, Theseus just sat there, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, Langa’s hoodie still faintly warm upstairs, the photo safe in their phone, the scent of miso and rice filling the air.

The kitchen was alive now, the kind of weekend chaos that felt lived-in. Masae moved between the stove and the table with practiced ease, setting down bowls of steaming miso and plates of tamagoyaki. The twins were already halfway through their rice, arguing over soy sauce. Reki’s sister sat cross-legged on a kitchen stool, sipping tea and scrolling through her phone, occasionally chiming in with dry commentary. Theseus sat at the end of the table, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, posture relaxed but alert. They’d already eaten half their rice, methodically, quietly. Langa and Reki stumbled in a few minutes later - hair rumpled, eyes still heavy with sleep, Langa in a borrowed T-shirt, Reki in mismatched socks.

“Morning,” Reki mumbled, flopping into the seat beside Theseus.

Langa followed, quieter, offering a soft “Hey” as he reached for a bowl.

Masae smiled without turning. “You’re late.”

“We’re here,” Reki said, yawning. “Barely.”

The table settled into a rhythm, chopsticks tapping, tea being poured, the occasional clatter of a dropped utensil. It was warm, noisy, familiar. Then, in a lull between conversations, Theseus spoke.

“I talked to Kojiro and Kaoru last night.”

The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the noise like a clean line.

Reki looked up, blinking. “Yeah?”

“They said…” Theseus hesitated, eyes on their bowl. “They said if I wanted… they’d adopt me.”

The room stilled. Not frozen, just quiet. The kind of quiet that listens.

Reki’s eyes widened. “Wait- like, for real?”

Theseus nodded once. “Yeah. Not as a joke. Not as a metaphor. Just… if I wanted it.”

Langa set his chopsticks down gently. “What did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.”

Masae turned from the stove, her expression unreadable but soft. “And are you?”

Theseus looked around the table, at Reki, still blinking like he hadn’t caught up; at Langa, steady and quiet; at the twins, who had finally stopped bickering; at Masae, who didn’t press. Then they nodded.

“I think I might say yes.”

Reki let out a breath, slow and shaky. “That’s… that’s really good.”

Langa smiled, small and real. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

Theseus didn’t smile. But their shoulders eased. Just a little.

Masae turned back to the stove. “Well,” she said, voice light, “you’d better eat up, then. Thats a big choice to make and you shouldn't go to them underfed.”

The table stirred again, the moment folding back into warmth and motion. But something had shifted. Quietly. Permanently. And Theseus sat in the middle of it, not quite smiling, but no longer bracing for the door, but wondering if they would remain living here, despite being taken in.

They didn't want to leave Reki behind.

Chapter 11: I like tall buildings so I can leap off of 'em

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The kitchen had thinned out. Masae was in the garden with the twins, Reki’s sister had retreated upstairs with her tea, and Langa had gone to help hang laundry, still half-asleep and barefoot.

Theseus lingered at the table, their bowl empty, fingers curled around the rim. Reki sat across from them, chin propped on one hand, poking at a leftover slice of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. Just waiting. Then Theseus spoke. “I think I’m going to say yes.”

Reki looked up. “To Kojiro and Kaoru?”

A nod. “Yeah.”

Reki blinked, then smiled, wide and real. “That’s amazing. Seriously. I mean, they’re… they’re good. They’d take care of you.”

“I know.” Theseus’s voice was quiet. “That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

Reki tilted his head. “Then what is?”

Theseus hesitated. Their fingers tightened slightly on the bowl. “I don’t want to leave.”

Reki’s smile faltered. “Leave?”

“You,” Theseus said. “This house. Masae. Koyomi, Nanaka, Chihiro. You and Langa. I don’t want to be somewhere else. I don’t want to be… away from this.”

Reki set his chopsticks down. “Hey. You wouldn’t be...Theseus,” he said, softer now, “you’re not choosing between us. You’re just… letting more people love you.”

Theseus looked down. “It feels like splitting.”

“It’s not,” Reki said. “It’s growing.”

They were quiet for a moment. The sound of wind chimes drifted in from the garden.

Reki leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’re not going anywhere I’m not. Okay? You’re stuck with me.”

Theseus looked up, eyes sharp but wet at the edges. “Promise?”

Reki grinned. “Swear on my busted bearings.”

Theseus huffed a laugh, small and real. “That’s not legally binding.”

“Then I’ll get it notarized,” Reki said. “You’re not losing me. You’re just gaining two more idiots who’ll yell at you to eat and threaten to ground you when you skate without pads.”

Theseus was quiet for a long moment. Then they nodded. “Okay.”

Reki smiled again, softer this time. “Okay.”

And in the quiet that followed, the kitchen felt full again, not with noise, but with something steadier. Something that held. The kitchen had settled into a lull. Reki and Theseus still sat at the table, bowls pushed aside, the last of breakfast cooling between them. Langa had wandered back in, now perched on the counter with a mug of tea, watching the morning unfold with sleep-heavy eyes. The light through the window was golden, catching on the steam rising from the kettle. The house felt full, not loud, but lived-in. Safe.

Then Masae walked in, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression unreadable but calm.

“I heard you,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

Theseus looked up, startled. “What?”

“About Kojiro and Kaoru,” she said. “About the adoption.”

Reki sat up straighter. Langa blinked, suddenly alert. Masae crossed the room, set the towel down, and leaned against the counter beside Langa. “I think it’s a good idea,” she said. “They’re good men. They’d fight for you.”

Theseus swallowed. “I’m thinking about it.”

Masae nodded. “I know.”

Then she tilted her head, eyes sharp but kind. “But I also know Kojiro lives in a glorified shoebox above a pizza shop, and Kaoru’s apartment is full of antique furniture and emotional repression.”

Reki snorted. Langa coughed into his tea. Theseus blinked. “So?”

“So,” Masae said, “if you say yes, you’re still staying here.”

The room went quiet.

“Theseus,” she said, stepping forward, “this is your home. You don’t have to pack a bag and move out just because someone signs a paper. You’re not a parcel. You’re a person. And you belong here.”

Reki’s eyes were wide. Langa had gone still. Theseus stared at her. “You’d let me stay?”

“I’d insist on it,” Masae said. “Kojiro and Kaoru can be your dads. But I’m not giving you up. And neither are the twins. Or Reki. Or this house.”

She reached out, brushed a strand of hair from Theseus’s forehead, then stepped back.

“You’re not choosing between families,” she said. “You’re choosing to be loved. And you already are.”

Theseus didn’t speak. But their throat tightened. And when they nodded, small, slow, deliberate, Masae smiled, turned back to the stove, and said, “Good. Now go tell Kojiro he needs to buy a proper bedframe if he wants to be taken seriously.”

Upstairs, the hallway was quiet. The twins were outside now, shrieking over the garden hose. Reki’s sister had retreated to her room with headphones on. Masae was humming in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. Langa and Reki were still at the table, half-laughing over something dumb, their voices low and familiar. Theseus stood in the doorway of their room, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

Group Chat: Fathers Intervention

They opened it. The last message was still Kaoru’s:

Kaoru: Sleep, Theseus. We’ll still be here in the morning.

They stared at it for a long moment. Then typed:

Theseus: i’ve decided. i want you to adopt me, please

A pause. Then:

Theseus: but i’m not leaving masae’s. she said i can stay. i want to stay with reki and the twins. this is my home too

They hit send. The message hung there, quiet and final. Then the typing bubble appeared.

Kojiro: You’re ours, kid. Wherever you live, you’re ours.

Kaoru: We’ll handle the paperwork. You just keep showing up.

Kojiro: Also I’m crying and Kaoru’s pretending not to.

Kaoru: I am not. I’m making tea.

Kojiro: He’s making tea and sniffing.

Theseus stared at the screen, lips twitching. They stayed upstairs. Their room was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. The morning light slanted through the window in long, golden stripes, catching on the edges of the desk, the curve of the blanket still rumpled from sleep. The air smelled faintly of miso and fresh grass, drifting up from the kitchen and the open lawn below. They sat on the edge of their bed, one leg tucked beneath them, the other swinging gently. The phone was still in their hand, screen dimmed now.

Theseus stared at the screen, thumb resting lightly against the edge. The words didn’t feel heavy. They felt like a door. Like a hand held out, steady and sure. They smiled. Small. Quiet. The kind of smile that didn’t need to be seen to matter. Then they locked the phone, slid it into the pocket of their hoodie, Langa’s hoodie, still faintly warm from the night before, sleeves too long, the scent of laundry soap and sleep clinging to the fabric, and crossed the room to the window. The sill was wide enough to sit on. They climbed up carefully, knees tucked to their chest, arms wrapped around themself. The wood was cool beneath them, the breeze soft against their face.

Outside, the lawn was alive with motion. Reki was barefoot, chasing after a football with wild energy, laughing as he collided with Langa, who was trying and failing to play defense. Koyomi darted between them like a fox, shrieking with delight. Nanaka stood in goal, arms wide, determined, Chihiro was helping in the same area and shouting commentary like a sports announcer, but the two of them were much to small to do anything effectively so they were just tripping over themselves and the ball, which then bounced off a tree. Reki tripped over a sprinkler. Langa caught Koyomi mid-air and spun her around. The twins screamed with joy.

Theseus watched. The window was open just enough to let the sound in, laughter, footsteps, the thud of the ball against grass. It was messy and loud and imperfect. It was theirs. They leaned their head against the frame, eyes half-lidded, and let the warmth settle in their chest. Not the kind that burned. The kind that stayed. They thought about Kojiro’s italian shop, cramped, cluttered, full of steam and noise. About Kaoru’s apartment, quiet, sharp-edged, full of antique furniture and books stacked like fortresses. About the forms they’d probably already started printing. About the signatures and the stamps and the meetings. About how much paperwork they were going to have to do.

Theseus huffed a laugh, quiet and fond. “Idiots,” they murmured.

But they were their idiots. And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something to brace against. It felt like something to walk into.

Kojiro’s apartment sat just above Sia la Luce, tucked between the scent of basil and the hum of the espresso machine downstairs. The windows were open, letting in the late morning breeze, and the light spilled across the tiled floor in soft gold. The walls were lined with mismatched frames, photos of skate meets, old Polaroids of Miya mid-air, a candid of Reki grinning with sauce on his cheek. A few of Theseus, too, though Kojiro had never pointed them out. The kitchen table was cluttered with paperwork now, adoption forms Kaoru had brought over in a leather folder, a mug of half-drunk espresso, and a plate of biscotti no one had touched. Kojiro sat in a chair pulled sideways, one leg slung over the other, elbow resting on the back. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn’t crying anymore. Just quiet. Kaoru stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the street below. He hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since the message came through.

“They said yes,” Kojiro said finally, voice low.

Kaoru nodded once. “I know.”

Kojiro looked down at the forms. “I thought I’d feel more… I don’t know. Triumphant.”

Kaoru turned. “You feel reverent.”

Kojiro huffed a breath. “Yeah. That.”

He reached for the pen, twirled it between his fingers. “They’re not moving in. Masae’s keeping them. Said it outright.”

“She should,” Kaoru said. “That house is theirs. We’re not replacing it.”

Kojiro nodded. “Still feels weird. Like we’re adopting someone who already has a home.”

Kaoru stepped away from the window, pulled out the chair opposite him, and sat. “We’re not giving them a roof. We’re giving them permanence.”

Kojiro looked up.

Kaoru’s voice softened. “They’ve had shelter. They’ve had warmth. But they haven’t had someone who signed their name and said, ‘You’re mine. No matter what.’”

Kojiro swallowed. “We’re doing that.”

Kaoru nodded. “We are.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the breeze stirring the papers on the table. Kojiro reached out and flattened them gently, fingers lingering on the top sheet.

“Do you think they’ll regret it?” he asked.

Kaoru’s gaze was steady. “No. But they’ll be afraid. That’s part of it.”

Kojiro leaned back, exhaling. “I keep thinking about the first time I saw them skate. That run down the back curve, no pads, no hesitation. Like they were trying to outrun gravity.”

Kaoru’s mouth twitched. “They still are.”

Kojiro looked at him. “You think this’ll help?”

Kaoru didn’t answer right away. Then: “I think it’ll give them something to fall toward.”

Kojiro nodded slowly, then picked up the pen again. “Guess we’d better start signing.”

Kaoru reached for his own. “I already did.”

Kojiro blinked. “You- what?”

Kaoru slid the folder across the table. “Last night. After they said they’d think about it.”

Kojiro opened it. His name was already there. Neat. Precise. Under Petitioner 1. Kojiro stared at it. Then laughed, soft, breathless, and a little broken.

“You’re such a dimwit,” he said.

Kaoru smiled, just barely. “I know.”

Kojiro signed. And the moment held. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just real.

The sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the lawn, golden light catching on the edges of the garden fence and the scattered football still rolling in the grass. The air smelled like fallen leaves and soy sauce, Masae had started dinner early, and the scent drifted through the open windows like a welcome. Kojiro parked his car just down the street, the backseat full of paperwork and a box of pastries he’d picked up from the bakery next to Sia la Luce. Kaoru sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, expression unreadable but calm. He hadn’t spoken much on the drive. He didn’t need to. They walked up the path together, Kojiro carrying the box, Kaoru with the folder tucked under one arm. The gate was open. The front door, too. Laughter spilled out from the backyard, Reki’s voice, high and bright, Koyomi shrieking, Langa’s quieter laugh threading through it all.

Masae met them at the door.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at them, Kojiro with his flour-dusted sleeves, Kaoru with his pressed coat and tired eyes, and nodded once.

“They’re in the garden,” she said. “But I think you’re here for someone else.”

Kojiro smiled, soft and crooked. “We brought pastries.”

Kaoru held up the folder. “And forms.”

Masae stepped aside. “Come in.”

The house was warm, lived-in. The twins’ shoes were scattered by the door, a skateboard leaned against the wall, and the scent of simmering broth filled the air. Kojiro set the box on the kitchen counter. Kaoru placed the folder beside it, precise. Then they waited. It didn’t take long. Theseus appeared in the doorway, sleeves pulled over their hands, Langa’s hoodie still draped around their shoulders. Their hair was slightly windblown, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes sharp and unreadable. They looked at the folder. Then at Kojiro. Then at Kaoru.

“You came,” they said.

Kojiro nodded. “Of course we did.”

Kaoru stepped forward, voice low. “We’re not here to convince you. Just to show you we meant it.”

Theseus looked at the folder again. “You already filled it out?”

Kaoru’s mouth twitched. “We started last night.”

Kojiro rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a lot of paperwork. Like, a lot. I didn’t realize how many boxes there’d be.”

“Theseus Aisuruhito,” Kaoru said, “is not a name that fits neatly into forms.”

Theseus snorted. “Good.”

Masae stepped in then, placing a hand gently on Theseus’s shoulder. “You don’t have to sign anything today,” she said. “You don’t have to do anything at all.”

“I know,” Theseus said.

They looked at the folder again. Then at the two men standing in their kitchen, awkward and reverent and trying not to crowd them. Then they smiled.Small. Quiet. Real. “I want to,” they said.

Kojiro’s breath caught. Kaoru didn’t move. But something in the room shifted, like a door opening, like a weight lifting, like a name being spoken aloud for the first time and finally belonging.

"How about dinner?" Masae offers softly.

Notes:

Sorry for not posting, I was at MCM!!

Chapter 12: I go hard wit' it no matter how dark it is

Chapter Text

The dining room was glowing with late afternoon light, the kind that softened everything it touched, the curve of the wooden chairs, the steam rising from bowls, the laughter echoing off the walls. Masae’s table was stretched to its limit, extended with a fold-out leaf and flanked by mismatched chairs pulled from the kitchen and the twins’ room. It was crowded, chaotic, and perfect. Dinner was a spread of comfort: grilled mackerel with crisped skin, tamagoyaki sliced into neat golden rolls, bowls of miso soup still steaming, pickled daikon in tiny dishes, and rice, endless rice, scooped and reshaped and passed around like currency. Kojiro had brought pastries, tucked in a box lined with parchment, and already half-raided by the twins before anyone had sat down. Chihiro and Nanaka were arguing over who got the last piece of tamagoyaki again. Koyomi was sneakily stealing bites from both their plates. Reki was mid-story, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks, nearly knocking over his tea. Langa sat beside him, quietly amused, occasionally nudging Reki’s knee to keep him grounded. Theseus sat between Masae and Kojiro, sleeves pulled over their hands, posture relaxed but alert. They hadn’t said much yet, just watched. The way Kaoru quietly refilled Masae’s tea without being asked. The way Kojiro leaned back in his chair like he’d always belonged there. The way the twins kept trying to drag Kaoru into their argument, and how he responded with dry, surgical sarcasm that only made them laugh harder.

The folder sat on the counter behind them. Neat. Unopened. Present. No one mentioned it. Not yet.

“Theseus,” Masae said gently, passing them the last of the grilled mackerel, “you’re not eating enough.”

“I’m pacing myself,” they said, deadpan.

Kojiro snorted. “You say that like you’re in a race.”

“Theseus is always in a race,” Kaoru murmured, sipping his tea.

Kojiro leaned forward. “Hey, speaking of, did you tell them?”

Theseus blinked. “Tell who what?”

Kojiro grinned. “Reki and Langa. About the photo.”

Theseus stared at Kojiro. “You weren’t supposed to bring that up.”

Reki raised an eyebrow. “What photo?”

Langa looked mildly alarmed. “Is this going to involve legal consequences?”

Theseus sighed, pulled out their phone, and slid it across the table to Langa. He picked it up, squinted, then laughed, loud and delighted. It was the photo from that morning. Reki and Langa tangled together in sleep, soft and quiet, limbs wrapped around each other like ivy. The light was golden. The moment was still.

Kaoru leaned over to look. His mouth twitched. “You’re lucky they didn’t wake up and bite you.”

“Theseus,” Reki groaned, face red. “You snapped a photo?”

“You were cute,” Theseus said, unapologetic.

Langa blinked. “Can I have a copy?”

Reki turned to him, betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Langa said. “I just want the photo.”

The table dissolved into laughter, warm, messy, real. Masae smiled, quietly pleased, and reached for the tea pot. Kojiro passed the pastries around. Kaoru accepted one with a nod, then immediately began dissecting it with the precision of a surgeon. And behind it all, the folder sat on the counter. Unopened. But present.

Later, after the dishes were cleared and the twins had retreated to the living room to argue over a video game, after Masae had gone to fold laundry and Kaoru had started rinsing cups, Kojiro leaned over to Theseus, voice low.

“You don’t have to sign tonight,” he said. “But it’s here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Theseus looked at him. Then at the table. Then at the house.

“I know,” they said.

Kojiro nodded, eyes soft. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Kaoru glanced over from the sink, hands wet, sleeves rolled up. “And neither are you.”

The folder stayed on the counter, not a demand, not a deadline, but a promise.

The kitchen had quieted. The clatter of dishes had faded into the soft hum of the washing machine, and the laughter from the living room had dulled to background noise, the twins arguing over a controller, Reki and Langa chiming in with half-hearted commentary. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air: grilled mackerel, soy, the faint sweetness of Kojiro’s pastries. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the cool autumn air, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. Kaoru stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with water droplets, his movements precise and deliberate. He washed each dish like it mattered, not just as a task, but as a ritual. The light above the sink was warm, casting a soft glow across the counter, catching on the edges of the porcelain and the curve of his jaw.

Theseus stepped in quietly, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands. They didn’t speak. Just moved to the counter, picked up a towel, and began drying the dishes Kaoru passed them, one by one, in a rhythm that felt practiced, even though it wasn’t. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full, of everything unsaid, everything understood.After a while, Kaoru spoke.

“You don’t have to rush.”

Theseus didn’t look up. “I’m not.”

Kaoru nodded, rinsed another bowl. “I know what it feels like. To be offered something permanent. It’s terrifying.”

Theseus dried the bowl, set it aside. “It’s not the permanence that scares me.”

Kaoru glanced over. “Then what?”

Theseus paused, fingers tightening around the towel. “It’s the idea that I might ruin it.”

Kaoru turned off the tap. The silence stretched. Then he reached for the towel in Theseus’s hands, took it gently, and set it down.

“You won’t,” he said.

Theseus looked at him, eyes sharp, uncertain, vulnerable in a way that felt like standing on the edge of something vast.

Kaoru’s voice was quiet. “You’re not a risk. You’re a choice.”

Theseus swallowed. “You already signed.”

Kaoru nodded. “I did.”

“Why?”

Kaoru leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze steady. “Because I’ve watched you fight for everything. For space. For breath. For belonging. And I wanted to be someone who didn’t make you fight anymore.”

Theseus blinked, throat tight. Kaoru continued, softer now. “You don’t owe us perfection. You don’t owe us ease. You just have to show up. And you already do.”

The counter was warm beneath their fingers. The folder sat on the far end of the kitchen, untouched but waiting.

“I want to,” they said.

Kaoru nodded. “Then we’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

Theseus didn’t speak. But they stepped closer. And Kaoru didn’t move. They stood there, not touching, not speaking, just sharing the quiet, the warmth, the weight of being chosen and choosing back. Kaoru glanced toward the folder, then back at Theseus. “You know, Kojiro cried when he signed.”

Theseus raised an eyebrow. “Of course he did.”

Kaoru’s mouth twitched. “He tried to hide it. Failed spectacularly.”

Theseus huffed a laugh. Small, real.

Kaoru tilted his head. “You don’t have to be ready tonight. But if you are… we’ll be here.”

Theseus looked at him. “You’re already here.”

Kaoru nodded. “My point exactly.”

The washing machine clicked softly behind them. The wind stirred the curtains. From the living room, a burst of laughter, Reki shouting something unintelligible, Koyomi shrieking in triumph. Theseus turned toward the sound, then back to Kaoru.

“I don’t want to leave them.”

“You won’t,” Kaoru said. “This isn’t about leaving. It’s about being loved.”

Theseus’s voice was quiet. “I’ve never been loved before.”

Kaoru’s gaze softened. “You have now.”

And in the hush that followed, the kitchen felt like a sanctuary, not because it was quiet, but because it was safe. Theseus reached for another dish. Kaoru passed it to them. And together, they kept going, not toward an ending, but toward something that might finally begin. The last dish was drying in Theseus’s hands, the towel soft and damp, the ceramic still warm from the rinse. Kaoru stood beside them, sleeves rolled up, watching the steam curl from the sink. The silence between them had settled into something steady, not fragile, not tense. Just full.

Then the kitchen door creaked open. Kojiro leaned in, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a half-eaten pastry. His hair was slightly tousled, his shirt dusted with flour from earlier, and his expression was soft around the edges, the kind of softness that came from holding something precious and knowing it.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but warm. “Masae says you can come back with me tonight.”

Theseus blinked, towel still in hand.

Kojiro stepped fully into the kitchen, setting the pastry down on the counter beside the folder. “She figured we might want some time. Just us. To talk. No twins climbing over the furniture. No Reki trying to reenact a skate trick with chopsticks.”

Kaoru sighed quietly. “He did that again?”

“Twice,” Kojiro said. “He nearly stabbed Langa.”

Theseus didn’t laugh. Not yet. They looked between the two men, Kaoru still calm, still steady, and Kojiro, trying not to crowd the moment but clearly holding something close.

“You don’t have to,” Kojiro added quickly. “If you want to stay here, that’s fine. But I thought… maybe it’d help. To be somewhere quiet. Somewhere that’s just us.”

Theseus looked at the folder. Then at the towel in their hands. Then at Kaoru. Kaoru nodded once, silent permission. Theseus exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Kojiro’s shoulders eased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Theseus said. “I think I want that.”

Kojiro smiled, wide and crooked and full of something that looked suspiciously like relief. “Cool. I’ve got clean sheets and leftover pasta. And Kaoru’s tea stash, because he keeps forgetting it at my place.”

Kaoru raised an eyebrow. “I do not forget it. You steal it.”

Kojiro grinned. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Theseus set the towel down, wiped their hands on their hoodie sleeves, and stepped away from the counter. The folder stayed where it was, untouched, but no longer looming. Kojiro reached for their bag, already packed by the door. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Or whenever you want.”

Kaoru didn’t move. Just watched. And as Theseus followed Kojiro out of the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, Kaoru spoke, quiet, deliberate.

“You’re not leaving anything behind,” he said.

Theseus turned, eyes sharp.

Kaoru’s gaze held. “You’re just taking us with you.”

The car moved through the city like a thought half-formed, slow, deliberate, wrapped in the hush of rain and the glow of passing streetlights. The windshield wipers swept in a steady rhythm, soft and mechanical, carving arcs through the misted glass. The dashboard lights cast a muted glow across the front seats, illuminating the curve of Kaoru’s cheekbone, the slope of Kojiro’s hand resting loosely on the gearshift.

But the back seat was its own world. Theseus sat curled against the window, knees drawn up, one arm looped around themself beneath the oversized sleeves of Langa’s hoodie. The fabric was soft and worn, the cuffs damp from where they’d absentmindedly twisted them in their hands. Their cheek rested against the cool glass, breath fogging a small oval that blurred and cleared with each exhale. Rain traced slow, meandering paths down the window, catching the orange glow of streetlamps and the occasional flicker of neon signs. The city outside was a watercolor — smeared lights, half-seen silhouettes, the suggestion of movement without form. Headlights passed like comets. Trees bent in the wind. The world was distant, unreachable.

In their ears, their playlist played on shuffle. A low hum of strings. A voice like smoke. Then something sharper, a beat that pulsed low in their chest, like a second heartbeat. The songs didn’t ask anything of them. They just filled the space. A soundtrack to the quiet unraveling of thought.

Theseus didn’t speak. Neither did Kojiro or Kaoru.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was intentional. A held breath. A shared understanding that this moment wasn’t for words. They watched the sky through the rain-streaked glass, a deep, endless navy, clouds heavy and low, the stars hidden behind layers of water and light pollution. But they imagined them there, just out of sight. Waiting.

The music shifted again. A piano now, soft and aching. The kind of song that felt like standing in a doorway, not quite in or out. The kind of song that knew what it meant to be almost. Their thoughts drifted.

To the folder on the kitchen counter. To Kaoru’s voice in the quiet: You’re not a risk. You’re a choice. To Kojiro’s crooked smile. To Masae’s hand on their shoulder. To Reki’s laughter. To Langa’s steady presence. To Miya's grin when their hoodie reached his knees. To the photo still saved on their phone - a moment of softness, of belonging, of something worth keeping. They didn’t know if they were ready to sign. But they knew they were wanted.

And that knowing settled in their chest like warmth, not a fire, not a blaze, but a steady ember. Something that would keep.

The car turned onto a quieter street, the tires hissing against wet pavement. Kojiro’s apartment was close now, the windows above Sia la Luce glowing faintly, the scent of herbs and flour already lingering in the air.

Theseus didn’t move. They stayed curled against the window, music in their ears, the rain still falling, the sky still vast. And for the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel like they were running. They felt like they were being carried.

The car rolled to a stop beneath the overhang outside Sia la Luce, the tires whispering against the slick pavement. Rain tapped steadily against the roof, a soft, rhythmic percussion that filled the silence like breath. The street was quiet, late enough that the shops had closed, early enough that the city hadn’t yet gone to sleep. The glow from Kojiro’s storefront spilled out onto the sidewalk, warm and golden, casting long reflections across the puddles. Inside the car, the engine hummed low for a moment, then stilled. The windshield wipers clicked once more before stopping, leaving streaks of water across the glass. The dashboard lights dimmed. The world outside blurred into a wash of silver and shadow.

Theseus sat in the back seat, still curled against the window, forehead resting lightly on the cool glass. Their breath fogged a small oval that cleared and re-fogged with each slow exhale. The rain outside distorted the view - streetlamps bleeding into puddles, the outline of ivy-clad buildings softened into watercolour. Their playlist played quietly in their ears, the shuffle landing on something slow and aching, strings and synth, a voice that felt like dusk. The music wrapped around them like a second skin, cushioning the weight of their thoughts. Each song folded into the next, "Its been sixty weeks...", a patchwork of emotion: longing, hesitation, the quiet ache of being wanted and not yet ready.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They just watched, the rain, the sky, the way the world kept turning even when everything inside them felt suspended.

Kojiro turned in his seat, one hand still resting on the gearshift, the other braced against the steering wheel. He glanced back, his voice low, careful not to startle.

“Theseus.”

No response.

He tried again, softer. “Hey. We’re here.”

Theseus blinked. The music kept playing. The rain kept falling. But the world tilted back into focus.

They lifted their head slowly, eyes adjusting to the glow of the streetlamp, the familiar outline of Kojiro’s building, the soft steam rising from the restaurant vent below. The scent of herbs and flour drifted faintly through the cracked window, basil, rosemary, the ghost of garlic from earlier in the day.

“Oh,” they said, voice quiet, distant.

Kojiro smiled, not teasing, not impatient. Just warm. “You were somewhere far.”

Theseus nodded, pulling out one earbud. “I was thinking.”

Kaoru didn’t turn around, but his voice drifted back, calm and dry. “Did you reach any conclusions?”

Theseus stared out the window a moment longer. “Not yet.”

Kojiro reached for the umbrella tucked between the seats. “That’s okay. You’ve got time.”

The rain tapped against the roof like a lullaby. The car was still warm from the drive, the scent of the bakery lingering like memory. The folder, the one with the adoption forms, sat in Kojiro’s bag in the trunk. Not urgent. Just waiting. Theseus opened the door slowly, stepping out into the hush of the street. The rain was soft against their hoodie, cool against their cheeks. Kojiro held the umbrella over them without a word, Kaoru locking the car behind them. They stood there for a moment, the three of them beneath the awning, the city quiet around them, the night stretching wide and open.

Kojiro’s apartment was just upstairs. The lights were on. The kettle would be waiting. The folder would be placed on the table, not as a demand, but as a promise.

And Theseus, no longer drifting, stood in the middle of it all.

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Aroita13748 and STRWCHERRI as well as 4 guests left kudos on this work!

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STRWCHERRI on Chapter 9 Thu 23 Oct 2025 07:19AM UTC

NO ICARUS COME BACK 😭

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1. XoTheaBeloved on Chapter 9 Mon 27 Oct 2025 10:26PM UTC
  
  Gonna kill 'em off just for that /silly /nsrs
  
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What's up, danger?

XoTheaBeloved

Chapter 1: Two thousand on thermometers

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Chapter 2: Two thousand surroundin' us

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Chapter 3: Travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us

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Chapter 4: What's up, danger? (Danger) - What's up, danger? (Danger)

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Chapter 5: Ayy, didn't know they doubted us

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Chapter 6: Makes it that more marvelous

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Chapter 8: What's up, danger? Ayy, don't be a stranger

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Chapter 9: 'Cause I like high chances that I might lose (lose)

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Chapter 10: I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy

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Chapter 11: I like tall buildings so I can leap off of 'em

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Chapter 12: I go hard wit' it no matter how dark it is

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STRWCHERRI on Chapter 9 Thu 23 Oct 2025 07:19AM UTC

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XoTheaBeloved on Chapter 9 Mon 27 Oct 2025 10:26PM UTC

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