The drizzle came down in thin, quiet threads—light enough to not soak, but persistent enough to chase most people indoors.
Takemichi stood outside SS Motor Shop, the faint scent of oil and rain mixing in the cool air. His hood was up, his poncho rustling faintly with every shift of movement. A clear umbrella was slung over his arm—he always carried a spare.
Just in case.
He'd come by to ask Shinichiro something. Nothing urgent—just a question about bikes. His dad and papa had both tried to "help" by offering their own versions of transportation: Tsuna had suggested a Vespa, of all things, while Papa Reborn had sent a picture of a custom-built Vongola stealth cruiser shaped like a bullet. Neither were exactly street-legal, or... Takemichi-compatible.
So here he was.
But just as he reached the front of the shop, he stopped.
Someone else was there. Or not there at the shop exactly, but near it.
A teen—maybe a little older than Mikey—stood a few meters away from the entrance, just under the edge of the awning. Far away to see what's happening inside without being seen. Pale hair, loose shirt clinging damply to his shoulders, gaze unfocused as he stared out into the street like he was waiting for something that wouldn't come. He wasn't trying to stay dry. Just standing there, letting the drizzle soak through him.
Takemichi's steps slowed.
His Hyper Intuition stirred faintly—not a warning, but a sense of gravity.
Something important.
Someone important.
He hesitated only a second before stepping forward, silent on the wet pavement. Without a word, he opened the second umbrella and held it out.
The boy glanced at it. At Takemichi.
Dark eyes blinked once. Expression unreadable.
"I'm good," the teen said flatly.
Takemichi didn't pull it back. "It's not for you," he said calmly, slipping it into the boy's hand. "It's so I don't feel like a jerk for walking past someone getting drenched."
The teen blinked again, like he wasn't used to people answering him like that.
"...Tch." Still, he took the umbrella.
Takemichi offered a small nod and stepped back, planning to head toward the shop entrance.
But then he paused because the teen hadn't moved. He was just standing there, umbrella half-lifted, not quite using it. Still watching the road. Like he hadn't expected company, and didn't know what to do with it now that it was here.
Takemichi looked back at the shop, then at him.
Something shifted in his chest.
He sighed, pulling his poncho a little tighter. "Mind if I wait here with you?"
The teen didn't answer. But he didn't say no either.
Takemichi leaned against the low fence beside the shop, hands tucked into his sleeves.
They stood there in silence, just the sound of light rain tapping against vinyl and metal. A car passed. A dog barked in the distance. The city moved on around them, uncaring.
"You're not from around here," the teen said eventually.
Takemichi tilted his head, smiling faintly. "No, I'm half-Italian. Is it that obvious?"
"You don't walk like someone from Tokyo."
That earned a soft chuckle. "Guess I've been caught."
"You waiting for someone?"
Takemichi hesitated.
Shinichiro had mentioned a brother, once. And Takemichi didn't know all the names. But his Intuition stirred again, whispering don't say it.
He shrugged. "Not anymore. Thought I'd ask about bikes, but… maybe another day."
The teen gave him a sidelong glance, brows furrowed faintly. "You ditched your reason for being here just to stand next to a stranger in the rain?"
Takemichi gave him a look. "You looked like you could use someone nearby."
The teen turned his gaze back to the street. "That's stupid."
"Probably."
Another pause.
"…But thanks," the teen muttered, so soft it was barely there.
Takemichi's smile returned, small and honest. "You're welcome."
The drizzle continued to mist around them, soft and silver, catching faint glimmers of sunlight through the clouds. Takemichi rocked on the heels of his sneakers, feeling the stillness in the air, the teen beside him unmoving beneath the umbrella he still hadn't quite committed to using properly.
Not wanting to let the silence turn heavy again, Takemichi glanced sideways and decided to try something neutral—harmless.
"I was actually here to ask for advice on bikes," he offered, voice light. "But I guess I got distracted."
That earned a blink from the teen. A faint tilt of the head. "You don't have one?"
"Nope," Takemichi said with a small laugh. "I know how to drive one—kinda had to learn young, thanks to my family. But I've never owned one. Never really liked cars, actually. Or bikes."
"...And yet here you are," the teen said flatly, the faintest ghost of amusement behind it.
"Yeah, well. My friends have them." Takemichi rubbed the back of his neck. "Feels weird being the only one walking while everyone else is riding off into the sunset."
He shrugged. "Figured it might be time to get one. But honestly? I don't know how to choose one. My dad wanted to get me a Vespa—said it was safer. Practical. A nice little model in orange pastel."
There was a strangled sound beside him, something between a scoff and a choked laugh.
Takemichi turned to see the teen staring at him with an incredulous look. "A Vespa?"
"Yup."
The teen stared at him for a moment longer, studying him. "That fits you."
Takemichi frowned. "Oi. What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look like the kind of guy who'd get knocked over by a stiff breeze," the teen said casually. "A Vespa suits you. Low to the ground. Safe. Wimpy."
Takemichi gasped, hand to chest. "That's slander."
"That's fact."
"I am not wimpy," Takemichi huffed, now fully pouting. "I'm trained in self-defense. And surveillance. And, uh, infiltration. My papa made sure I can disarm a grown man in three seconds."
The teen arched an eyebrow. "...You?"
"Yeah, me!"
"You look like you struggle opening a juice box."
Takemichi groaned dramatically. "Why is everyone in this town like this?"
The teen gave the smallest twitch of his mouth—something that might have almost been a smirk if you squinted hard enough.
Takemichi, encouraged, pressed on. "My papa wanted to send me this custom-built model. Said it was a prototype. Looked like a bullet and probably classified as a tank. I'm pretty sure it'd shatter the road if I took a corner too fast."
Now the teen did laugh—a soft, dry thing, but real.
"And I thought my family was over the top," he muttered under his breath.
Takemichi smiled at him, warm and pleased. "So, you know about bikes?"
The teen shrugged, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes now. "Yeah. A bit."
"Then what would you recommend for someone like me?" Takemichi asked innocently, though his eyes still held a bit of challenge from earlier. "You've seen me now. You've mocked me. What's the perfect bike for a 'wimp' like me?"
The teen didn't answer immediately, but something in his expression softened further—his shoulders easing, his hands looser around the handle of the umbrella.
"Something simple a like Honda Rebel 250," he said at last. "Good balance and easy to handle for someone of you height. But enough bite that people don't think you're a pushover."
Takemichi blinked. "So it exists?"
The teen gave him a side glance. "You're talking to someone who built his first ride out of spare parts. Trust me. It exists."
Takemichi stared at him, a little awed. "You built a bike?"
"...Sort of." He looked away, like he didn't want to talk too much about it. "Got helped. A lot."
Takemichi smiled again, slower this time. "You've got a name?"
The teen hesitated. Then, like he was still debating the wisdom of it, said, "...Izana."
Takemichi nodded. "I'm Takemichi. Nice to meet you."
Izana didn't say it back. But he didn't walk away either. They stayed like that, under the rain. Izana's eyes had shifted after a while of talking—less guarded now, less focused on the world outside and more on Takemichi, who had tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his rain poncho, watching the passing cars with casual patience.
"…You said 'dad' and 'papa' earlier," Izana said after a beat, voice low, almost disinterested—but Takemichi could tell he was genuinely asking. "Is that normal where you're from?"
Takemichi blinked, then tilted his head. "Ah—kinda? I guess it depends who you ask."
Izana glanced at him sideways.
"I'm from Italy," Takemichi continued. "But my dad's Japanese. He moved there when he was really young. Met my papa in his teens. They've been together ever since."
Izana blinked. "So you're… Half-Japanese?"
Takemichi grinned, holding up two fingers. "Half and half. I get my fluffy hair and my hopeless emotional vulnerability from my dad—he's Japanese. And I get my sarcasm and terrifying espresso tolerance from my papa—he's Italian."
Izana's lips twitched, just barely. Then his brow furrowed slightly. "That's not… usually how it works."
Takemichi scratched the back of his head and gave a sheepish little laugh. "Yeah, so… I wasn't really born the usual way."
Izana's gaze narrowed slightly.
"I was born through an artificial womb," Takemichi explained, a little too casually for someone talking about borderline science fiction. "Fully planned. Gene-selected and stabilized and grown under supervision. No biological mother involved."
Izana blinked at him, clearly processing. "That's a real thing?"
"In my life? If you throw enough money and questionable science at a problem, it becomes a real thing," Takemichi said, shrugging. "Papa had connections. And Dad… well, he wanted a family."
Izana studied him like he was a rare exhibit in a museum. "You don't look like something grown in a lab."
"I'm flattered."
"I didn't say it was a compliment."
Takemichi smiled anyway.
"I mean, I am pretty normal. Just raised in a very… dramatic household." He waved a hand. "I have my papa's black hair and sharper reflexes. But I also inherited my dad's hopeless anxiety and tendency to cry during emotional TV commercials."
"That sounds cursed."
"Oh, deeply."
Izana's mouth twitched again, just slightly. "…So there's no mother."
"Nope." Takemichi said simply. "Never had one. It was just always Dad and Papa. And their chaos."
Izana tilted his head. "And that didn't bother you?"
Takemichi took a second to think about it. Then shook his head. "Not really. They loved me. Still do. I had more family than I could keep track of half the time. Loud, violent, deeply unorthodox family, but mine all the same."
Something flickered in Izana's eyes at that, but he didn't say anything else.
Takemichi noticed—but didn't push. Instead, he continued lightly. "Anyway. Papa's the scary one. He trained me. He's a little… intense."
Izana raised a brow. "How intense?"
"He once made me clean a ten-room mansion blindfolded while evading paintball traps," Takemichi said flatly. "Said it was good for 'adaptability training.'"
Izana gave a snort that might've been laughter. "Sounds like a lunatic."
"Yeah, but he's my lunatic."
"…What about your dad?"
Takemichi smiled softly. "He's the soft one. Quiet. Gentle. He worries too much, and apologizes for existing sometimes. But he's the one who holds everyone together. Even Papa."
Izana looked at him for a long moment. Then asked—quietly, almost as if he didn't mean to, "Do they know you're here, alone? It's not a really nice part of the city."
Takemichi's smile faltered slightly—but didn't fall.
"They know, or well, not here exactly, but they trust me. I've been living alone in Japan for almost five months now. And they check in. Papa threatens to invade if I forget to text him back within twenty-four hours."
Izana hummed. "Reasonable."
"Uncle Kusakabe agrees."
That earned an actual sound of amusement—short and dry, but real.
Takemichi let it settle for a moment before speaking again, his voice soft.
"You're kind of easy to talk to," he said honestly.
Izana's expression didn't change. "I haven't said much."
"Exactly."
That made Izana pause. He stared at Takemichi, really looked at him—this half-Italian, umbrella-offering, weirdly emotional kid who talked about sci-fi-level tech like it was just Tuesday.
"...You're weird."
Takemichi grinned. "I've been told."
.
.
I'm tired af
Work had been hard lately with not many of us workers and more clients coming. My sister, the one I live with, has gone on a month long trip to our home country and I have to take care of her cat (name: Snoopy), so yeah, this has not been my month, at all.
I tried to write when I could but... well, I've not been really succesful. Let's hope September is easier on me now that my sister returns in two days and I don't have to take care of everything.