Shinichiro, still rubbing his temple from Takemichi's mansion monologue, suddenly cleared his throat—loudly.
"Right," he said, clearly desperate to change the subject. "So, uh, Takemichi… what did your parents say about what happened? You know… the whole hospital incident?"
Takemichi blinked, then froze. "Oh crap."
Draken sat up like he'd been electrocuted. "Wait, what?"
"I meant to call Papa later after my visit was done. I texted him, but I never actually called—"
"Call him, now," Shinichiro said, like the voice of reason. "He should be really worried about you, Takemichi."
Mikey squinted, taiyaki halfway to his mouth. "Hold on. Who's 'Papa' again?"
Takemichi didn't answer. He was already flipping open his battered silver flip phone with the speed of someone preparing to confess sins directly to a wrathful god. He hit speed dial. Pressed it to his ear.
Ring. Ring.
BOOM.
Everyone in the room jumped as an explosion—a real explosion—blasted through the speaker, followed by rapid gunfire, yelling in rapid-fire Italian, and what might have been someone screaming "GET THE BABY TO THE HELICOPTER!" in English.
Shinichiro nearly dropped his water cup. "Was that—was that an RPG?!"
Takemichi didn't flinch, but he did look worried. "He usually picks up by the third ring," he said, like answering after the second ring was a death sentence.
Another round of gunfire. Then, "You finally called."
The voice on the other end was smooth as silk and twice as sharp. Cold, calm, and so casually lethal that it made Mikey's taiyaki droop in his hand.
Takemichi flinched. "Uh—hi, Papa—are you… busy?"
A long pause. Then, very calmly, "I have spent the last two days trying to stop your father from hijacking a commercial flight. I had to personally remove the wings off a 747 so he wouldn't go to you."
Another explosion in the background.
Takemichi physically winced. "I meant to call sooner! I know Kusakabe's been sending reports—I thought that would be enough—!"
"Reports are not a replacement for your voice, figlio mio." The voice dipped into something darker. "Tsuna is a mess. I haven't slept. Kyoya has chartered a jet from Namimori three hours ago and has promised to 'discipline' you personally."
Mikey mouthed discipline??
Draken leaned toward Shinichiro and whispered, "Who is Kyoya?"
Shinichiro gave him a haunted look. "You don't want to know."
"I'm sorry!" Takemichi all but squeaked into the phone, eyes tearing up. "I was going to call after school the same day, I swear! But then there was blood, and hospital, and I had to wait for Shinichiro to be okay. The next day, I was really, really tired and—!"
The voice clicked his tongue, sharp and unimpressed. "Explain what happened step by step. All of it. Now, report."
Takemichi shrunk in his seat, glancing at the horrified peanut gallery around him.
"I—it was nothing big! Just… someone was getting hurt, so I stepped in! I helped a bit with a bit with my 'Sunny' personality—just enough to keep him stable. He's fine now! Conscious! Mostly upright!"
Most likely already knowing there were others hearing, his papa didn't ask for more details. "Are you hurt?"
"No!" Takemichi straightened like he was standing before a firing squad. "No injuries! I promise! Everything's under control!"
Another pause.
Then, clipped and ice-cold: "We will speak tonight. Do not leave your apartment. Do not answer the door. Eat something that isn't instant noodles. Tell Kusakabe I want a full report by sundown, or I'll make him rewrite his taxes in triplicate."
Click.
Takemichi lowered the phone with the delicacy of someone defusing a live grenade. He clicked it shut. Slowly. Reverently.
Dead silence.
Mikey blinked. "...Was that your Papa?"
"Yeah," Takemichi muttered, eyes still wide, before a small smile appeared on his lips. He let out a relieved sigh. "That was him in a good mood."
Shinichiro stared at the flip phone like it might sprout legs and start shooting. "That man terrifies me and I've only heard his voice for twenty seconds."
"You get used to it," Takemichi said weakly, visibly dying inside.
Draken exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. "That sounded like an actual warzone."
"I think it was," Takemichi mumbled numbly.
Mikey leaned forward, eyes wide. "You're grounded, aren't you?"
Takemichi sighed deeply, still staring at his phone like it might explode again. "I think the entire Italy might be grounded."
Then he jolted upright like someone had just reminded him he was sitting on a landmine.
"Okay—I, uh, I have to go. Like, now. My guardian's probably waiting for me. And I… might be in trouble."
He turned to Shinichiro and gave a quick, clumsy bow. "Thank you for today, Shinichiro-san. I—I'd really like to visit again. Maybe Saturday? If I'm not grounded. Or, you know… exiled."
Shinichiro chuckled, already easing back against his pillows. "You can come by anytime. Though I'll probably be discharged by then as it wasn't a really serious injury. You're welcome at the shop."
Takemichi's smile came out crooked but sincere. "Right. Okay. I'd like that."
They exchanged numbers. Takemichi typed slowly, making sure it saved properly, then snapped the phone shut with the proud precision of someone accomplishing something mildly impressive.
"Oi!" Mikey cut in when he saw Takemichi about to go out, squinting like he'd just spotted treason. "You didn't save my number."
Takemichi blinked. "I—I didn't think—"
"And mine," Draken added, smirking as he crossed his arms. "You're in our orbit now."
"I didn't mean to be—!"
Too late.
Mikey snatched the flip phone out of his hands with the reflexes of a professional pickpocket and flipped it open like he'd owned it.
"Hey!" Takemichi squawked.
"Relax, Takemitchy," Mikey said, already dialing his own number. "I'm doing you a favor."
Draken leaned over his shoulder, watching as Mikey smugly saved himself under "The Great Mikey" and Draken under "Dragon Guy."
Takemichi groaned when he saw it. "Seriously? Dragon Guy?"
Draken just shrugged. "Could be worse. At least I wasn't the one who gave myself a title."
"I am great," Mikey said proudly, flipping the phone shut and tossing it back. "You're welcome."
Takemichi caught it, looked at the updated contact list, and briefly considered hurling the entire phone out the nearest window. "You guys are ridiculous."
Draken patted his shoulder, mock-sincere. "Try to survive your next phone call. And maybe eat something, man. You look like you run on stress and instant coffee."
"I—do not," Takemichi said quickly, but his eyes slid to Shinichiro, who was watching him with amusement and just the faintest note of concern.
Takemichi winced internally.
"That guilty look tells me you absolutely do," Mikey said smugly.
"Anyway," Takemichi said hastily, already backing toward the door like someone escaping a cursed temple. "Thanks again. I'll, uh—text if I'm not, y'know, detained."
He offered a rushed wave, bowed once more for good measure, and practically bolted into the hallway. Outside the room, the hospital felt quieter. Less chaotic. His steps echoed down the hall as he walked toward the exit, flip phone clutched tightly in one hand like a lifeline—or a ticking bomb. Mikey and Draken's contact names still sat on the screen, mocking him with cheerful irreverence.
The Great Mikey.
Dragon Guy.
He exhaled hard through his nose, shoulders tense. He hadn't meant to get close. He really hadn't and Shinichiro had been clear. Stay away from them. Don't let them get pulled into the world Takemichi carried in his blood. Don't draw them closer just because it felt good to be seen. But it had happened so fast. The jokes. The laughter. The way they made space for him without question in those couple of minutes together. Like he'd always belonged.
Takemichi's hand curled tighter around the phone.
He shouldn't have saved their numbers. Shouldn't have let them save theirs. He was supposed to be staying under the radar. Keeping his distance at least from them.
He made a promise. A real one.
"Don't pull my siblings into that world."
Takemichi's chest ached. Guilt burned just beneath his ribs. They were good people. Stupid, chaotic, ridiculously intense—but good. He'd liked them. Too much, it seemed, he thought as he stared at the names on the screen one more time. Then, slowly, quietly, he flipped the phone shut and whispered to himself:
"I'll change my number tomorrow."
He walked out into the morning light, the laughter still echoing faintly behind him, and pretended—for now—that it didn't hurt.
.
Takemichi climbed the stairs to his apartment with his shoulders slightly hunched, his school bag bumping against his hip and every step feeling heavier than the last. His thumb hovered over the lid of his flip phone, debating whether to call Kusakabe first and ask if it was safe to come home—or if his apartment had already been vaporized in a Hibari-induced wrath spiral.
But as he turned the last corner—He stopped dead in his tracks, because two men stood outside his apartment door. One of them was Kusakabe, calm and unreadable in his standard black slacks and pale button-up, clipboard in hand like he was about to conduct a quarterly review instead of a post-trauma debrief. The other—
"Little animal," said Hibari Kyoya, tone flat and cool, arms folded across his chest like he'd been waiting exactly long enough to be personally offended. His gaze locked onto Takemichi with the precision of a hawk zeroing in on prey.
Takemichi jolted upright. "K-Kyoya-san—!"
Hibari narrowed his eyes, his whole posture radiating low-level threat. "Next time, call your parents first."
He stepped forward. Not fast. Not loud. But somehow every inch closer made the hallway feel like it was shrinking around Takemichi's lungs.
"Do you know how many times the omnivore called me?" Hibari asked, voice dangerously calm.
Takemichi swallowed. "I—I was going to, I swear! I just—there were police, and a hospital, and—"
Hibari held up a hand and gave him a soft smack on his head, which, considering Kyoya's strength, was shy of causing him to be concussed. His eyes became teary but he didn't protest or touched his injury. He knew he was the one in the wrong and was kind of lucky Kyoya hadn't done anything worse.
Still, the silence that followed landed like a guillotine.
"I don't care about your excuses," he said before tilting his head slightly, gaze narrowing. "You're lucky Reborn handled Tsunayoshi. If it had been me, I would've tranquilized him."
Then, just like that, he turned on his heel and walked away. No dramatic exit. Just quiet, surgical efficiency. The soft click of his shoes echoed behind him like a countdown.
"Handle the rest," he said over his shoulder to Kusakabe. "I don't babysit."
"Thank you for coming, Kyoya-san!" Takemichi called after him instinctively, bowing so fast that the blood he hadn't noticed coming from his head, splattered onto the ground.
Hibari didn't respond. He vanished around the corner like a nightmare receding into the mist and Takemichi stayed bowed for a beat longer than necessary, then straightened, visibly pale.
"I don't think I've ever been that scared of someone who technically works for my dad," he muttered.
Kusakabe smiled faintly. "You're not alone in that."
He gestured toward the door. "Let's talk inside and heal that."
.
They sat at the low table in Takemichi's small living room, the soft hiss of tea steaming between them. Takemichi had shrugged off his uniform jacket and sat cross-legged, fingers wrapped around his cup for warmth he didn't really feel. His Sun flames at least were good enough to heal himself quickly, so even if he looked ghastly with the dried blood, he was still in a good enough condition.
Kusakabe, still composed, set a small voice recorder on the table and clicked it on.
"Tell me everything," he said. "Clearly. From the beginning."
Takemichi did. He recounted the alley. The tension. The vague features of the boys—no names, as hee didn't know them, but the identifying details he recognized would be good enough for Vongola to find them out, if they wanted to find them out. The way Shinichiro had tried to talk one down. The flash of metal. The sudden, visceral wrongness. His Hyper Intuition sparking. The hit. The flames. The ambulance. The police.
Through it all, Kusakabe said nothing. Just listened, his pen moving with steady, silent strokes across a slim notepad. And when Takemichi finally finished, the room went quiet—only the ticking of the wall clock breaking the stillness.
Kusakabe reached out and calmly stopped the recorder. "Understood," he said.
"We already filed the report, but this will be good to fill in the blanks. Do you want the boys to be identified and jailed?'"
Takemichi blinked. "Can I decide?"
"You can," Kusakabe replied without missing a beat. "You've until tomorrow to tell me about you decision."
Then he held out Takemichi's flip phone.
"You need to call Tsunayoshi."
Takemichi stared at it like Kusakabe had just offered him a loaded weapon. "Do I have to?"
Kusakabe arched one eyebrow. "Unless you'd like him to start calling your neighbors. Or the school. Or the embassy."
Takemichi groaned like a dying man, flopping briefly against the table. "I'm gonna die."
"Probably," Kusakabe said mildly, pouring himself more tea. "But at least you'll die with your responsibilities fulfilled."
With a sigh, Takemichi sat up and took the phone. "Okay, I'll do it. And don't worry about the boys. I don't want them to be identified. Shinichiro knows them, or at least oone of them. If he wants the police to know, he can tell them."
Kusakabe merely nodded.
.
.
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Happy easter to whoever celebrates it :D!