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Left.
Right.
The mantra repeats in Soshiro’s mind as he punches the man’s face over and over and over again. The sensation doesn’t even register to him anymore—not the bloody flesh he’s hitting nor the sharp ache of over-worked knuckles. If anything, it feels good. Calming.
Soshiro has always been a sharp fighter. He’s always said it was Togo who pushed him to be better, even when they were just kids dueling with sticks or wrestling in the mud. The older boy always won, and after gloating, made sure to tell his closest friend he needed to get stronger.
Soshiro has always been quiet; though especially as a child. He didn’t like holding the twigs with bugs or getting the nice dress shirt his mother had bought him covered in dirt. It was always Togo, pushing, pushing him past his comfort zone, encouraging him to live a little. And yet, he never seemed to stick around to watch the seeds he planted sprout.
A kick to the abdomen. The man stumbles back and nearly falls.
Soshiro didn’t know how to handle it at first. Togo checked out after what happened on Irishima—from the Sorcery Bureau, his friends, giving two shits about anything other than his cigarettes. How else is a teenager like him supposed to get his emotions out besides using his fists? He asked for more missions. Went out past his curfew just to roam the streets and look for someone in need of correcting. His dad—in all his doctorly wisdom—said something was wrong with him. His mom started crying more often, late at night, once she thought everyone was asleep, forgetting to account for the thin walls of their flat.
That feeling never quite left him—the catharsis. Hitting things felt good. Why stop? Even when Togo came back to him after the war—a changed man—he kept punching to avoid the feelings he had yet to share with his on-and-off-again boyfriend.
“Please-“ the sad sack Soshiro is beating up whispers through his swollen and busted lips, holding a hand up as if retreating from a wild animal. He clearly doesn’t expect it when his assailant grabs his arm and flings him into a wall, shoulder first.
Before the war, Soshiro never really got to know Mashiro. He’s glad about that. The Bureau or his dad always had him busy on some mission or chore that he never had the chance to befriend Togo’s partner. Partner. They were dating, then, and Soshiro hated it. Why would Togo choose him, the boy he’d only known for a year, over his childhood friend? He caught himself wishing, sometimes, when he would stop and sit in a small patch of dandelions near his family’s flat. The seeds would blow up into the endless blue sky and he would wish for something to happen—anything, anything at all to get Mashiro away from his Togo.
And when Mashiro was killed on Irishima, he was, ashamedly, happy. The feelings were wrong, he can see that now, but then, all he could think was finally. Togo’s boyfriend was gone, and Soshiro was thanking flowers on the side of a road.
Togo eventually got back that pep in his step, if not dulled from every body he had seen in the past few years, and reached back out to Soshiro. It was at the older’s apartment—much too classy, in his opinion, with all the sleek and modern furniture—where they shared a couple drinks and became a mess of tongues and hands once Soshiro’s body raced ahead of his mind and he could no longer resist the throbbing of his heart. Togo had kissed him back, taken hold of the scruff on his neck, and pushed him back on the couch.
The man lets out a cry now. His shoulder is probably dislocated after that; another piece dislodged by the uncaring force deciding his fate. Executioner, they call him, though he doesn’t know that.
That was the first time. He didn’t see Togo for a few days after that. When the Kamunabi put them on a mission together again, it was almost as if Togo had gotten a sip from the Lethe, specifically forgetting the night only a little while ago where Soshiro had whispered I love you as Togo had held him against his bare chest.
Things were back to normal. That was, until after they beat the shit out of a few thugs—that’s when Soshiro grabbed him by his stupid blond hair and yanked his face to his own in exasperation. Maybe punching didn’t always work as well as he wanted it to. Togo froze for a moment but quickly pulled his friend closer, by the waist, and shamelessly slipped his tongue inside his mouth to get reacquainted. They spent that night at Soshiro’s apartment.
The man scrambles up to lean against the wall, breathing heavily. Blood drips steadily down his chin. This is one of Soshiro’s favorite spots from when he was younger; there have always been drunk assholes harassing women near here to beat up. It makes him want to reminisce.
It was like that, for a time, before he had finally worked up the guts to ask Togo on a proper date. He’d laughed at him, called him lovesick, but agreed anyway. Things were nice for a while—and then there was Kunishige Rokuhira. Togo wouldn’t tell him why he kept visiting the war hero’s home, but he could fill in the picture. Lonely, all alone on that mountain, no wife in sight, and only Togo to pass the time with.
Soshiro had cried, harder than when his dad kicked him out, and threw all of Togo’s belongings out of his apartment—even the expensive hair gel, which he probably loved more than his supposed boyfriend, anyway.
The man wheezes through the blood in his mouth. “W-wait! I have money—“ Soshiro hits his temple one last time. The man finally falls slack, surely now having a broken bone or two, and slides to the ground.
When he had came back a few months later, blond hair frazzled and dripping from the rain outside, and asked for another chance, Soshiro, of course, agreed. Rebound, he had thought, bitterly, but pushed that aside to make room for all that was Togo in his mind again. Things were like that for a while. Then, of course, Kunishige had to go and die like every important person in Togo’s life, and send him into another spiral. Soshiro cursed him for that. Of course, he never truly hated him—even considered him a friend most of the time—but wasn’t opposed to the small sense of relief at his passing. Yes, he knows that’s selfish; he just doesn’t really care anymore.
Togo had stayed in his own apartment. He wouldn’t open the door, no matter how many times Soshiro texted or knocked. Once, a kid that looked like a mini Kunishige with a scar on his face had opened up. He’d called Mr. Shiba! when Soshiro asked to see him. Togo had told Chihiro to close the door.
A few more drunks pass by across the street, calling out about some lady’s outfit. Soshiro tries to ignore them this time; Char will get annoyed at having to heal any extensive damage to his fists.
Things were back to normal a couple months later. Drink, kiss, strip, was the order things usually went in on nights when they didn’t have any pressing obligations. In the mornings, Togo would gently push the black hair from his eyes and kiss his temple. Sometimes, he would whisper Soshi in his ear—the nickname he had never let go of from when they were young. So gentle, he’d always think, compared to how crass Togo normally was and how rough he could get at night. Togo was his. No matter how many times he tried to pull away, Soshiro would always reel him back in and offer the safety of something constant for his tumultuous life. He could never resist for long.
Soshiro lets out a breath of relief but also lingering anger—only one at a time, he reminds himself—and wipes his bloody knuckles on the cotton of his black dress shirt. Togo had gifted it to him for his birthday, saying it suited him, and kissed his cheek. But that was months ago. Now, in November, he hardly seems to have time for Ol’ Soshi anymore. Chihiro this, Rakuzaichi that, he doesn’t care all that much, other than the fact it’s keeping his boyfriend so preoccupied.
He pulls the lighter from his pocket and lights the cigarette he had been saving. A bad habit on top of another—smoking after letting out his anger physically. He blames Togo for that one. Maybe I should have taken that guy’s money, he muses, sardonically, as he walks out of the alley, toward his boyfriend’s apartment. Fifty bucks or so could buy something nice for Togo. A reconciliation gift. They both have a collection of them from over the years—teddy bears and books and those nice leather—nope, he pushes the thought out. Not the time more place to think about that. Despite the circumstances, a faint smile comes to Soshiro’s lips at the memory as he presses the cigarette back against his mouth. Gosh, these are awful. How can Togo go through so many of them?
The buzz of his phone pulls him out of his thoughts. Taking it from his pocket, he sees a few messages on the home screen of him, Kunishige, and Togo. He’s never changed it; doesn’t plan on it, either.
Babe: my place
Babe: you better bring roses or something
Me: Okay.
And before thinking better of it, adds on:
Me: Love you.
He shoves the phone back in his pocket and continues walking. Maybe it was the altercation in the alley that has him feeling better—what compelled him to type that. Soshiro hasn’t said those words in a while, not since the last time he was inside Togo, whispering IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou while helping him move up and down his length. Togo, on top of him, looking like the wicked angel he was, had leaned down and merely whispered, I know.
Soshiro sees a small flower shop, and after pausing for a moment, walks in. There’s a ding from his pocket while he peruses the bouquets on display. He doesn’t check it.