The first thing Takemichi heard was his phone buzzing. Not his alarm. Just a persistent, lazy buzz-buzz-buzz from the corner of his futon where his phone had ended up.
He groaned, cracked one eye open, and reached blindly for it. When the screen lit up, he squinted at the sender.
The Great Mikey - yo
Takemichi blinked and stared at the time: 5:42 a.m.
"…What."
He opened the text that came after that one.
The Great Mikey - u alive
Takemichi yawned into his pillow and, for once, didn't reply with something cautious or distantly polite.
Takemichi - More alive than I wanna be. Why are you up??
The answer came back almost instantly.
The Great Mikey - training montage
Takemichi blinked.
Takemichi - Training montage???
The Great Mikey - 4 strength n friendship power
Takemichi snorted into his blanket.
Takemichi - Good luck with that, shounen protagonist. Don't let me distract you. I need to cook breakfast before Kusakabe accuses me of surviving on crackers again.
The Great Mikey - cook 4 2. i'll pass by l8r
Takemichi sat up, squinting at the text. "…He what now?"
He reread the message. Twice. Then let his head fall back into the pillow with a groan.
"He's gonna eat everything, isn't he?"
Still. His lips tugged up into a small smile because maybe—just maybe—this was what normal mornings could feel like.
Takemichi had just cracked an egg into the pan when his phone buzzed again.
The Great Mikey - open up
There was a short pause. Then—
The Great Mikey - im outside
Takemichi blinked, spatula in hand. "…Seriously?"
He jogged over to the door in his socks, pulled it open—and sure enough, there was Mikey, in his hoodie and slippers, leaning casually against the wall like he hadn't just appeared at an absurd hour unannounced.
Mikey raised a hand in a lazy greeting. "Yo."
"You weren't kidding," Takemichi muttered, stepping aside. "Get in before my neighbor starts thinking I'm dealing with weird spirits."
Mikey stepped inside and immediately glanced around the entryway. Then the hallway. Then the living room. "…Whoa."
Takemichi blinked. "What?"
Mikey padded into the space like a cat inspecting unfamiliar territory. "This place is huge. Why do you live in a place this big?"
Takemichi scratched the back of his head. "Uh. It was... the smallest one Hibari-san would approve. Technically, it's a 'starter property' for Vongola-linked residents."
Mikey turned a slow circle in the living room, taking in the high ceilings, the modern kitchen, the sliding glass doors leading to a little balcony.
"It's bigger than my house, not including the dojo," he muttered. "You have like… five rooms."
"Four," Takemichi corrected. "A guest room. One's an office. The other's a weird meditation-slash-training room my Papa insisted on."
Mikey opened a random door and peeked into the guest room, which was way too tidy to have ever been used.
He clicked his tongue. "You live in a rich guy simulation."
"I clean," Takemichi said defensively.
"Yeah, I can tell," Mikey said, stepping into the kitchen and sniffing the air. "Smells good. What're we having?"
"Pork miso soup, rice, grilled mackerel, and—uh—some kind of seaweed salad thing Kusakabe left me."
Mikey gave a sagely nod. "Traditional. Honorable. Acceptable."
He dropped onto a kitchen stool like he owned the place. Then, glancing around again, added, "Still too big, though. For one person."
Takemichi paused. His hands stilled over the rice cooker.
"…Yeah," he said softly. "It kind of is."
But somehow, today, it felt a little less empty.
Mikey chewed slowly after he put the dishes on the table and sat in front of him, his face the picture of deep concentration. Takemichi waited, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"Well?" he asked.
Mikey swallowed. Then looked Takemichi dead in the eyes and said, "This tastes like five-star cuisine. Like, actual restaurant level. You sure you didn't sneak a chef in while I wasn't looking?"
Takemichi huffed. "I made that."
"I know. That's why I'm suspicious."
Takemichi rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the flush of pride across his face.
"My papa taught me," he muttered, stabbing a piece of mackerel. "He's a perfectionist. Like, if your rice grains aren't identical in texture, he glares at you over his espresso."
Mikey grinned and stole another bite of the seaweed salad.
"Must've worked. This stuff's dangerously good."
"Don't inhale it, I only made enough for two."
Mikey shrugged, already reaching for more rice.
They ate in relative peace for a few minutes, the quiet only filled with the sound of chopsticks clinking against bowls and the occasional appreciative hum from Mikey.
After a while, Mikey leaned back in his chair and looked around the apartment again, chewing on a bit of mackerel like it was giving him interior design wisdom.
"This place is too clean," he said, "but it feels like a model home. Like the kind rich people show off in magazines."
Takemichi blinked. "I mean… thanks?"
Mikey pointed with his chopsticks. "Nah, I mean you need stuff. Personality. A wall with dumb posters. Maybe a dying plant. A couch you're not afraid to spill on."
Takemichi gave him a long-suffering look. "So basically, you want me to downgrade to your living standards."
"Yes," Mikey said immediately. "It builds character."
Takemichi chuckled into his tea as Mikey looked around again, slower this time. Like he wasn't just making fun of the space—but really seeing it.
"You've got the bones of a home," he said after a minute. "You just need… chaos."
Takemichi raised a brow. "You offering to help with that?"
Mikey grinned. "I'm a specialist in homey chaos."
Takemichi laughed—loud and genuine this time. "God help me."
But even as he said it, something loosened in his chest. This apartment had felt too big. Too cold.
But now, with the smell of food still in the air, and Mikey slouched like he owned the place, still holding his chopsticks like a kid who forgot manners existed?
It didn't feel like a simulation anymore. It felt like living.
When they finished eating and Mikey let his chopsticks rest in the empty bowl, he folded his arms on the table as he tilted his head at Takemichi.
"So… what's your day-to-day like here?" he asked casually. "Japan-Takemichi stuff. Compared to Italy-Takemichi."
Takemichi blinked, setting down his cup of tea. "Uh… not that exciting, honestly."
Mikey smirked. "Humor me."
Takemichi leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.
"Well," he started slowly, "there's school, obviously. Mizo Mid's not bad. Some kids are kinda nosy, but I've got a few friends—Takuya, Akkun, Yamagishi, Makoto. They're… normal. Mostly."
Mikey raised an eyebrow. "Define normal."
"They think winning a claw game is the height of glory and that hot ramen can cure broken hearts."
"That is pretty normal," Mikey said, grinning.
Takemichi nodded. "I usually go to school, hang out with them a bit, walk home. Kusakabe checks in every couple of days to make sure I haven't died or turned into a goblin. Sometimes he helps me with groceries."
Mikey tilted his head. "He the one who is your guardian?"
"No, that's Hibari Kyoya. Kusakabe is his right-hand guy. Surprisingly chill."
"So it's like… calm here?" Mikey asked. "Compared to Italy, I mean."
Takemichi exhaled. "Yeah. Less chaotic. A little quieter. Lonelier, sometimes."
Mikey blinked, surprised by the honesty.
Takemichi rubbed the back of his neck. "Back home… the mansion was never quiet. Someone was always blowing something up, or hosting a fight club, or running experiments on the plumbing."
Mikey snorted. "So this is your calm arc."
Takemichi laughed softly. "Guess so."
Mikey leaned back, eyeing him. "But you can cook like this and you're not doing it daily? Why?"
That made Takemichi flush.
"I—it's not that simple! Most of the food I really know how to make is complicated. Layers of prep. Specific ingredients. Multiple burners. Half of it involves techniques Papa made me practice blindfolded."
Mikey's expression turned from amusement to mild awe.
"I got used to meals being... made. For everyone. Cooking just for myself? It feels weird. Not bad, just... harder to put the effort in."
Mikey tapped his finger against his chin thoughtfully. "I could eat with you."
Takemichi blinked. "What?"
Mikey shrugged, casual. "If that's the problem—eating alone—then don't. Just feed me. If this is your 'basic' cooking, I want in."
Takemichi stared at him. "Are you bribing me with your appetite?"
"I call it incentivizing."
Takemichi chuckled, already shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm hungry," Mikey said flatly. "Also—do you know how to make taiyaki?"
"…That's a very specific follow-up."
"I'm craving one."
Takemichi gave him a long, suspicious look.
Mikey smiled, all teeth and shamelessness.
"…Maybe," Takemichi said finally. "If I can find my taiyaki pan. Papa sent it with me, but I've never used it here."
"Then we'll find it."
"You mean I'll find it."
"I'll supervise," Mikey offered.
Takemichi laughed again, softer this time.
Outside the window, the city was starting to wake up—but in here, it felt like time had slowed just a little.
.
Takemichi tugged open the sliding door of the hall closet, squinting into the disorganized mess of boxes stacked like a bad Tetris run.
"...This might take a while," he muttered, already regretting promising taiyaki.
Mikey kneeled beside him, casually poking a half-labeled box with the side of his slipper. "How much stuff do you even have?"
"A lot of it are emergency supplies. Some of it is training gear. Papa packed half my shipment without telling me."
"Do any of these explode?"
"No guarantees."
As they shifted boxes aside—one labeled "EXTRA CLOTHES" and another ominously marked "REJECTED GADGETS"—Takemichi glanced sideways at Mikey.
"Hey... you keep asking about me," he said, brushing dust off a lid. "Can I ask about you now?"
Mikey blinked. "You are asking. Right now."
Takemichi huffed a laugh. "Okay, fine. Then—tell me about your family?"
Mikey went quiet for a second, gaze flicking over the box in front of him.
"…Shin-nii, obviously," he said after a beat. "Emma's my little sister. She's… weird but good. Grandpa's strict. He trains me a lot."
Takemichi tilted his head. "What kind of training?"
Mikey grinned. "Discipline, strength, balance. Mostly stuff where if you mess up, you land in a fish pond."
"Sounds educational."
"It is," Mikey said proudly.
Takemichi chuckled. "And your friends?"
"Toman," Mikey said, like it explained everything. "Tokyo Manji Gang. My gang."
"Wait, your gang?"
Mikey gave a proud nod. "I'm the leader."
Takemichi blinked. "You're… fourteen."
"Fifteen. Almost sixteen now," Mikey said, very seriously. "Keep up."
"Right. My mistake, Boss."
Mikey smirked. "Damn right."
Takemichi shook his head in disbelief. "What do you even do?"
"Fight. Protect our turf. Hang out. Eat crepes sometimes. Cause minor property damage."
"So—normal gang things?"
"Also friendship," Mikey said firmly.
"Ah, friendship-based gang activity. Got it."
They both laughed softly.
Takemichi sat back on his heels, stretching a little. "What about school?"
Mikey scratched his head. "It's going… weirdly okay."
Takemichi raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, I skip a lot. But I show up for tests and somehow pass."
"...So you're that type of student."
"Yup."
Takemichi rolled his eyes fondly. "And hobbies?"
"Training with Grandpa. Sleeping. Eating. Kicking ass." He grinned. "Sometimes all at once."
Takemichi gave a helpless snort. "You're seriously the weirdest combination of delinquent and golden retriever I've ever met."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"Still taking it."
And just as Takemichi was about to pull out the next box—
"I found it!" Mikey declared triumphantly, holding up a slightly dusty taiyaki pan like it was a legendary relic.
Takemichi blinked. "How did you—"
Mikey shrugged. "I followed the smell of dessert potential."
"…That's not how anything works."
"Works for me."
Takemichi laughed—bright, tired, and warm.