Takemichi stayed quiet, hovering near the bed, still unsure if he should sit and Shinichiro didn't push. He watched Takemichi for a long beat, the way someone might study a puzzle with only half the pieces showing.
"...Thank you," he said again, his voice low and genuine. "For what you did that night."
Takemichi shifted, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I… I really didn't do much. Just saw something bad about to happen and… acted."
"Still, thank you." Shinichiro smiled faintly, then his eyes narrowed—softly, not accusing, just... sharp. "But, who are you really, Takemichi?"
Takemichi froze.
His throat tightened, the practiced, easy words he usually used in school, with friends, even with the police, suddenly slipping through his fingers like sand. Before he could gather anything close to a reply, Shinichiro continued, voice quieter now. Reflective.
"The doctors told me the wrench barely grazed my head. Just a concussion. But I felt it."
He tapped his temple lightly.
"I remember the crack. I remember the sound it made. The pressure." His eyes flicked to Takemichi, steady. "I remember the crunch. I've heard it before—breaking bone."
Takemichi's breath caught. Wide-eyed. Guilty. He said nothing, but it was all written on his face. And Shinichiro saw it. He nodded slowly. "So… you healed me."
There was no malice in his voice. No awe, either. Just quiet understanding.
"H-Healing? Me? I'm no doctor." Takemichi looked away, shoulders tensing. "I didn't do anything… I mean—I just helped. I put pressure on the wound, and—"
Shinichiro held up a hand to stop him, smiling again—soft, tired, but still kind.
"Relax," he said. "You don't have to explain."
He looked toward the window, expression distant. "I was in a gang, y'know. Before all this. Before the shop. Before Mikey started growing into his own fists."
Takemichi blinked, surprised.
"We got in deep once," Shinichiro continued. "Tried to stand up to someone we shouldn't have. Yakuza, or close enough. It wasn't just fists with them."
He tapped his chest. "They had… something else. Power. Like shadows moved for them. There was fire. Illusions. Some kind of pressure that made it hard to breathe."
He looked back at Takemichi now, his gaze no longer questioning—but knowing.
"I walked away after that," he said. "Not because I was scared of what I could handle—but what it might do to the people around me."
The silence stretched between them as Takemichi's hands clenched at his sides.
Shinichiro leaned forward, just slightly. "I don't think you're Yakuza. Not exactly. You've got that look, though—someone who grew up in it. Around it."
Takemichi opened his mouth to deny it, to stumble through some half-truth, but Shinichiro raised a hand again.
"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to say it."
Then, his expression shifted—gentle, but firm. "I'm grateful. Truly."
Takemichi blinked, confused by the sudden shift in tone.
"But…" Shinichiro said, more softly now, "I have to ask you something."
Takemichi straightened, confused and wary.
"Don't pull my siblings into that world."
Takemichi's breath hitched.
"I know Mikey. He's curious. Drawn to strength. He'd chase it without realizing what it costs. And Emma's too kind. Too trusting."
There was no anger in Shinichiro's voice. No judgment. Just quiet fear.
"I'm trusting you, Takemichi," he said. "Not to keep secrets, but to keep your distance. From that part of you."
Takemichi lowered his head, heart pounding. "...I understand."
Shinichiro nodded. "Good."
But then he smiled, softer again, more human than the weight of his words.
"You're still welcome at the shop. And if Mikey drags you around like a lost puppy, I won't stop him. Just… don't let him get too close to things he can't walk away from."
Takemichi wanted to say it wouldn't happen. That he wasn't that kind of danger. But the words stuck in his throat. Because they weren't true—not completely. Still he forced himself to say them.
"I promise," he said softly. "I won't seek them out. I won't put them in danger."
He glanced toward the door, thinking of Mikey's dramatic smile, of Emma's trembling hands.
"They seem like… good people."
Shinichiro smiled at that. "You are too."
That caught Takemichi off guard.
He looked down at his hands. Blood-stained not long ago. Flame-marked. Fingers that had healed a man, but could just as easily break one if asked to.
"I don't know if I am."
Shinichiro tilted his head. "You didn't let me die. And you didn't lie just to get away. You're careful. That's not bad. That's smart."
He paused. Then, gently, "Still want to know who you are, though."
Takemichi went quiet for a beat, eyes lowering. Then, with a small breath, he said, "I… can't really tell you about the powers. There are rules. I'm not allowed to talk about them unless you're inside the underworld."
Shinichiro nodded, not pressing.
"But," Takemichi continued, voice steadying, "I can tell you about my parents."
Something softened in his face then—like just saying parents pulled open a box of warmth he kept tucked away. "My dad is the boss of the biggest famiglia in Italy. The Vongola. His name's Tsunayoshi, but everyone just calls him Tsuna."
He smiled, small but real.
"He's… soft-spoken. Way too polite. The kind of guy who writes reminders on sticky notes and leaves them on your forehead if you oversleep." He laughed gently, rubbing at his cheek like he could still feel one there. "He gets overwhelmed easily. Panics if someone gets a paper cut, but also once walked straight into a hostage negotiation and made a mafia don surrender without raising his voice."
He shook his head in quiet amusement. "He's the kind of person who always thinks he's messing up—even when he's doing everything right. Everyone loves him. Like, really loves him. I don't think I've ever met someone who didn't look at him like he hung the moon."
He paused, then added more softly, "I do, too."
Takemichi's gaze grew distant, filled with quiet reverence.
"And then there's my papa—Reborn, he's the strongest hitman in the world. Reborn is not his real name, but no one calls him anything else. He's… a lot. Tall, scary, sharp-tongued. You'd think he was ten different people depending on the suit he's wearing and how he's holding his espresso."
He huffed a little laugh. "He trained me. From when I was, like, five. Said it was to 'build character.' But then he'd make us do push-ups and call it a family bonding activity. He's the reason I flinch whenever someone says the word 'test.'"
Takemichi's fond smile lingered even as he shook his head.
"He acts like he's a cold-hearted assassin—which, okay, technically he is—but then he sneaks extra dessert onto my plate when no one's looking. Keeps pretending he doesn't tuck Dad in when he passes out at his desk when he totally does."
He looked up at Shinichiro again, the smile dimming into something quieter. Wistful.
"I love them. My dads. My family. They're crazy and loyal and overbearing in the worst and best ways. I've got uncles and aunts and honorary cousins and bodyguards who still ruffle my hair like I'm five."
He took a breath.
"But I wanted… something different. Something mine. I wanted to make friends who didn't know my name. To have conversations without someone watching over my shoulder. To mess up and not have five people trying to fix it for me."
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "So… I came here. To Japan. Where no one knows me. Not as Sawada, not as Vongola. Just as Takemichi."
He looked away, voice softening again.
"I guess I just wanted to be… normal. For a little while."
Shinichiro sat quietly as Takemichi's words lingered between them, the raw edges of his confession still echoing in the sterile hospital air.
"I would've done the same," Shinichiro said after a long pause, his voice low and steady.
Takemichi blinked at him, eyes wide. Shinichiro wasn't looking for pity or giving platitudes—he meant it. Simple. Honest. Like it was obvious.
"If I had all that—legacy, pressure, people watching my every step?" Shinichiro gave a soft, tired smile. "Yeah. I'd run halfway across the world too."
Takemichi bit his bottom lip. The pressure in his chest suddenly became too much.
He rubbed at his eyes, but the tears still came—silent and small, slipping down his cheeks before he could stop them. He didn't sob, didn't break. But he cried. Just a little. Quietly. The kind of cry that came from being seen.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed. "I don't even know why I'm crying—"
Shinichiro waved him off gently. "You don't need a reason. Sometimes it just hits you."
They sat there in silence, letting it stretch. Not awkward—just still. Like the kind of silence only found in hospital rooms and late-night rooftops. The kind that said, you're not alone.
Eventually, Shinichiro tilted his head slightly, voice curious now. "So... how are you doing it? Living here, I mean. Are you alone?"
Takemichi sniffed once, composing himself. "Yeah. Kind of."
He sat up straighter, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "Technically, I have a guardian. He's one of my Dad's closest—Hibari Kyoya."
Shinichiro blinked. "...Wait, the Hibari? Even I heard of him while I was in a gang. He has… a reputation."
"He does." Takemichi gave a weak chuckle. "And, yeah. That one."
"And he's your guardian?"
Takemichi rubbed the back of his neck. "On paper."
Shinichiro raised a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Takemichi said, sighing, "he's too aloof to actually, y'know… be around. So instead he sends his right-hand man to check in."
"Who's that?"
"Kusakabe Tetsuya. He's great, actually. Super normal. Helps me with groceries, makes sure I don't forget stuff like rent and toothpaste and... eating vegetables."
Shinichiro huffed a soft laugh and Takemichi smiled again, more real this time.
"My Papa's the one who taught me how to cook, though," he added. "And clean. And budget. Said if I wanted to live on my own, I had to earn it."
Shinichiro nodded, impressed. "That's pretty responsible."
Takemichi's face twisted. "It was a nightmare."
Shinichiro blinked. "Oh?"
"My Papa—Reborn—he's so good at teaching stuff, but also? A total slave-driver. He made me memorize conversion charts and mop the floors like we were in military training. I had to cook blindfolded once. Said it was to 'heighten my other senses.'"
Shinichiro laughed out loud at that, the sound full and surprised. "You're kidding."
"I wish." Takemichi slumped back a little. "I love him. I really do. But he's the kind of guy who teaches you to make soup by throwing you into the pot first."
Shinichiro chuckled again, shaking his head. "Sounds like he prepared you pretty well, though."
Takemichi shrugged, then smiled. "Yeah. I guess he did."
Another pause.
Then Shinichiro looked at him with something close to admiration. "You're kind of incredible, y'know that?"
Takemichi went pink instantly. "Wha—? I'm not—"
"You are," Shinichiro said, still smiling. "You've got all that weight behind you, and you still found a way to show up in the right place, at the right time, and do the right thing…Just don't lose yourself trying to carry it all." "
Takemichi didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything.
But his eyes were warm. His hands, steady.