𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 † tokrev

✧𝐕𝐈𝐈

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July 2017.

The creepy atmosphere of an abandoned place usually sent chilling shivers down one's spine, warning of the danger lurking in the forgotten place like a venomous snake. It just screamed of bad omen but also of a history left behind by unknown beings and happenings.

He was part of this certain history, but unfortunately his brain seemed it as not worthy enough to be remembered again. Only the sense of familiarity could give him comfort as he made himself at home on the cold floor, staring aimless holes at the rusty motorbikes.

His senses loved to play with him, hearing muffled voices despite having only his own company as always. He couldn't catch the context of the conversations and was lost every time a round of laughter filled the ruined store.

The burning sensation of the inhaled smoke calmed his nerves, which were irritated by not being able to understand the voices once again. He could never understand whatever the fuck they were saying and the more he heard them, the more irritated he got. Though he knew for a fact that that wasn't the sole reason why he started smoking. He couldn't remember when he started, but whenever he smelled the cigarette stench, it felt as if he was surrounded by his two chain-smoker friends again. One he missed dearly and the other could be stripped from his life and he still wouldn't care—he stopped since he changed for the worse, begging for his for help on his knees without an ounce of shame after having dismissed his duty bound to the thing called friendship. Too drunk in the pride of his reputation he didn't realize the limits of how far he could march off before hanging at the cliff for his dear life. The looming death beneath his feet sobered him up instead of his friends.

Yet sometimes he wondered where they all ended up. Had they departed from the world to see their friend again? Or did their feet still leave trails behind on earth?

I hope I shall kicketh the bucket soon like those folks.

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July 2005.

"Sukeban! Some chickens from Ibaraki picked on one of my underlings!"

"HAH?! That calls for a fucking fight!"

Hearing that from their smirking leader caused for a feverish uproar from the whole gang. Some stayed reserved despite wearing the same mischievous glint in their eyes as Washi and others were not able to contain their excitement, punching their fellows as if they had won the lottery.

"Oi Washi! You dumbass, stop jumping straight into fights like that! We'll get our ass beat up somewhen because of you," one voice interfered in annoyance, trying to be the killjoy as always—not like he had ever succeeded.

"As if we'd lose to such weaklings. WE'RE ROWDY GRIFFINS. WE'LL HURTLE THEM TO FUCKING MOUNT FUJI!" Washi declared with confidence, easily rising the moral of the gang. It sounded like a midnight party was about to start with their motorbikes roaring through the night—they were the flying carnivores of Kantou.

Sighing with a smile curling up, the wannabe killjoy accepted his defeat but wasn't disappointed by it at all. No, he openly showed his glee for the upcoming battle and felt his muscles twitch in anticipation. He knew he couldn't keep his childhood friend out of fights or any sort of problem—no effort could achieve that. The fights practically called for the heterochromia-eyed teenager and it was his duty to stand by 'her' side.