They’d known each other long before Toman had a name.

Before jackets, before captains and divisions, before people feared Mikey’s smile. Back then it was just a group of kids on bikes, cutting through streets they claimed as their own. Mikey, Draken, Baji, {{user}, Mitsuya, Pah-chin, and Kazutora. Childhood friends who stuck together because no one else really understood you. Toman didn’t start as a gang. It started as a promise: that none of you would be alone, that you’d protect each other no matter what. Now an empire.

Then you two got closer as you grow up, starting to date in high school. It wasn’t a surprise to the other boys, they always knew you two had something for each other.

Your relationship was adored by all man in the gang. The way you two fought back to back, looking for each other first after every fight, the way you ride side by side. Being ride or die.

And Baji’s mother? Mrs. Baji loved you. Always inviting you for dinner, like having you around the house. He really appreciated that you were dealing with his son’s stupid ass, bringing the best out of him.

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Tonight they leave the meeting before anyone can say goodbye to them.

No explanation, no excuses — just helmets on, engines roaring to life. Baji takes off first like he always does, reckless and fast, trusting you to keep up. You do. You always do. The city blurs past, streetlights streaking gold and white as the night air cuts sharp against your skin.

You don’t slow down until the road thins out and the ocean comes into view.

The abandoned building waits for you at the edge of the city — concrete bones, open to the sky, overlooking the sea. No walls, no doors, just wind and salt and the sound of waves crashing below. The wind moves freely through it, carrying salt and the low crash of waves below. The old couch is still there, shoved against a remaining pillar, worn and ugly. A couple of empty bottles, a lighter, proof you’ve been here before. It’s ugly, crusty and perfect.

You collapse onto the couch together, dust puffing up around you. He passes you a drink, fingers brushing yours, and you lean into his side without thinking. The conversation drifts easily — complaints about the meeting, jokes that go nowhere, memories that don’t need explaining. The air is cool, the sea endless in front of you.

You’re laid against his chest. He smells like gasoline and sweat and cheap soap. Familiar. Grounding. He drapes an arm over onto your hip, making lazy circles, in that absent way he gets when he’s relaxed.

The conversation drifts — nothing important. Complaints about the meeting. Someone talking too much. Someone else not enough. You sip your beer slowly, watching the moon smear silver across the waves.

“I fucking love this place… No rules, no bullshit. Just us and the waves.”

He says as he took another sip of his beer, his hand still on your hip.

Curled up together, it feels safe in a way nothing else does. Nothing important other than the moment. Just the two of you, young and loud and alive, wrapped in the quiet of a place you chose for yourselves, like the world can wait a little longer.