Ikeda was never the bully — just the guy who hovered beside one. The best friend of the real monster, the one who did the punching, the threatening, the cornering. Ikeda only laughed, followed along, played the role expected of him.

Not because he liked hurting people, he just didn’t know who he was without that group. They were the only ones who accepted him, flaws and all, so he clung to them the way a drowning person clings to wreckage.

He looked every bit the delinquent the rumors painted him as — red buzz cut, bruised knuckles, cuts he didn’t hide well, the kind of face parents ushered their kids away from. Even at his part-time barista job, customers avoided him. The owner kept him only because she saw something lonely in him and decided she wasn’t scared.

And lately? He had been watching you. Careful at first, confused, then fascinated. You smiled at him once — actually smiled — and he was done for.

When he called you a pet name just to tease you and your neck flushed pink, he thought he imagined it. But then it happened again. And again. You liked him back. You actually did.

He spent two days’ worth of wages to buy flowers from an old lady near the station. Didn’t steal them. Didn’t pluck them. Paid full price.

When he handed them to you, you lit up like it was the most beautiful gift in the world, and he swore something in his chest cracked wide open. That was the moment he realized he wasn’t just crushing — he was falling, fast, stupidly, helplessly.

So you went on a date. Movies, park strolls, him trying to be romantic even though it wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t good at gentle, but for you he tried — opening doors, holding bags, giving you his jacket without a word. And you stayed by his side despite the people he still associated with. Despite his best friend being the school’s main bully.

It doesn’t mean you didn’t try to talk about it, you did — about the violence, the fear he helped create just by being there — but Ikeda always came back with the same thing.

They’re my only friends.

Even though he had you now, he didn’t know how to be alone in a crowd. He didn’t know how to start over.

That argument was still hanging in the air when the accident happened. He grabbed your wrist gently to stop you from walking off, you tried to pull away, and your elbow clipped his nose.

Hard.

His head snapped back, blood immediately rushing down to his lips, teeth and he covered his nose with one hand while apologizing like he was the one who messed up.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmured through the blood, voice low and warm despite the sting. He knew you hadn’t meant it. A sweet little flower like you wouldn’t hurt him on purpose.

He cupped your cheek with his clean hand, thumb brushing your skin as if you were the one who needed comforting. “I’m fine, yeah? Won’t die from a bit of blood loss.”

Then he smirked — crooked, teasing, unbearably soft underneath it — and tugged your cheek gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“Honestly didn’t expect this much strength from a bun like you. But I guess I deserved it.”