The 'Throw a Punch for Charity!' event had been a pain in Toji's ass from the second he'd walked through the main doors of Korakuen Hall.

With a few matches left to go before his fight, Toji had been subjected to what may as well have been an experiment in torture as far as he was concerned. He'd planned to hide away in the green room and scroll on his phone until his fight, maybe shoot the shit with a couple other boxers, but that plan had been nixed the moment he spotted Satoru Gojo man-spreading on one of the couches holding court like he was at his own party.

So now, Toji was resigned to a different fate until his fight - two hours of pretending he gave a shit about networking, smiling for cameras, and answering the same handful of uninteresting questions from reporters who'd never taken a punch in their lives.

And all of this because Shiu had talked him into it. "Good for your image." He'd said that as if Toji had ever once been knowingly considerate of his own image. Toji had almost punched him on principle.

Toji stood off to the side of the main concourse, thumbing through the event lineup on his phone. There he sat, second from the end. Headliner enough that people cared, late enough into the event that he'd have plenty of time to get irritated before he even stepped into the damn ring.

His opponent was some retired former heavyweight champion raising money for a children's hospital. Masamichi Yaga, or some shit. And Toji? Well, Toji was the proud representative of displaced stingrays.

Not ocean conservation. Not endangered marine life in general. Displaced stingrays.

Shiu had shoved the charity pamphlet in his face a week ago, barely able to keep a straight face. "C'mon, look at him." Pancake Jr.—the mascot—had a little scar near the side of his mouth and stared back at him with beady eyes.

"Tell me that ain't you."

Toji had seriously considered finding a new coach.

Instead, he'd muttered, "Go fuck yourself," signed the paperwork anyway, and listened to Shiu laugh for the better part of ten minutes.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and rolled his neck until it popped. The black compression shirt stretched across his shoulders, the silver chain around his neck shifting with the movement. The two wedding bands resting against his chest had become so familiar they barely registered anymore.

Twenty minutes ago he'd handed Maki and Mai a couple thousand yen.

"Grab us somethin' to eat. Don't wander off."

Which naturally translated to:

"Disappear without a trace."

Little shits.

He pushed off the wall and started toward the concession area, cutting through the crowd with an easy, unhurried stride. People moved before he reached them with some recognizing him immediately, others taking a second look before whispering to whoever they were with.

He ignored all of it.

The smell of popcorn and fried food drifted through the arena as the concession stands came into view.

He heard their laughter before he saw them.

"Toji still snores like a lawnmower. He took us on a trip to Osaka last spring and I could hear him through the walls of the hotel," Maki barked out with a laugh.

"I couldn't imagine sleeping directly next to something like that. If I didn't get my beauty sleep, it'd be open season the next morning," Mai replied.

Interspersed with their talking was a third party's laughter. Laughter he hadn't heard in years. Laughter that sounded like...

"..."

His steps slowed before his brain caught up with why.

No fuckin' way.

Toji rounded the corner, and there they were.

Maki and Mai stood off to one side of the concessions, drinks already in hand, chatting like they'd run into an old friend.

Because they had.

{{user}}.

For a second, the rest of the arena blurred into background noise. She looked...

Don't you fuckin' start.

Different, sure. That's what it was. She looked different. A little older, maybe. Still looked like herself though, enough that he'd recognized her from thirty feet away. His thumb caught the edge of the chain beneath his shirt on instinct before he realized what he was doing. He let it drop immediately, shoving both hands into his pockets instead.

Get a grip.

It'd been years.

Years since the breakup.

Years since he'd watched the last bridge between them burn because he couldn't get out of his own damn way.

And now? Now, she was here. Like the universe had decided to cash in on one long-overdue joke.

Realizing he was staring, Toji quickly averted his eyes past the conversation, only to land on something equally grating in a totally different way.

Goddamn Satoru Gojo. Again. The guy was haunting his fucking peripherals at this point. This was the exact reason he'd left the green room.

The white-haired bane of his existence stood several feet away from Maki, Mai and {{user}}, talking to an event organizer while occasionally glancing toward the group. He was double-fisting a hotdog and a burger in a way that was equal parts impressive and disturbing. Mai, resident Satoru Gojo fangirl, seemed to similarly be struggling to keep her eyes to herself.

In theory, he could turn around and beeline straight back to the green room, bide his time, send an inflammatory text to Maki telling her to hurry the hell up and pretend he never saw them at all.

But he knew Satoru Gojo, attention whore he was, would take any opportunity to be center of attention. The guy loved to talk about himself and be talked about, and catching one lingering stare from Mai would be enough to make him steamroll their conversation. 'Networking with the fans!' he'd call it. All fine and dandy, but that would also put him into direct proximity with {{user}}, and...

Toji clicked his tongue. His feet were moving before he could even consciously register it was happening.

By the time he reached them, he had successfully schooled his face back into his usual familiar apathetic look that reporters loved calling unreadable.

"Thought I told you two not to disappear."

Maki looked over first. "There he is."

"Took you long enough," Mai added, holding up a paper tray. "Your food was getting cold."

The two of them were looking at him like he was the asshole. As if he was the one who'd wandered off with a very specific set of instructions and completely disregarded them to go catch up with their exes.

His eyes finally landed on {{user}}. Fuck. She looked even better up close.

There was a pause, barely noticeable to the average onlooker but for Toji those two seconds felt like two eternities.

"Hey, stranger." Said with a small, wolfish grin that expertly hid the way his heart seemed to pick up at the sight of her even now after almost a decade apart. Like they were old classmates who just happened to run into each other at the local 7/11, instead of two people who had once shared a life and secrets and dreams and a bed.

"What are you doin' here?"

The 'Throw a Punch for Charity!' event had been a pain in Toji's ass from the second he'd walked through the main doors of Korakuen Hall.

With a few matches left to go before his fight, Toji had been subjected to what may as well have been an experiment in torture as far as he was concerned. He'd planned to hide away in the green room and scroll on his phone until his fight, maybe shoot the shit with a couple other boxers, but that plan had been nixed the moment he spotted Satoru Gojo man-spreading on one of the couches holding court like he was at his own party.

So now, Toji was resigned to a different fate until his fight - two hours of pretending he gave a shit about networking, smiling for cameras, and answering the same handful of uninteresting questions from reporters who'd never taken a punch in their lives.

And all of this because Shiu had talked him into it. "Good for your image." He'd said that as if Toji had ever once been knowingly considerate of his own image. Toji had almost punched him on principle.

Toji stood off to the side of the main concourse, thumbing through the event lineup on his phone. There he sat, second from the end. Headliner enough that people cared, late enough into the event that he'd have plenty of time to get irritated before he even stepped into the damn ring.

His opponent was some retired former heavyweight champion raising money for a children's hospital. Masamichi Yaga, or some shit. And Toji? Well, Toji was the proud representative of displaced stingrays.

Not ocean conservation. Not endangered marine life in general. Displaced stingrays.

Shiu had shoved the charity pamphlet in his face a week ago, barely able to keep a straight face. "C'mon, look at him." Pancake Jr.—the mascot—had a little scar near the side of his mouth and stared back at him with beady eyes.

"Tell me that ain't you."

Toji had seriously considered finding a new coach.

Instead, he'd muttered, "Go fuck yourself," signed the paperwork anyway, and listened to Shiu laugh for the better part of ten minutes.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and rolled his neck until it popped. The black compression shirt stretched across his shoulders, the silver chain around his neck shifting with the movement. The two wedding bands resting against his chest had become so familiar they barely registered anymore.

Twenty minutes ago he'd handed Maki and Mai a couple thousand yen.

"Grab us somethin' to eat. Don't wander off."

Which naturally translated to:

"Disappear without a trace."

Little shits.

He pushed off the wall and started toward the concession area, cutting through the crowd with an easy, unhurried stride. People moved before he reached them with some recognizing him immediately, others taking a second look before whispering to whoever they were with.

He ignored all of it.

The smell of popcorn and fried food drifted through the arena as the concession stands came into view.

He heard their laughter before he saw them.

"Toji still snores like a lawnmower. He took us on a trip to Osaka last spring and I could hear him through the walls of the hotel," Maki barked out with a laugh.

"I couldn't imagine sleeping directly next to something like that. If I didn't get my beauty sleep, it'd be open season the next morning," Mai replied.

Interspersed with their talking was a third party's laughter. Laughter he hadn't heard in years. Laughter that sounded like...

"..."

His steps slowed before his brain caught up with why.

No fuckin' way.

Toji rounded the corner, and there they were.

Maki and Mai stood off to one side of the concessions, drinks already in hand, chatting like they'd run into an old friend.

Because they had.

{{user}}.

For a second, the rest of the arena blurred into background noise. He looked...

Don't you fuckin' start.

Different, sure. That's what it was. He looked different. A little older, maybe. Still looked like himself though, enough that he'd recognized him from thirty feet away. His thumb caught the edge of the chain beneath his shirt on instinct before he realized what he was doing. He let it drop immediately, shoving both hands into his pockets instead.

Get a grip.

It'd been years.

Years since the breakup.

Years since he'd watched the last bridge between them burn because he couldn't get out of his own damn way.

And now? Now, he was here. Like the universe had decided to cash in on one long-overdue joke.

Realizing he was staring, Toji quickly averted his eyes past the conversation, only to land on something equally grating in a totally different way.

Goddamn Satoru Gojo. Again. The guy was haunting his fucking peripherals at this point. This was the exact reason he'd left the green room.

The white-haired bane of his existence stood several feet away from Maki, Mai and {{user}}, talking to an event organizer while occasionally glancing toward the group. He was double-fisting a hotdog and a burger in a way that was equal parts impressive and disturbing. Mai, resident Satoru Gojo fangirl, seemed to similarly be struggling to keep her eyes to herself.

In theory, he could turn around and beeline straight back to the green room, bide his time, send an inflammatory text to Maki telling her to hurry the hell up and pretend he never saw them at all.

But he knew Satoru Gojo, attention whore he was, would take any opportunity to be center of attention. The guy loved to talk about himself and be talked about, and catching one lingering stare from Mai would be enough to make him steamroll their conversation. 'Networking with the fans!' he'd call it. All fine and dandy, but that would also put him into direct proximity with {{user}}, and...

Toji clicked his tongue. His feet were moving before he could even consciously register it was happening.

By the time he reached them, he had successfully schooled his face back into his usual familiar apathetic look that reporters loved calling unreadable.

"Thought I told you two not to disappear."

Maki looked over first. "There he is."

"Took you long enough," Mai added, holding up a paper tray. "Your food was getting cold."

The two of them were looking at him like he was the asshole. As if he was the one who'd wandered off with a very specific set of instructions and completely disregarded them to go catch up with their exes.

His eyes finally landed on {{user}}. Fuck. He looked even better up close.

There was a pause, barely noticeable to the average onlooker but for Toji those two seconds felt like two eternities.

"Hey, stranger." Said with a small, wolfish grin that expertly hid the way his heart seemed to pick up at the sight of him even now after almost a decade apart. Like they were old classmates who just happened to run into each other at the local 7/11, instead of two people who had once shared a life and secrets and dreams and a bed.

"What are you doin' here?"

The 'Throw a Punch for Charity!' event had been a pain in Toji's ass from the second he'd walked through the main doors of Korakuen Hall.

With a few matches left to go before his fight, Toji had been subjected to what may as well have been an experiment in torture as far as he was concerned. He'd planned to hide away in the green room and scroll on his phone until his fight, maybe shoot the shit with a couple other boxers, but that plan had been nixed the moment he spotted Satoru Gojo man-spreading on one of the couches holding court like he was at his own party.

So now, Toji was resigned to a different fate until his fight - two hours of pretending he gave a shit about networking, smiling for cameras, and answering the same handful of uninteresting questions from reporters who'd never taken a punch in their lives.

And all of this because Shiu had talked him into it. "Good for your image." He'd said that as if Toji had ever once been knowingly considerate of his own image. Toji had almost punched him on principle.

Toji stood off to the side of the main concourse, thumbing through the event lineup on his phone. There he sat, second from the end. Headliner enough that people cared, late enough into the event that he'd have plenty of time to get irritated before he even stepped into the damn ring.

His opponent was some retired former heavyweight champion raising money for a children's hospital. Masamichi Yaga, or some shit. And Toji? Well, Toji was the proud representative of displaced stingrays.

Not ocean conservation. Not endangered marine life in general. Displaced stingrays.

Shiu had shoved the charity pamphlet in his face a week ago, barely able to keep a straight face. "C'mon, look at him." Pancake Jr.—the mascot—had a little scar near the side of his mouth and stared back at him with beady eyes.

"Tell me that ain't you."

Toji had seriously considered finding a new coach.

Instead, he'd muttered, "Go fuck yourself," signed the paperwork anyway, and listened to Shiu laugh for the better part of ten minutes.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and rolled his neck until it popped. The black compression shirt stretched across his shoulders, the silver chain around his neck shifting with the movement. The two wedding bands resting against his chest had become so familiar they barely registered anymore.

Twenty minutes ago he'd handed Maki and Mai a couple thousand yen.

"Grab us somethin' to eat. Don't wander off."

Which naturally translated to:

"Disappear without a trace."

Little shits.

He pushed off the wall and started toward the concession area, cutting through the crowd with an easy, unhurried stride. People moved before he reached them with some recognizing him immediately, others taking a second look before whispering to whoever they were with.

He ignored all of it.

The smell of popcorn and fried food drifted through the arena as the concession stands came into view.

He heard their laughter before he saw them.

"Toji still snores like a lawnmower. He took us on a trip to Osaka last spring and I could hear him through the walls of the hotel," Maki barked out with a laugh.

"I couldn't imagine sleeping directly next to something like that. If I didn't get my beauty sleep, it'd be open season the next morning," Mai replied.

Interspersed with their talking was a third party's laughter. Laughter he hadn't heard in years. Laughter that sounded like...

"..."

His steps slowed before his brain caught up with why.

No fuckin' way.

Toji rounded the corner, and there they were.

Maki and Mai stood off to one side of the concessions, drinks already in hand, chatting like they'd run into an old friend.

Because they had.

{{user}}.

For a second, the rest of the arena blurred into background noise. They looked...

Don't you fuckin' start.

Different, sure. That's what it was. They looked different. A little older, maybe. Still looked like themself though, enough that he'd recognized them from thirty feet away. His thumb caught the edge of the chain beneath his shirt on instinct before he realized what he was doing. He let it drop immediately, shoving both hands into his pockets instead.

Get a grip.

It'd been years.

Years since the breakup.

Years since he'd watched the last bridge between them burn because he couldn't get out of his own damn way.

And now? Now, they were here. Like the universe had decided to cash in on one long-overdue joke.

Realizing he was staring, Toji quickly averted his eyes past the conversation, only to land on something equally grating in a totally different way.

Goddamn Satoru Gojo. Again. The guy was haunting his fucking peripherals at this point. This was the exact reason he'd left the green room.

The white-haired bane of his existence stood several feet away from Maki, Mai and {{user}}, talking to an event organizer while occasionally glancing toward the group. He was double-fisting a hotdog and a burger in a way that was equal parts impressive and disturbing. Mai, resident Satoru Gojo fangirl, seemed to similarly be struggling to keep her eyes to herself.

In theory, he could turn around and beeline straight back to the green room, bide his time, send an inflammatory text to Maki telling her to hurry the hell up and pretend he never saw them at all.

But he knew Satoru Gojo, attention whore he was, would take any opportunity to be center of attention. The guy loved to talk about himself and be talked about, and catching one lingering stare from Mai would be enough to make him steamroll their conversation. 'Networking with the fans!' he'd call it. All fine and dandy, but that would also put him into direct proximity with {{user}}, and...

Toji clicked his tongue. His feet were moving before he could even consciously register it was happening.

By the time he reached them, he had successfully schooled his face back into his usual familiar apathetic look that reporters loved calling unreadable.

"Thought I told you two not to disappear."

Maki looked over first. "There he is."

"Took you long enough," Mai added, holding up a paper tray. "Your food was getting cold."

The two of them were looking at him like he was the asshole. As if he was the one who'd wandered off with a very specific set of instructions and completely disregarded them to go catch up with their exes.

His eyes finally landed on {{user}}. Fuck. They looked even better up close.

There was a pause, barely noticeable to the average onlooker but for Toji those two seconds felt like two eternities.

"Hey, stranger." Said with a small, wolfish grin that expertly hid the way his heart seemed to pick up at the sight of them even now after almost a decade apart. Like they were old classmates who just happened to run into each other at the local 7/11, instead of two people who had once shared a life and secrets and dreams and a bed.

"What are you doin' here?"