MiRACLE (KnB Fanfic)

30.

"At this hour of the night?" Tatsuya asks, but the boy's already gone. The door closes behind him, and Tatsuya smiles knowingly. "He's adorable, isn't he, Alex?"

The lady sticks her head out from her bedroom. "Of course he is. He's got my blood, you know? That's the blood of a world-class beauty you're looking at."

"Not humble at all, I see."

"And by the way, he can't have the pocket watch."

"Yeah, that's what I figured."

-

-

"Hey, pretty. What're you doing outside at this hour?"

There's one thing in America Hiroto still isn't used to, yet-- and it's the fact that you shouldn't take a random nighttime stroll through unfamiliar neighbourhoods.

In his past life, this was common sense-- but he's adapted to nearly a decade of nighttime complacency in Japan. The habit's harder to break the second time.

The area right outside Alex's apartment is a main street. There's not exactly a sketchy spot in this area, but everywhere is sketchy at night.

Hiroto belatedly remembers all that when he finds himself surrounded by... are they in college? Man they're huge. Curse this Japanese midget blood, why are these humans so huge? Like, what contract do you have to sign with god for him to grant you height like that?

The punk with an awful face tattoo of a winged heart grins. "Man, I could clap that."

Hiroto's all about no-label mindsets, but he's not sure why these delinquents look like they've tried all year to show each other up on the edgy parameters. Maybe the person up there just doesn't give a crap about character designs. Or they're too lazy to spare it any thought. Anyways.

"Haven't you heard that it's dangerous to walk around dark, scary places at night?" Punk #2 with about three gothic rings on his hands steps forward, giving the looser portions of Hiroto's clothing extra attention.

Hiroto wonders if he came straight out of a basketball anime just to stumble right into the saga of a gangster anime instead, because this is entirely out of the genre right now. Talk about running out of the pot right into the fire-- immortal brunets and dullahans better not show up.

"Oh, I know you. You live with the basketball bimbo."

There are about five of them, and all of them were acting like Haizaki before Hiroto pinched his cheeks to oblivion-- except Haizaki was three times less creepy and five times cuter.

And what's with these Americans and mistaking him for a girl?

Okay, fair enough, his hair is still long.

He might be considerably short for American standards, and they can't really see his toned, very masculine not really arms under his jacket-- and there's absolutely nothing girly in his ugly leg muscles and-- okay screw this. These guys are fucking blind!

"Sorry to break it to you, but I'm a guy," he holds up his hands with a sigh, speaking with all the patience of three prayers and a sacrifice.

The thugs share a look.

"Well, isn't that just perfect, then?" they smirk, like they've just won the most disgusting prize in the world and they're darn proud about it.