Chapter Text
The moon is high in the sky, casting everything in its silver glow, when Hanagaki Takemichi sits up from his makeshift bed and looks over the smattering of bodies — softly breathing, muscles slack in their sleep, utterly and completely at ease — decorating the surface of his floor, and thinks: I wonder if I’ll have enough groceries for the new additions?
He sighs, resigned, through his nose — he’ll probably need to pick up another shift or try his luck with another application at this point — as he lays back down. There’s a subtle shift by his thigh, a flexing of fingers in the fabric of his pants, but luckily they don’t wake.
(It’s a wonder that his thoughts aren’t I wonder where I went wrong, but rather, I wonder what I did right.)
Later, when he can’t drift back into the embrace of sleep, he will rise once more. Will ease the hand that grips him, as if he’s liable to disappear into thin air if they don’t keep him anchored, to his blanket and make his way to the kitchen. After so much practice, making his way through the gathering of lions is something he could accomplish in his sleep. Still, there is no unease as he rifles through his cabinets to start on some coffee and sets his back to the living room as he starts on a new budget.
When the first ray of sunlight peeks through his curtains, he’ll start working on breakfast for the voracious vagabonds calling his living room home and a part of Takemichi — a part that is perhaps a bit too stupid to be safe — is grateful for it.
It wasn’t supposed to become a habit. It’s not really something most people would think could become a habit.
He stares at the second bento in the staff’s cooler in the backroom and wonders when it is that this became a normal, even expected, thing to happen during his shifts. There isn’t a lot that happens while working at a rental shop, it’s mostly stocking, organizing, leading people to specific shelves, and occasionally dealing with verbal lashings from people he didn’t know that considered minimum wage workers no better than a working animal. Addendum: his own manager took part in this verbal lashing at times, so perhaps it is because of an entirely different reason altogether?
Granted, he’s gotten used to it over the years. If nothing else, he can at least highlight his tenacity. Or more accurately, that nothing can do more to his self-worth problems than he can. It’s the little things.
“You’d think that after so many times of being corrected on where things go it would stick in your head,” his manager had murmured after one of said numerous events. “It’s a surprise you manage to even run the register half the time.”
(Frankly, Takemichi is grateful he’s still got a job. Perhaps, it isn’t something glamorous — not a high-end store, or even a more respectable 9 to 5 company job — but for all his memory problems and tendency to twist his tongue around the phrase I’m sorry as if his life depends on it, he was still picked for this.
Is it the greatest achievement for most people — to be a dvd rental and bookstore employee? Most likely not, but Takemichi has come to appreciate the incredibly simple things. These things never change, after all. It’s a small win. Something he covets like precious treasure — thankfulrelieveddesperate — because if nothing else, it means that Takemichi is worth something.
A verbal punching bag, sure, but something.
There are moments, when he is alone during a night shift, and the little monsters called his thoughts whisper what-ifs: what if you hadn’t been a coward? What if you hadn’t run away from your problems? What if someone actually cared? but, well. Takemichi has learned that he’s piss poor at remembering the past anyway — what’s the use now? What would it change?
It doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t squeeze painfully in his chest when his only company is his traitorous thoughts.)
Because — here’s the thing. His manager can embody the absolutely flat tone of an Asian parent disappointed in your life choices and the lack of what you’ve managed to achieve in all your years like no one else, but she runs the store well. Young as she is, and as often as she likes to treat them all like ants under a heated magnifying glass, she runs the store with an iron fist of productivity and organization that bigtime company meetings would envy. And while her dislike of him — of which there is a lot — is easy to see and even easier to understand, she doesn’t go out of her way to physically make his life hell. Not once has he been treated like a personal baggage boy or gopher meant to fulfill her whims. And that — that means more than it should.
Work doesn’t have to be glamorous, or even something Takemichi likes for him to stick around. All it really takes is for him to feel like he’s worth something - is useful for something without being turned into an actual piñata for people to take potshots at. It’s fine that little is expected of him, that his memory has the space of a particularly old floppy disk and his brain runs at the speed of a dinosaur-like processor.
It’s fine.
As long as there’s something he can do.
Which is why with all of this and Takemichi’s own intimate understanding of his issues, he’s not sure how or why this became a habit. He’d made an extra bento once on accident in a fugue state of less than four hours of sleep over the course of five days and well. The events that followed that should have just been a coincidence.
But, here he is, dragging both of them out to reheat what’s inside before heading out of the staffroom and toward the store’s back exit. Weird things just kept happening and Takemichi has long since learned to just go with the flow. Case in point: the long-haired, lanky skyscraper of a teenager that was almost dozing against the store’s back wall when Takemichi nudged the door open with his shoe.
Hanma jolted into wakefulness, the blond streak of his hair falling to cover one of his eyes as his head tipped back to reveal a teasing, toothy grin. His legs were propped into v’s with his hands — one of which was holding a lit cigarette for all of a moment before he snubbed it — resting in the dip of his lap.
“Takemichi~” his eyes crinkle, in what Takemichi could only imagine is amusement at his haggard appearance. It’s been… a really long day. A kid tried to throw gum in his hair while their parents checked out some dinosaur film. “Don’t you just look thrilled about our date?” The snicker that escapes him makes his earring sway against his shoulder. “You’re really hurting my feelings, babe - I thought you looked forward to my visits.”
His eye twitches. Unlike what he may have done a few months ago — cut in each and every time Hanma called him babe, sugar, sweetheart, or some other variation of nickname that a teenager should not be calling him — Takemichi just sighs, long-suffering, through his nose.
At the very least, he’s sure the nicknames are simply part of Hanma being, well… Hanma. All the same, being resigned to the names is better than squawking in disapproval and having the teenager laugh at his sputtering.
(Takemichi can still hear his earth-shattering cackle at the way he’d choked on soba after being called sweetheart.)
So, instead of putting up a (read: useless) fuss, Takemichi hands him the boxed lunch he made early in the morning. For a time, he considered simply purchasing one from the convenience store but… it didn’t feel right. Not with the way he’d found Hanma out here in the rain the first time.
(Takemichi may not be the best cook in the world, but he likes to think the effort is appreciated- even if he’s sure Hanma would eat anything given to him.)
Because… there’s the way he looks at the food without coyness despite its simplicity — an open mouth that devours with a ferocity that would put a wolf to shame, eyes that feast upon a simple wooden box as if that fills him up once all on its own, no poise and no restraint; a hunger that stretches between each shine of his teeth. As if all he knows is how to consume and leave not a single morsel behind.
At least he’s enjoying it, Takemichi thinks, eating his own in a far more subdued manner. Enjoys the pop of heat from the pepper, the crunch of okra wrapped in meat and lettuce. Rice mixed with egg and salmon.
Relaxes on the steps when he offers the bit of rice he can’t finish. Hanma a constant heat beside him.
(Takemichi doesn’t have many redeeming qualities, but if nothing else he has his tenacity and ability to adapt to just about any odd thing that happens in life. Such as this. Their first time had been a coincidence, and the second, well. He hadn’t exactly expected Hanma to be there — the steps out back were just his place. A place to eat, a place to smoke if he was stressed.
Maybe he shouldn't have given his food up to a cheery did you miss me, babe? and a mop of too long hair that made Hanma look far younger. He had though, and there’s no changing that fact.
Or that he’s pretty sure Hanma isn’t a normal teenager. He’s not blind after all, or wilfully obtuse. It may have been years since he last reminisced on his middle school days — of Takuya and Akkun (if he had his salon, if they were happy, safe), or of Yamagishi and Makoto (what they were up to now, and how life decided to treat them) — but he remembers the way his body hurt. How he had to learn to use a different hand when his dominant one was busted up.
Hanma may wave at him lackadaisically and pop the ‘p’ of his words, or even engage in playful banter and teasing, but Takemichi isn’t blind. He might think he hides it well, but it’s sure as hell not as convincing as he thinks. Takemichi doesn’t have to see the injuries to know they’re there, or need to know the context of the design of the jacket hanging on his frame to know it’s connected to a gang. He’s not slick in any of the ways he thinks he is, and, if nothing else, Takemichi can at least offer a meal.
Sometimes questions sit at the tip of his tongue, but every evening he swallows them back. He was here once. Refused to listen, too.)
Hanma’s cheeks bulge out like a squirrel harvesting or feeding. His hair falls long and loose, into his eyes and nearly so long it brushes the edge of some lettuce wrapped mushrooms.
It hangs, swaying with an invisible breeze with each and every movement Hanma makes as he eats to his heart’s content. He’s moving his hand before he even realizes to tuck a majority of it behind Hanma’s ear. It’s almost the same gold as his earring.
That’s when it hits him. Hand still frozen, knuckles brushing at the shell of Hanma’s ear, an unhealthy amount of panic and dread beating the shit out of each other for dominance within him. It hits him that he’s trying to baby Hanma. A sinewy skyscraper of a teenager that’s a whole head taller than him and who he’s physically witnessed send a group of scrappy-looking high schoolers running for the hills with a glare, tails between their legs.
Unfortunately, with the hair out of the way, it just reveals something new that catches his attention. A fleck of rice stuck to Hanma’s bulging cheek.
It isn’t a surprise to see, what with how messy of an eater he is, but all the same Takemichi’s hand moves on its own, thumbing it away. Even worse he hears the hum of approval that escapes him at Hanma’s now cleaner state. It doesn’t, however, help his nerves at all.
In fact, Takemichi thinks it would be a blessing if he just miraculously lost this hand of his that developed a mind of its own. It would mollify quite a bit of the mortification stewing inside him at this moment.
Death would be great, as an alternative, actually.
Except he isn’t suddenly struck down by a bit of freak lightning. Unfortunate. Instead, he’s left to sit there slowly moving his hand away until he can settle it firmly in his lap and very far away from Hanma. Who… hasn’t moved at all.
He’s as still as a possum playing dead in the middle of the road. Chopstick held in midair with a clump of rice halfway to his mouth, and — Takemichi pauses. There’s a lazy, almost satisfied, grin pulling at the edge of his mouth with smugness akin to a cat. He leans forward, head tilting downward to look at him, some of that long hair tickling at Takemichi’s cheek “Well I know I’m looking as handsome as ever, sweetheart, but if you wanted to see my face you could’ve just asked.”
His eyes gleam with cat-like playfulness, too.
“I’m sorry!” Takemichi blurts out. It’s really all he can think of even after Hanma’s usual playful disregard for most of societal etiquette — like the fact that Takemichi shouldn’t be attempting to baby him at all.
Or well, the entire situation really. This is a teenager that Takemichi has, in some way, started to take care of as if he were some stray dog he found on the street, rather than the actual human child he very much is. The only thing he hasn’t really done is wilfully pick him off the street which — he’s not going to get into that.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he continues, after all he got in response was a brow raised in disbelief. Which — he can work with that. Derision and disbelief are the main things people direct towards him. Still, he wishes it would distract him a little more from the way Hanma is now very much in his space and not at all interested in giving it back. “The uh, the rice thing. You’re perfectly capable of cleaning up after yourself.”
Hanma blinks. “Hah?” Then he laughs, a low rumbly noise from his chest. An arm slings itself over Takemichi’s shoulder, anchoring him closer against Hanma’s side. His grin has taken on a distinctly pleased edge. “Babe, I’m not going to turn down anyone trying to spoil me. Free shit is free shit, besides,” he adds, the arm curled around his shoulders tightening ever so slightly, his fingers circling around Takemichi’s wrist. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to eat the crumbs after you take them?”
He lifts said hand right after he finishes speaking. Presses Takemichi’s thumb against his mouth and — there’s a scrape of teeth, and the hot, wet swath of a tongue pressed flat against it, all for a single speck of rice. “More for me this time,” he grins, teeth gleaming, but as he peers down at Takemichi his next words sound almost like a threat. “You’ll get it right next time, though.”
“What?” Takemichi manages to squeak out, stupefied. Since when did high schoolers get so brave?! His heart feels like it’s about to make a run for it with how not fucking normal this all is.
“You’ll get it right next time,” Hanma repeats, still smiling. He still hasn’t let his wrist go, and when Takemichi tries to pry it free, he doesn’t so much as budge. “If you need another demonstration I can always show you next time.”
Again — when did high schoolers become so bold?
“Please don’t,” he says when he gets his bearings back, still futilely trying to get Hanma to drop his wrist.
He doesn’t manage to get it back, considering Hanma has the grip of a python and when he grows tired of Takemichi’s continued attempts he simply pulls him until he’s physically trapped between his legs, his chin propped onto Takemichi’s shoulder. It’s terribly unfair. Takemichi stares, unseeing and dead-eyed at an ant crawling its way across the alley.
Takemichi is older, dammit!
“Hanma-kun.”
A hum. A finger taps at the jut of his wrist idly.
Takemichi takes a breath. Let’s it out in a heavy sounding whoosh from his nose. “My break is almost over. Let me go.”
“No,” it’s instantaneous. Hanma’s breath is hot against the side of his neck, and Takemichi tries to wiggle away only for Hanma’s free arm to anchor itself around his stomach. “I’m rather hurt, Takemichi,” his sigh is so dramatic it would fit perfectly for a theater’s auditions for Most Dramatic Man On Earth. “Rebuffing me so callously.”
“Brat,” Takemichu murmurs with no real heat. There’s no use in getting onto Hanma for his blasé spouting of shit that would most likely end up with Takemichi arrested if heard by literally any other adult. It wouldn’t stop him, it would in all cases, just make it worse.
“Ba-be,” Hanma whines and now his chin is resting on the nest of Takemichi’s hair. This shit is seriously unfair. What the fuck were schools feeding kids nowadays? “I’m seriously hurt - make it up to me.”
Takemichi blows away the hair falling into his eyes. Maybe he should grab some hair clips or something next time he goes shopping? Either way, trapped as he is, the only way he’s going to go back inside is if he plays along. He’s pretty sure Hanma could body him if he tried to break free.
“Fine, fine, what do you want?”
He’s pretty sure most other adults wouldn’t entertain behavior like this, but, well. Takemichi doesn’t really want to test the teen’s tolerance. He’s pretty sure Hanma could twist him into a pretzel if he wanted to.
Hanma’s hum is drawn out as if he’s really giving it thought and doesn’t already have something in mind. As he tries and fails to build up suspense, Takemichi shifts his attention to where Hanma has loosely linked their fingers together. The bold ink of his tattoos a constant source of curiosity. “Smoke with me.” is what Hanma settles on.
“You’re too young to smoke,” he deadpans.
There’s a huff that tickles at his hair. Hanma squeezes his hand. “Too young to smoke, but old enough to go on dates, huh?” No, Takemichi doesn’t say, these have never been dates. Saying it aloud though, will just lead to Hanma whining in his ear. His chin shifts back to rest on Takemichi’s shoulder, his voice almost plaintive enough to be convincing. “I’ll forgive you if you give me a kiss then, how about that babe?”
Takemichi snorts.
“Rude.”
Look, he’ll let the kid manhandle him because that’s not really a bother. He got used to it pretty quickly actually — and there was no escaping it anyway — but he draws the line on anything that could end up with him arrested. Doesn’t matter that he’s not even into the kid.
“C’mo-on, one kiss,” Hanma wheedles. Frankly, Takemichi doesn’t understand why it’s something anyone would try to get anyway. Did he obsess over such things when he was in highschool? “And then I’ll let you go,” Then, as if to sweeten the deal, “I’ll even help you stock the shelves you can’t reach.”
Which is code for lifting Takemichi up like he’s some kind of unruly kitten and not a grown man capable of using a stool.
“You’re too young for me. Kiss someone your own age, Hanma-kun,” still, he reaches up to pat Hanma on the head, escaping his grip when his hold goes slack at the sudden affection. Something to keep in mind for the next time Hanma would no doubt try and hold him hostage. Stretching to celebrate his freedom, he offers: “I’ll bring pudding next time. Or you can rent a movie on me.”
There were plenty of rom-coms. If the kid was trying this hard to get some kind of self-inflicted milestone then Takemichi could recommend him something for the next time he tries to get to know one of his real peers.
Hanma blows some air. “Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to let someone down easy, sweetheart?” He scoops up the two containers to push them into Takemichi’s hands. “I’ll take the food over your recommendations. Your movie taste is shit.”
Takemichi just huffs, amused. “Yeah, yeah,” and emboldened with the scant few bits of advice he can offer, he reaches to push Hanma’s hair out of his face once more, his tone sincere. “If you’re really trying to get someone’s attention then let them actually see you. You look good.” (Not to say that Takemichi can really admit to having experience with that - his own memories of his horrendous bleached hair has him cringing even now. Akkun had been really terrible not helping him with the toner.)
It has Hanma looking at him oddly, blinking slow and considering, as if he’s trying to weed out some hidden meaning. It isn’t a look he’s familiar with. All the same it has sweat building at the back of his neck; an odd feeling of being a mouse stuck in a trap.
He clears his throat. “It’s just a recommendation is all.” Takemichi moves his hand away, and it’s — it is a nice look if his opinion is to be counted. His bangs swept back, almost tousled. But most of all, it shows off Hanma’s face. It’s a nice face, objectively, or at least Takemichi thinks so. Soft looking despite the sharp edge of his jaw, or the slope of his nose, almost perpetually sleepy with the way his eyes lid. “I just think you look nice.” He doesn’t acknowledge the way Hanma’s unwavering stare makes his knees shake with worry about having done, or said, something wrong.
(Sometimes it feels as if he’s standing before a lion with the way Hanma looks at him. A predator idling its time as it decides if the morsel before it is worth playing with before it is eaten. Other times, it feels as though he’s before a puppy, still too big for its feet, fumbling about for attention.)
Hanma brightens up, his grin showing off all his teeth. It’s wide without his hair to hide behind. Almost boyish. There’s still some baby fat to his cheeks.
“Alright, babe, I forgive you - for now,” Hanma’s own hand drifts up to his tousled bangs, toys with it as he stands to his full height and forces Takemichi to crane his neck to keep eye contact. “I’ll still be looking forward to that pudding for our next date, though. Don’t forget.”
Takemichi shakes his head, amused despite everything. “Just make sure you take care of yourself.” The weight of the boy’s stare turns heavier then. Ignoring the way it makes alarm bells blare in the back of his head, he adds on, “Make sure you get home safe, too. Kids really shouldn’t linger around outside so late, you know.” He’s terribly sincere when he finishes with, “The last thing I’d want to see is you hurt.”
His staring sits with the weight of a stone at the bottom of a lake. Hanma looks at him as if he’s the one with a kooky outlook on life rather than the other way around. It’s the closest to what Takemichi can imagine a bug feels like while under a microscope.
Hanma just chuckles. “Believe me sweetheart, you should really worry about the other guy.”
“Maybe,” he doesn’t deny. “But I don’t know them - I know you.”
Hanma’s brows pinch together, curious more than anything, as he looks at Takemichi as if he’s moments away from raising his hand and slamming Takemichi’s head against the wall to crack it like a walnut, all so he can figure out what’s going on in the thing he calls a brain. It’s really one of many things that cements Takemichi’s idea that he’s not a normal teenager.
At the least though, he’s never shown up bleeding on the store’s steps, so maybe that means he does try to stay safe. (Or, far more likely, he’s the one at the top of the food chain. It isn’t something he likes to dwell on for too long.)
Eventually, that look goes away as Hanma digs out a new cigarette from his pocket that Takemichi debates on taking from him. Then, of course, he remembers that, one, Hanma is the size of a skyscraper and could just lift it to where he can’t reach, and, two, Takemichi rather likes living. He doesn’t really want to test if he’ll end up being punched and left in an alleyway for this. Which is why he settles for a different approach.
“There’s a lot of better things you can put in your mouth,” Several things really. Candy. Toothpicks. Takemichi stuffs his hands into the pocket of his apron, not at all a fan of the intense way Hanma is looking at him now. “Maybe you should look into trying one.”
Hanma peers at him with lidded eyes, still towering over him despite the way he’s slouched. His eyes twinkle with mischief, his mouth twitching upward. “You offering?”
“What?”
He takes a step forward crowding Takemichi against the door. His voice a low murmur. “Are you offering to be the alternative?” His breath is hot against his skin. “You said there’s a lot of better things I could put in my mouth. You sayin’ I can try you out?”
Takemichi blinks. It takes several long moments for his brain to process the absolutely dumbfounding words said to him. He manages to get out what he thinks is a rather impressive imitation of caveman dialogue as he panic reaches for the door handle. He’s hit with a rather violent realization that he can’t tell if Hanma is joking around or not this time. (Which. No, no, no — Takemichi is not going to jail over this. He would not make it in prison.) The moment his hand curls around the handle, Takemichi just about trips over his own feet and gives himself a concussion in his hurry to put a physical barrier between them.
“On second thought you’re doing just fine!” Takemichi blurts out in a whoosh as Hanma’s cackle rings so loud in his ears that he’s pretty sure the teenager is doubled over out in the alleyway. God, what is his life now?
It’s only when Takemichi is back at the counter and staring down at the two empty bento boxes that he realizes he was so frazzled in his attempt to get away from, from— that, that he didn’t even put them back in his bag, and more importantly, that he didn’t chastise Hanma. Joking or not, his mouth would get him into trouble someday. His head falls to rest on the counter as he screams internally. Something in his gut tells him that even if someone did try to accost Hanma that they’d end up in a dumpster somewhere, but still. He lets out a breath. Next time, he tells himself. You’ll tell him next time.
Ugh, this is what he gets for getting attached to the random kid he started feeding. Now he’s invested. Takemichi resolves to actually get some things through Hanma’s thick skull — like the fact that as much as he seems to love teasing people it’ll end up with him in trouble eventually — the next time he sees him. Really, saying things like that — no self-preservation at all.
It doesn’t help that his teasing voice crops up out of nowhere in the back of his head throughout the rest of Takemichi’s remaining shift and he goes through a miniature heart attack each time. He’s lucky it’s just him left in the store, he doesn’t think he’d be able to survive the baleful glare his manager would no doubt send him for fumbling the various movies he has to put back on the shelf.
He doesn’t manage to stop worrying about Hanma either.
Takemichi tries to tell himself it’s only because the kid has grown on him like a particularly insistent barnacle, but he knows better. Feels a pang in his chest at the idea of him actually ending up hurt from his teasing.
Man, how pathetic is it that the first person he’s considered a friend in a long while is a teenager?
Takemichi thinks he’s caught Hanma’s particular brand of crazy. It’s the only reason he can think of that would explain why he’s moving closer to the sound of what he’s pretty sure is someone getting their ass absolutely handed to them on a platter, instead of the far more sensible option of running far the fuck away. It doesn’t matter if this is the only way to his apartment, he could always come back later! Unfortunately, his body seems to have developed a conscience of its own and vetoes his internal wailing.
Turns out he’s right about it being a fight. He’s not sure how he feels about that.
He’s had several years to come to terms with the fact that, in a fight, he’s about as useful as glass bones and paper skin.
All he really has going for him is that, unless he’s knocked the fuck out into a forced sleepy-time, there’s very little that will keep him down. So: being a meat shield. That's what he’s good for. Actually, doing damage though? That’s a far off dream that’s only achieved when the planets sync up just right and, even then, it’s only damage through sheer ineptitude and his nonexistent balance sending him in the right direction to bodily hit someone. It’s certainly not something he controls on demand.
Meaning that, as he is, he’s more likely to end up an accidental meat shield for someone, or just as likely, a hindrance out of nowhere for the would-be attacker. Either way, he’s going to end up with a black eye as the least of his worries.
So he doesn’t quite understand why his body would willingly put itself in such danger.
Especially because just being at the lip of the alley is enough to paint a rather vivid picture of what will happen to him if his body continues its moving. There’s a body — correction: bodies on the floor of the alley in various states of fucked up. In fact, Takemichi is pretty sure one of them is bleeding from the head and another is wheezing out a tune similar to an accordion from where they’re crumbled against the wall. And the cause of all of this? A kid Takemichi is sure is his height.
He looks almost bored as he sends another to the ground with a sweep of his leg. A graceful kind of brutality in the way it seems he’s only doing this to curb his own listlessness.
It feels like watching the way water rushes over people — sends them tumbling under its waves where they’ll either fight to breach for fresh air, or end up drowning in its current. The people around him are swept along in his wake, thrashing about for a singular gasp, a break in the way they’re thrown against a bank. Desperate in the way they thrash like fish trying to swim upstream.
And yet, Takemichi finds himself, moving arms outstretched and gripping tight around the torso of the biggest one coming up from behind. (He doesn’t know why he does it — the living whirlpool of a man was turning around to face them. Would no doubt have sent them crashing into the brick of the wall.)
His own eyes are squeezed shut. All he is is dead weight atop a thrashing body, dead weight atop a body that goes still, dead weight atop a body that goes tumbling until they’re crashing against the floor of the alley.
There’s a tch of disapproval above him that has him peeking from his eyelashes. Their hands are in their pockets now— and Takemichi can’t say if their shirt was always that red, or if it’s been dyed that way with the carnage around them.
“You got in the way,” it’s casual, as if he were talking more about the weather and less about a man Takemichi is sure he gave a concussion. His head tilts, a singular strand of moonlight going with it, the rest slicked back “Why?”
He doesn’t bend when he steps closer. Merely peers down at Takemichi as if unsure if he’s something to swat, too. Belatedly, Takemichi realizes his arms are still hooked around the body and he squeaks as he lets go, hurrying to sit up and away. (He is so desperately hoping the man isn’t dead because his DNA is all over that!) “I-I’m so sorry,” he stumbles out though he’s not sure if it’s really true once it’s out of his mouth. “I just saw him start to swing!” The apathetic way he’s being looked at doesn’t shift.
The only thing that does change is the uncanny feeling of being judged. Only for that to disappear a moment later.
A boot nudges the side of his leg. “And you thought you’d be able to do something?” He muses, his cadence not shifting in the slightest. Violet eyes peer at him the way a cat looks at a particularly stupid mouse. “You look as if you’d break if someone so much as looked at you wrong.”
Which. That’s fair actually. It doesn’t hurt any less, but Takemichi can’t argue against it.
Takemichi laughs, a high nervous thing. His tongue has twisted itself into a knot inside his mouth. He’s half-way to a solid sentence when his attention is pulled to the motley collection of bruises peeking up from the kid’s socks. Some are faded, nauseous-looking greens and yellows while others are new with their blueberry and beetroot coloring — as if someone has decided to force a constellation onto his skin.
“Are you — do you need help?” is what falls out of his mouth before Takemichi can wrap his head around why continuing to talk with the kid he just witnessed beat up men almost twice his size is insane. His breath is shaky when he continues. “Just - just wait here, I’ll be right back.”
It’s as he scrambles back onto his feet, nearly stumbling over the numerous bodies that fill the alleyway and tries to ignore the stare pinned between his shoulder blades that he thinks I’m definitely going to die. It doesn’t stop him from rushing to dig his key out of his back pocket all so he can rummage around for his first aid kit as fast as possible, and then nearly have a fucking heart attack when the kid is leaning against the railing in front of his door.
“You’re pretty stupid, aren’t you?” they murmur as if amused by the way Takemichi is clutching his chest. He pushes off from the railing, eyes lidded with boredom as he breaches Takemichi’s bubble. There’s blood on his hands too, Takemichi realizes then. His knuckles are split, and there’s a cut on his cheek. “Do you always stick your nose in other people’s business? Especially people that don’t want your help.” (People who he finds in an alley, fighting other random people. He’s pretty sure this cements that Hanma has passed on his crazy.)
Takemichi doesn’t whimper but it is a very near thing. (He’s interacted with reasonable people — this boy does not look reasonable at all with his fake grin and his dead, dead, dead eyes that look at Takemichi as if he’s moments away from being thrown over the balcony of his building.) His hands shake around the not-at-all-protective barrier that is his kit as he forces his tongue to untangle. “You - you’re hurt.”
Nowhere near as bad as the men in the alley — and as soon as he’s done having a panic attack once this kid leaves he’ll be calling the ambulance — but still, enough to at least warrant bandages, if nothing else.
For a moment his head tilts as if confused and with a shaky finger Takemichi gestures first to the line of bruises crawling up his legs and then the cuts on his hands. With a healthy sense of trepidation, he continues, “It wouldn’t be good if they got infected and, and I think you should wrap your ankle.”
He’s not a doctor, but he’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be as round as a cantaloupe.
The kid sniffs in disdain but doesn’t take Takemichi’s head off his shoulders. “I’m fine. I don’t want your help.” It strangely feels as if he meant pity. Which is funny — Takemichi is the last person that could pity anyone else.
He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Please? They’ll be a lot worse to deal with if something gets in them.”
And with perhaps not enough self-preservation — because that would stop him from being a fucking idiot — Takemichi slowly reaches for his hand. Their eyes narrow, teeth baring and it— he doesn’t know why but it’s not scary in the way it should be. It’s like watching a kitten puff itself up to try and be intimidating rather than the individual he just witnessed kick someone in the head.
They jerk once, but even to the surprise of himself, Takemichi’s grip holds firm even as his other hand fumbles to set the kit on his counter and open it. “I’ll be quick - and then you can leave and I,” he sucks in a shaky breath. “I won’t say anything.”
(Nothing, of course, beyond the call for an ambulance. Takemichi is— he’s a nobody. There’s nothing to expect from him, and he’d really rather keep it that way in this particular instance.)
Disinfectant and cotton balls in hand, Takemichi sets his mind to seeing this through even if he gets his eyes clawed out in the process.
There’s a hiss between the boy’s teeth when Takemichi cleans his knuckles, but he’s surprisingly docile besides that. Now, balanced on the singular stool in his kitchen, Takemichi can’t help but notice how… tiny he actually is. Willowy limbs and lithe muscle that hide how much power he really holds in the way he knocks people out. His wrists are thin as Takemichi wraps his hand around them.
(“It’s funny,” Takuya told him, as the two of them sat equally scuffed up on Takemichi’s bed. There was the first aid kit Takemichi kept hidden under his bed open by the edge. His wrist has a hand-shaped bruise stark against his skin as Takemichi wraps it. “We’re both shit fighters — you’d think we’d learn how to quit while we’re ahead.”
And all he did was laugh, his chest twinging painfully with the noise. “We’re too stupid to quit. Besides,” he added, “You only get hurt because you won’t let me be stupid on my own.”)
Takemichi taps his thigh. “Put your foot here.” It takes a moment before the boy obliges. The bruises are worse without the boot and his sock. His whistle is low. “Shit, man.”
He huffs but it’s nowhere near as dismissive as earlier. “People try to block with their arms. You can see how well that works out for them.” A very haughty cat is all Takemichi can think of. With a huff of amusement of his own Takemichi starts to wrap it as best he can. If nothing else, they’ll help stabilize it a little. Hopefully help with the swelling, too.
“Still, you should look after yourself if you’re going to be getting into fights,” Takemichi murmurs as he adjusts the compression bandage to continue up and around his ankle. “Strong or not, a broken ankle won’t do you any favors.”
He pauses at the barely-there touch of a hand against his cheek. Even without looking up he can feel the intensity of the teen’s stare. The quiet contemplation that sits just above the easy violence dwelling in his skin. Slowly, when all that hand does is stay a hair's breadth distance away from his cheek, he finishes up his bandaging. Doesn’t even bother with sliding the teen’s foot away. (Something tells him it wouldn’t be any good.)
It’s as he’s putting everything back into the kit that the hand curls under his ear, the soft slope of his jaw, and tilts his head up. A thumb, already calloused and rough from god knows what, brushes just under his eye. His tone then is soft, as if he’s been ruminating on something while Takemichi worked. “You’re sincere, aren’t you?” His skin is warm against the curve of Takemichi’s cheek. He muses aloud, as if perplexed, “You really want me to take better care of myself. You can’t help but broadcast everything you think, can you?”
Only then does his foot drop from its pedestal on Takemichi’s thigh. “Call me Izana.” the boy says—rather, orders as he keeps Takemichi’s chin lifted.
If Takemichi had run out of self-preservation he would have laughed. Luckily it seemed he had a crumb of it left. It doesn’t stop him from letting out an amused puff of air as he moves his head out of Izana’s reach. “Fine,” he says, as he stands. “Izana, make sure you put some ice on your ankle. Preferably anytime it’s swollen up like that.”
Izana just hums. “I’ll consider it. I don’t like people ordering me around.”
(It takes far longer for Izana to take his leave than Takemichi thought it would. He comes and goes exactly like the cat Takemichi can’t help but compare him to. Still, he’d really rather hope he doesn’t encounter the kid in another alley anytime soon.)
Takemichi isn’t sure how he ended up here if he’s being entirely honest. It feels too much like he’s sitting on a budget casting couch.
He thought he was invited to a bar.
Never again, he thinks with his heart lodged in his throat, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, and his hands firmly in his lap. I am never again going to try and learn about my co-workers.
Someone’s hand is curled around the ball of his shoulder and Takemichi has been too afraid to look up from his lap to find out who. Their fingers brush up and down, in a motion he’s sure they think is soothing or enticing but is in reality possibly going to put him in an early grave.
Misato-san, one of his co-workers that had invited him for a guy’s night out had abandoned him all of half an hour ago. On all accounts, he’d really thought they were headed to a normal bar— up until they were allowed into the neon-lit monstrosity that was the establishment, and Takemichi was faced with numerous men and women dressed in bunny costumes.
All of his thoughts had promptly left his head as he gradually descended into panic.
He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of any of his co-workers since.
Takemichi is pretty sure he’s half a second from passing out. And what a headline that would be.
(Takemichi has had all of one — one! — girlfriend, and that was all the way back in middle school. No, wait, is that right? He can’t even remember if he successfully held her hand. Sad, he knows, but unequivocally the truth. So this place. This, this— potentially being flirted with? His only reference is Hanma and he would rather not use that as a reference at all, really. (Sad.) Really thinking about it, he can’t actually remember the last time he held a conversation with another adult that didn’t in some way pertain to work. (Sadder.) It doesn’t help that Takemichi is possibly one of the most awkward men on earth — and that’s not even in reference to sex appeal, dating, or anything of the like. It’s just his general existence is a walking, talking whirlwind of awkwardness. (Saddest.) Relationships with other human beings isn’t something Takemichi can confidently say he passes in.
The fact that he was accosted nearly the very moment he broached the doorway by people he didn’t know — of which many tried to touch him — did not at all help the way his heart has decided to try and leave his body. He doesn’t think the owner would appreciate having to remove his corpse.
Perhaps being a shut-in aside from work really was not good for him. Who would’ve thought?)
Which is why Takemichi has no clue what to do. How to - to politely ask to stop being touched, for directions to the nearest exit — or bathroom so he can freak out in peace — or, preferably, he wouldn’t like to talk at all he would in actuality take any opportunity that presented itself to book it.
Unfortunately, a hand is still curled around his shoulder all while Takemichi is trying to peek out of the corner of his eye for a door he can make a run for.
“You really don’t frequent places like this, huh?” The voice nearly has him jolting out of his skin. And… actually, wait a moment. Whatever they say after goes in one ear and out the other as he works up the courage to peek at them. He could give Hanma a run for his money height-wise.
Hair twisted into a tight braid aside from a few loose strands that frame the side of his face. His eyes aren’t quite lidded into a glare, but they’re sharp enough to keep away the other workers tittering nearby looking as if he’s the only reason they’re not pouncing. And that — that has his breath easing, just a little. The death grip on his pants, though, doesn’t shift.
When his head tilts his braid tickles at the shell of Takemichi’s ear, and then his neck when he bends to make it easier to hear him. “Look, your… buddies,” the word is said in a way that makes one imagine a festering corpse. “Only ever stick around for the hour. Purchase my hour and I’ll make sure you’re left alone,” he feels the squeeze of their hand on his shoulder, the brush of the cufflink on their wrist, and then the heat of a bare arm as he’s pressed closer. Yeah, he’s going to die. “No drinks, or nothin.”
He swallows. Lifts his head to give them a better look over and— promptly wants to end up in a grave.
Takemichi is very sure this is not an adult that is keeping him pinned to the back of the couch and their side with a hand. Which. Firstly, again, what the fuck is society feeding these kids nowadays? Secondly, that just about confirms this is not at all a normal whatever the fuck this place is supposed to be, and thirdly, Takemichi thinks he’s doing an admirable job of convincing himself that no he’s not being held hostage by another skyscraper of a teenager, and it in fact could happen to anyone if he indeed was — god, what is his life? — and that the feeling crawling its way up his stomach and burning in his chest isn’t worry and is, in fact, panic. Because Takemichi thinks his brain will go into overdrive and then overheat if he worries about anyone else right now. Doesn’t matter that he’s being bartered with by a teenager in an incredibly skimpy bunny outfit and surrounded by various other adults that are looking at him like he’s a slab of meat.
…Oh fuck who is he kidding?
“C’mon chill the fuck out — I’m not going to bite you,” something tells him that this kid, would in fact, bite him if given a reason.
Takemichi takes a shaky breath. There will be absolutely no drinks because he’d rather not end up in an alley somewhere drunk out of his mind, but more importantly because his budget is already sad. “Will,” he licks his lips and then tries again, “People won’t bug you either?”
Wow, he sure does have tact.
“No,” the kid murmurs and despite the way his legs are splayed wide in nothing but tight leather shorts. He seems unbothered by the way people are looking at him. He’s giving Takemichi a curious look though, his mouth bared in a grin. “It’s good money. As long as I can pass and convince them to buy tons of drinks and food, I’ll keep getting paid.”
And that— “You’d be missing out on a lot with me.”
He shrugs. “Or maybe I already earned enough tonight.” The arm that isn’t currently keeping Takemichi locked in place is offered up to shake. “I’ll keep you from the wolves, and you let me relax for a little. Deal?”
A part of him says he could just leave. The kid would probably point him in the right direction, another part of him — annoying, insistent, that endless pestering that leads him into all the dumbest things possible — can’t keep his nose out of things. (He’s trying so very hard not to think about if wanting to relax means something else.) Takemichi’s hand shakes as he grabs onto the boy’s hand. He fails to keep in his startled squeak when a hand worms its way into his back pocket for his wallet and ¥1,500 is stuffed into an inner pocket of the boy’s open vest.
Takemichi isn’t sure if he’s imagining the easiness to the boy’s grin even though his words are anything but coy. “Go ahead and use me to your heart’s content, any way you’d like.”
(It is, arguably, one of the oddest nights of Takemichi’s life. The boy — whose name he never learns — has a bit of a smart mouth and is remarkably blunt from the way he makes fun of the way Takemichi is dressed to the way he’d admitted it was nice not having to really entertain someone. (Honest, his mind says, but he’s not sure if he can trust that.)
At this point, Takemichi has resigned himself to stumbling upon — or being forced into — odd as hell scenarios. The severity can range, but he’s long given up on the hope of normality in any form. Of course, this particular stumbled-upon find takes the cake.
Now, he’ll admit that he isn’t always the cleanest person — seasonal depression can be, and is, a bitch — but when he has the energy and motivation to keep his apartment well maintained, trash day is confined to the weekend, since those are the only moments of true freedom he has now.
Sometimes it goes by quickly, other times it’s an all day affair. It really just depends on how much has piled up and what his current energy levels are at on that day. Anyway, today is trash day and Takemichi would love to lob the bags that are currently putting his arms through hell into the dumpster, but there’s a person.
For a brief moment, all he thinks is do I call the police? before it abruptly shifts to wait, fuck he twitched - not dead, not dead, abort! only for it to then cause him to panic as he drops his trash bags to instead struggle just as much in pulling the man’s dead weight out of the dumpster.
“Why,” he wails in a whisper. “Why does this shit keep happening to me?” Hanma was enough. He could handle that! It was a near weekly occurrence that Takemichi was forced to get used to! Universe please he is not equipped for more of that craziness.
Falling onto his ass with a hiss when he finally pulls the person free, Takemichi internally cries over how this will no doubt look to an outsider. A body covered in blood, Takemichi’s flailing attempts to pull him further away from the trash, and the knife nearly falling out of his pocket. He uses it to cut up larger pieces of recycling, but that won’t matter to a passerby.
Nose scrunching at the smell, he confirms that the dude is indeed breathing before debating on figuring out if the blood is his or not. What if they wake up…? Takemichi doesn’t want to get slugged in the face because he peeled the dude’s coat open to see if he was bleeding. With a harsh exhale through his nose he settles on just patting his hands over his unconscious body (and god doesn’t that make him sound like a creep?) to check for any wounds.
There’s none. He hasn’t been stabbed or hit or, or anything on his body. The only wound Takemichi manages to find is a head wound that has him hissing through his teeth in sympathy. There’s an old… (burn? scar? scab?) wound on his face, but as far as he can tell it’s not exactly affected by the more prominent head wound.
That’s also when he finds something uh, suspect on the inside of the dude’ shirt collar. If lost please return to: only the name is written in such an abysmal way that Takemichi thinks his sight has spontaneously deteriorated. He squints.
Nope, still can’t make that out. The number, though, is an entirely different story.
And… if he’s being entirely honest with himself his first instinct is to think oh, I do not at all want to get involved with this . But.
He looks down at the unconscious man bleeding over his pants. “God dammit.”
Fingers sticky from the thin rivulet of blood, he digs out his phone and fumbles to input the numbers, entirely certain he’d be better off just calling an ambulance.
It picks up after a few rings and Takemichi is speaking before they can open their mouth — he is not learning more about this besides there’s a body, thank you very much — “I found your…” Your friend? Kid? Menace to society? “...person,” is what Takemichi settles on, uncertain before he bulldozes on, rattling out a nearby street because no offense, but he does not want whoever is on the other side of the line to know where he lives. “You might want to call an ambulance on your way considering he got, uh,” he looks down… major head trauma? “Hit in the head?”
(He really hopes this isn’t going to end up biting him in the ass later on.)