Chapter Text
In the end, Hanma doesn’t remember much. Parts of what he does remember, he tries desperately to forget. The tire tracks, the blood, a barely recognisable face. More than that, he tries to forget the guilt, the helplessness, and the feeling of losing the only person he ever wanted to protect, to care for, to keep close.
It became more clear after that. The weight on his back, the shouting, the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. It had been his first time getting arrested, surprisingly, and he suddenly understood why the Haitanis had complained about it so vehemently. It was a tedious ordeal - from the forced intimidation on the police officer’s part, to the feigned remorse on Hanma’s own end. Long, tedious, draining.
He had been too old to be tried as a child, a real shame. No one there to speak out in his favor, and he didn't bother trying to come up with a defense himself. Kisaki was dead, Hanma might as well be locked away from the world - no real reason to stay in it.
The first year went by in a blur, until he came face-to-face with two brothers again, both more than eager to take out their frustrations about being locked up again on Hanma. After that, the years blurred together in the whirlwind of transfers, fights, more people finding him. He’s pretty sure he nearly bled out once, in the showers, and as he was carried to receive medical attention, he wondered if the girl whose death he caused felt as relieved as he did, or if she was scared, if she had clung to life desperately. In the end, there was some irony to be found, maybe. Hanma, so willing to let go, was brought back and maybe that was the biggest punishment, worse than his own hands had ever inflicted on someone - life itself.
He never fought back. Couldn’t be bothered to. It would’ve required an effort Hanma was quite unwilling to put in and when he looked deep inside himself, like that damned, mandatory therapist kept encouraging him to do, he found that he deserved it. The beatings, the threats. They kept him hopeful, waiting for the day someone would take it too far. He liked the thought, found it comforting, how maybe one day, he’d be the reason why one of these bastard’s sentences would be extended by a few years.
More than that, he never had a reason to fight back. It was boring, all the thrill of fighting gone, tiring him out, delaying the slow death he had resigned himself to. The therapist called it depression, he called it being locked up for ten years and after that, being forced to return to a society less than enthusiastic to welcome someone like Hanma back amongst themselves.
That is, until after the last transfer, probably, about halfway through his final two years locked up. As he always did during the first weeks in a new place, Hanma had kept mostly to the walls, the more quiet rooms. Avoiding the center of the recreational areas, never cutting in line, skipping as many meals as possible. Pushing the limits, refusing his medication, testing how easily bribed the guards were.
He was minding his own business, as he always did, when he spotted a group of men crowding some poor fucker against the wall. With mild interest, he watched some bloated man throw the first punch. No guards around, of course, the perfect moment for Hanma to fish out a poorly rolled cigarette, easily traded for a half-assed handjob. Humming quietly to himself, he lit it with a far more valuable match, taking a long drag and trying to enjoy the fight happening a little ways away from him.
Hanma saw it, then, as the unfortunate guy was punched again and fell over, to the left, directly in his line of sight. That damned tattoo. He would recognise it anywhere, had spent entire nights whispering into it, trying to persuade its owner to follow his lead by any means necessary. It made him feel - something. Suddenly, like being punched in the face, seeing Hanemiya Kazutora on the floor, jumped by three men twice his size. Something flared in Hanma. Vicious, sickening, alive.
Before he even knew what he was doing, he was up, adjusting his grip on that lit cigarette. A trade well worth it, Hanma thought, when he grabbed the first assailant he could get his hands on, forced his head back and pressed the lit cigarette onto the man’s forehead. A screech could be heard and for the first time in years, Hanma felt his heart beating in his chest again. The next two were easily dealt with, he broke one man’s nose and dislocated the other’s shoulder using a technique taught to him by Rindou all those years ago.
His chest was heaving after, not used to the physical strain these kinds of beatings required. Hanma leaned against the wall and looked down, to where Kazutora was still lying, shielding his head with his arms. “They’re gone now,” Hanma said, prodding him gently with his foot. “You can look, Kazutora.”
Slowly, almost comically, Kazutora removed his arms, lifted his head and with wide eyes, looked at Hanma. “No way,” he said, softly. Hanma watched him sit up and then stand up, still not taking their eyes off of each other. Kazutora didn’t have the same crazed look in his eyes, not anymore, but they were still wide, shocked, somewhat nostalgic looking nonetheless. “What are you-” Kazutora shook his head, swallowed visibly and took a step forward, cocking his head and looking up at Hanma.
It was tense, so tense Hanma could barely breathe as he watched Kazutora watch him, seizing him up, moving closer ever so slightly. Memories came flooding back, of an abandoned arcade, sharing beers on a shitty mattress, shoulders leaning against each other. More innocent ones, pulling pranks on the other members of Valhalla, spray painting a wall together, Kazutora falling asleep in the two-sizes-too-big jacket Hanma used to wear, protected from the cold in an extra layer while he shivered next to the young tiger, wounded tiger as they used to call him. So much older and so familiar, stood in front of Hanma.
Kazutora brought up his hands, laid them on Hanma’s shoulders, his expression was blank, unreadable, until he breathed out, “Shuji.” Pulled him in close, wrapped his arms around Hanma’s shoulders and squeezed, pressing them together, shivering in their embrace. For the second time, something stirred in Hanma, something warm and unfamiliar, but not altogether unwelcome.
Despite himself, despite taking pride in always being able to think on his feet, Hanma froze completely. Felt Kazutora chuckle against him but even then he couldn’t will himself to move. Thinking back to the crazed look in Kazutora’s eyes, and then the empty look after stabbing Baji Keisuke, how Hanma had caused that, directly or indirectly, had blood on his hands, too. Yet there stood the man who was locked up because of him, holding him, laughing against him, repeating his name, his given name, like it was a prayer instead of a curse.
“It’s good to see you, Shu,” Kazutora said and Hanma, for once, was speechless, unable to do anything but carefully lift Sin and place it on the back of Kazutora’s head, allowing himself the closeness, the warmth, pressing closer. It took another full minute before he was able to reply, “you, too, Tora.”
After that, they had slid against the wall together, Hanma carefully looking over Kazutora’s face, nodding when he only found bruises forming, nothing too severe. They had shared a cigarette, tasting vaguely of soap, and under the stairs, huddled together, they made a silent promise to stick together.
It took a few months for Hanma to ask the question, noticing the smile on Kazutora’s face every time visitation day was over. He felt a little pathetic himself every time, waiting around until his only friend came back, but it was good, seeing some hope and relief on a normally serious face. “Who’s visiting you all the time to have you look like that, huh?”
Kazutora froze, turned to Hanma slowly, and took a deep breath. “Remember Matsuno Chifuyu?”
It took three years for him to visit Kazutora. It was unexpected, on his birthday of all days, as the remaining founding members sat across from him, Chifuyu in tow, in the back, smiling at him tentatively. It was the greatest mystery of Kazutora’s 18th year alive, even more so than the seemingly endless supply of alcohol that exists behind bars, or what exactly the meals are made of.
Chifuyu was there, smiling at him, wishing him a happy birthday, telling him that he hoped Kazutora had been well, and then, leaving with the others, looking back one more time, waving and smiling, again. Truthfully, Kazutora thought that would’ve been the last of it, but Chifuyu returned, a month later, sitting across from him, the only one who came to visit.
Their first few visits like that were weird. Forced. Chifuyu clearly unsure what to talk about and Kazutora, well, prison life was about as repetitive as it gets. It wasn’t until a few months later, when Kazutora showed up with bruises and the boy across from him had the audacity to ask what happened, that he snapped, releasing the building guilt and insecurity, “what the fuck do you care?!” And then, when Chifuyu fell silent and pressed his lips in a thin line, Kazutora added, “why are you even here?!”
To his surprise, Chifuyu laughed and shook his head. “Baji-san was right,” he quipped easily, like the name didn’t burn on his tongue like it did for Kazutora. “You are shit at making friends.”
Kazutora blinked in response, sure he misheard, but Chifuyu was laughing again and it had been contagious, because he was giggling along before he knew it. They stayed in hysterics for a bit, clutching their stomachs, unsure of why they were even laughing, and when it hit him, the word friend being used so casually, his laughter quickly turned into sobs wrecking his whole body. When he looked up a few minutes later, embarrassed and still hiccuping, it had been to Chifuyu pressing his hand against the glass between them, smiling softly, and Kazutora forgot instantly what it was like to feel completely alone in the world.
Visitation days were never spent alone again after that. Chifuyu would always be there, either with stories about his life or a new volume of a manga in tow, back turned to Kazutora and holding it up so he could read along over Chifuyu’s shoulder, rolling his eyes at the romantic nonsense his friend read. It took another year for Kazutora to believe they were really friends, and then another for him to ask the question weighing on his mind, “why aren’t you mad at me?”
“I never wanted to be mad at you,” Chifuyu had said with a frown, “even back then. I used to keep Baji-san up at night, asking about the shit you guys used to get up to, forcing him to tell me the stories over and over again. I couldn’t wait for you- I couldn’t wait to be your friend, Kazutora.”
“Oh,” he could only reply intelligently. For the first time in years, Kazutora allowed himself to think back to Bloody Halloween, how Chifuyu had grabbed him and easily tossed him aside after. He chanced a grin, feeling courageous. “Is that how you treat all your friends, Chifuyu? Throwing them around like sacks of garbage?”
Chifuyu had leaned back in his chair, tilted his chin up and stared down his nose at Kazutora. “To be fair,” he said, slowly, raising an eyebrow, “you were a sack of garbage back then.” No venom in his words, there never was. Nearly two years into their friendship, and Kazutora felt the full shift between them - of trust, of companionship, of common ground. They started discussing Baji more easily after that, sometimes venturing into the painful side of things. Chifuyu left every now and then with tears in his eyes, but each time after that, he always came back. Three years into their friendship, Kazutora found he could trust the love that was being extended to him.
With some help, Hanma did end up remembering Chifuyu. Slowly but surely, until he could more clearly envision the small kid he beat up, then tied up, at Christmas, snickering about it the whole time with- Well, not by himself. He also remembered Mochi having a hard time getting that same kid to stay down. For a while, those were the only memories Hanma had of Matsuno Chifuyu.
That changed, a few months later, half a year before Hanma was set to be released, when Kazutora walked in after visitation, tears still in his eyes and a downtrodden look on his face. Hanma had been up in an instant, ready to fight the guards off and go beat that little brat into oblivion for upsetting Kazutora, but he was stopped before he could even take two steps.
“Sit down, idiot,” Kazutora had said, rolling his eyes and plopping down into a chair himself. “Let’s talk about Bloody Halloween.”
When he heard those words, the date suddenly became more significant - november 3rd. With a heavy sigh, he’d sat down, too, and allowed memories of that time to flood back. Hazy at best, muddled and painfully unclear at worst. More than a decade ago, but judging from the look on Kazutora’s face, still fresh in the memory of two people who had arguably suffered the biggest loss that day.
For the first half year of their rekindled friendship, they had steered clear of any and all topics relating to Valhalla. On that day, they broke the fragility of their silence together. An ugly conversation, filled with shame, resentment and, exclusively on Hanma’s side, a singular apology that shut Kazutora up in an instant. Then, an explanation. Not using the words any professionals would use, but an explanation about the boredom, the suffocating greyscale of his life before - before a chance encounter, a meeting that would change the course of so many lives.
Hanma told him about the growing emptiness, before and after, and never apologised again. Felt the months that were added onto his sentence for the sake of Kazutora spoke louder than any stumbled over sorries ever could. He kept his chin high, met those eyes in a familiar shade and kept their gaze. Steady, unwavering, committing to whatever the verdict would be.
Kazutora had gotten up, silent, and then reeled back a fist, connecting it to Hanma’s jaw with so much force he could hear it crack before he felt it. Immediately after, he was helped up by that same hand, felt it clap onto his shoulder, and then used to guide him to the medical wing.
There seemed to be a one-sided understanding between them from then on. Kazutora picking up on something Hanma couldn’t quite put a name to himself, but it led to a quiet devotion to each other. Nothing that needed to be spoken out into the world, but tangible nonetheless.
As they sat together after, Hanma’s jaw bruised and stiff, Kazutora looked at him with a smile and reminded him of Matsuno Chifuyu for two reasons. “One,” Kazutora said, “because you owe him an apology too, but he certainly does not want to hear it. So, I’m going to finally tell him about you and what you’ve done for me in here.” A resolute nod. Hanma could only frown as he continued, “two, because he’s going to help you after you get out.”
So, with an aching jaw and some reluctance, Hanma thought back to the boy who held his best friend in his arms as Baji Keisuke bled out from a stab wound caused by both Hanma and Kazutora. He thought of the bone-chilling scream, the shift in atmosphere, about how even he had felt the pain, strangely, of losing someone. Going down that path in his own mind, he was briefly reminded of feeling that exact same pain himself not even a year later, right before the arrest that would eventually lead to that moment and him remembering those painful things. Full circle, in a way, Hanma supposed. He looked up at Kazutora then, confused. “What do you mean, he’s gonna help me after I get out?”
“Well… Let me rephrase, I’m going to convince him to help after you get out.” Kazutora nodded again, beamed at Hanma brightly, only worsening his headache from the blow he got dealt earlier. “Only until I get out, too, of course. After that, we can get an apartment, stick together. But…” he drifted off for a moment, looking to the side, “but until I get out, I don’t- I trust- I want you both to be there when I get out, so it’ll be easier, right? If you stick with him for a little while?”
“Right…” Hanma sighed, “how about I promise you I’ll be there when you get out, and in return, I don’t gotta rely on someone’s charity for almost six months?”
Kazutora raised an eyebrow. “No can do, Shuji.” And it was unspoken between them, lingered heavily in the air. I trust Chifuyu more than you when it comes to this. There was no room left for discussion, so half a year before Hanma was even supposed to get out, he had someone planning the details of his freedom, something he never even stopped to consider himself.