Chapter Text
He won.
He thinks he won, anyway.
Hard to tell, with the pavement still tilting under his shoes and his heartbeat pounding loud enough in his ears to drown out everything else. Victory’s supposed to feel more euphoric than this, isn’t it? Supposed to feel like swagger and laughter and someone clapping him on the back.
Whatever. He’s standing. They’re not. That counts.
He drags in a breath through his mouth, because his nose burns too much to risk it, and wipes at the cut above his eye with the back of his wrist. It smears the blood instead of stopping it. Great. He blinks hard, vision flickering white for a second before it steadies.
Four guys on the ground now.
One groaning, clutching his ribs.
Two out cold.
Another half-curled against a dumpster, wheezing like every inhale might be a mistake.
The fifth had bolted the second he saw Jounouchi slam the second guy into the concrete — probably sprinting off to grab reinforcements.
And the worst part?
This wasn’t even about him.
Their real problem was with Hirutani.
Last week’s fight had spiraled fast — even for Hirutani. Ichigaya High’s second-in-command had mouthed off, thrown a punch, and Hirutani had shown exactly why he ran Rintama’s crew. He didn’t waste motion. He didn’t hesitate. By the time it was over, the guy had cracked ribs, two teeth gone, and a concussion bad enough they kept him in the hospital overnight.
Word spread fast.
So now Ichigaya wanted revenge, and since Hirutani barely left the hideout lately — too busy “running operations” and “planning moves,” which usually meant drinking cheap beer and yelling at anyone who annoyed him — they went for the next best target.
Hirutani's second-in-command.
The “skinny blond one.”
The one stupid enough to walk home alone.
Lucky him.
His cut drips again, hot down his cheek. He spits to the side, breath fogging faintly in the cool evening air, and pushes himself off the wall. His ribs twinge when he straightens. One of them clipped him good earlier — elbow, maybe — right in the soft spot underneath his ribs. That’s gonna bruise.
Whatever. He’s had worse. He’ll have worse again.
He turns out of the alley a little too fast, like momentum is still dragging him forward. The street hits him all at once, headlights, voices, the smell of exhaust, and for a second it blurs at the edges. He keeps walking anyway. People move around him without looking too closely, and that’s fine. Better. He doesn’t want anyone seeing how his hands are still shaking.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders curling in on themselves. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving that familiar buzzing under his skin and a slow ache settling into his bones.
His knuckles throb when they brush the inside seam of his jacket, sharp for a second before fading into the background. He doesn’t bother checking them. They’re swollen, maybe busted. Nothing new.
A small gust of wind lifts the edge of his Rintama jacket. The grey fabric hangs crooked where someone grabbed it and tried to drag him down, the seam stretched just enough that Jounouchi isn't sure that it'll sit right again. He tugs it out of habit, attempting to fix it, not that it helped.
A couple people glance at the uniform on his back, that particular shade of grey everyone in the area knows. He ignores them. He’s used to it. They can eat shit for all he cares.
He should head back.
Hirutani will want to know why Ichigaya dogs were prowling around Rintama turf, and Jounouchi should report it — that’s what a second-in-command does.
But the thought of returning to that rust-stained building, the stale smell of smoke, the low hum of voices talking big about nothing…
His feet turn the other direction.
He doesn’t want the look Hirutani gives him, the one dripping with disappointment
He doesn’t want to hear “You should’ve handled it faster,” or “Ichigaya won’t drop it now,” or “We’ll hit back harder.”
He doesn’t want to sit with ice water dripping down his face from a cracked freezer tray while the guys laugh about the one that ran and ask him why he didn’t chase down the fifth.
He doesn’t want to admit he’s tired of this shit.
But he is.
So he keeps walking.
He doesn’t want to go see Honda either.
His steps slow near the familiar cross-street. He knows this neighborhood better than he wants to admit; he’s cut through here a hundred times, back when things were different and everything felt like it might still turn out okay. He can see the apartment building from the corner if he looks for it — the one with the rusted railings, the mailbox that never shuts right.
Honda would help. Like always. He’d sigh, and roll his eyes, and complain about how Jounouchi never listens, but he’d hand him a rag, and the peroxide, and tell him to sit still for once. He’d talk too much, maybe, or he’d go quiet — which is worse. Because lately, the quiet isn’t comfortable anymore. Lately, the quiet means I thought you were smarter than this.
Jounouchi slows at the corner anyway. His throat works.
He can almost picture it: Honda opening the door, looking him up and down, that flash of anger and worry and disappointment all in one. The tightening of his mouth. The lecture he’d try not to give, because he knows Jounouchi won’t listen, but it’ll come out anyway — You could come to Domino. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to follow him.
And Jounouchi will say something sharp and stupid back, because he can’t stand that look. Because he can stand punches, broken skin, split lips — but not that.
He turns away before he can think about it anymore.
It’s whatever.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, shoulders hunched, trying to look like just another kid out late instead of a stray dog coming off a brawl. The city hums around him — traffic, voices, the distant jingle of a storefront door. He glances behind him once, out of habit.
For a second, nothing.
Then he hears it.
“Thought he went this way.”
Jounouchi’s spine goes rigid.
Great.
He doesn’t look back again. Instead he adjusts his pace — a little faster, not a run, nothing suspicious — and tugs his collar up to shadow more of his face. His heart kicks up sharper, more alert, the bruised stiffness fading under the familiar prickle of adrenaline.
They brought friends. Of course they did.
He keeps to the edge of the sidewalk, slipping between an old lady with a grocery bag and a couple arguing quietly near a lamppost. He doesn’t want to drag bystanders into this. He also doesn’t want to give the guys a clean swing in open space.
The street opens up near a shop he's barely registered before. Display cases in the wide windows are crammed full of cards, figurines and…games? He must have walked past the shop dozens of times, how had it not registered before?
Right now it’s not a shop. It’s a door.
Its safety.
The footsteps cut around the corner behind him.
“Shit.”
He pivots without breaking stride and shoves through the door. The bell above it lets out a bright, cheerful ring that feels completely wrong against the pound of his pulse.
Light spills across polished wood counters. Shelves run along the walls, stacked tight with boxed sets and plastic-wrapped cases and displays filled with tiny painted figures. The air smells like old paper and something faintly sweet — tea, maybe, drifting down from upstairs. Its…quiet.
For half a second he just stands there, chest rising and falling a little too fast, feeling wildly out of place in a room that looks like it belongs to kids and losers who can't get a fucking life.
“Welcome to—”
A small voice. Bright. Polite.
He doesn’t look at it.
He moves two steps in, enough to be past the windows, and turns his shoulder toward the glass. His collar comes up higher. He angles his face away from the street and pretends to stare at a rack of keychains. His pulse hammers as he watches the world outside through the reflection — the blur of bodies, shadows moving. His cut drips again, hot down his cheek.
“Is there a game you were looking—oh—”
The voice is suddenly closer.
Too close.
He stiffens automatically and turns his head just enough to see—
A kid.
He’s short. Tiny, even. Not just younger-looking — actually small. But he’s wearing a Domino High uniform, so he can’t be that young. His hair is… ridiculous, it makes no damn sense. And he's staring right at Jounouchi. Jounouchi’s brow lowers. His jaw tightens. He’s about to tell the kid to mind his own damn business—
—and he hears them.
The voices outside grow louder, boots scraping against pavement and something in Jounouchi’s chest tightens before he consciously registers why.
Too close.
He goes still, every muscle locking as if the sound alone could drag them through the door.
The kid hears it too. Jounouchi sees the shift in him — fear and something else sliding into place behind those stupid eyes.
“Wait,” the kid says quietly and then, “Follow me.”
And before Jounouchi can snap or pull away or ask what the hell, a small warm hand closes around his wrist.
He freezes.
He could yank away. He should. He doesn’t let people grab him. He doesn’t let strangers touch him.
But the kid’s grip isn’t a threat. It’s not yanking, or dragging, or trying to shove him anywhere. It’s gentle. Urgent. Certain.
The kid pulls him through the gap in the counter and slips him behind a hanging curtain. It falls shut, cutting the room in half, and suddenly Jounouchi is boxed in with stacked crates and dust and the faint smell of old cardboard. The space is narrow enough that he can’t fully turn without bumping something. His back hits the wall on instinct.
“Please stay here,” the kid whispers and then he’s gone again, his footsteps pattering back toward the front.
Jounouchi breathes out slowly through his teeth.
He hates this; standing still, blind, with nothing but a thin sheet of fabric between him and whatever happens next. If they come back here, he’ll have maybe half a second to react. Maybe less. He should leave. Maybe there's a back door. He could slip out, could get back on the street. Surely theres a back alley he could go through. Honda isn't far from here, he could —
The bell rings.
Jounouchi stiffens as footsteps spill into the shop. How many is that? Five? Six? He can’t tell. Fuck. If only he could see them. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to step out, to take control of the situation but he doesn’t. He stays put. His hand tightens into a fist, ready if he needs it. God, he wishes he could rip this damn curtain down. He forces the thought away and locks in on the sounds instead, trying to track every movement, every breath, anything that tells him what’s happening out there.
“Oi, Star Head! You seen a blond punk? Rintama jacket. Passed this way?”
Jounouchi holds his breath, waiting for the kid’s answer.
There’s a tiny sound — a quick throat-clear, like he’s trying to brace himself.
“Um… I—I don’t think so. I haven’t really noticed anyone like that.”
Silence stretches.
Then the snickering starts — low, entertained, mean.
Jounouchi’s stomach drops. Fuck. Not because they think he’s here — but because the kid just sounded small. Trying too hard to sound confident, and not even close. He can hear it in their voices already, that lazy spark of interest sharpening.
They’re not leaving. Fuck! Now I'm stuck back here.
Jounouchi hears movement. They're spreading out around the shop, clearly in no rush to leave. Shoes scrape. Something drags. A shelf gives a dull, hollow rattle, like weight leaning where it shouldn’t. They’re touching things just to touch them, just to remind the room who’s in charge.
His pulse spikes. He shifts his stance, muscles coiled, every nerve waiting for the sound of footsteps coming straight for the curtain.
He can hear them talking, but the words blur — something about the kid, laughter threading through it. More shuffling. Then a voice, suddenly much closer, right near the counter.
“So that means you’re here alone, huh, kid?”
Jounouchi’s jaw locks. His hand tightens again. If one of them takes two more steps back here—he’ll move first. He’ll break the curtain and the standoff and whatever comes after.
He waits.
Listening.
“If there’s anything game-related I can help you with— hey! Please be careful with—”
The crash hits like a gunshot. Something heavy topples, pieces scattering across tile.
“Oops,” one of them says, sing-song, followed by laughter that crawls up Jounouchi’s spine.
He should step out. This is fucking ridiculous. He shouldn’t let this happen, he should—
Footsteps on the stairs.
A deeper voice now and the whole shop goes still. Jounouchi can’t make out the words, only the shape of authority in them. One of the punks, the one near the counter, scoffs back, “Yeah, yeah, old man. We were just leaving.”
The tension loosens in Jounouchi’s shoulders, not gone, but easing, as he hears quick shuffling, the scrape of shoes toward the door, and then the bell above it ringing as the gang filters out into the street.
The quiet hangs for a few seconds longer.
Then the curtain shifts.
The kid slips back there, breath quick but steady, and his hand closes around Jounouchi’s again. “They’re gone,” he says softly. “Come on.”
Before Jounouchi can think of a reason not to, he lets himself be pulled out into the light.
The shop looks wrecked slightly — a display knocked sideways, plastic cases scattered across the floor, a shelf sitting crooked in its brackets. So that’s what he heard.
And then he sees the old man.
Short, like the kid. Grey hair in the same strange spikes, flattened a little under a bandana. A neat beard. Calm eyes that land on Jounouchi and stay there just long enough to take his measure.
For half a second, Jounouchi almost laughs. This is who those punks were scared of?
The old man doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, steady and unreadable. Jounouchi’s chin lifts in response, shoulders tightening. He knows what comes next. The question. The tone. For the kind of judgment adults are usually so eager to throw his way.
Instead, the man’s gaze flicks between the two of them.
“You two alright?”
“Yep!” the kid answers immediately, too bright, too fast. “Everything’s fine. I’ll clean it up.”
Jounouchi says nothing.
He stands there, jaw clenched, the last of the adrenaline buzzing through his fingers… and the old man keeps looking at him a moment longer, like he’s deciding something, before his attention shifts away.
The old man sighs and rubs his brow. “I’ll be in the back room. Need to check on the shipping slips.” His gaze flicks between the two of them again, lingering a moment on them.
Then he disappears through the swinging door, leaving them in the quiet.
Jounouchi’s shoulders drop a fraction. He’s about to move—say something sharp and dismissive just to break the tension—when he feels it.
Warmth.
He looks down.
Their hands are still joined.
The kid hasn’t let go.
Or maybe Jounouchi never pulled away.
The kid’s fingers are curled around his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s nothing desperate about it, nothing clingy. Just… hands being held. Steady.
The realization hits him so abruptly his breath stutters.
They’re just standing there.
In the middle of a quiet shop.
Holding hands.
What the hell?!
After a moment the kid tugs at his wrist again, trying to steer him back toward the counter — and this time Jounouchi yanks his hand free on instinct.
“Quit grabbing me,” he snaps. He didn’t mean for it to come out that sharp, but it does.
The kid doesn’t flinch. Just looks at him for a second, cheeks pink, then says softly:
“You should sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Jounouchi snorts — offended, maybe. Or just tired.
…Yeah, okay, his legs felt like someone replaced them with wet noodles. The adrenaline buzz is thinning, leaving behind a slow throb in his ribs and that annoying burn above his eyebrow.
He drops onto the nearest stool with a grunt.
Just for a minute, he tells himself. Just to stop the ground from swaying.
He closes his eyes.
He hears the kid moving — quick little footsteps, drawers sliding, something clattering onto the counter. Gentle, careful sounds that don’t match the ringing in Jounouchi’s ears.
Jounouchi cracks one eye open—
—and sees the kid standing right in front of him, reaching up with a damp cloth.
To touch his face.
“What the—?!” Jounouchi jerks back so fast the stool nearly tips. “Hey! Back off! What’re you doing? Get your hands outta my face, you touchy little—!”
The kid freezes, cloth hovering in midair like he forgot how to move.
“I—I’m sorry!” he blurts. “I wasn’t trying to— I just— I thought—”
He scrambles a step back, cheeks burning red. He gestures helplessly toward a white plastic box he’d set on the counter.
“I get into… trouble sometimes,” he admits quietly. “So I keep a med kit down here. I was just trying to help.”
Jounouchi stares at him.
Damn it.
He hadn’t meant to snap that hard. And now the kid looks like a startled rabbit now.
Jounouchi mutters a curse under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how exhausted he is.
“Yeah, well… I can do it myself,” he grumbles, trying to sound annoyed instead of guilty. “Not my first fight.”
The kid nods, still flustered. “O-okay. Um… if you’d rather—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” Jounouchi interrupts.
The kid blinks. “Bathroom?”
Jounouchi stares at him. “Yeah, bathroom. What, you piss on the floor in this place?”
The kid sputters, turning bright red.
“N-No! No, we— we have one! It’s just— it’s… um…”
He glances toward the stairs.
“…upstairs.”
Jounouchi frowns. “Upstairs?”
“In the apartment,” the kid says quickly, wringing his hands. “We don’t really have a customer bathroom. Grandpa says people just make a mess and… anyway, you can… you can use ours. If you want. It’s just… it’s not usually for…for customers…”
Jounouchi sighs, already standing. “Relax. I’m not gonna rob the place.”
The kid squeaks, flustered. “T-That’s not what I…The bathroom’s the first door on the left. Up the stairs.”
“Great.”
Jounouchi grabs the med kit and trudges toward the stairs.
Behind him, he hears the kid let out a soft, nervous breath.
Whatever.
He climbs the narrow stairway, each step creaking under his shoes, and pushes into the apartment hallway without waiting for an invitation.
At least it’ll have a mirror.
Once up the stairs Jounouchi sees the bathroom door, he opens it quickly and slams it shut behind him.
He flips the switch and the small room brightens around him.The bathroom’s small but clean, smelling faintly of soap and some lemony cleaner. Definitely a home bathroom, not a shop one. Great. Now he feels even more out of place.
Jounouchi sets the med kit on the counter and leans over the sink, gripping the edge as he studies his reflection.
The blood from the cut above his eyebrow has dried into a stiff, itchy streak down the side of his face. A bruise is already blooming under his eye, dark and ugly, and his lip’s gone swollen on one side. He tilts his head to get a better view of it all.
“Great,” he mutters. “Real fucking cute.”
He shifts a little and his ribs bite back, sharp as he inhaled and repositioned a bit more to try to relieve the pain.
Could be worse.
Has been worse.
He turns on the tap, wets a cloth, and presses it to the cut. The sting flashes sharp behind his eye, enough to make him clench his jaw and suck in a breath through his teeth. He waits for it to level out, then wipes away the rest of the dried blood with slow, practiced motions. His hands know what they’re doing even if his brain is too tired to guide them.
Antiseptic next. Sharp smell. Sharper burn. He doesn’t flinch—much. A little hiss slips out before he tapes the gauze in place with impatient precision. He’s done this so many times the steps don’t even register anymore.
He checks his nose. Not broken. Good.
Jaw’s tender. Expected.
Ribs ache. Nothing new.
Everything aches in a familiar way he doesn’t think about anymore.
He lets out a slow breath, shoulders dropping for the first time since the fight. The adrenaline has finally bled out of him, leaving that heavy, buzzing exhaustion behind. He grips the counter until the faint blur in his vision clears.
And then the kid downstairs pops back into his head.
Jounouchi snorts under his breath. Bet the kid thinks he owes him now. Bet he’ll come up with some stupid “favor” to cash in — help stock shelves, haul boxes, scrub something, whatever chores that kid doesn’t want to do. Nobody just steps in and lies to a gang for free. Nobody’s that nice.
Still… the whole thing sticks under his skin.
The way the kid looked at him…worried... Like Jounouchi was some stray that wandered in off the street, not someone who’d just put four people on the ground. Last thing he needs is some kid getting all weird around him.
His jaw tightens. He rolls his shoulders once, like he can shake the discomfort off.
And then there’s the uniform.
The crisp Domino High jacket.
Honda’s school.
Why the hell was a kid from there, from that little safe-feeling world, stepping between him and a gang?
It doesn’t make sense.
None of tonight makes sense.
Weird kid.
He rinses the cloth, splashes water on his face, scrubs away the last streaks of blood. His reflection looks… the same. Tired. Irritated.
He snaps the med kit shut, more forcefully than he needs to be, and straightens up.
Time to get out of here before he thinks himself in circles.
Jounouchi pulls the bathroom door open and nearly walks straight into the kid.
He's standing right outside the doorway like he’s been rooted there. Too close. He startles when the door moves, eyes flicking up immediately.
Seriously?
He was waiting?
Jounouchi stops short, annoyance flaring out of pure instinct. “What—were you camping out here or something?”
The kid shakes his head, his face turning red. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to—um—make sure you were okay.”
Of course he did.
Because tonight wasn’t weird enough already.
Jounouchi rolls his eyes and brushes past him, heading toward the stairs. “Relax. I didn’t steal your damn toothbrush or whatever.”
“What? No!” The kid follows half a step behind, small quick steps on the old wooden floor. “I wasn’t thinking that. You just… seemed dizzy when you came up here.”
Jounouchi stops. Turns halfway around. Gives him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“Dizzy?”
The kid’s shoulders bunch. “A little.”
“I'm NOT dizzy.”
“You sort of… wobbled when you sat down on the stool.”
“That wasn’t a wobble,” Jounouchi snaps. “I sat down. You ever seen someone sit before?”
The kid’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. At him. Jounouchi’s brow furrows. He doesn’t know what to do with that expression. He doesn’t know what to do with ANYTHING about this kid.
“Would you like a drink? Would you like tea? Or um….if you prefer…we have soda…or a water?"
Tea.
This weirdo is offering him tea?
Jounouchi blinks at him, baffled. The kid actually means it. He’s standing there in a Domino High uniform, all neat and pressed and polite, offering tea to someone who bled on his shop floor.
Who DOES that?
“What is wrong with him?” Jounouchi mutters to himself.
The kid overhears him, his eyes getting even wider, which Jounouchi didn’t think was possible.
Jounouchi thrusts the med kit back into his arms—quick, abrupt, too rough but he can’t think of another way to end this conversation. “Here. Thanks or whatever.”
The kid fumbles it, nearly drops it, scrambles to catch it. “Oh—right—um—sure.”
Jounouchi’s already turning toward the stairs.
He needs to go.
Now.
Before the kid says something else absurd. Before he makes him feel weird again. Before he has to figure out why someone like that bothered to help him at all.
He heads down the stairs fast, his sneakers thudding on the wooden steps, and pushes out into the evening air without looking back.