Chapter Text
Takemichi slipped out the front door, his footsteps cautious and barely audible as he carefully avoided making noise that might disturb his mother and her boyfriend. The tension he carried faded a little as he stepped outside, and the brisk morning air met him with a sharp chill, stinging the raw marks on his face. He adjusted his backpack, feeling the weight of it settle into his sore shoulders, the straps rubbing uncomfortably against bruises that had yet to fade.
He’d tried to cover up the wounds with whatever he could find, but nothing had worked. The long, shallow marks on his face were too visible, and the first aid kit in the bathroom was nearly empty, most of the bandages either old or missing altogether. Every time he looked in the mirror, his reflection reminded him of everything he wanted to forget.
With a quick breath, Takemichi forced himself to keep walking, his gaze fixed forward as he started down the street. The familiar path to school stretched ahead, but today, it felt heavier than usual. The sounds of distant traffic, the rustle of leaves—all of it blended into a quiet, lonely silence that echoed his own thoughts. He tugged his backpack up a little higher on his back, trying to settle it comfortably, hoping the day would pass quickly, and praying no one would notice the pain hidden beneath his forced smile.
The hope that his mom wouldn’t get caught might seem foolish to others, but Takemichi couldn’t help feeling scared. He’d heard the stories—kids taken from a bad home, only to end up in an even worse one. No matter what, that woman was still his mom. The thought made his chest tighten, and as tears started to prick at his eyes, he knew he’d have to pull himself together before he could keep going. Stepping off to the side, he ducked into an alleyway, pressing his back against the cold brick wall as he tried to gather his thoughts.
A faint groan echoed from deeper in the alley, making Takemichi pause. He glanced toward the sound, curious but wary. It sounded like someone was in pain. Normally, he wouldn’t investigate—he knew it was better to keep his head down. But everyone always said he was too kind for his own good, and before he could think twice, he found himself moving further into the shadows.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he spotted a boy slumped against the wall, someone he vaguely recognized from around town. He’d seen him before—a kid who got into fights a lot, though Takemichi couldn’t remember his name. He studied the boy for a moment: his black hair had a streak of blond in the front, and his face was battered and bruised, his hands trembling. He looked as though he’d been in one too many fights. He was sleeping, but the way his body shivered in the chilly autumn air made Takemichi’s heart squeeze with sympathy.
Takemichi reached up, fingers brushing his own scarf. Then, after a hesitant moment, he knelt down beside the boy, gently placing a hand on his shoulder to wake him. Slowly, the boy’s eyes opened, and Takemichi found himself staring into a pair of striking golden-brown eyes—eyes that held a depth of pain and defiance.
A small, weary smile appeared on the boy’s face, but Takemichi could tell it was forced. That smile—he knew it all too well. It was the same practiced expression he wore to hide his own bruises, to keep others from knowing just how hurt he really was.
“Hey,” Takemichi said quietly, offering a small smile of his own. “Are you... alright?”
The boy just held his gaze for a moment, his smile fading as he seemed to study Takemichi’s face. For a moment, neither spoke, a silent understanding passing between them.
Takemichi blinked, surprised by the boy’s reply.
“I should be asking you that,” the boy said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Name’s Hanma Shuji.”
Takemichi felt a pang of recognition—this wasn’t just any tough kid who liked to pick fights. There was a roughness, a weight in Hanma’s gaze that Takemichi knew all too well, the kind of look someone gets when they’ve been through things they shouldn’t have.
Hanma’s smirk softened a bit as he studied Takemichi. In his mind, memories stirred—the nights he’d spent nursing bruises from his father’s drunken fists, the long stretches of time he’d spent running, just to avoid getting caught up in that violence again. Now he lived from day to day, picking fights with the gang members around town, if only to keep himself feeling in control of something.
Takemichi managed a small nod. “It’s... Takemichi.”
For a moment, silence hung between them, the weight of unspoken stories filling the space. Hanma let out a slow breath, almost a sigh, and shook his head.
“Looks like we’re both carrying a bit more than we should, huh?” he murmured, leaning back against the cold wall and offering Takemichi a look of understanding.
Takemichi wasn’t sure how to reply, but somehow, he felt a strange sense of comfort. He wasn’t alone—not completely.
"Why are you still in that house?" Hanma asked, his tone softer than Takemichi had expected, almost like he already knew the answer.
Takemichi dropped his gaze, unable to meet Hanma's intense stare. He shifted his weight, the shame of his situation pulling his shoulders down. "Because... I don’t know how to leave,” he murmured, the words heavy as they escaped. “I don’t want to be away from my mom."
Hanma’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze studying Takemichi with an intensity that made him squirm. "Is it your mom who's doing this to you?" he asked carefully, though he suspected he already knew the answer. His eyes traced over the band-aids covering Takemichi’s skin, the way his shirt sleeves hid bruises, and, just for a second, Hanma caught a glimpse of faint scars where the sleeve had slipped.
The sight made Hanma’s chest tighten. His face softened, though his voice remained steady. "You don’t have to keep taking this," he said, a little firmer, trying to convey to Takemichi the possibility of something better. “You don’t deserve this.”
Takemichi swallowed hard, feeling a mix of fear and relief. It was terrifying to have someone see through him so clearly, to know he couldn’t hide here like he usually did. But in Hanma’s eyes, he didn’t see pity. He saw understanding, like Hanma had been down the same path himself.
Takemichi looked down at the scarf around his neck, fingers brushing over the worn fabric. It was old and slightly frayed at the edges, but it held memories that made him feel safe, especially on days like this. Slowly, he unwound it, glancing at Hanma. Even though he didn’t know Hanma well, he could see the exhaustion etched on his face, hidden under that confident, guarded smile.
"Here,” Takemichi said, holding out the scarf to Hanma. “You look like you need this more than me right now. It’s... it’s not much, but it’s warm.”
Hanma’s golden eyes widened for a moment, and he glanced from the scarf to Takemichi, a faint smile on his lips. “You’re giving me your scarf?” he asked, his voice colored by a hint of disbelief.
“Yeah,” Takemichi replied, feeling a bit self-conscious but determined. “I mean... I know it’s not gonna solve anything. But sometimes, something small can make a difference.” He looked away, as if embarrassed by his own words. “And you just... looked like you needed it.”
Hanma’s expression softened, and he took the scarf, wrapping it around his neck with careful hands. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?” he muttered, though there was no edge in his voice, only a quiet warmth that Takemichi hadn’t expected.
Takemichi shrugged, offering a small smile. “I get that a lot.” He hesitated, then continued, “But, you know, you don’t always have to pretend everything’s fine. I know what it’s like... trying to hide what hurts.”
Hanma’s smile faltered, the bravado slipping away for a moment as he looked at Takemichi. “Guess I’m not as good at hiding it as I thought,” he murmured, sounding almost defeated. “It’s just... easier to act like everything’s a game. Like nothing bothers me.”
Takemichi nodded, understanding all too well. “Sometimes it’s easier to pretend. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it, you know? You don’t always have to be alone.”
Hanma looked at him, a mixture of surprise and something almost vulnerable in his gaze. For a moment, he seemed unsure of how to respond. “I... I’m not used to this, Takemichi. Someone being... kind. Not expecting anything in return.” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Guess I’ve gotten used to only getting what I ask for, and nothing more.”
“Well, you’re getting more now,” Takemichi replied, his tone firmer than he expected. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but... if you ever need someone, I’ll be here.” He paused, his voice softer. “You don’t have to keep everything to yourself, Hanma.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Hanma’s face, something raw and genuine that he quickly hid. But he gave Takemichi a small nod, clutching the scarf a bit tighter. “Thanks, Takemichi. I don’t know why, but... it helps. Knowing someone gets it.”
They stayed there in silence for a moment, a quiet understanding passing between them. Neither had expected to find a kindred spirit today, but here, in this cold alleyway, they had found a flicker of warmth.
As they prepared to part ways, Takemichi reached out and gave Hanma’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Remember, you’re not alone,” he said, a gentle reminder that he meant every word he’d spoken.
Hanma’s eyes softened, and he gave Takemichi a rare, genuine smile. “You too, Takemichi. You’re not as alone as you think, either.”
As the silence in the alley stretched on, Takemichi finally spoke, breaking the moment. "Hey, if... if you ever need to talk or anything, we could keep in touch." He fumbled with his backpack, pulling out a small piece of scrap paper and a pen. Scribbling his number, he handed it to Hanma. "You don’t have to use it, but... you know, if you want to."
Hanma took the piece of paper, studying it before sliding it into his pocket with a slight nod. “Thanks,” he muttered, his usual aloof expression softening. He dug out his own phone, quickly typing in Takemichi’s number and sending him a text so that Takemichi would have his number, too.
With a small, reassuring smile, Takemichi gave Hanma a wave before heading off to school, feeling oddly lighter despite the rough start to his morning.
The rest of Takemichi’s school day passed uneventfully, though he noticed a few hard looks from classmates here and there. He tried to keep his head down, pretending not to notice the stares or the whispers. Occasionally, he felt the sting of the marks on his face from the night before, and he tugged his sleeve down to hide the cuts on his arm, reminding himself to be careful about not drawing attention. Despite the occasional curious look, it was one of the better days—he made it through classes with minimal trouble.
When the bell rang, Takemichi walked home, enjoying the fresh air and trying to hold onto the warmth he felt from meeting Hanma earlier. The scarf he had given him left his neck bare, but he didn’t mind; it was nice knowing that, for once, he had made someone else’s day a little easier.
When he got home, though, that warmth faded quickly.
The door creaked open as he stepped inside, and he immediately noticed the tense silence. His mother was in the kitchen, a bottle open on the counter. Her eyes narrowed as soon as she saw him.
“Where were you?” she demanded, her voice slurring slightly.
Takemichi swallowed, his heart pounding. “I—I was at school, Mom.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her gaze sharpened, her words a mixture of anger and frustration. She took a step forward, unsteady, and Takemichi instinctively took a step back, but she was already closing the distance.
Before he could react, her hand lashed out, grabbing his arm with surprising strength. She yanked it roughly, and he stumbled, struggling to pull away. Her grip tightened, and he felt a sharp, agonizing pain shoot through his arm. He cried out, and in the next instant, there was a sickening crack.
Takemichi fell to his knees, clutching his arm as pain flooded his senses. He could barely hear her shouting over the throbbing ache, his vision blurring as he tried to catch his breath.
Somehow, in the haze of pain and confusion, he managed to get to his feet and stumbled out the door. His mind was foggy, his steps uncertain, but he made his way to the nearest clinic, clutching his broken arm tightly against his chest.
The next thing Takemichi knew, he was in the hospital, the sterile white walls around him feeling cold and foreign. His arm was in a cast, the dull ache still pulsing beneath the bandages. A nurse came in to check on him, offering a gentle smile, though there was a sadness in her eyes that he couldn’t ignore.
After a while, a social worker entered the room. She introduced herself softly, her expression kind but serious. “Takemichi,” she said, her voice gentle. “We’ve spoken to the hospital staff, and… we’ve made arrangements for you to stay somewhere safe for a while. Somewhere away from home.”
The words sank in slowly, and Takemichi felt a strange mix of fear and relief. His heart ached, knowing he’d be separated from the only family he had, even if things were difficult with his mother. But maybe, just maybe, this was the chance he needed—a chance to find a place where he didn’t have to live in constant fear.