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The rain hits the windows without enough strength to be loud. Dinner time has long passed and the small pile of dirty dishes rests in the sink, forgotten by the owner of the apartment. It is, however, not a quiet night, and Teru fists the bed linens and waits, waits, waits for the one sound that is supposed to wake him up — but the lamp on the bedside table is on, emitting its meek, yellowish glow. And he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes even if he wanted to.
The first knock is a soft click against the glass and the second sends his heart racing. Teruki has been sitting with his back to the wall for what feels like hours, the mattress under him does nothing to alleviate the stiffness in his limbs after so long in the same position. The noise shakes him out if, like a cold hand to the back his neck, and he is up in a split of second.
He knows who is there — that’s why his feet scramble to get him to the balcony. His hands reach the knob too hurriedly to be voluntary, unlocking the glass door with shaky fingers. The smell of rain hits him. Then, after arms circle his waist in a crushing embrace, it mixes with the stench of sweat and blood.
“You are late,” he scolds in a half-hearted manner. “You’re late, you’re late, you said you’d have dinner with me, what happened, what—”
Clinging to the other’s jacket, he shuts himself up and takes a deep breath. He won’t panic anymore, nor let his emotions take over his mouth and make him say things other people wouldn’t want to hear. It’s okay now, he tells himself, because he can hear a strong heartbeat on the chest he leans against.
The man puts a hand to the back of his head and smoothes the blond hair there, his other arm curling over Teruki’s lower back. Sinking even more into him, Teru finally feels his body drifting to the calm place he always finds himself to be when he’s around his friends. The hug is loosened and he looks up at Shimazaki, frowning.
“You’re— covered in blood…”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. It just took a bit longer than I expected.” Ryou lets out a soft chuckle. “And most of it is not mine.”
Still, but Teru doesn’t protest, just tugs at the man’s sleeve silently urging him to come in. Shimazaki steps inside, now fully protected from the meek rain that managed to invade the balcony.
From then on, it’s the usual dance. Teru hurries him to the bathroom and fills the tub with warm water, while Shimazaki gets rid of the stained clothes and occasionally pulls the boy closer to peck his cheek or lips or forehead. It’s a bittersweet routine, one that Teru cherishes considering his place on the Claw — he is safe, his parents are safe, his friends are safe, all thanks to Shimazaki. Who is, he reckons, also safe.
He puts the dirty pile next to the washing machine — later, later, after the dishes, after Ryou — and picks clean towels for the man. There also clean clothes for him, left inside one of the drawers of Teru’s wardrobe specifically for these situations since they have sadly gotten more recurrent. Teru gathers all the items in his arms and makes his way back to the bathroom.
At least now there is no blood in sight. Shimazaki lays relaxed in the tub, his head thrown back over the white tiles and an elbow casually resting on the edge — Teru’s eyes follow the line of his neck down to the collarbones, attentive to the small movement resulting of each breath. It isn’t the first time he gets to see this and he knows it won’t be the last. This, the quiet stillness that comes with a temporary peace Teru can provide. He tries his best to not stare for too long, averting his gaze to the ground and minding his business hanging towels and clothes behind the door.
The man clears his throat and Teru freezes.
“What is it?” he asks. “What is on your mind, little star?”
His heart clenches almost painfully — he vainly hoped Shimazaki wouldn’t notice, Teru knows he can read him better than anyone else. However, this is simply another aspect of the routine, one that he has been through over and over, one that he is familiar enough he doesn’t even need to think about that much. He almost crosses his arms over his chest but the movement stops right above his navel, and with one hand he grips his own wrist before letting his shoulders fall. Shimazaki’s elbow slides off the edge of the tub and he pats the emptied spot in a quiet invitation.
Without lowering his head, Teruki sits where he was indicated to and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. The room is oddly heated, he notices, and wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to use cold water for the bruises on the man’s body even though now it’s too late.
“Not much,” he reassures, “I’m just worried about you.”
“Me? What have I done that unsettles you?”
There is a small cut on Shimazaki’s forehead, just an inch above the left eyebrow — not bleeding but still an angry shade of red. Teruki is aware that touching it would sting and for a few seconds, he tries to guess how loud would the man’s hiss. Or if he would even hiss at all.
He grazes his fingers over the pale cheek instead, watches the way Shimazaki’s head tilts to follow the light brush. “Putting yourself in danger. Coming back here with your clothes bloody.”
“No big injuries, though,” he says, “I told you already, the only reason I get hurt is because it wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”
“But what if— no, forget it.”
Shimazaki takes his hand, forcing his palm to fully press against the side of his face. The skin is warm, warm, warm, and a droplet of water slides from his hairline to the tip of Teru’s index finger. His expression goes grim, a crease forming between his brows.
“Please,” Shimazaki growls, “tell me.”
Sighing, Teru smiles at him. It is hopeless, he thinks, to brush off the man’s unyielding protectiveness. Some part of him doesn’t even want to try, half because it’s fruitless to call him out like this and half because he likes it — shows him he is wanted, and that’s enough. He rubs his thumb over Ryou’s cheekbone, wishing to at least ease the tension seeping out of his body.
“It’s just that I worry, and…” Teru licks his lips, pondering his words. “I wish— I don’t know, but maybe I could— maybe you could take me with you next time?”
He knows the answer.
“No,” he says, in that terminal manner he has used countless times before when Teru was being unreasonable. “I’ve told already, you’re not—”
“In the business yet, yes, I know. But maybe I could help...”
“Teruki.”
“...or at least not get in your way! I could just, I don’t know, hang around and if you need anything—”
Shimazaki grips his hand tighter, applying a bit more of pressure around his knuckles. The boy takes a deep breath, keeping the distress at bay thanks to that touch.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” he whispers.
A kiss is gently pressed to his palm and Shimazaki whispers back to him. “I’m sorry I make you worry about me so often.”
Teru smiles. “It’s okay.”
“Believe me, little star, I want to take you with me, even if it’s just for the sake of spending more time with you.” The words tickle his skin, both literally and metaphorically. “But for now it’s best if you keep training more and more. After everything is done, we can do whatever you want.”
A warmth blossoms inside his chest — it grows and expands and consumes him pleasantly, from his lungs, to his heart, to his head, to his toes. The heat hits his cheeks and he lowers his eyes to the floor. It edges an overwhelming point, one that oscillates between the urge to lean in and to back away, and he chooses the latter purely for practical reasons.
“There are some leftovers in the fridge,” Teru tells him, “if you want, I can heat it up for you.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Good. I put clothes and towels on the hangers.” Teruki tries to pull his hand away as he stands up, but the man doesn’t let go of his fingers. “Do you need anything else?”
Shimazaki smiles and Teru melts a bit on the inside.
“You.”