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It’s a late evening, silhouetted by yellow street lights and the occasional flickering neon to mark his way home. The substitute teacher for maths, Tokunaga Haruki, was kind enough to let him work odd jobs under the table in exchange for spare yen and a quick meal, but he couldn’t always if he didn’t want the excuse of detention to wear out.
He sighed, one fist clutched around the wad of bills he’d been meticulously saving. Hopping on a train to visit his sister was one thing, but it was quite another to do it without a reliable income and on the sly. Despite the cheap bowl of udon, he could still taste the pork and egg hours later, his stomach still grumbled in quiet complaint.
One of the shopkeepers for the konbini he stocked for sometimes waved to him as he ducked under a nearby building’s overhang to avoid the fine sprinkle of tonight’s oncoming rain.
“Evening, Ayame-san,” Katsuya called out, hitching his bookbag higher as he waved back, “Grandkids giving you any trouble?”
“Cheerful as ever,” The shopkeeper called out, leaning against her shop’s window with a mischievous twinkle of her eyes, “Though they do miss their senpai.”
He laughed, feeling the pang of Shizuka’s absence even as he felt heartened by the merry opinion of Ayame-san and her family. A thought made him pause, and he decided to turn toward the shop, winking impishly as he picked up a handful of snacks that he knew her grandkids liked. The shopkeeper tsked in amusement as she tallied them up, “You’re spoiling them, you know.”
Grinning despite the way he carefully counted up the yen to pay for it, he felt a little lighter regardless, “Gotta let them know I didn’t forget about them, yanno?”
“I know,” Ayame-san said warmly, sliding over a foil-wrapped nikuman that still held the vestiges of heat despite his protesting grimace, “Get home safely, you hear?”
Picking up the nikuman, mouth already watering at the smell of pork, potato, and cabbage, Katsuya bowed to Ayame-san, “You, too, ma’am. Have a good night.”
“Good night, Katsuya.”
The hot food kept him company as the predicted rain started to come down a little harder. He had stopped a few minutes in to drape his coat over his bag, reservedly refusing from shivering as he savoured each bite.
He kept to the pooled glow of the street lamps, more distant between each other as he got closer to the apartment he shared with his father. Knowing the old man, the utilities would be rationed again, meaning sneaking into a dark room and slipping into bed. The hour was late enough that he would get just enough sleep for an early start tomorrow, getting a headstart on the homework due that day.
The wad of yen felt heavy in his pockets, partitioned off in case his father saw fit to search him for more drinking money. Katsuya sighed around his nikuman, dredging up the will to eat the last few bites and carefully folding up the aluminum foil.
Looking up to the stars, he wished there would be a friend who wouldn’t abandon him, no matter the circumstances.
His wistful gazing nearly made him miss the lurking shadows in a quickly-approaching alley, and he was forced to quickly side-step the hand extended to hook around his bookbag. “Hey, watch it!” he snapped, shouldering the bag more closely behind him, “That’s not yours!”
“Jounouchi,” A voice purred, and he stiffened, recognizing one of the erstwhile gang members he tried not to fall in with - not too often, at least. “My, you’re looking… cold, tonight. Care to warm up?”
His face set stonily, knuckles white on his bag, “No.”
Another one leered from behind the other, just barely eclipsed by the streetlight. “What’s a matter, gaijin? Too good for some Nihonjin?”
He knew there were some debts to settle with them, one too many favours for odd jobs that left him wandering around the town at night - his only boon his intimidating stature and strong fists as he collected debts from other poor souls that ran across this gang. In a brief moment of despondency, he wondered how many of the leering boys in front of him had been on the other side of this line, sunk too deep to get out of the morass.
Unfortunately, these particular members would never be in his shoes, too-unnatural of hair and too poor to keep saying no. His frown etched in the slightest bit more, “I’m expected home.”
Ordinarily, that would be the end of the discussion, gossip flying on swift feet throughout the neighborhood to recount the story of his father throwing bottle after bottle to anyone he brought home for an amicable dinner. Not tonight, though, and his heart sunk at the knowledge that getting into a fight might end on a different note this time.
It was too dark in this section of the neighborhood—one of his shortcuts, far from any intersection or row of shops that dictated lighting—and tonight’s leader, Takano Kichirou, stepped out from the murky dark to encourage the others to begin surrounding him.
“Your father can wait a little longer, can’t he?” Kichirou smirked, “After all, it’s not like he’ll notice.”
“Watch it!” He snarled. Shitty home life or not, he understood why his father was so often morose—he income as an insurance clerk was nothing compared to being a factory worker, and half of their family leaving didn’t help.
A gaggle of laughter met him, and he forced himself not to step back, knowing they were using against him the same tactics he participated in so often. He frowned to himself, knowing that grabbing the switch knife he kept hidden would cost too much time to grab, precious seconds that could be used to try deescalating their dispute while he waited for the inevitable wolf to circle behind him.
So- he stalled. “Bit low of you to turn on me. Getting greedy?”
That rippled through the gang, uncertainty fracturing everyone’s bonds. Kichirou himself paused, feeling the mood shift, and he frowned at Katsuya, “Not everyone picks and chooses who they associate with. Sure you aren’t feeling better than us?”
“You know me,” Katsuya joked, a quirk to his pressed-thin lips, “Always the underdog.”
It was an old joke, completely off the cuff and a gamble—it paid off, chuckles scattering among them. The act turned Kichirou sour, and he flicked a sleeve, letting his own switchblade fall into his hand. “Debts are not a joke.”
Katsuya eyed the gleaming metal, “Never said they were.”
“H-hey, Kichirou-san,” One of the lower-end gang members, Tsutomu, piped up, “I thought you said we were just going to talk to Jounouchi-kun?”
“Yeah, why don’t we just talk,” Katsuya coaxed, heart going out for how young the other was. They had always tried to keep their youngest members shielded, but it seemed the nebulous cause for Kichirou’s temper tonight had cast that aside.
The knife pointed at him was wickedly sharp, “You’re either in or you’re out, Katsuya.”
He frowned. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t…
Immersed as he was in trying to find the conciliatory middle path, the arm abruptly slung around his shoulder was an unwelcome surprise, particularly since he had been maneuvered away from the simple protections of the street light.
Biting back a flinch, he tried to assess if this was the long-expected knife in his gut. Sure enough, the spark of metal came into view, but instead of drawing blood, it pointed itself back at Kichirou, “I think you’re not in a position to ask that.”
The words were strong, a surprising contrast to the gentle way the hand at Katsuya’s shoulder pressed through his rain-dampened shirt. He found himself settling into the motion, shocked once more at how his weight was supported.
It gave him presence of mind to shift his own stance, more within reach of the slip of a knife stowed carefully away. Whomever it was that held his back, standing so stoically, moved with him. The unified front it presented was reassuring, and made Kichirou step back.
Katsuya was no coward, but also was he no fool - he decided to throw his lot in with this stranger, faith making him certain it was the correct choice.
His voice was firm, “Kichirou. Leave off.”
The gang leader looked toward him, eyes flicking to the stranger who had entered their impromptu arena, and some look must have passed between them and the drumming rain - Kichirou frowned but nodded sharply. It convinced the others to leave quickly afterward, scattering into the nighttime solitude.
Only after watching the tail ends of the gang leave did he sigh, forgetting he himself wasn’t alone when the hand on his shoulder squeezed gently. “You okay?” The other asked, and the weight of the quiet question was more soothing than offensive. Katsuya shrugged limply, unwilling to let this stranger’s arm be dislodged by so casual of a movement. There was a pause, and then carefully, “...Do you want me to walk you home?”
It was a tempting offer, surprisingly so given his usual reticence to let anyone around his father. But between the constancy of his surprise companion and his relief at an unsequestered presence of self, he found himself agreeing, nodding his head tiredly, “Thank you.”
Instead of acknowledging the favour, as most would, Katsuya instead received that same comforting hand trailing down to his own, a feather-light touch slipping between his fingers that made his heart hammer.
“My name’s Honda Hiroto,” was the offered trade, and his lips twitched, making him glance up at the other teenager now sidled up by his side. It was difficult to see more than a glimpse between the pools of light, but he decided he rather liked the earnest smile that met him.
He nudged Honda with an elbow, “Jounouchi Katsuya. Nice to meet ya.”
When they watched their classmate a few years later, sitting in the back of the classroom and fiddling with a puzzle from a box where both looked to be poured from pure gold, they leaned against each other.
“Wonder what the punk’s doing,” Hiroto mused, idly sliding the small container of curry rice over to Katsuya as they shared a narrow bench, “Seems like he’s been working on that thing for forever.”
Katsuya shrugged, the motion carrying over to the other with rippled amusement. He dropped half of his scallion pancake into Hiroto’s bento box. The trade, as always, was performed absently, both of them happening to arrange the other’s favourite foods into their own meals as a matter of habit.
They watched as Mouto rummaged through the box, seeming to pick a piece and test it in some obscure corner. Both of them were placing bets on what the final shape would be, but it seemed like not even the kid knew, despite having a game shop owner for a grandfather.
Perhaps there was no solution at all, Katsuya thought, and his stomach grumbled so thoroughly that he discarded the idea.
“You think he’d want a lending hand?” Hiroto asked.
“Nah,” Katsuya dismissed, the words leaping to his lips, “Or not yet, I don’t think.”