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Neon wrote its favorite letters across the night, and Kamurocho spelled them with a smirk. The alleys were wet from some earlier halfhearted rain that forgot to become a storm. Puddles kept catching the lights and turning them into coins, the kind bōkan liked to chase until someone smarter picked them up.
You saw him before he saw you, Kiryu stood near the mouth of a side street where a fight had been, which was to say where a fight had ended. The losers were already collecting themselves in grunts and muttered curses, salty enough to spit but not brave enough to raise their hand to the Dragon of Dojima again. He had that stillness he wore after every brawl, like turbulence had passed through him and he had refused to move with it. His suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, a thin red seam cut across his temple. The knuckles of his hands were raw from the fight, busted open. He rolled his wrists once, twice, then looked away as if the pain embarrassed him.
“Kiryu-san.” You breathed, making his gaze snap onto you, all puppy-eyed. Your voice wobbled more than you liked, but you covered it with speed, closing the space between the two of you. “You’re bleeding.” You started pulling a handkerchief out of your pocket, along with a bottle of antiseptic. He paused before speaking quietly, trying to brush off your concern as if he wasn’t supposed to have it.
“It’s nothing. Just a fight.” He said, watching as you checked the ground for the men and found four. One was on a knee, one was pressed against the wall of a building with his forehead, one was pretending not to cry, and the last was helping himself up with a grim expression that told he got his ass fiercely handed to him. None looked very interested in becoming your next concern; most likely, they were worried you’d attempt to beat their ass again. They drifted off down the street with a lot of noise and very little presence.
“It isn’t nothing.” You said firmly, grabbing Kiryu’s wrist and pulling him off the street to avoid knocking into anybody. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.” He could have set his feet, could have given you a look, and you would have backed off because certain looks always meant he was being stubborn again. He did neither. He allowed you to drag him off the street. You felt the heat of him, the way muscle felt like anyone else’s and also like something that had been taught to be more than muscle. He followed, and you pulled him into the alley. The alley smelled like rain and oil. You lead Kiryu over to the crate near a door that someone had thrown out. One gesture and he went down without argument, the kind of surrender that really was kindness. You poured some antiseptic onto the cloth and softly spoke.
“This is going to hurt.” You said, and he nodded. The first pour made him inhale through his teeth, he kept his eyes on yours as if your face were a fixed point he could brace against. You tried to give him something steady to look at. You tried to be a dock when the water wanted to pull at him. You wrapped his hands in clean gauze. You did the left, then the right. When you were finished, something in your chest tugged, an old pull that said take him home or at least somewhere in the direction of it.
“My place is closer than yours. Three blocks, I have better light and bandages that aren’t from the bottom of my bag. A kettle too.”
“A kettle.” He echoed, like he was tasting the word.
“Yes, I’m making tea, you’re sitting down, that’s not up for debate.”
He gave you a look that had warmth buried in it. He stood, slipping his hand into yours gently.
“Alright..” He whispered, allowing you to walk him home.