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Dec. 28th, 2014 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
diagnosispubertyThe kid seems smaller than the last time Kiyoshi saw him.
Which is weird, because aren't kids supposed to grow bigger every time you see them? She has vague memories of being little, of relatives pinching cheeks and mussing up her hair all look how you've grown and when I last saw you you were THIS BIG. The last time she saw this kid (something Hamada, her memory supplies) he wasn't that impressive. Just a scrawny thing with hands full of cash and enough backbone to stand up to Yama.
But she's certain he had rounder cheeks, brighter eyes, a way of holding his tiny frame with confidence that's no longer there. Instead he slouches into the crowd, cheeks hollow, eyes empty. He stops right in front of the card table where Kiyoshi's jotting down notes – bets owed, challenges given, property damages. It's a thin line to walk, between illegal enough to get them thrown in prison and tolerated as long as nobody makes too much noise, and after what happened a couple months ago, Kiyoshi's the only one who gives enough of a damn to make sure the ring stays on that line.
In fact, she's pretty sure the incident those weeks ago involved this kid – the chipper, grinning, smug-little-shit version of him – and she almost says something about it. But something makes her stop, reach up and flip down her (just for show) eyepatch instead. The way the boy looks past her instead of at her face, or the way he hugs himself like he's going to fly apart at any second. Whatever it is, she clears her throat instead of immediately throwing him out.
“I want to be in the fight tonight,” he says, and maybe she was wrong, because that kid who got Yama and all his buddies in deep shit didn't talk like this – like it hurt to form the words. “And tomorrow. And every night.”
It's not a request and that makes Kiyoshi frown darkly for a moment. Someone who looks barely old enough to take a trolley on his own should not be talking to strangers like that. She puts down her pen, sneers, “What the hell are you thinkin', kid, being out here in the middle of the night?”
don't think about it don't think about it don't think abou
hot hot and bright and ringing in his ears glass splinters in hiskneeshishandshiseyesohgodohgodohgod that SMELL
he's still in there still alive
still alive not dead not dead he's not he's coming out now they're bringing him out right now he's okay he's okay it's fine it'sfineitsfineitsfine oh godohgodohgod
oh god whatever that is it's not human anymore it's
not alive it's dead he's dead hesdeadhesdeadtadashiisgone
don't think about it don't think about anything.
don't think
don't.
The kid looks at her then, meets her gaze, makes her immediately wish he hadn't. "I'm not thinking anything."
Which is weird, because aren't kids supposed to grow bigger every time you see them? She has vague memories of being little, of relatives pinching cheeks and mussing up her hair all look how you've grown and when I last saw you you were THIS BIG. The last time she saw this kid (something Hamada, her memory supplies) he wasn't that impressive. Just a scrawny thing with hands full of cash and enough backbone to stand up to Yama.
But she's certain he had rounder cheeks, brighter eyes, a way of holding his tiny frame with confidence that's no longer there. Instead he slouches into the crowd, cheeks hollow, eyes empty. He stops right in front of the card table where Kiyoshi's jotting down notes – bets owed, challenges given, property damages. It's a thin line to walk, between illegal enough to get them thrown in prison and tolerated as long as nobody makes too much noise, and after what happened a couple months ago, Kiyoshi's the only one who gives enough of a damn to make sure the ring stays on that line.
In fact, she's pretty sure the incident those weeks ago involved this kid – the chipper, grinning, smug-little-shit version of him – and she almost says something about it. But something makes her stop, reach up and flip down her (just for show) eyepatch instead. The way the boy looks past her instead of at her face, or the way he hugs himself like he's going to fly apart at any second. Whatever it is, she clears her throat instead of immediately throwing him out.
“I want to be in the fight tonight,” he says, and maybe she was wrong, because that kid who got Yama and all his buddies in deep shit didn't talk like this – like it hurt to form the words. “And tomorrow. And every night.”
It's not a request and that makes Kiyoshi frown darkly for a moment. Someone who looks barely old enough to take a trolley on his own should not be talking to strangers like that. She puts down her pen, sneers, “What the hell are you thinkin', kid, being out here in the middle of the night?”
don't think about it don't think about it don't think abou
he's still in there still alive
“somebody has to do something”
not alive it's dead he's dead hesdeadhesdeadtadashiisgone
"hiro please please stop stop stop you can't do anything we can't do anything
don't look hiro, don't look, stop screaming honey please oh god please stop"
don't look hiro, don't look, stop screaming honey please oh god please stop"
don't think about it don't think about anything.
don't think
don't.
The kid looks at her then, meets her gaze, makes her immediately wish he hadn't. "I'm not thinking anything."
