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When Kunikida turns sixteen, despite his situation, he has a few things going for him.
He's found a place to stay, for one. The man who owns it is always wreathed in cigarette smoke, but he hadn't asked for any identification; just gave Kunikida the room and asked him to keep the noise down. It was why he'd come to the sketchier part of Yokohama—here, no one bothered to check his identity. No one wondered why he was all alone. He was free .
And wasn't that a thought?
When he'd first ran away, a year back, Kunikida hadn't been nervous about them finding him. Hell, his parents had kicked him out of their house. They wouldn't look for him—nobody would. Surviving on the streets hadn't fazed him much either.
(Everyone around him had wondered why he'd gotten into so many fights, why someone as smart and obedient as him was beating bullies into the dirt, and he didn't know how to explain that liking authority and liking order were different things , and protecting people was more important than any symbol of power.)
He was good at surviving on his own. His scabbed-over knuckles and torn jacket were proof of that. It was why, when he walked down the dirty back alleys, he wasn't worried about getting jumped.
Kunikida wasn't an idiot . He knew this part of Yokohama was notorious for its gangs, and the Port Mafia's shadow loomed above them all, from the weakest child to the most hardened criminal. These passages, built from crumbled brick and cardboard, were prime spots to be targeted. But it was mid-afternoon, and the Port Mafia usually left him alone, so he continued walking. Besides, the cats would want to see him.
Shards of glass crunched under tall combat boots as he walked, and the scent of mold filled the air as he walked under tall buildings, awnings blocking the sun, but he didn't mind; he's walked this path so many times he could do it in the dead of night, with only the light of a cigarette flickering against brick walls to illuminate the way, and only the squeaking of rats to keep him company.
Something moved in the dimness to his right. Kunikida glanced in that direction, but didn't change his posture. It was one of the cats: Nana. There were many cats that lived in this alley, shielded from the elements, but Nana was his favorite. He was the first to approach Kunikida, those few months back. It had been injured by a car and crawled its way into a cardboard box in this very alleyway. Kunikida had cleaned it up, and just like that, he'd had a new friend. It was named Nana, nine in Japanese, after the shape of its tail, which was bent at the top, like the Japanese kanji. Checking in on the alley cats had quickly become a new part of his schedule, something that he followed religiously. (Kunikida doesn't like obeying, doesn't like obedience, but this isn't the result of some authority figure pushing their judgment onto him; he trusts himself more than he does one of those, anyway.)
It crept out of its box, slinking closer.
Kunikida holds out a piece of tuna—the remnants of his last dinner, two days before. "Hello, there."
The alleyway was silent save for the quiet sounds of a tail swishing.
He reaches out a hand and waits. Nana inches forward—tentative, like a rat crawling out of a hole. It presses its face into his hand.
Kunikida smiles faintly. "You're a strange one, aren't you?"
The cat peers up at him—
And something moves out of the corner of his eye. Nana jumps up and leaves quickly, dashing for the exit.
Kunikida spins around, suddenly anxious, hands raised. It wasn't the first time he'd needed to fight someone in an alleyway—and then he pauses.
There was someone in the box behind him. A child, to be specific.
Its eyes remind him of the cat he had just been petting. Eyes that currently stare up at him from a hollowed face, painted with terror.
Kunikida frowns down at him—he has a clear enough view to assume that it's a him . "Hello? What are you doing here? A bit too young to be out on your own, don't you think?"
That was probably a little hypocritical. But, this child was even younger than he was, and obviously didn't know how to fend for himself. If Kunikida had to guess, he'd say he was around 10 or so.
Still, it is a child. A clearly starving child who might need his help. So he crouches down at eye level, softening his voice—as much as he knows how to—and says, "I don't have any real food with me, just raw tuna, but there's a restaurant near here. Would you like something to eat?"
Again, the kid doesn't speak, just stares up at Kunikida with those large, unblinking eyes. He suppresses a sigh.
And then—slowly, like someone might hurt him if he moved too fast—the kid gives a silent nod.
Kunikida gets up with a huff. "Well then? Follow me."
He does.
Kunikida made a point to always follow his ideals. They were how he knew what to eat in the mornings, what to wear, where to be and what to do, every minute of every hour of every day. And nowhere in those ideals did it say he should be taking care of some stupid, snot-nosed kid!
Still, he had offered the food, so there was no backing down now.
But he didn't think the kid's stomach would be a bottomless pit!
The boy stuffed himself with bowl upon bowl of chazuke. Kunikida could almost feel his money draining. He suppressed a sigh.
"So." Now that the kid was finished, Kunikida should try to get some information. He nudged his glasses up his nose. "What were you doing in that alleyway? Where are your parents?"
The kid shook his head.
"Orphanage, then?"
"Please don't take me back there." The kid's voice was quiet and scratchy once he finally answered. It was tinged with panic, made evident by his increasingly frantic breaths.
Kunikida frowned down at his hands, muttering under his breath.
No family, and, if his refusal to go back to the orphanage meant what Kunikida thought it meant—and he hated that implication, hated it with all of his heart—there were no other adults in his life willing to take care of him.
This kid was completely alone. Like Kunikida.
He suppressed that thought quickly. Banished it to the very back of his mind. Kunikida was nothing like this random kid he'd just found.
So, he can't figure out why he reacted the way he did.
"Well, then. I can't, in good conscience, leave you to fend for yourself. But you obviously don't want to be found by your orphanage, or whoever's supposed to be looking after you." Kunikida sighed. "...I have some extra space at my apartment. If you'd like to stay there for the meantime."
The kid gasped. "Really? Thank you so much!"
Kunikida already knew he was going to regret this.
". . . Sorry, it's a bit messy. Haven't had the time to clean yet. Over here is where you can sleep. It's a little small, but i'm sure you'll fit. Blankets are to the left. And whatever you do, don't touch my desk—it's private, alright?"
The kid nodded fiercely as Kunikida gestured to the futon. He seemed determined to do whatever Kunikida asked of him. It was probably a result of his upbringing, he mused. The boy's hair was almost black with dirt when he nodded, bits of it flaking off; Kunikida would make him take a bath later, probably with whatever water he could scrounge up. The apartment—it was more of just a room, really—was tiny, and the neighbors could be heard clearly through the walls. There was a small kitchen, one bed, and a closet. It was to be expected of such a sketchy building in this part of Yokohama. Besides, the kid didn't have any room to judge.
The kid . If Kunikida was going to be taking care of some child, he could at least figure out its name.
Kunikida raised his voice. "Hey, kid? What's your name?"
"It— it's Atsushi, sir. Atsushi Nakajima." The kid—Atsushi—didn't make eye contact with him.
"Atsushi. Got it. You know, you don't have to call me sir. I'm only a few years older than you."
Atsushi stuttered an apology.
"No need to apologize. As long as you aren't too loud, it'll be fine." He paused. "Wait— I forgot to introduce myself. That's rude. I'm Kunikida."
Well, not anymore, technically, but. Whatever. It was still his name, no matter what his parents had to say about it.
Atsushi smiled.
It was nearing 10 PM, now, so Kunikida turned the lights out. Kids were supposed to get more sleep or something, right?
The room was nearly quiet now, with just the rustling of sheets as Atsushi climbed onto the futon, which Kunikida had unceremoniously stuffed into the attic earlier.
"Good night, Kunikida."
"G'night."
Tomorrow, he would get Atsushi to take a bath. And then he would bring him to an orphanage, or something. And then he'd have a proper home.
He did not bring Atsushi to the orphanage tomorrow. (He did give him the bath, though.)
Instead, he and Atsushi walked over to the alleyway—the one where Nana and the rest of the cats lived. The one where, just until yesterday, Atsushi had been living.
Birdsong echoed through dirty alleys as they walked. It was accompanied by the squealing of rats and, when the two of them stepped in a particularly large puddle, the sloshing of mud.
In the dead of night, it was hard to remember just how loud Yokohama was when everyone else was asleep, save for the Mafia and other similar groups. Commuters bustled, animals shambed their way down the streets, little kids laughed and weaved their way through the crowds. It was times like that that made Kunikida truly appreciate the city.
Even if Atsushi wasn't staying with him forever, Kunikida wanted to make sure he could experience that feeling, too.
They both lived in the shadow of Yokohama, but maybe, Atsushi would have better luck than he did.
( You're throwing away everything! Is what his teachers would probably say if they saw him now. Honors student Kunikida; independent, intelligent Kunikida; the one who could climb to the top of every class.
I am not the person you think I am , he wanted to say. Wanted to scream, wanted to yell until they understood. Because Kunikida had been kicked out and he fought and he longed to escape the cage they had built for him and he did, and it was exhilarating.)
Plap.
Plap.
Atsushi was silent on the walk over. That was fine; Kunikida enjoyed the first sounds of the alleys as they stepped into them, off the bustling streets. They weaved effortlessly through the trash and such, until finally, they got to the cats' hideout.
They quickly took a liking to Atsushi. It took a little coaxing at first, of course, but soon they were swarming onto him. The boy giggled when one of them butted into him.
(Alright, it was sort of adorable. But that didn't mean he was keeping Atsushi! Absolutely not.)
Kunikida passed him a piece of tuna. "Here. For the cats."
"Thank you!"
Kunikida simply huffed, turning away to feign nonchalance.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had looked up at him. The last time someone had told him he was a good person, hell, the last time someone had given him any form of affirmation. But that didn't matter. He would still protect other, no matter what. It was why he'd gotten into so many fights during school, beating up the ones that picked on Katai.
Katai would have teased him, joked about him having a vigilante complex, or maybe just an honors student with anger issues. Kunikida just called it doing the right thing. Sure, sometimes it meant he needed to get a little violent, but as long as he was helping people, that was the important thing. It didn't matter what happened to him.
"Kunikida?" Atsushi's voice brought him back to the present. He hadn't even realized he'd zoned out. The kid was staring at him anxiously, one of his hands tangled in Nana's fur—the cat was purring loudly. "Are you okay?"
He blinked. "Hm? What—? I'm fine, kid."
"Oh. Okay." Atsushi went back to petting the cats, sitting on a cardboard box to protect himself from the glass shards and other substances on the alley floor, just like Kunikida told him to—it wouldn't be any good to have to pick glass out of a kid, Kunikida figured. Might as well keep him as healthy as possible.
"You're not going to take me back to the orphanage, right?" Those large golden eyes found his, guarded and yet still so open. (Just what had happened to this kid?)
Yes, I will .
That's what he should have said, of course. It was, objectively, the right thing to do. And Kunikida always tried to do the right thing.
He didn't have any responsibility towards this kid. He shouldn't care.
"I won't. You can stay with me, alright?"
Atsushi grinned.
(He wasn't getting attatched. He wasn't. )
Affording food for two wasn't an issue.
"I'm really sorry about making you take care of me like this, and making you spend all your rent money buying food for me. I can be out of your hair soon." That was probably the most Atsushi had ever said since moving in.
Kunikida frowned. "What? No, it's fine. I have that covered."
"Are you really sure?"
"Yes. Stop worrying about it. Now, I have something to do, so I'll be back in a moment, alright?"
Atsushi nodded and laid down on the futon. (He'd had another nightmare about the director that night. He shut his eyes and tried not to cry.)
Another fist hit him in the face.
Kunikida growled, turning on his attacker. Fucking asshole. The guy tried to tackle him, but Kunikida was prepared; he knew that, if your opponent managed to get you on the ground, you might as well be letting them win. Years of fighting had taught him that much. And if they got you on the ground, on backstreets like this, you were as good as dead.
Contrary to popular opinion, Kunikida didn't like starting fights. He didn't like hurting people for no reason. But sometimes, he'd see someone trying to harm an innocent person, and his blood would boil, and then they'd be tussling in the streets, like cats in a bag.
He wasn't going to act like he couldn't enjoy them, though. Fighting could be fun. When you had someone that matched your strength, when you had a bad day, it was cathartic to let out your anger. The nearest bad guy was just the nearest punching bag.
(Okay, yes, he had some problems. But what was he going to do, get a therapist? You might as well have laughed in his face.)
This was not one of those days. This guy had cornered him after dusk—and yes , it was a stupid decision to go out so late, he knew that, but he hadn't been able to sleep and he didn't want to worry Atsushi with his stupid nightmares. God knows the kid had enough on his mind. So, with a cigarette in hand and his usual leather jacket wrapped around him, he decided to go on a walk. And then a guy tackled him, and now he's fighting him in the dirt.
"Why are you doing this, asshole?" He managed to spit out with a snarl.
The guy leaned in close. A large smirk stretched over his face, like a fungus. "Oh? So now you're asking questions.
"Ya see, kid, people like me make a living offa stealin' an' such. And last week, you stopped that from happening. So we have a problem. You get it?"
Oh. Vague memories floated through his mind. There had been a robbery last week, one that he'd prevented. But it wasn't this guy committing the robbery. His face was different, larger. Did he have an accompli—?
His gut burned . Above him, the guy laughed. There was a second person there, he could see them, as blurry as they were.
Above him? Was he on the ground now?
He looked down—down towards his lower body; he couldn't exactly look down, because he was down, down on the ground, and he wasn't making any sense, was he? That was probably a symptom of… something. Maybe.
Huh . Right in the middle of his chest, a knife was lodged in. That… that wasn't good. That was bad. That was very bad, probably. He wasn't sure. It was hard to be sure of anything; his mind was fuzzy, like a cloud. Something wet dripped down his face; rain?
He tried to get up—something quickly proven to be a mistake, if the howling scream that came from him said anything about it, or the stabbing pain in his stomach. But it did clear his mind a little bit. That had to be good for something, right?
I'm going to die here.
Kunikida wasn't going to survive. That was obvious. He'd treated knife wounds before, of course, but he was laying on a grimy street in the middle of nowhere, no medical supplies, with a butcher's knife lodged in his torso, bleeding out onto the ground.
Atsushi was going to be sad.
Why was Atsushi his first thought? Why not the cats, animals he'd known for longer? Why some snot-nosed kid he shouldn't even care about? He didn't know. He didn't know why Atsushi had trusted him those few weeks ago, he didn't know why the kid seemed to look up to him so much, when Kunikida was just a highschool dropout trying to do the right thing , whatever that was. Fucking hell. He was dying, and the only thing he thought was, I hope the cats will take care of him. I hope he finds someone better.
But they wouldn't, and no one was coming to take care of a kid, because people didn't care about them. And that was why he needed to live. If not for himself, for Atsushi.
Because, as shitty as it was, he cared about the kid. This wound, as bad as it was, was survivable. He growled at himself. Was he really going to give up?
Pulling himself up, Kunikida prepared for the long walk back.
He still had to fullful his ideals, after all. No other reason.
It was said that abilities would manifest in a traumatic scenario. The orphanage had never taught him much about abilities; they were something to be whispered about in the silence after the headmaster said lights out, they were spoken of on the back streets and alleyways and criminal organizations of Yokohama.
Atsushi didn't know when his ability first manifested, but this was the first time he'd used it willingly. And that was for one reason: to run , as fast as he could.
Kunikida was late. Atsushi knew he sometimes went out at night, but he usually came back at 4 AM sharp. And then he heard a scream, and he started running. He wasn't sure when he turned into the tiger—it just happened.
Sometimes, it felt like he had never escaped the orphanage. Like the Headmaster was always there, looming over his shoulder. He never told Kunikida about those nights. The boy had his own things to deal with. But it was still the most secure he'd felt in ages. Kunikida tried not to care, with his prickly demeanor. It was obvious, the same way Atsushi had tried not to get attached to the other kids at the orphanage. Monsters like you don't deserve friends . That was what he had been told.
But he had a home now. He knew it would be ripped away from him at some point. But he wanted to believe he'd found a home. That someone genuinely cared. He wanted to wake up every morning at their noisy apartment and make breakfast, and check in on the cats, and read, and go on walks. It was like he'd been starved for affection his whole life, and now that he was getting it, he just couldn't stop wanting it.
So when he saw Kunikida laying on the ground, he wanted to cry. But he didn't. He picked up the teen and, with the help of his tiger fangs, began pulling back towards their apartment.
You're not dying tonight.
"Kunikida?"
Atsushi's voice was quiet. He stood outside the bathroom door, wringing his hands nervously. "Are you okay?"
Kunikida sat on the toilet, needle in hand, unsure of what to say. Don't worry, kid, I just took a knife to the stomach, but I can walk it off. Also, how the fuck did I get back here?
That night had been a blur. He had gotten stabbed, and somehow, Atsushi had gotten him back to their apartment, after he had passed out on the walk. And… he swore he remembered a tiger. But that wasn't possible. A hallucination, maybe? He put the thought out of his mind and resumed stitching the wound.
"Yeah, don't worry. I'm fine."
A pause. And then: "You know, you don't have to lie to protect me. I can handle it."
And really, what was he supposed to say to that?
Kunikida snipped the last of the stitches. (He probably had some sort of blood loss, but it'd be fine.)
This was so fucked up. He shouldn't be relying on a child, of all people. Not that he had anyone else. He shouldn't be relying on some wide-eyed kid he found in a box in the middle of nowhere. Atsushi had been through enough already—it was Kunikida's job to protect him, not the opposite.
"You're a kid. You shouldn't have to worry about this stuff."
It had fallen silent as Kunikida finished. He gathered the last of the thread and shoved it back into the kit. (He would have to teach Atsushi one of these days—that kid would probably get into trouble the moment he turned around). And then Atsushi spoke:
"You know, I think you're the first person who really cared about me." His voice was quiet—if Kunikida was face to face with him, the kid's eyes would probably be staring up at him, full of tears.
Oh. So they were having this conversation.
(It wasn't like he hadn't been curious. But Kunikida knew how much bringing up past memories could hurt.)
Somewhere outside the door, a boot tapped nervously.
"...And— And I didn't really believe it, at first. Sometimes, I still don't. But—" His voice cracked, and then he said, in a hurry—rushed, like someone would jump in and stop him; "But, I care about you too, you know? And I don't want you to get hurt. So—yeah." Atsushi trailed off. "Don't lie. Please?"
It was moments like that when Atsushi reminded him of Nana—carefully scampering out from his box, choosing to trust him despite a life of harm. And with those cats, it was best to be open.
Kunikida didn't know much about raising snot-nosed kids off the street. But he did know how to deal with cats.
So he pulled himself off the cold ceramic and opened the door.
Atsushi jumped up, as if startled—and then, before Kunikida could react, or say anything, wrapped him in a tight hug.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed there. The two of them must make a sight, he mused—leaning on the bathroom door, a child sobbing into his shoulder, at what was probably much too late for someone of Atsushi's age to be up.
"I'm happy you took me in." A quiet remark, mumbled into the sleeve of his shirt.
Kunikida wasn't going to cry. He wasn't .
His arms wrapped around Atsushi—and ouch, that made his wound hurt, this was more important.
"And I'm happy I found you, kid. Even if you're a brat," he said.
Laughing echoed in the hallway.
(If he had been braver, he would have said, I think you're the first one to care about me, too. Maybe one day. But for now, Atsushi wrapped in his arms, he was content. That was enough.)
"Say, Atsushi. How do you feel about going to visit the cats?"
It was only a few hours later, cuddling Nana and another orange cat on a nice sunny day, that Kunikida makes the connection.
"You have an ability, don't you?" That would explain the tiger—and a lot of things, really; the napping while curled up in the sun should have given him a hint.
Atsushi swallows. He looks down—and then, nervously, he nods.
"Huh. Guess I have my own house cat, after all."
"Hey! I'm not a cat!"
Kunikida had always associated other people with feeling trapped, judged, isolated. His parents, his peers, they had all continued to pressure him, to push him. But he had been sixteen for a few months now, and maybe—just maybe—having company didn't feel synonymous with abuse anymore.
He laughs as Atsushi scrambles to explain why he wasn't a cat— he was a tiger, there was a difference , Kunikida!
They would never be fully okay. Kunikida would still get into fights, and Atsushi would still wake up almost every night, sobbing from one of his many nightmares. But Kunikida was fine with that. As long as they did it together.