I don't like this much. Only the first couple of paragraphs and the last sentence. BOOOORED.
It was dark outside, the erratically placed stars obscured by the half-hearted smog of suburban Tokyo. Inside his apartment, Agatsuma Soubi sat on the floor and watched himself bleed.
His face was painted with not pain so much as a kind of tense fascination; it was the feeling he treasured more than the aesthetics, but this wound and this pain was better than the healing ones on the rest of his body, because Seimei had made it less than an hour before and it was still fresh.
Soubi lifted his hand to his face, listening with half-closed eyes to the music of the handcuffs binding him to the wall. The cut was obscured by the warm liquid spreading across his hand. Soubi prodded at the wounds - one over the other, forming a little crimson 'x' in his palm - and felt needles shoot up through his wrist. It was exhilarating.
Leaning back against the wall, his long legs outstretched, Soubi closed his eyes. He wondered how such shallow cuts on his palm continued to bleed long after they should have clogged, and he believed that Seimei must have willed it to be so.
"Gates of flesh, open," he muttered, cold metal brushing his wrist. "Or something like that..."
Seimei reminds Soubi of a cat. When he enters a room he does it with an easy grace, but a dark, looming grace - a presence that says, "here I am. Watch out."
Seimei placed the book he had bought down on Soubi's kitchen table before he knealt down beside the fighter and unlocked the handcuffs, beckoning Soubi to stand up. "Go and bandage yourself," he ordered, and Soubi hesitated.
"Would you do it?"
Seimei didn't move from the table where he stood, facing away from Soubi. "...I beg your pardon?"
"My bandages, Seimei. Please."
Drip, went the blood on the floor.
"How terribly precocious of you, Soubi. Of course I won't." Seimei turned just enough for Soubi to see his slightly arched eyebrow.
"Get on with it."
When Soubi re-entered the room, his palm obscured by strips of white cotton, Seimei was sitting in an armchair, an open book in his palm.
He didn't look up as he heard the fighter's footsteps in the doorway, but he raised one slim hand, and Soubi moved over to sit by his master's feet.
"We're fighting again tomorrow," said Seimei after a moment.
"Yes."
"If you do well -" Seimei's hand trailed down and wrapped itself in Soubi's hair, threading strands through his fingers like spun gold - "I'll reward you."
Soubi, his eyes half-closed, said nothing. Seimei's hand in his hair felt too perfect, and he was afraid his voice would shatter it.