Everything in the world was blurred and foggy, except his closeness filling in his senses, replacing all emotions; the fabric of his clothes; the heat coming from his body; his scent, his breath, his heartbeats, his arms. His presence.
His voice.
He was talking about some common nonsense; about the ambulance arriving in a few minutes, about how the wounds don't seem to be that bad; about calling his friends as soon as he will be taken care of. As if he was seeking to calm him.
His words really showed that, unlike his tone. In his tone, there was the usual haughtiness, the indifferent routine of someone who bumps into beaten up acquaintances several times a day.
But his voice.
In truth, there was nothing special in his voice either. It was rather the fact that his voice was here, which showed he himself was nowhere else. If he could open his eyes now, he could see him right here.
Kaiba has to be considered a very lucky person for not having the blonde see him now, for the current expression on his face was nothing to be shown to others, at least according to his principles.
It could mostly be blamed on the latest happenings, that happened pretty rashly indeed.
It was the evening after a business meeting. He was walking towards his car in the parking lot when he saw a bunch of teenagers precipitate towards the exit, roaring with laughter, staggering with intoxication.
He saw the whimpering corpse in the shadow. No one, no one else could whimper in such a doggish way.
The guy was lying hunched up on the floor in ragged clothes, clutching his right eye, and there was blood, plenty.
He called the ambulance.
Not much happened since then.
He was holding the violently shuddering body, and he was talking to him, even he himself did not always understand about what and why. He was never good at such things. At things like communicating with people.
It took what seemed an eternity until the ambulance doctors arrived. They ripped out the wincing guy from his arms, laid him on the stretcher, filled injections in him, examined his face, splattered facts about him in form of Latin expressions and countless numbers, attached him to plenty of beeping instruments, and, at last, the howling meat-wagon took him away.
Kaiba looked around as he was left alone in the ringing silence of the parking lot. The spatters of the mutt's blood were still drying on the floor. And on his clothes. He let out an irritated grumble as he felt the wetness on his fingers. He would have to throw the clothes away, or else he'd scare the cleaner to death with it. Maybe he'd even make them report him to the police.
Heck. Another caviler to deal with.
At this moment he caught a sight of the small table not far away, and the dispersed cards around it.
Heck again. The mutt seemed to have a special sense for always choosing the most impossible places and opponents for dueling. Serves him right to be beaten up, finally. This would decrease that foolish pride of his.