Twilight painted the sky a watercolor of purple and blues and oranges by the time, Yamazaki rolled the new car to a stop outside the safehouse. In daylight, navigating the wilderness on his own with a vehicle was much easier despite the isolation. But he was aware that he'd been gone for some time, driving to South Town for a new car and to pick up a few things from the motel. Clothes, knives, guns, medicine, food.

Anything useful.

He would have to find another motel though, just in case even if Kain mostly kept himself to his little island. Good thing that he didn't know about this safehouse existing or he'd see Rock curled into a ball on the doorstep. Yamazaki hopped out and walked up the steps, poking the young one with the tip of his shoe while he fished for a key in his coat. As the door opened, Rock wearily lifted his head, dazed scarlet eyes blinking rapidly as signs of a very disordered rest.

"Morning, kid," Yamazaki was already inside, letting the door stand open. It took a while for Rock to saunter inside and let it close after him. Looking at him, he stood with his arm folded over his chest and bags under his eyes.

"You forgot to give me a key," he said in a tone befitting his morning grumpiness.

Yeah, Yamazaki didn't have much of an explanation for that. He just forgot. Getting used to another person was a trying process. Which was a silly thing to reflect on when this entire thing was his idea based on impulsivity and one tiny remnant of humanity that he thought had died. Well at least, the subject of this rash decision had a cute face.

Rock scoffed when he didn't get much of an answer than a shrug. "Fine. Fuck you too."

Yamazaki ignored his japes and pointed at a nearby stool. This safehouse was basically a quick pitstop to check the situation in South Town's crime network and the state of the city before he descended upon it. So of course, it was empty sans the stool, a futon on the loft above, and a fridge for food in case he needed to stay here for longer than twelve hours. Yamazaki liked the finer things in life but sometimes he'd have to downgrade for his safety and freedom.

"Sit your ass down. We got shit to talk about."

"Like what?" Rock raised a brow and kept standing despite a flit of interest for resting in the way he glanced at the stool.

"Like you, first and foremost," Yamazaki answered and went to lean against one of the windows. "I'm gonna cut the bullshit, kid. You gotta get your shit together."

"Heh…easy for you to say," Rock rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. That's why I said it and you never told me what happened since that other golden-haired Bogard kicked the bucket. Or why you are here, getting used like a cheap whore by your uncle."

That hostile bravado faded in the blink of an eye. Instantly, Rock began to crumble, holding his arm, his gaze cast downwards like he was in Kain's office again and he said; "It's…it's what I deserve."

Right. It became clearer, how much of a tangled mess he was. As if someone had tied him down and split his stomach open. Ripped his skin off to reveal the flesh underneath. Like a yarn of tendrils and nerves, of flesh and viscera. Bleeding, pulsating, dripping gore everywhere. Red, black, brown, bruised. Sensitive to the touch, tugged too much to the point of almost snapping. Desperate for relief in the form of scratching.

What went on in his head was probably like a car crash, a plane exploding, and a train wreck all at the same time, bouncing around his skull. He kept it all in because of course he did. With no outlet, he couldn't sort all of the shit inside into their proper sewers and it was only a matter of time before he'd crack. And when he'd do, Kain wouldn't care.

So Yamazaki challenged him to let some of it out. "Says who?"

"…In some alternative universe, you'd be a shit therapist. Why do you care about what happened to me?"

"I'm just curious. South Town is whack and it affected all who live there. I'd like to know what the fuck happened. Easy as. I can figure Andy croaking was a catalyst since neither his big titty ninja girlfriend nor Terry is here but you are, standing in front of me with your heart about to fall outta your ass. Something went very lopsided," Yamazaki pushed himself away from the window and crossed the wooden floor, then gestured to Rock's wrists. "Including that."

"I failed. Easy as."

Yamazaki reached forward to grab the younger man's wrists, felt him shudder, and slid the sleeve upwards to inspect the injuries. Ragged wounds from excessive scratching. He held onto the arms, catching glimpses of Rock slowly panicking. His skin had turned paler, his breathing quickened, his shaking got worse – or maybe he was just resisting more.

"Could you just stop?" he asked, voice barely louder than a whisper. "Can you like, not stare at it? I know I'm terrible."

The vulnerability and shame amongst a whole host of things was radiating off him like a beacon. Hard to think that this was Terry's protégé. And still…amongst the misery, there was still some of that Bogard defiance. It was somehow adorable as it was irritating.

Yamazaki quirked a brow. "You need a hug or something?"

"Fuck you, I don't need you to fucking hug me," Rock ripped his arm out of the grasp and slapped it flat against Yamazaki's chest. Then did it again when he smirked.

"Impressive. I guess the pup got some bite,"

'Yeah, well, it's not funny!"

Rock hugged his shoulders, standing like that for a few moments until he seemingly relaxed, body slowly unclenching, skin growing over the spiderweb of nerves. Colors returned to his face when he breathed out, wheels turning in his head to figure out what to do now. His eyes found refuge on the floor to the point where they could just as well merge.

Oh well, this was getting awkward so Yamazaki stepped back. He lifted his head a bit, almost smiling at how Rock squirmed at the look. "Wanna split the cash? Forty-sixty?"

"I don't want any money," came the predictable answer. What was it about self-proclaimed good guys and their inability to sweeten their existence just a little? Was this what it meant to have a hero complex? Either way, it made things easier for Yamazaki. While the dust settled in South Town, he could keep Rock stored here and keep all six million to himself without entering a dog fight about cash.

"Fine," he snorted, the corner of his lips crooking upwards. "More for me."

He stepped towards the window and pulled out his phone, a burner phone of course, shifting through his contacts to find some work in the city now that he was unemployed. Maybe ally himself with someone neutral and unconnected to Geese and Kain. No fucking way he was the only one without a horse in those races.

On the other hand, there was an argument to be made that everyone in South Town was like sharks in the water, circling its kingpin in hopes of tearing him to shreds and scraps of meat dangling off his bones.

"What are you gonna do with me?" Rock's slight hostility cut through his thoughts like a garrote wire.

Without looking at him, Yamazaki simply answered. "Store you here while the situation with Kain quiets down. I'll head into town for supplies, and you stay here until you're not looking at me like a kicked dog."

There came no further complaining then.


Suppose Geese had done brutal work of his enemies.

Yamazaki was underwhelmed with South Town's crime levels as he traversed through the streets in relative safety. Although not without keeping watch for any of Kain's goons on the mainland. Then again, this was Geese's turf. He could be toppled, yes but then there'd just be internal squabbling amongst the victors.

Things had a habit of ending up like that after all. Yamazaki wasn't going to bother; he'd do jobs for the occasional crime boss with entertaining work and a nice paycheck, lay low in case shit hit the fan again. Should it come down to that, he could always work for the hypothetical victor. If it was Kain, well, fuck that, he'd skip town.

And then there was Rock.

With the South Town Heroes gone, he didn't have anyone to turn to, and storing him in the city on his own was out of the question when shit went balls to the walls. He could fight – when he had something worth fighting for. There was potential there but not before he was stable. The safehouse was best for now. The safehouse which now stood quiet, virtually untouched from when Yamazaki had left this noon.

No signs of Rock either.

Yamazaki wasn't worried; if the kid hadn't run away last night, he probably didn't intend to do so now. So it was no shock when he was found in the loft, fast asleep on the futon. His clothes lay strewn about around him so he must have been dressed in nothing but undies. And that meant that Yamazaki could get a good look at the wounds as he peeled off the blanket to inspect some wrists. And their new friends. Scratches, all of them. Ragged, furious red lines that'd no doubt leave scars on top of taking a long time to heal because he refused to take care of himself properly.

"Nnn…?" Rock grumbled, slowly reanimating. His face scrunched up like a grimace, unfortunately adorable and unsurprisingly distressed. He jerked forward, hair standing in all directions, and slowly opened his eyes, mouth parting, lips barely moving. "Terry…?"

Shaking his head, Yamazaki sighed. "How about no."

"Huh…? Oh…" reality and some level of awareness began to sink into Rock little by little as if he was slowly realizing where he actually was. Unfortunately, shitty dreams that left you disoriented were all too familiar. He squirmed, eyes gaining focus through squinting as his mouth snapped shut until it opened again with; "The fuck?"

"Shower," Yamazaki ordered curtly. Products had already been stashed in the bathroom though he figured he didn't need to explain any further. Not when something throbbed on the inside. A faint reminder of being on the receiving end of this.

Momentarily, he wondered how things could have been if Sorimachi was still alive. If the old man could pull a certain wolf pup from the abyss better than Yamazaki. Later, he'd just make up some mental scenario just to soothe himself. Or educate Rock on various drugs and how to identify them. Kain couldn't give any less of a shit anyway, could he?

Yamazaki's insides quivered again. God fucking damn it. No stopping it then.

"Huh," Rock muttered, voice hoarse. "Do I smell that bad? Can you smell the corruption?"

He shifted again, pulling the blanket over himself so his entire body was cocooned, eyes squeezed shut, head tipping forward. Tears wettened his lashes, then his cheeks. That nightmare must have really fucked him up. It wasn't at all heartbreak or pity that drew Yamazaki closer to the mattress upon watching those tears drip onto the blanket. But he thought of Sorimachi and that man's paradoxical personality. One half kind, one half vicious.

How would he-

"Sorry," Rock whispered, interrupting the older man's stream of thoughts. "I'm sorry. I'm stupid."

"Yeah, you are. But you didn't choose that and you don't have to be," Yamazaki said without any pretense or amusement.

No, he couldn't quite channel Sorimachi's humanity and penchant for fondness. And it wasn't like he was fond of Rock but witnessing someone suffering through a cesspool of fucked up agony did things to a man. Especially when he knew its edge firsthand. Ever present, that internal slither of his brain understanding what altruism sat like a sparkler on the Hanabi. Not bright, not powerful, but certainly there. The worst of it was how reactive it was.

If it ever managed to eat Yamazaki alive, he'd probably kill himself because he'd have to open a whole shipping container of issues and garbage and what have you. Sorimachi had those internal damages too but he tempered it with love. Love for his men, love for the snot-nosed, depressed, desperate brat from some shithole in Okinawa he took in. He'd set the whole world on fire for him and the others. As for his enemies, he'd track 'em all down and murder them with his bare hands in the most violent way he could think of.

Such a man was admirable. Such a man was not Yamazaki however. So without Sorimachi's fondness, he said plainly; "No washer so you'll have to run around in one of my shirts again."

He prepared to leave when-

"Sorry," Rock whispered again, and his hand reached out to grab onto the loose part of Yamazaki's pants, clutching desperately onto the fabric. "Don't leave."

It was quite clear it wasn't for any sentimental reasons. His other hand clenched into a fist so he needed something or someone to stabilize him from doing something stupid. Right? Still, Yamazaki remained motionless, letting the kid collect pieces of himself and put them back together.

It was therefore a gamble that Yamazaki said; "The Legendary Wolf ain't around and you don't know where he is."

"It was my fault that he left."

"If his brother died, not really. And I don't think you'd have any reason to murder 'im. You Soutth Town Hero Brigade is a weird lot but none of you are cold-blooded murderers."

Rock finally looked up, hands hiding underneath the blanket. "…Do you know what it feels like to lose someone you care about?"

"More than you'll ever know."

The look on Rock's face was priceless. He turned his head again, mulling on the implications, and lay back down again, eyes sliding into half-mast. It was only early evening so realistically; he shouldn't be tired but a fucked mind did horrible things to the circadian rhythm so it was no wonder he didn't stay awake for long. He should still take a bath however.

"…How can you stand killing?" he asked instead, voice still grainy, visceral expressions abound.

"It only works if you don't see the world through the lens of a comic book movie," answered Yamazaki. Sorimachi had said something similar although not to a kid distressed over taking a life.

"…Don't you feel bad?"

Yamazaki shook his head and Rock narrowed his eyes.

"What do you feel?"

"I'll tell you when you shower."

It lifted the atmosphere just a little bit with the way Rock pouted. But it took him a long time to move again. When he did, letting the blanket drop off his body, shame radiated off him like a nuclear blast. He dived for the blanket again and wrapped it around him tightly, eyes stretched wide in a panic. It passed and he quietly shuffled out of the loft like a lumbering sasquatch, down the stairs, into the bathroom, and behind the door that closed with a click. Given what he had experienced, such a reaction was natural.

Now alone, Yamazaki gathered the clothes from the floor and folded them, staring at that hideously red jacket with "KEEP THE FAITH" written on the back. Sounded like mindless positive platitudes. Rock would always wear that if memory served right. Even the few times when they'd encounter each other before everything changed.

How Yamazaki would have loved to see Terry's face if the man came back and saw his little wolf pup now becoming a hatchling. If Andy died, there probably was a need for solitude to process things. Do some soul-searching and whatnot. And Rock was a big kid; he could watch the house on his own.

But things must have gone awry somewhere along the line.

Yamazaki knew what grief was. He had tasted its corrosive acidity. He may not have processed it properly, not that he'd know if he did. But he understood. He understood the various means people employed to get over their anguish. He couldn't remember what he had used. If he had used any at all. Obviously, Rock had fallen into the habit of doing the worst ones. And it took a long time before that shower ended and he came shuffling back upstairs with the blanket around him.

He climbed onto the futon again, curling into a ball of himself. The moon had decided to make an appearance in the meantime, casting its light through the gardenless windows. The blanket dropped over so slightly, providing a view of his skin. Too curious for his own good, Yamazaki set about cataloging it all. Rock could just as well have been dead with how still he lay. His breathing was faint, just barely stretching his skin or the thin flesh dipping between the bones of his ribcage.

He used to have more meat on him. He had never looked frail before now; fragile to the point where Yamazaki wondered if he'd crumble into dust if he was touched. Too curious, too humane, Yamazaki poked a finger into the young man's shoulder, expecting him to be cold. But he was warm as a cast iron. Alive.

More concerning were the bruises. His entire body was lined with it. Very fresh, very warmly purple. Possibly from Xanadu. Some looked like hand prints tattooed around his arm. Scratches stretched over his legs, possibly from wandering around in the wilderness, and purple streaked against his hips and waist, the result of long cradling sessions from a weirdo with a blue beard. These were not battle wounds. They weren't marks to be proud of.

Yamazaki couldn't help but frown.


Next time; shit goes down.