()

There's a kid in the bathroom stall.

He's curled on the floor, asleep or passed out with his forehead pressed against the toilet's base. Yato doesn't have to lift the lid to know there's vomit in the bowl.

Do good, Yato tells himself fiercely, do good—but it's three fucking a.m. in the morning and he's exhausted and his feet are freezing through the holes in his shoes.

He takes his dump in the stall next door. Vaguely, the scent of blood announces itself from his right, tugging at his shirt hem like a toddler over the clamoring screech of the vomit.

Fine. He'll give the kid a good slap, just to see if he's alive, and if he wakes up then Yato's high-tailing it the fuck out. That counts as… something, right?

He pulls his sweatpants back up, buckling the belt around the hem, the elastic long ago worn out, and strolls back into the stall.

"Hey."

No response. Yato nudges him firmly with his foot.

"Hey."

He props his boot on one shoulder and shoves. The boy unsticks from the floor, and now the copper tang is a punch in the teeth, red all over the kid's t-shirt. And maybethere's eyes some color other than dark plum and mustard yellow in that mess of a face, maybe there's skin that's milk or sand or moon colored under the drying blood and all the bruises—but Yato can't see anything at all.

When he picks him up he's burning.

()

"What—"

"Call a hospital," he grunts, heaving the boy onto a couch. "Found this one passed out in the bathroom. No idea how he got there."

Behind the cracked plastic of the booth, Hiyori's already picking up the phone.

Yato likes Hiyori. Yeah, she's idealistic and naive and too-obviously rich, but he's never hated anyone with clean hands just because his are dirty. If a nice kid like her wants to waste her time on bums like him, well, he'll enjoy the view while he can. Besides, she's good under pressure.

Hanging up, she hurries out from behind the booth's little swinging gate. Her jacket brushes Yato's side. She always smells of flowers.

Efficiently, she checks for a pulse.

"Didn't know you were a nurse, Hiyori."

She smiles faintly. "I'm not."

He gestures at one of her fingers, wrapped in a band-aid. "Be careful. You don't want to get blood on that."

"What?"

"You know. Diseases. Like HIV and things."

"He's not going to have HIV. He's just a kid."

Yato doesn't say anything.

()

Two weeks later, the kid comes back.

He stands out like a poodle in a pack of wolves, braced wobbly-kneed in the corner, wearing that same fur-rimmed olive coat. Yato can tell by the way he moves that he's still in a lot of pain. At least his face doesn't look like a piece of rotten fruit anymore. Turns out he's got orangey-brown eyes, like something out of a fancy-chocolate commercial, a button nose, round cheeks.

There's no way the hospital cleared him this fast. Pulled a runner, then. A stupid move—the doctors'll give you a clean bed, strong meds, and food three times a day, which is better than can be said for out here.

Good deeds, he tells himself, and walks over to the kid.

"Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

Yato looks coldly at him. "The one who picked your sorry ass out of that toilet stall and called the ambulance, that's who. You should still be there, you know."

"Like hell," spits the kid. "It's none of your goddamn business."

I've got you pinned, you little shit, Yato wants to say. A kid of obviously good breeding, milk-skinned and wide-eyed, beat up like that and bleeding out in a toilet stall, doesn't know jack shit about the world—a kid like that doesn't want to stay in the hospital because he doesn't want to get picked up, doesn't want to be caught, to go back. He wonders if he fed this brat his own pathetic story how surprised he'd be; if he'd cry.

Count to ten, breath in, out. "Okay," he says simply, and walks away.

()

As luck would have it, when he gets back, the only open bed is next to one with an olive fur-rimmed jacket dumped on it.

Sighing, Yato gathers it onto his own bed. He's honestly surprised it hadn't already been stolen, a nice little article like that lying around.

A leather wallet falls out as he moves it. He picks it up and flicks it open. The first thing he sees is a driver's license with a picture of a scruffy middle-aged man on it.

When the kid returns, Yato's lying on his back, playing with the wallet.

The kid eyes him.

"Give that back."

"I don't feel like it."

"It's mine."

"Is it, really? Noriko Nakamura?"

"What the fuck? My name's Yukine. Give it back."

Instead, Yato flicks the driver's license at him, smirking when the kid fails to catch it and it hits him in the forehead. "That's not what your license says."

Yukine's trying to skewer him with his gaze, which would work better if one of his eyes wasn't still a kind of swollen greenish-yellow. "That's my brother."

"Bit old, isn't he? Sure he's not your dad? Or is that a taboo subject for you?" Yato gestures at his face. "You know, because of…"

And now he's done it. The kid's fists are balled and he's got his hackles up.

"You hit me, that's fine. But I'm telling you right now that I'll hit back." Plucking the cash and cards out of the wallet, Yato throws it over the gap between their beds. "That's what you have to do. Hit back. Tell you what, Nakamura Yukine. You bring your brother down here and I'll give you this stuff back. Till then, I'm keeping it. Okay?"

He makes a show of fluffing his threadbare pillow and pulling the scratchy shelter-issued blanket over himself, and closes his eyes. Wide awake, waiting.

About forty-five minutes later, he hears the kid slide off the bed. The red beneath his closed eyelids dulls as a shadow slides over him.

Go on, he thinks. Do it. Rob me. I'll kick the fuck out of you, and I won't even feel bad about it. Might even count as a good deed.

But after a few minutes of tight-knuckled breathing, the kid slides back over to his side.

Yato smiles into his pillow and goes to sleep.

()

Even though the bus is coming in four minutes, he stops by in the front room to talk to Hiyori. She's on her way out from the night shift, bundling a gigantic knit scarf around her neck. For the billionth time he wishes he had something to offer her—even a cup of coffee. But all he has is the faint smell of sweat and an empty stomach, and even a bum knows girls don't like those sorts of things.

So he talks, because at least nobody's started charging for words yet.

"That kid's back."

Hiyori looks up from stuffing things into her bag. "Who?"

"The little blonde shit—sorry, kid—that was bleeding all over the couch the other day."

"Shouldn't he still be in the hospital?"

"He probably ran away. Hey, CPS doesn't drop by here, do they?"

"Not unless someone phones in."

Yato nods.

"I'm not going to call them," says Hiyori suddenly. "They'll take him back, won't they."

"That they will," says Yato, and the fact that she, too, knows without having to be told, is yet another thing he likes about her.

Hiyori bites her lip.

"We'll see," she says eventually. "And you, where're you off to?"

"The usual pavement-pounding," he answers, smile thin as an old pair of socks. His cuffs are grey but dry-cleaning a shirt costs more than the money he spends on food for two days. He holds the door open for her as they leave the building. "Off to the temp, for now."

"Good luck, Yato-kun."

"Good morning, Hiyori."

They go their separate ways.

()

By three in the afternoon Yato has a headache.

He sits down on a park bench and pinches the bridge of his nose.

It's like throwing yourself at a wall, over and over. The old catch-22: no job, no home; no address, no job. He's young and relatively healthy, sure, but his prison record might as well be a buzzsaw hacking off all his limbs. Cutting him to ribbons.

Sometimes it feels like he's going to be punished forever.

Not that he can say he doesn't deserve it.

He forces himself back up, noticing a distinct wobble, a certain curtsey to the concrete-colored horizon.

At least prison had enough food.

Black humor, strong and bitter, coursing through his veins.

One-by-one, Yato straightens out the pieces of himself. Walks on.

()

He catches a break that afternoon.

It's a one-month hire working as, of all things, an assistant dogcatcher. Apparently there's been a problem with strays lately.

The very first dog they nab is a little fluffy sand-colored thing. Lifting its squirming body into the net, Yato thinks suddenly of the child thief with the orange eyes. A stray problem, he thinks, smiling.

He hasn't seen him, or, more importantly, Hiyori, in a few days now. Dog-catching is a nighttime job, so by the time he makes it back to the shelter, aching to the core with cold and weariness, the moon and the girl are both long gone.

Yato can't seem to sleep well in the day—too much noise or light or something. Tired all the time. Six days into the job he trips in the middle of chasing down an enormous mutt. His chin chips the pavement and he sees stars.

He comes to to a rough tongue licking blood out of the corner of his mouth. Dimly, he sees a thin grey island hovering on the floor in front of him. When he reaches out to it his hands find a hole in the middle.

Barking twice, the dog takes off into the night.

5-yen coin, he thinks dully, as he sluggishly raises himself, split head dripping, and tosses it into his pocket. Lucky me.

The boss, a portly white-haired man who wears faded band t's and drives the truck around like it's a limo, takes one look at him and tells him not to come back.

Yato nearly, nearly loses it. He may have gotten on his knees, or maybe his body folded, he's not sure which. There's pavement against his forehead.

Please, he says.

"We can't," the man whispers. "Your head is a mess. It's against the law to keep temps who're hurt that badly."

The man offers to drive him to a hospital. Yato probably makes some cutting refusal he can't afford, something about not being able to pay for it, anyway—he's not sure; his left eye is crackling with static and he can't think straight.

He stumbles back to the shelter and sleeps and wakes to find his wallet stolen.

()

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

"Fine. That kid still staying here?"

"I don't know, I think so, why?"

"Fucker stole my wallet."

"Are you sure?"

His head is throbbing in vicious rolls of heat; Yato sits down abruptly on the couch. "I'm sure."

There are cool hands over his. He flinches back.

"Yato-kun. What happened?"

"Something stupid," he mumbles. "I tripped." He bats loosely at her hand—she's trying to press her scarf to his forehead. "Don't. You'll get stuff on it."

"I'll do what I want with it," she reprimands gently.

He's pretty sure bleeding on a pretty girl's things isn't a good deed in any god's books, but he's too tired to argue, so he lets this one slip by like a minute. Leans in and smells the roses.

()

Yato walks up and down the rows of beds, up and down and back up again.

The lights are off and the faces below him are mostly shrouded in darkness, but he's still certain he doesn't see Yukine. At the very least, all these people are too big.

"Where the fuck's that kid?" he mutters, ignoring someone lying nearby who mutters back, "Shut the fuck up…"

Then his brain kicks in.

Why the kid would want to bunk out in the bathroom, he has no idea. But he doesn't have time to worry about it—the moment he steps inside he knows something's wrong. There's no words, but twisted, heavy breathing, and the air is strangling, damp with grunts and scuffles as the fluorescents buzz in alarm.

In three strides Yato's at the back of the row of stalls, and viciously kicks in the door of the big one.

There's a man, skinny wire-strong hyena of a guy. He's got one hand clamped over Yukine's mouth and the other down the front of his pants.

Keep it good, Yato's mind gasps, and then he lets loose.

()

He doesn't kill the guy, at least. He doesn't think.

Meanwhile, the kid's still sprawled open-legged against the toilet. His head's back and his eyes are open and totally, completely blank. Like, gone. Not even addicts look this empty. The lights are offand nobody's home; when Yato waves his hand in front of him, his pupils don't track.

It throws Yato, and not much can throw him these days.

He half-expects him to freak when he pokes him in the arm—"Hey, you okay?"—but he gets nothing.

Scouring through his mind, Yato eventually rises, cups his hand beneath the faucet. Returns with the tremulous palmful of water and dumps it over Yukine's face.

What he gets is a coke-and-mentos reaction; Yukine gasps, shoots up, kicks him in the shin and doesn't so much run out the stall door as run through it.

Yato hears him trip and thud to the ground. He steps out of the stall. The boy is crouched in the middle of the floor, throwing his guts up.

Kneeling, he rubs circles into the boy's heaving back until he (finally) notices him doing it and flinches away, violently, arms up and head down. Drawing his scabbed knees up like they'll protect him, like those two skinny poles will be all it takes. Yato thinks he hears him muttering, "Not again, not again, I can't, not again…" and doesn't really feel ill so much as incredibly, incredibly weary.

Probably another large male hovering over him is hardly helping, so Yato goes to the front to get Hiyori.

She goes in and sees him and gets right to her knees, her neat black stockings inches from the pool of vomit, and begins talking, low and steady. Meaningless words, cast like rescue lines into a raging sea—"You're okay now, he's gone, he's not going to hurt you, hey, look at me, you're okay, you're okay."

She stays there for an hour, Yato perched on the rim of a sink, rubbing his eyes, muscles going stiff and achey with cold, until Yukine's cried himself out—still tucked in a ball, still not letting anyone touch him.

When Hiyori rises she nearly falls over; Yato catches her by the elbow.

"Sorry—my foot's asleep." She peers into the stall, taking in the blanket, the backpack. "Was he sleeping in there?"

"I guess. I don't know why."

She lets out a long breath. Yato realizes he's still holding her arm and lets go abruptly. She leans into the stall divider across from him.

"Geez," she says, looking at the man on the floor.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

Yato finds his wallet easily enough in the boy's backpack. The sturdy plastic cord he uses to keep it tied to his pants has been sawed through. Must've taken a long-ass time; he really pissed the kid off.

Still, he thinks Yukine's had enough, for today. He'll have to have it out with him another time.

()

"What's that?"

Yato glances up.

Yukine's got deep shadows carved beneath his eyes. He probably gets nightmares. He stands on one foot, hands jammed into pockets and fidgeting, glancing suspiciously at the old wine bottle of coins sticking out of Yato's backpack. At first Yato thinks he's afraid, but then he realizes it's simpler than that. Kid's embarrassed.

"The Bible," he replies, flipping it closed. "Didn't they teach you anything in school?"

"I couldn't see the cover," he grumbles, surly. "Why're you reading that?"

Yato considers the book—a small red King James, the kind you can get for free in hotel rooms. So many answers to that question.

"I guess I'm trying to learn something from it."

"It's all made up, anyway."

"Maybe. Either way, doesn't mean it's got nothing to teach."

The kid stands there as he opens it up to the folded page (dozens of creased corners, almost one for every wrong turn) and plows back in.

After a while, he says, "Are you really reading it?"

"Yes…"

"You haven't turned a page in like three minutes."

"I read slow, okay. We can't all be super-geniuses."

"Well I read really fast," he huffs, sounding almost insulted.

"Good for you, Yukine," he says, sarcastic.

It's the first time he says his name.

()

At dinner, Yato sits across from the boy, watching him pick at his food.

Eventually, he says, "You have to eat."

"Not hungry," the kid mumbles.

"I can hear your stomach growling. Shit sounds like a fucking thunderstorm. Come on, have you even tried it?"

"It's not good."

"What were you expecting, your mom's cooking?"

He shrugs, suddenly listless. "My mom's dead."

Oops. Well, now he knows. "Well, what do you know. Mine too," he says. "So neither of us have a right to complain, then."

When Yukine still doesn't eat, Yato says, "Look, I don't know how easy you think things are out here, but we're not at your house anymore. You can't just open the fridge and take what you want. The people here are kind enough to give you food, so the least you can do is accept that. I doubt you've ever starved before in your life. It's not fun."

"I don't care. Anything's better than my house. I'd rather starve than go back."

Yato sighs. "Okay, but the point is, you don't have to do either. Your life's been hard, right? So don't make it harder on yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do. You don't even fucking know me."

What a shitty attitude. Kind of reminds Yato of himself at that age. He half-smiles. At least this kid isn't whipping knives out and stabbing anyone. Actually, Yato's pretty sure he's just scared shitless.

So he reaches across and swipes Yukine's plate.

"Hey—"

"Oh, sorry, I thought you didn't want this."

After a moment, Yukine draws back, hissing like a little wet kitten.

If the kid wants to be that stupid, that's fine by him. A day or two of not eating never killed anyone. He'll come around soon enough. Meanwhile, that's more for Yato.

"Itadakimasu."

"Fuck you."

Yato digs in.

()

He has to admit, Yukine gives him something to look forward to, after a long day of waiting in line at the temp, of filling out form after form and making excuses to his caseworker and sitting in the library for hours, clicking through seas of webpages on their ancient computers, slow and ponderous as steering an ocean liner. It's rather like coming home to a good television show. Today's episode: walking into the shelter and having to pull Yukine and another teenager apart.

Yato manhandles Yukine off; shoves him behind him. The boy's cheek is bleeding and the girl's nails are sharp.

"You fucking pervert!" she hollers.

"For like the eleven hundredth time, I wasn't looking at anything!"

"Fuck your bullshit! You were taking photos, you little asswipe!"

"As if I'd take photos of you! Your chest is flatter than an airport runway!"

Yato has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at that, which, unfortunately, the girl notices.

"The fuck are you laughing at, motherfucker! Stop hiding that little faggot!"

"Yukine, give me your phone."

"FUCK you!" he hollers.

Yato sighs. He'd expected as much. "Okay, miss—miss, can you stop trying to hit me for a second?"

Quickly, he grabs Yukine's arm, plunges his other hand into his pocket, and fishes out his phone.

"Hey! Hey! What the fuck are you doing!"

Ignoring the kid's curses, he swipes through to the photo gallery. And… yeah.

"You fucking cunt! Give me that back!"

"Here. Catch." He tosses the phone to the girl. "Do whatever you want with it. It's yours now."

"WHAT THE FUCK!" screams Yukine.

Yato whirls, grabs the boy and shakes him, crouching slightly so they're at eye-level.

"You, shut the hell up. I saw what you had on there, so don't bother lying about it."

"FUCK YOU, fuck you, I'm going to fucking KILL you, you—"

He hits him across the face, and not gently.

"Are you going to stop throwing your little tantrum now?" He reaches into his pocket, dangles his switchblade in front of his eyes. "You see this? I always carry this in my pocket, so when people threaten me, I can fight back. Don't make—hey. Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you. Are you listening to me?"

Slowly, the boy looks at him.

"I said, don't make threats you can't keep. Someday someone might take you seriously."

He holds him there just long enough for Yukine's hands to start trembling, for his breath to start coming faster (not long at all, Jesus, this world makes Yato sick sometimes), then lets abruptly go.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," he says evenly. "I shouldn't have done that." He holds out his hand. "Forgive me?"

After a second of panicky breathing, Yukine bolts. Yato suspects he's crying.

()

He's a little worried that the boy will leave, but come the next day Yato spots him sitting on the floor at the edge of the hall, chin on arms on knees and staring into nothing.

He gets food from the cafeteria—mainly semi-cold leftovers; the place is closing down, and heads over to Yukine.

"Hey."

He catches it, the half-second flinch, the way the boy abruptly gathers his arms around himself, like Yato's a sharp corner that needs avoiding. His "Fuck off" is nervy and tense as a rubber band stretched to snapping; his eyes puffy and dark.

Slowly, Yato sits a careful couple feet away. "I'm not sorry about your phone. Still sorry about hitting you, though."

"I said fuck off, you old geezer."

Yato shrugs. "I've heard worse. I brought you food."

No response.

"It's mine, you know."

"Is that supposed to make me want to eat it?"

"I mean, I guess it's sort of like a free-revenge card…"

After a second, he snatches the plate from Yato's hand and eats so fast Yato's afraid he'll choke.

"Hey, slow down there, anaconda-boy. You're not a vacuum—"

Yukine's too busy stuffing his face to talk, but he does take the time to flip Yato off.

()

Two days later, Yato finds him sitting on the floor in the last toilet stall, flipping through his Bible. Cajoled out of Hiyori, no doubt.

"Find anything interesting?"

"It's boring as fuck," says Yukine in a tone that suggests he holds Yato personally responsible for the Bible's contents. "I don't know how you read this shit."

"Well, I mean, you're not supposed to just start at the beginning. Nobody likes all the 'this begat that' and those sorts of things. You've got to know what to look for."

"Like what."

He holds out his hand, and a few seconds later Yukine drops the book in it. He rifles through the pages. "Deuteronomy Five. The Ten Commandments. Not a bad place to start."

"I already know those."

"Really. Number eight?"

Yukine squirms, looks away.

"Whatever. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Get a job, kid. I've heard it's the new thing these days. Or go to school."

"I can't," he spits. "They'll tell."

"Then go to a children's shelter. They'll take better care of you there."

"Don't want to," he mutters. "I… I can't talk to people…"

"You're talking to me."

"No, you're different… There's too many, um, people there, I can't… I don't like it…"

Suddenly, the kid's hands are clenched against the tile, and his eyes are bright and wet.

Sniffing violently, Yukine stares wide-eyed at the wall, refusing to blink. After a minute, Yato asks, "Is that why you're sleeping in here?"

"No," he spits. The book is on the floor now, spine-up, and Yato watches as some damp stain creeps up the pages. "I don't like the dark."

()

"Hey!Break it up, you two! Hey! Stop it!"

A flurry of arms and legs, a skirt and blonde hair. Yato speeds up when he realizes it's Hiyori who's doing the shouting.

"Joe, what are you doing?" she yells. "He's just a kid!"

"He stole my stuff," Joe shouts back, a rangy twenty-something year-old with dyed brown hair and a Kansai accent. "Caught him with his fucking hands in my backpack, didn't I?"

"You shouldn't have hit him," complains Hiyori. "He…"

"Why the fuck not? Someone fucking steals my things, I can give 'im a belt up the face."

"Hey, what's going on?" interjects Yato, stepping between Joe and Hiyori. "Joe, you making trouble?"

"Aw, hell, now you're pinning it on me too? Listen, pal, that little brat over there tried to rob me blind. I's been telling the lady, but she won't believe me."

"I never said I didn't believe you," says Hiyori. "Yukine-kun, did you…"

But Yukine is creased straight in half like a piece of paper, forehead against the ground and still as a stone.

"Yukine-kun?"

Hiyori touches his shoulder, gently.

Yukine coughs and throws up.

"Oh, fuck," says Joe, backing up as some of the vomit splatters. "Fuck. I didn't hit him that hard, I swear. Just clipped his face a little! Fuck!"

On the ground, Yukine is beginning to breathe very very quickly. His pupils are pinpricks and he's staring into nothing.

"He's hyperventilating," says Hiyori, bizarrely calmly. "Yato-kun, get a paper bag from the kitchen."

When he returns (with a large plastic Ziplock bag; there was no paper anything in evidence), Yukine is in the throes of full-blown panic. He keeps clawing at his neck and Hiyori grabs for his hands, fights to pull them away.

"Yukine-kun, can you hear me?" He doesn't respond, wrenching his hands away so hard that Hiyori slides forward with the motion. "You're breathing too fast. You need to calm down."

"Yukine."

Choking, Yukine glances up.

Hiyori stares at him. Yato seizes the chance, holds out the bag. "Breathe into this. You need to breathe slower, you're freaking yourself out right now."

His eyes shudder shut; reaching out blindly, he fumbles the bag from Yato's grasp and presses it to his mouth.

"Try going slower. Just a little bit at a time. You're okay. Joe didn't mean to hurt you, he was just a little angry. He's gone now. You're okay."

The boy sobs, gasps harder, shakes his head, his breath beating around the inside of the bag like a trapped creature.

"Is it better? Slower. Deep breaths."

In ten minutes Yukine's lying limp on his side, his hand still twitching from exertion.

"You okay?"

There's tears on the floor, like crystal.

Yukine whines, "I want to go home."

"I know."

After a second, a small hand snakes up and fists itself in the side of Yato's shirt.

Yato scoots a little closer and sits there until Yukine stops crying.

()

"He needs to go."

"He can't."

It's the first time they've fought over something, sort of.

Hiyori clicks her tongue and types something so aggressively into the computer that Yato almost expects to hear plastic cracking. "It's not good for him, staying here. I mean, he's sleeping in a bathroom!"

"Yeah, but he can't go anywhere else."

"Why not?"

"He's too scared. He says there's too many people."

She sighs, long and loud. "There's lots of people here, aren't there? Anyway, a children's shelter would be prepared to deal with kids like him. They take care of kids with all sorts of issues. And at least he'd be around people his own age…"

"It makes sense, but you don't—get it."

"What don't I get?" she retorts, mouth twisting.

"Just… listen, I don't mean to condescend, but I don't think you've ever been in his situation before. When you're that freaked out, an institution's really the last thing—"

"It's not just some institution. I know the people there, they're really great—"

"I'm not saying they're not. But they've never been in the sort of place he's in before, so even if they're really nice, it's hard to. You know. Connect," he finishes lamely.

"Oh, and you understand him so much better."

"Yeah, maybe I do," he snaps. "I went through foster care. You want to hear about an institution that's broken? The system in this country's totally fucked. Some of those places wouldn't even feed us. One of the homes I was in had like eleven kids. It was totally filthy, we'd all run around in clothes nicked from Goodwill and rut with each other in the cupboard under the stairs. They were just doing it for the damn money."

The blinding anger recedes fast, leaving him feeling slightly sick.

Fuck. You've scared her. Why'd you have to say that?

"Sorry. You didn't need to hear that."

"No," she says rigidly. "It's fine. I—I'm sorry, too." She smiles sadly. "I guess I'm really not qualified to talk about these things."

"You should just say what you think, anyway. Qualifying, or whatever, that doesn't matter."

"You're probably right, though, about Yukine-kun. Of course—you're like the only one he talks to."

"Really?"

She hums a yes. "He trusts you."

Yato snorts. "Yeah, well, the same can't be said for me. That kid's got a bad disposition."

"He's been through rough things."

"So has everyone else here, but you don't see all of us going around and robbing people. That's no excuse."

"You're awfully hard on him."

"Somebody needs to be, if he's too busy feeling sorry for himself to straighten himself out."

()

"Hey."

Yukine stirs weakly. His wrist, when it slips out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket to rub his eyes, is bone-thin.

"What," he says dully.

"Are you okay?"

"'m fine."

Clearly not.

"If you're feeling up to it, can you promise me something?"

He stares at Yato's shoes.

"Don't steal anything anymore."

"Why not."

"You're old enough to understand, aren't you?"

"As long as…"

"Hm?"

"…I don't get caught, it doesn't matter anyway."

Yato says firmly, "Whoever was hitting you, don't you think that's what they thought, too?"

Silence.

Yukine sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "…It…wasn't just hitting…"

The old anger rears its head and roars in Yato's chest, and for once, he doesn't quash it back down—just lets it simmer there. Sometimes anger is right. "I get it," he says. "But you have to keep trying. It's a bit like driving. Just because you started in the wrong direction doesn't mean you keep going that way. You have to keep trying to find your way back."

"Dunno the way back."

"Me neither."

Yukine's eyes slip back shut. They're swollen, red, have been for what seems like days now.

"I'm tired," he says in the littlest of voices.

Yato stands there for a minute.

What are you doing?

Well, he, also, has to keep trying. Better not to question why.

He gathers up all his things, bundles them into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?"

At least Yukine sounds mildly alarmed; it's infinitely preferable to the blankness of before.

"I don't like that tone of voice."

"What the hell? It's not like I'm going to off myself."

"Probably not, but then again, you've a track record of doing stupid things"

"I'd never do something as retarded as that."

"Okay, I believe you."

He sits up when Yato just continues smoothing his blanket over the floor. "Get out."

"Stop stealing things."

"That doesn't have anything to do with this!"

"I'll leave you alone when you stop being a dumbass."

"You're the one being the dumbass."

"Sure. Dumbass."

"Whatever, perv. If you touch me I'll kill you."

"Who said anything about touching you, you little brat? You just stick to your corner, and this'll be easier for both of us."

"Get out."

"Nope."

"I'm serious. Get out."

"I'm not going to leave you alone, okay? So deal with it."

He beds right down in front of the stall door (hope no one comes in here for a midnight piss), clamps his eyes firmly shut.

After a few minutes, he hears Yukine mutter, "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yup."

The tiled floor isn't remotely comfortable; he can feel every groove in his back.

God, are you watching this? he thinks, and goes to sleep.

()

"I didn't see you on the floor last night, when I was doing rounds."

"Nah. I was in the back."

"Back?"

"Bathroom."

"…with Yukine-kun?"

"I thought he might do something stupid. So…"

"I see. I—um, I'll see if I can get you guys some extra blankets or something."

"Thanks."

He's halfway down the block before he thinks, suddenly, she noticed. She noticed I wasn't there.

A shit-eating grin spreads across his face, but he's too happy to care how dopey he looks.

()

To compound things, he strikes gold that morning at the temp office: a hardware store, hard-pressed by the usual crowds of holiday shoppers, is hiring overtime staff for their two-week 24/7 lead-up to Christmas. He and a dozen other men work the stock rooms, endlessly hauling boxes up ladders and re-arranging store displays upset by blithe toddlers. It's physically tough but no worse than anything else Yato's endured; he throws himself into the job and even manages to enjoy the aches in his back, the soreness in his arms.

He's never celebrated Christmas properly before, with gifts and a tree and a roast. When he was a kid, at best the caseworker might drop off a few used toys from the local donation center—dolls with their hair missing or trucks with broken wheel axles. And in prison Christmas meant extra food, no work for the day, and extended visiting hours—but Yato had never had any visitors anyway.

A small flashlight and a 24-pack of batteries isn't much, but at least it's a start—and at half-price, too, since he's technically an employee. He even gets it wrapped at the little gift-wrap station by the door in an obnoxious, eye-smarting red-and-blue paper.

Sentimentality aside, Yato really doesn't think Yukine should be staying in that bathroom much longer. Like a kicked dog, the weather's turned vicious, and the air sinks its fangs into the arms of every passersby. Though the main hall is decently warm, the bathroom is drafty as hell.

There's a tree at the shelter, but no gifts underneath—holiday spirit aside, no one's feeling quite merry enough to leave shiny new things unguarded at night. So Yato goes to the front booth to check in his things with the on-duty staff, which turns out to be Hiyori.

"Hi, Yato-kun."

"Hey." He glances at the clock on the wall behind her; it's 12:47 a.m. "Merry Christmas, technically."

"Merry Christmas." She glances at the package in his hands. "Who's that for?"

"Yukine."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Flashlight and batteries. I got it from work. He's scared of the dark—that's why he won't sleep in the main hall—so I figured this might help."

She gives him a long, searching look, and Yato hurriedly glances away, flushing. "That's really sweet of you."

He shrugs. "Why're you still here, anyway? Shouldn't you be with your family?"

"Somebody's got to stay. Anyway, I live pretty close by—I'll just swing home after I'm done. My parents probably won't even be up yet—they're night people, so they always wake up really late."

"Ooh, night people. Sounds scandalous."

She laughs. "If anything, I'm the scandalous one, right?"

"That's true. Out all night—"

"Talking to strange men," she teases.

"Letting them give you odd presents…"

"I'd never accept," she says solemnly. "Only if they're meant to be passed on to little blonde boys."

"Lucky for you, then." He slides the present over the gate, and she tucks it beneath the counter. "What about you, get much shopping done?"

"Not more than the usual. Just some things for my parents and friends. Last year I got things for my boyfriend, too, but now, well… I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore."

"Ugh, boyfriends. So expensive to maintain."

"Definitely the reason I dumped him," she laughs. "No, really it was just… I don't know. In dramas and things, there's always some big argument or scandal, but with us, things just sort of fell apart slowly. I guess one day I realized we each had our own idea of what the other person was, but the person we thought ourselves to be didn't match that image at all. We were like two people holding up mirrors, talking to ourselves… Sorry, that was really vague. I didn't explain it well at all."

He shrugs "It's fine. Once you're in a relationship, it's like the two of you are in your own world. No one looking in from outside can really understand what it's like."

"That's definitely true… What about you, Yato-kun?"

"What about me?"

"Any lucky girl in your life?"

"No. I—it's a little weird to say this, but I've never…"

"Liked someone before?"

"I mean, yeah, I guess."

"No way. Not even crushes?"

"Not even."

"But you're, um, you know, like pretty old already."

He pouts. "Wow, thanks."

"N-no, I didn't mean it like that! I mean, you're… it's just surprising, that's all…?"

Yato bites his lip. Maybe if I hadn't spent eight years in complete isolation from females, I'd found someone. As it is, though, even if he'd had a relationship before, he doubts it would have lasted through his sentence. And since his release, he's barely been making his own way. Even if there were some girl interested in him, he'd probably turn her down. At this point he can only be a burden.

Of couse, Hiyori's on a different plane of existence altogether—not that he's about to go and bring that up.

()

Yukine's suitably embarrassed when Yato hands him the present the next day.

"I—what are you getting me presents for?"

"Christmas, obviously."

"That's not what I'm talking about! You don't even have any money, so why are you… You didn't steal this, did you?"

"Of course not. We can't all be you."

"Shut up!"

Yato smiles, and hits him lightly on the head.

"Just say thank you, and that's good enough."

"…Thanks, I guess."

"…We'll have to work on that enthusiasm, but you pass, at least for now."

Yukine looks away, surly as ever, and Yato can't help laughing. His first real Christmas, wasted on this brat.

Still, it's the best he's ever had.

()

Part one: fin.