#asahhh

The key turns quietly in the lock.

Jounouchi pauses with his forehead against the cool wood of the door, breath fogging faintly in the night air. For a second he almost turns around again. It’s late—really late. The kind of late where Domino is quiet except for distant traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog.

He shouldn’t be here.

But his knuckles are split open and his ribs hurt when he breathes, and the apartment he came from smells like cheap alcohol and anger, and—

The lock clicks.

He slips inside.

The game shop is dark, lit only by the thin orange glow from the streetlamp outside the window. Familiar shapes fill the room: glass display cases, stacked boxes of games, the counter where Sugoroku usually stands during the day. It smells faintly like old cardboard and incense.

Home.

Well.

Almost.

Jounouchi quietly shuts the door behind him and leans back against it for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

No footsteps upstairs. No creaking floorboards. No Grandpa Mutou grumbling about someone coming in at an ungodly hour.

Good.

He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging.

The adrenaline drains out of him all at once, leaving behind the dull throb of bruises he’d ignored during the walk over. He pushes himself off the door and heads for the tiny back sink he knows is there, moving carefully so the floor doesn’t creak too loudly.

The fluorescent light flickers when he flips the switch.

“C’mon,” he mutters. “Don’t be dramatic tonight.”

It hums to life.

The sight in the small mirror above the sink makes him wince.

Split lip. Swelling cheek. Blood dried along his jaw. His right eye is already starting to darken.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You look great, Katsuya.”

He runs the tap and hisses when cold water hits his knuckles. Blood spirals down the drain. He grabs a handful of paper towels from beneath the counter and presses them against his lip, working carefully like he’s done this a hundred times before.

Because he has.

A few minutes pass in silence except for running water.

Then the building creaks softly above him.

Jounouchi freezes.

Not footsteps.

Just the old house settling.

Still, his eyes flick toward the ceiling where he knows the Mutou residence sits above the shop. Up there somewhere is Yugi’s room. Probably asleep. Probably curled under too many blankets with that ridiculous hair sticking out everywhere.

Jounouchi lets out a quiet breath.

He doesn’t go upstairs.

He never does.

Sugoroku gave him the key months ago after one too many late nights where Jounouchi had nowhere else to go. Anytime you need a safe place, the old man had said, pressing the key into his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jounouchi had laughed it off then.

But he uses it.

More than he’d ever admit.

Tonight he settles onto the floor beside the counter, back resting against the cabinet. The tiles are cold through his shirt, but the shop is quiet in that comforting way that feels… protected.

Like nothing bad can reach him here.

Upstairs the house shifts again.

Jounouchi glances at the ceiling.

Somewhere above him Yugi is sleeping, probably completely unaware that his idiot best friend is downstairs bleeding onto paper towels.

The thought makes something warm settle in Jounouchi’s chest.

He doesn’t need to see him.

Doesn’t need to talk.

Just knowing Yugi is there—breathing somewhere above him, safe and warm and existing in the same building—is enough to loosen the tight knot in his ribs.

Jounouchi closes his eyes.

The pain in his side pulses.

But it’s quieter now.

“Just for a bit,” he murmurs to nobody.

He slides down further against the cabinet, pulling his knees up slightly.

Outside, a car passes.

Upstairs, the house creaks softly.