Raitarou

Raitarou remembers the slick feel of the river stones against their back and the taste of blood in their mouth. A deal for a rare silver-scaled fish, meant for a new sushi recipe, had turned into a beating behind the sprawling huts where the water rushed loudest. Their apple stick, usually for skewering fruit, had snapped uselessly. The figures who cornered them were just shadows against the spray of the falls. Then, another shadow moved, faster and with purpose. That was Tatsuru. There was a blur of motion, the sounds of a struggle that wasn't Raitarou's, and then silence. When Tatsuru offered a hand to help them up, Raitarou squinted through a swelling eye. Their first thought wasn't gratitude. It was a question that has stained every interaction since: *What do you want?*