“How the fuck was I supposed to know you can’t park on private property? I thought it’s just for businesses!” he shouts, indignant, the tears and snot slicking his face grossly. So what if he got fighty? The image of his Ferrari hanging from a hook because some lady was mad he took up the space in front of her exorbitantly-priced brownstone got him pissed. Maybe he was screaming, and maybe he threw the first punch, and maybe that’s what incited the racist comment, but they accepted his bribe nonetheless, and gave him his car back. He can’t explain why Nick was his first option to go to. But besides the other traveling yakuza here, he doesn’t know anyone else in New York. And he doesn’t like his gang seeing him cry. His nose wrinkles when Nick kisses the bandage, his eyes blinking owlishly in surprise. “Eh… what the fuck…”
He isn’t often treated with tenderness, given how deplorable he is, and the gesture makes his limp fingers twitch. “I just paid them off. Including the hospital bill. I don’t appreciate people calling me a ‘dumb Jap,’ though.” He shakes out his hand, “So don’t admonish me for beating their asses. They deserved it.”
“AGAIN, I COULDA told you. I have a clunker I need to park sometimes. Big Apple’s brutal, man.” The main reason Nick wasn’t on the business end of a tow truck hook more often was because the only vehicle he drove on a consistent basis was an ambulance. His shitty little four-door sedan was only necessary for summer ice cream run purposes- but he knew parking laws because, quite honestly, he couldn’t afford to bail his car out from automobile prison if he fucked up.
“... SORRY.” HE PULLS his hands away, gaze dropping to Akachan’s bandaged knuckles as he swipes his fingertips across his jeans. The kiss was probably an overstep; at the very least it seemed to serve its purpose in calming him down a little bit, which Nick considers a victory. Bottom lip gets sucked between his teeth as the other continues, eyes narrowing slightly in a ghost of a wince. He’s encountered his fair share of acidic language on the job, and he can still hear it clear as a bell: get away from me- don’t you fucking touch me, you dirty fucking Jap-
“YEAH, NEITHER DO I. I won’t.” He stands up sharply, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward his kitchen. “Blow your nose, don’t get snot on my couch. You want a Pepsi, or Tylenol? Got some vodka in my freezer if you want somethin’ stronger.”
