Blue corner swarms him the moment he sits. A towel wipes the blood from Shimamura's mouth while another presses against his cheek. Someone tips the bottle, water sloshing against his lips before he spits red onto the canvas.
His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, sweat pouring freely. But his eyes are wide and bright, locked on the opposite corner with a feverish intensity that does not match the state of his body.
Shoyo leans in, cotton swab ready.
"Your nose…"
Shimamura's eyes snap toward him, sharp and hostile. Shoyo freezes and instinctively pulls his hand back.
"I need to clear it," he says quickly. "So you can breathe."
There is a beat before Shimamura allows him to move closer.
"Make it quick," he says.
"Y–yes."
Shoyo works fast, dabbing the nostrils clean. And Shimamura barely tolerates the touch.
The moment it is done, he pushes Shoyo aside, not violently, but firmly enough to leave no room for argument.
