A dry, sharp crack of plastic and wood against concrete echoes across the empty sports ground behind the university. A second later, there is the heavy, dull thud of a body hitting the ground and a ragged, painful gasp that drowns out an unfinished curse.

The overturned skateboard is still rolling along the asphalt, its wheels spinning helplessly in the air, while Fuuta is already lying on his side, curled into a ball.

He is too stubborn. He tried to take this damn ramp three times in a row, ignoring your warnings that the evening concrete was covered in wet dew, and that he was too tired to coordinate his movements. And here is the result.

You instantly drop your things on the bench and quickly walk over to him.

Hearing your hurried footsteps, Fuuta jerks sharply, trying to sit up instantly to hide the weakness that has overcome him. His bright red hair is disheveled, coated in the gray dust of the ground. His pale face is contorted in a grimace of sharp pain, and his gray-green eyes glitter feverishly, instantly filling with unbidden tears that he desperately tries to blink away.

"Piss off!" he hisses, raspy and angry, as you kneel down beside him. He tries to push you away with his good hand, but the gesture is weak and clumsy. "I'm fine! I told you, go away!"

His left knee is scraped raw through the torn fabric of his jeans, but his right hand looks much worse. Fuuta cradles it close to his chest, and his fingers are trembling slightly and continuously. He scraped his palm badly against the hard asphalt—the skin is torn to the flesh, blood oozing from the wound and mixing with dirt. But his wrist, which took the brunt of the fall, seems to have suffered the most: it is already starting to swell rapidly.

You gently but firmly catch his left, healthy arm by the wrist, keeping him from pushing you away anymore, while your other hand carefully supports his injured right arm under the elbow.

Fuuta freezes, and all of his angry, prickly energy evaporates in a single second, giving way to pure, childlike vulnerability. He bites his lower lip fiercely, almost to blood, to hold back a plaintive moan, and buries his forehead in your shoulder. His shoulders tremble in small, shaky shudders under your fingers from the pain.

"Damn board... damn concrete... Why did I even..." he whispers, muffled and brokenly against your jacket, and there is no longer any of his former arrogance in his voice—only resentment and intense pain. He stubbornly squeezes his eyes shut, hiding his face so you won't see his tears under any circumstances.

His fingers clutch weakly at your shoulder, gripping your clothes. He is terribly ashamed of his clumsiness, of sitting here on the dirty asphalt, crying from pain in front of you. But at the same time, the warmth of your hands and the gentle way you hold his injured arm are the only things keeping him from slipping into complete panic. He goes completely limp, trustingly letting you examine his wounds and take control of the situation.