[Call him a grouchy jerk, whatever. He'll huff and puff about whatever he pleases; he'll act inconvenienced to stupidly save face. But this kid, quiet, spacey, is out in the damn street, ready to dig around in the damn gutter, and Yukimi's blood pressure sky rockets. He thinks, I'm gonna have a heart attack. He thinks, I'm gonna have a fuckin' aneurysm. He thinks, Brats are gonna be the death of me.

He moves like a cat catching a bird out of the air: a neat little slip, and his hand has grabbed onto the back of this boy's shirt. He yanks like the very jaws of life, trying to heft him back onto the sidewalk.]

The street is not for going into! [His voice is pinched. Minato may as well be in preschool.] You don't just go out there! We have the sidewalk for a reason! Jesus, do you know how dirty that crap down there is? You wanna get splattered all in there, too? [The frazzle, by the way, has led to him dropping his envelopes. They've landed scattered, just around his feet. He doesn't pick them up yet; he's not done.] Ahhhh, geeze, you wanna die before you're twenty? You gotta pay attention! To everything!

[His hand is fluttering around Minato's person, meanwhile. Since dragging him up onto the sidewalk, Yukimi hasn't quite laid his hand back on him, but he'll still hover around his shoulders, or near his hair, as if checking for injuries that couldn't have possibly happened that quickly.]

You dumbass. You okay?