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In the end, it's a short affair: arrest, arraignment, trial, sentence, jail.
They've been here before, with other Jets, other friends, other rumbles. But this time it's different, at least for Riff.
This time it's Tony.
Strong, protective Tony, who gave Riff a sense of belonging when no one else would.
Dedicated, passionate Tony, leader of the Jets, going away to a state facility for a year.
There’s not much to do after Tony is taken away from them. Sure, Riff orders the guys to find out whatever they can about Tony’s transportation to the state facility, but what can he do? Tony wouldn’t want Riff to get all of the Jets arrested while trying to get him out, Riff knows that. But Christ, if it ain’t breaking his heart.
He’s aching for a fight. Nothing too intense, he cannot be in shambles right now. With Tony gone, he needs to be well enough to lead the Jets. But a little fight wouldn’t hurt, just something to get his mind off of everything and release some of the tension in his body.
Riff walks and walks until he doesn’t recognize his surroundings anymore. It’s dark, and he’s tired, and he shouldn’t have gone so far out of the Jets’ territory on his own, but it’s too late to regret it now, too late to turn back. He sees a group of guys, about his age, on the other side of the street. They’re very loud, and don’t seem to be paying attention to their surroundings at all: just what he needs.
Riff crosses the street and walks up to them. When he’s about six feet away, he kicks a discarded soda can on the pavement in their general direction. The guys look up, leering. One of them gets up to stand in front of Riff. He’s a little taller than Riff, but he reeks of beer—the perfect opponent for a little scuffle. The guy smirks at him, clearly expecting Riff to avoid the confrontation, to apologize, to beg for their forgiveness. Perfect. Riff doesn’t wait and just punches the guy’s nose.
The guy falls back, staggering, grabbing his nose, which has started to bleed. His friends get up in response to Riff’s punch, clearly unhappy with this turn of events. Suddenly, Riff is surrounded by six guys, who he’s just given a reason to attack him. Re-energized by the adrenaline released by that first punch, Riff finds himself unable to care. Six guys, so what? He wanted a fight, didn’t he?
In the movies, these guys would attack Riff one by one, allowing him—the hero—to fight them all off and walk away unscathed. Sadly, it doesn't work like that in real life. In real life, six guys attack Riff all at once, coming at him from all sides. He manages to hit three guys before getting hit himself. He’s laughing as he gets dragged to the ground, kicking everything in his vicinity.
He stops laughing when one of the guys climbs on top of him and starts punching his face. Once. Twice. Before he can get a third hit in, a voice from across the street makes them all freeze.
“Hey! Hey, stop!”
It’s really not the most intimidating message. Under any other circumstances, Riff would have laughed, but now he uses the moment of confusion that follows to escape his captors’ grip and run away. The boys don’t even bother following him. Perhaps they’ve all had enough excitement for one night. Perhaps they simply don't care enough.
When Riff reaches the other side of the street, he's approached by someone, who doesn't look much older than Riff. The moonlight adds a shiny glow to his dark, greasy hair. While the other guy's a little shorter than Riff, he's also definitely broader, more muscular.
“You alright?” He rolls the ‘r’ in “right.” Probably an immigrant then, but Riff can't find it in himself to care too deeply about that right now.
"Yeah," he smiles, "thanks for that." For a moment, they just look at each other. It's a little awkward, them being strangers and all, but Riff doesn't know what else to say while the guy is clearly studying his face. It takes Riff a moment to realize he must look pretty messed up right now. When it looks like the guy might even try to touch his face, Riff panics, inching backwards ever so slightly.
Finally the guy opposite him just holds out his hand. "Bernardo." Bernardo, definitely an immigrant then. Still, Riff shakes his hand: "Riff."
"What direction are you going in, Riff?" Bernardo asks. It sounds well-meant, if not a little presumptuous. Riff isn't going to take it, though.
"Oh, you wanna walk me home? What am I, some damsel?" Riff turns to walk away. He’s annoyed and still reeling from the fight. Yes, maybe he needed saving back there, but he doesn't need to be escorted home. He can take care of himself.
Bernardo follows him, raising his hands disarmingly. "Hey, easy. I just wanted to make sure you didn't get into any more trouble tonight." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to Riff: "Here, clean your face. It's not smart to be seen like this."
Riff hesitates. He doesn't really want to admit it, but Bernardo is right. He shouldn't be walking around with a bloodied face. He grabs the handkerchief and starts walking again, not even checking whether Bernardo is following him this time. When he reaches the nearest intersection, he realizes he's much further out of Jets’ territory than he thought. Frustrated, he throws the handkerchief on the pavement.
"Hey," a soft voice behind him says.
Bernardo. Again.
"Fuck! What does a fella need to do to be left alone by you?" Riff angrily turns around to continue yelling at him, but finds Bernardo much closer to him than he anticipated. Having forgotten what he wanted to say, he just stands there, heavily breathing in Bernardo's face, anger slowly seeping out of him. Neither of them moves, neither forward nor backward. When Bernardo looks up into Riff's eyes, there's something there, recognition perhaps? Recognition of lives filled with secrets and lies in an antagonistic world, without pity, without comfort, necessitating the desire to live now because who knows what tomorrow brings.
A drop of sweat falls down Bernardo's cheek. Riff follows it with his eyes until he reaches the corner of Bernardo's lips. Then it suddenly gets too real. Riff gently pushes Bernardo away from him. He can't deal with this right now. He's only just lost Tony, for god's sake. Tony, who once gently pushed Riff away, smiled, and said that it was okay, that Riff was his best friend and would always be his best friend, that nothing he did could ever change that. Sometimes, Riff wonders whether Tony ever thinks about that moment, whether Tony ever thinks about him.
It doesn't really matter. Tony isn't here now.
He picks up the handkerchief and offers it to Bernardo.
"I'm sorry."
And he is sorry. These days, he's sorry for a lot of things. Later, he'll even be sorry for ruining this moment between them. This nice, relatively simple moment, before everything gets very complicated.
When Bernardo accepts the handkerchief, he looks at Riff, an understanding but regretful look in his eyes. Riff smiles and nods. "See you around," he mumbles, before turning away from Bernardo and commencing the long walk home.
Bernardo doesn't follow him this time.
The first time Riff hears about the Sharks, he welcomes it. He hasn't seen Tony in months and needs a distraction, something to fully dedicate himself to. A new gang of people trying to take over his streets will certainly do the trick. It's not that he didn’t know about the Puerto Rican immigrants in his neighbourhood; he just didn't know that some of them had actually formed a gang.
It's Ice who delivers the news to him, leading Riff and Numbers to a square a few blocks over, where a bunch of Puerto Rican guys are hanging out in front of a big mural stating "Sharks" in big red letters.
The three Jets keep their distance. They're clearly outnumbered and don't want to engage the group of guys across the street, not like this.
“Well, how about that, Riff?” Ice grins at him, recognizing the opportunity for the Jets to assert their dominance over this neighbourhood.
“Well, I think—” Riff stops for dramatic effect and jumps on top of a crate left outside by one of the shop owners in this street, “I think these boys clearly need to be introduced to the Jets!” He grins at his friends in front of him. “We have to welcome them into the neighbourhood, fellas, explain the rules to them, show them who’s in charge around here.”
With that, he jumps off the crate and grabs Numbers in a friendly headlock. His blond friend laughs, struggling to get loose. When Riff finally releases him, he keeps one arm around Numbers’s shoulders and drops the other around Ice. Here he is, walking his streets, with two good friends and a new distraction. Maybe things are finally looking up.
On their way back, they run into most of the other Jets. When they reach the basketball court, Ice informs the group of their new neighbours. In the excitement that follows, it takes them all a while to notice that Baby John isn't with them. While it's not unusual for a Jet to be missing, it is unusual for that Jet to be Baby John, as all the other Jets tend to keep an eye on him.
Hastily, Riff comes up with a plan, taking a few of the guys with him to look for Baby John and sending the rest away in small groups.
Riff takes his group back to the square where they saw the Sharks earlier that afternoon. They find it suspiciously empty.
"Let's each go around one of these blocks and meet back here," he says, before taking off into an alleyway on the other side of the square.
Around the next corner, he finds Baby John, surrounded by five Sharks. Nothing seems to have happened yet, but Riff doesn’t like the alarmed look on Baby John’s face.
"Hey!" he yells, before really considering the consequences. The Sharks all turn to look at him but keep their positions around their victim. Riff speeds towards them, punches the Shark closest to him in the stomach, and places himself in front of Baby John, protectively.
"Whoa, five against one, that ain't exactly fair.” He turns around while he’s speaking, making eye contact with every Shark around him. “Didn't you learn about fair fights back home? Or did you just never learn how to count?" It's a low blow, and he knows it, but he needs to divert the Sharks' attention to himself.
The tallest Shark steps forward, ready to attack him, when they hear footsteps coming down the alley. The Sharks relax once they see who it is, but it takes Riff a little longer to recognize him: Bernardo.
Oh.
Riff hopes he doesn't look too surprised. Bernardo certainly doesn't seem to be.
Bernardo joins the circle of Sharks, smirking at Riff, confidently. "I'm sure we can solve this peacefully." His smirk disappears as he addresses his friends in Spanish.
Riff doesn't know what he’s saying exactly, but he can see that Bernardo isn't pleased. He can also deduce that Bernardo is respected by these guys, their leader perhaps?
Riff steps forward and holds his hand out to Bernardo. "Hi, Riff, leader of the Jets. We kinda own this neighbourhood. You must be new here." He holds Bernado's gaze until he shakes his hand.
"Bernardo." He gestures towards his companions. "We're Sharks." He doesn't bother responding to Riff's final statement.
"Well Bernardo, I gotta say, I don't like the situation I just stumbled upon here. Five of your guys threatening one of mine? That ain't really inspiring me to be welcoming to you guys."
Bernardo laughs, actually laughs in Riff's face. "Well, Riff," the way he rolls the 'r' almost feels like an insult this time, "I didn't know we needed your permission to feel welcome here. Last I checked, this was the land of the free."
"Land of the free, home of the brave, pad of the Jets, pal."
Bernardo smiles at that, genuinely smiles. "We'll see about that." For a moment, there's a hint of something regretful in his eyes. Then he orders his guys to follow him and leaves the alley.
Riff finally turns to Baby John: "You okay, buddy boy?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry Riff, I went too far on my own and I didn't keep track of my surroundings and then I fled into this dead-end-street and—"
"Easy, easy," Riff says calmly, while grabbing the back of the younger boy's neck comfortingly, "I know you didn't mean to get into trouble, buddy."
He leads the boy out of the alleyway, where they find Numbers and Balkan, who appear very relieved by the sight of Baby John. He tells them to call off the search and gather everyone on the basketball court. Things just got a whole lot more interesting.
It takes a week before they see any of the Sharks again. Evidently, Bernardo runs a pretty tight ship. For some reason, this really pleases Riff.
When Riff and Numbers walk past Doc's one afternoon, they spot Bernardo and another Shark inside, chatting with Valentina at the counter. Riff grabs Numbers's arm and stops him. He grins, hoping for a confrontation.
"Let's hang for a bit, see what happens."
When the two Sharks exit the store, Riff and Numbers follow them. After a minute or so, Numbers quickens his pace and slings his arm around the shoulders of Bernardo's companion, clearly expecting Riff to do the same with Bernardo. It's a routine they've done countless times, but this time Riff hesitates. His mind flashes to their moment of closeness that first night, and Bernardo's breath on his skin.
When he finally catches up, Bernardo has already turned around, smiling, waiting expectantly. Of course, he probably knows this routine as well as Riff does. Riff walks up to him slowly, as confidently as possible.
"Bernardo, Bernardo. Fancy meeting you here. Why don't you introduce us to your friend here?"
He puts one arm around each Shark — a compromise. Casual. Totally casual.
Bernardo's still smiling, seemingly unbothered by the entire situation, if not just downright amused. "This is Quique," he says, while grabbing the back of Riff's neck quite firmly.
Riff squirms. "Quique, huh?" he lets go of the man's shoulder so he can hold out his hand, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
While Quique shakes his hand, Riff continues: "I'm not sure what your friend here has told you already, but I'd be happy to catch you up on the rules around here. You see, we Jets own these blocks. All of this is ours."
While he's speaking, the hand on Riff's neck starts applying more pressure. It's sort of thrilling for a bit, until it actually starts to hurt. He turns his head to raise an eyebrow at Bernardo, but finds their faces much closer to each other than he anticipated. Bernardo's hair is hanging in his face, daringly. Almost daring Riff to lean even closer into Bernardo's personal space.
He doesn't. Eventually, Bernardo just winks at Riff, and releases his neck.
"Weird. I haven't heard about any of this." A sarcastic voice interrupts Riff's contemplation of the moment he just shared with Bernardo.
Quique. Right.
Riff slowly turns his head, and smirks. "Well, now you know, pal." He finally lets go of Bernardo, instantly missing the heat of another body against his. "This is how we do things in America."
He nods at Numbers to signal they're leaving. One last look at Quique and Bernardo tells him they're not as intimidated, or surprised even, as he'd like them to be.
After a few minutes of walking, Numbers turns to him questioningly: "Is it just me, or do these Sharks just not seem to care?”
“They still believe, pal.” Riff smiles wistfully. “They still believe in the American dream. And they ain't gonna let us get in the way of that. In a weird way, you kinda gotta admire it.”
He shoves Numbers’s arm. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
They laugh. They both know no one would believe it, in any case.
The first genuine confrontation between the Jets and the Sharks occurs on a rainy evening. It doesn’t amount to much though, as officer Krupke and some colleagues come to break it up within minutes.
Riff, who’s made sure all of his Jets have fled the scene before leaving himself, is pursued by two officers. About 50 metres ahead, he sees Bernardo fling himself into an alleyway, which he knows is filled with boxes and containers — an excellent hiding place, but also a great place for an ambush.
He takes the gamble and runs into the alleyway as well. He doesn’t see Bernardo anywhere, but does see a backdoor into a building he doesn’t recognize. Fuelled by the realization that the officers could be here any moment, he opens the door and enters the building.
Immediately, a hand covers his mouth and an arm pulls him to the left. He tries to kick his assailant, until he hears his voice: “Sssssh, it’s Bernardo.”
Bernardo. Of course.
While Riff remains on edge, he stops squirming, hoping his slightly calmer demeanour will inspire Bernardo to let him go. It's not until he's seated on the ground, next to Bernardo, with his back against the wall, that Bernardo removes his hand.
Now that Riff has a moment to catch his breath and consider the situation he's found himself in, he realizes how wet he is. His hair is dripping, and his shirt is sticking to his body.
He feels Bernardo's breath on his ear when he leans over to whisper: "Were you followed?"
Riff shrugs. He really couldn’t tell whether the cops followed him into the alley.
“Maybe we should at least get away from this door, just in case they come in here.” He looks around. “What is this place even?”
Bernardo gets up and holds out his hand to help Riff get up as well. Riff ignores him and stands up by himself.
Bernardo chuckles softly, leading Riff into a much larger room, with a boxing ring at its centre.
“It’s a boxing club.” He sees Riff’s hesitancy. “Don’t worry, I know the owner, and believe me when I say he owes me.”
Riff doesn’t know what that could refer to, and he doesn’t really care. It seems plausible. “Boxing, huh? I did think you seemed kinda—”
Kinda what? Strong? Muscular? Athletic? Oh boy.
“If this is a sports’ club, do you maybe know where a fella might find himself a towel?” A change of topic, very smooth.
Bernardo leads Riff into a locker room where they indeed find some towels. They both grab one and pull off their wet shirts.
When Riff is done drying his hair and his upper body, he grabs a dry towel, drapes it over shoulders, and sits down on one of the benches in the locker room. While he's sorta dry now, he's also very cold and cannot stop shaking, which he tries to hide.
Bernardo, however, clearly notices it and sits down beside him. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and offers it to Riff. While it doesn't really make him warmer, it's a nice little distraction. After a few drags, he offers it back to Bernardo. It's a little strange, just a little too intimate, sitting here shirtless, with a guy he's supposed to hate. But it doesn't feel bad, or wrong. Just a little weird.
They sit in silence, sharing the cigarette. When it runs out, Bernardo lights another one. When he hands it to Riff, he says: "I think we're in the clear."
Riff nods. He hasn't heard any cop activity in the neighbourhood. If they were gonna enter the building, they'd have done it by now.
"Doesn't mean we should go outside though. If anyone's still patrolling, they're probably looking for the two of us."
"We can stay here for a while. The first boxers won't show up until about 7."
With that, Bernardo gets up and starts rummaging through the lockers and closets that aren't locked. When he finds a sweater—a red one—he tosses it to Riff. "Sorry, wrong colour." He smiles, almost affectionately.
Riff pulls it over his head. "I think I can handle it." He wiggles his eyebrows, and adds: "For one night."
Bernardo mutters something incomprehensible to Riff. But he looks amused, so it can't have been that bad. When he finds another sweater for himself, he resumes his seat next to Riff.
Riff hands him the cigarette again.
“You uh— you come here often?” He can't help but grin.
Bernardo shakes his head, disbelievingly. Then he answers: “Actually, yes. I fight here, a lot.”
“Like, for fun?”
Bernardo nods. “Sometimes, yeah. And other times, for the money.”
Riff looks up. “You make money as a fighter?”
Bernardo shrugs. He doesn’t seem that impressed by it himself. “I’m good at it. Why shouldn’t I make money off of something I’m good at?” He pauses. Then he turns towards Riff. “How do you make money?”
Riff releases a low, bitter chuckle. “That is a very good question.”
He doesn’t really know what else to say. How does he make money? Is there an answer? He borrows what he needs and he steals what he can’t borrow. And occasionally, he’ll take the odd job. He just doesn’t like to be tied down. He doesn’t like to answer to anyone other than his fellow Jets. And truly, he doesn’t mind having nothing if it means being able to spend all his time and energy on being a Jet.
But after a few beats, he simply adds: “I have my ways.”
Bernardo hums understandingly.
Turning the conversation away from himself and back to Bernardo, Riff asks: “So, boxing, how long will that be able to sustain you?”
Bernardo shrugs. “I hope at least a few more years,” he pauses and smirks at Riff. “If I don’t get injured before then. Or, you know, die."
“Are you planning to?” Riff can’t help but ask.
“I wasn’t, no. I didn’t come all this way to check out early, you know?” Bernardo's eyes lock onto Riff's for a moment, searching for a hint of understanding.
Riff only shrugs. “Not really,” he hesitates, but continues, “I don’t think I’m meant to be here for much longer.” He doesn’t know what inspires him to say it. It’s something that he really only ever talked about with Tony. And even then, it was mostly a joke. Riff would say he was born to die young, and Tony would smile, gently, and tell him to stop being morbid, and that he simply wouldn't allow it.
But then again, Tony isn't here right now. Riff has plenty of reasons to be morbid these days.
“Sorry. That got a little too fucking real.” Riff smirks at Bernardo, willing him to understand that he doesn’t need to respond to Riff’s honesty.
Bernardo nods, but Riff feels some urge to explain himself further.
“I didn’t mean that I wanna die. I just—”
He stops, searching for words that will somehow convey how tired and hopeless and bitter he is. And how much he would give up to protect his guys, especially if that means giving them a better shot at life than he’s ever had.
“You’ve hit a ceiling.”
Riff looks up and raises his eyebrows at Bernardo.
“What?”
Bernardo sighs. “You fear that you’ve reached a point in your life from which you can only go down. You don’t see a way to improve or change anything for the better in your life: you’ve hit a ceiling.”
Riff considers it, before softly agreeing. "Yeah. Hell, sometimes—" he stops, worried that if he continues to speak, his voice will break.
Bernardo just waits, as Riff tries to work out what it even is that he wants to say.
"Fuck, I guess sometimes I feel like the ceiling is coming down, slowly trapping me, with no way out," Riff whispers.
After that, they sit in silence for a long time, sharing a few more cigarettes. When the owner of the club shows up in the morning, Bernardo leads Riff to the backdoor and sees him out. They don't say anything. Perhaps, they don't need to.
It had to go wrong at some point. Things had gotten too comfortable lately. Riff had been getting too comfortable. That's what he tells himself, at least.
Ice is lying on the couch of the tiny apartment that some of the boys are squatting in. His face is smirched with blood, his own blood, and his stomach is bruising rapidly. He got jumped by some Sharks on his way home.
Riff is angry, and upset, and tired, and desperate for revenge. He hands Baby John a wet towel, ordering him to clean Ice's face. He'd do it himself, but he's too fired up to focus.
He knows he should put it to a vote, see what the others want to do. But he can't do it. While all the Jets are standing around Ice, Riff slips out of the apartment and runs in the direction of the square where he knows the Sharks like to gather. It's impulsive. It's stupid, frankly. But it has to be done. That's the way Riff sees it.
When he spots a big group of Sharks, including Bernardo, he speeds towards them. Bernardo takes a few steps forward and catches Riff's body with his own. Riff punches him in his stomach. At such a small distance, there's not much force behind the punches, but Riff continues. Bernardo has sort of put his arms around him, closing the remaining distance between them, which makes it even harder to punch him. Riff is just pushing him with his entire body now, taking all his anger out on Bernardo.
The other Sharks remain a few steps away, clearly having received instructions from Bernardo. Some of them are laughing. Riff doesn't care. He just wants to get past Bernardo, so he can hurt anyone who may have hurt Ice.
Finally Bernardo whispers: "There are 14 Sharks here, Riff, you cannot win this."
Like Riff cares about winning. "Let me through," he hisses.
"I cannot do that, Riff." It sounds like he means it, like he cares about what happens here, like he cares about Riff. In a way, that makes Riff even angrier. If he really cared about Riff, even a little, he'd let him get his revenge.
Bernardo starts pushing Riff a bit more firmly, leading him away from the rest of the Sharks. Riff tries to push back, but Bernardo is stronger and a lot more focused.
When they reach a narrow alley, completely out of sight, Bernardo corners Riff, putting his hands against the wall on either side of Riff's head. The exertion leaves them both panting, with only a couple of inches between them.
"Are you stupid? How could you think coming here would help?" Bernardo sounds genuinely confused.
Riff chuckles bitterly. "I didn't think it would help. I just hoped that beating the shit out of someone might make me feel a little less awful."
Bernardo shakes his head. “And did you ever consider that maybe your friend had it coming?”
Riff pushes Bernardo’s shoulders, trying to get away from him, trying to get out of this conversation. He didn't come here to talk, for god's sake. Bernardo positions him back against the wall.
Riff sighs. “I’m not saying he’s a saint or anything, but I can’t imagine Ice doing anything that would justify getting jumped by eight Sharks.”
“He said some truly nasty things though.”
Riff raises his eyebrows. “He said— You—” he can’t believe this, “you were there?”
Bernardo doesn’t respond. Riff puts his hand on the back of Bernardo’s head, pulling him closer.
“Were you?”
Their noses are almost touching. Bernardo recoils slightly.
“Does it matter?”
Yes. Yes, it does. Riff pulls him back in again, his forehead firmly against Bernardo’s.
"It's a very simple question, Bernardo. Were… you… there?"
A pause.
Bernardo looks down, and Riff knows the answer, knows what Bernardo will say before he says it.
"Yes."
And in that moment, everything becomes very clear in Riff's head. This is what they're destined to do to each other. They'll meet, and they’ll argue, and they'll fight, and they'll protect their friends at all costs. Nothing that happens here tonight, nothing that's happened in the past few months can change that.
Riff lets go of Bernardo’s head and hits him, finally really hits him.
Bernardo lets him. His upper lip starts to bleed. He smirks, quite meanly. "Did that help, Riff? Did that make you feel better?"
It didn't. Not really. Ultimately, it's just a punch. He doesn't say that though. When he tries to throw another punch, Bernardo catches his wrist and pushes it above Riff's head against the wall.
"Take it easy."
Riff struggles and struggles to pull his wrist from Bernardo's hold, until they lock eyes, and something shifts.
Riff looks into Bernardo's eyes and sees that he knows it too. This can't go on.
And just like that, there's nothing left to say. Oh, they'll meet each other again and say plenty of things. But this here, whatever it is, whatever it has been, whatever it could have been — it stops right here, right now.
Riff hesitates, unsure how to end this. How do you end something before it's even properly begun?
Bernardo rolls his eyes and leans in, close enough for Riff to feel his breath on his skin, but far enough for Riff to back away, should he want to.
He doesn't.
Riff finally does what he should have done that first night, or that night in the locker room. Not here, not now. Now is too late. Now is too complicated. Now is— Riff grabs the back of Bernardo's head, forcefully, and closes the distance. Because maybe Bernardo is right: they can't end this without ever beginning it, without ever acknowledging this thing between them.
They both come in slightly too hard, too rough, teeth clashing and noses nudging each other. They both don't care. Bernardo is a fighter, he's used to roughness. And Riff has had to fight his entire life, for his friends, for his domain, for his own safety. In a way, this kiss is the fight they should have been having right now. Riff is reminded of that when he tastes the blood from Bernardo's split lip. “Sorry 'bout that,” Riff mumbles, putting one hand on the side of Bernardo's neck, before kissing him again, slightly softer this time around.
Bernardo doesn’t reply. He just pulls Riff's hair at the back of his head with one hand and steadies his torso against the wall with the other. Riff's breathing hitches. The desire to fight is slowly seeping out of them. Their movements become less hostile, more tender, more exploring.
A siren, which sounds a little too close for comfort, is what finally breaks the kiss. The realization that, beyond this little alley, the world goes on. On a square not far from here, Bernardo's Sharks are probably wondering what's taking him so long. And in an apartment a few blocks from here, Riff's Jets must be wondering where he is and what he's doing. Maybe they're even out on the streets, looking for him.
Bernardo still has one hand at the back of Riff's head and uses it to make Riff look up at him.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry you had to see your friend in such a state." He looks like he means it. After a few moments of hesitation, he adds: "I won't apologize for my actions or the behavior of my friends. We were treated despicably by your friend and that cannot go unanswered. And if we're challenged again, I can't say we'll act any differently. But you did a stupid thing tonight out of love for your friend, and I can empathize with that."
With that Bernardo pushes their foreheads together again, for a brief moment. Before Riff can respond, or even really register what's happening, Bernardo releases him and walks away.
Riff lets him.
Standing there, alone in that alley, Riff hopes he won’t ever have to fight Bernardo for real.
He fears he will.