“ stop squirming, it won’t make me drop ya. ” frustration and annoyance saturate every syllable he snaps at his charge. simply put, chuuya has reached the end of his patience, and he’d very much appreciate it if akutagawa didn’t make this any more of a hassle than it already is. struggling like this will only aggravate the injuries chuuya hadn’t been able to take full stock of yet, and he’d much rather know them taken care of than watch akutagawa hurt himself any further.
he strides into the foyer with all the confidence he can summon, wearing a face that tolerates no nonsense whatsoever. in the wake of his billowing coat, chuuya’s presence fills the room to an almost oppressive degree — it is the impact of someone who holds power and status and knows it, and he steps into the elevator unimpeded, uncaring of the looks and whispers that follow him. the staff knows by now that any blood staining the expensive carpet will have mysteriously disappeared in the morning.
at least akutagawa keeps silent. the elevator ride feels longer for it, but chuuya is silently grateful that he’s spared more pointless arguments. he’s already aggravated enough as is, keeping a tight leash on his anger, and the quiet gives him the needed space to focus on the concerning state of his subordinate instead. god, he feels so fragile in his arms — so much smaller than usual, breathing ragged and body tense and the bitter tang of copper drenching the air — that chuuya wonders anxiously if he’s made a miscalculation. the medical ward surely would have been the better choice …
a soft ping announces their arrival at the top floor, and chuuya wastes no time carrying akutagawa into his home, single-handedly disabling the locks and palming on the lights as he goes. not a thought is spared to the mild annoyance that is having to clean up after himself later; he walks in without taking off his coat or shoes and makes a beeline to the spacious bathroom.
akutagawa’s demand is met with a roll of the eyes. “ i will in a minute, damn it. calm the fuck down. you can’t walk like this. ”
true to his word, chuuya does set him down moments later — he eases him carefully onto the closed toilet seat so he can look him over. in the stark light of the bathroom, akutagawa looks even worse off than chuuya thought, sickly pale and exhausted. chuuya eyes him critically, trying to gauge whether or not he’d be able to disrobe on his own in this state, and decides against his better judgement that he’d extend an olive branch and leave that choice to akutagawa.
( he has a feeling he’ll regret that in a moment, however; the man is nothing if not ridiculously stubborn about receiving any kind of help no matter how much he may need it. )
“ let me grab my supplies. d’you need help with your coat? ”
REGRET swirls like acid in his stomach, discomfort raging with every second he lingers in uncharted waters. Chuuya’s apartment is foreign--- quite literally. Grandiose, expensive, and riddled with western decorum, it feels less like a home and more like a MUSEUM. In their haste, he wonders briefly how one man can justify the extravagance.
The restroom, too, is spared no majesty, and he no more at ease when the executive releases him at last. Akutagawa blinks the dizziness from his eyes and curses everything--- the setting, the situation, the very man that stands before him, chastising with pursed lips. He sits in a slump, back arched and head hanging over his knees, one hand pressed against the split flesh at his side, and he feels it now--- adrenaline anesthetic dies in his veins, leaving in its wake a stinging, burning, ACHE. It’s a blessing, though, that distracts him from the violation of his own presence.
“ No. ” he replies, instinctively curt, though trepidation BURNS beneath his skin at the mere idea. First he traps him, then drags him to an upscale prison cell, and now seeks to fully DISARM him--- ( Of course, it is impossible to seal a wound through layers of cloth, but Akutagawa bristles at the thought ). Hesitation hangs tense in the furrow of his brow as he slips he lets his coat hang like a phantom from his shoulders, and lets it fall around his arms.
The pulsating pain that gouges at his side, then, is his punishment--- for his hubris, he thinks, or perhaps vulnerability--- and he GRIPS the fabric like a vice as agony falls from his lips.
“ ---SHIT. ” he hisses, white - hot with a frustration that refuses to die. This wound is a CURSE, some evil, festering thing that draws forth every kind of miserable inconvenience. Akutagawa hisses again, this time with vitriol, at the sound of Chuuya’s second approach, and swallows the urge rip his gloved hands from their sleeves.
It’s panic that fuels him now. Weakened, injured, and utterly pathetic, he cannot bear to be STRIPPED of his only weapon, his only comfort, and SCRAMBLES like an frightened rabbit away from the impending contact.
“ DON’T--- don’t touch me! ”
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