sunsexual
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Akutagawa’s back is braced against cracked concrete, rubble framing his figure and shrapnel from metal beams stealing scraps of his coat. He leans his head back, fresh blood dribbling messily down his face from a ragged gash along his forehead. Old wounds that have never been given the chance to heal line him like little, perennial flowers, blooming on his skin at the impact.
“On your feet.”
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“Hey, don’t tell me you’re really leaving me out here to die.” Dazai’s voice has been bled of the majority of its feigned enthusiasm, but his face is still fixed in some cheery thing, and the disconnect may truthfully be more off-putting than if he were frowning.
“Would you be opposed to that?” Fyodor speaks for the first time since Dazai’s arrival—what is more likely the first time in weeks—and he pairs the question with snapping open the window.
“Hm~? Of course I would. After all, you know I don’t—” Dazai cuts himself off as he’s finally lugged both feet inside; he doesn’t need to finish the sentence anyway—doesn’t need to start it either; words exchanged between them are like ones rehearsed off a script: premeditated and theatrical.