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Despite everything being nothing but a blurry mess, Hitoshi successfully complies with the command.
“Go go go!!!”
Hitoshi’s manhandled into the car and slumps there like a log torn with the roots off the ground. The burn in his body is turbulent—he wants to scream, maybe he does. The pain is swamping his body like an inner earthquake making him both aware and unaware of what’s going on simultaneously. In a brief moment of clarity he thinks it’s familiar to the feeling of guzzling too many shots in one sitting, the world turns into a haze of colors and sounds that the brain cannot segregate as individuals.
It makes him dizzy, but perhaps it’s the blood loss.
Actually, it’s definitely blood loss.
Fuck.
The wheels of the vehicle screech on the muddy road as the car bursts into life, darting forth like a spring setting free. The speed increases from total stillness to 160 km/h by the blink of an eye, speed limit damned.
Vaguely, Hitoshi spots Hanta’s huge palms squeezing the steering wheel as he spins it, forcing the galloping car into a full circle—the high pitched friction of wheels against concrete is deafening even in an area as bustling as a port. Long, dark marks stretch from beneath on the road as the car finishes the smoke inducing arch. The rectangle mirror above their heads reflects the Captain’s raven eyebrows sloping into a frown.
“Hold tight!”
The car jerks when Hanta presses down the accelerator.
Nausea curls at the pit of Hitoshi’s already shrunk stomach as potent arrows of pain hammer his spine on their track to explode inside of his neurons. “Aniki, please!” Hitoshi cries out; cropping it out so loud and desperate that he actually has the audacity to cringe at his own voice.
From the periphery of his eyes he spots Denki vehemently doing—something. His movements are as-if in slow motion, and the whole image is a sluggish mess of lithe limbs. Hitoshi’s shirt clenches to his wet upper abdomen—an abhorrent melange of blood, sweat and dirt; the open wound grows chafe from the excoriation, pitching his pain receptors through the roof.
Denki drops a navy bag to his legs, fishing out a paper towel and curved tip forceps that has Hitoshi’s stomach dropping to the floor. Placing it between him and the bleeding purple head, Denki tugs on a blue mask and pulls the gloves in one, sharp movement. Then, he tucks the seatbelt around Hitoshi, this way forcing out a shriek out of the almost hyperventilating guy—and rips apart his shirt like a hungry savage thrusting its teeth to its prey.
Hitoshi’s face pales.
Denki throws one leg to the side, folding it with the knee pointing to the ceiling, scooting as close as he can to the half sitting half melting purple head. The moment he presses the towel against the bleeding wound, the car makes a sharp turn. Even Eijirou who sits in the front seat almost thumps headfirst to the windshield.
An agitated cry shoots into their air, yet the blond seems unfazed as he rips open Hitoshi’s flesh bare handed. Teeth sinking into his lower lip, Hitoshi watches the medic leaning over in the most uncomfortable position Hitoshi has ever seen a human bending into, his own back boggles just from conceptualizing it.
The car lurches again and the forceps slip out of Denki’s hand, mercilessly digging into Hitoshi’s skin.
“For fuck’s sake, Schef!” Denki barks out in exasperation, glaring at the raven head that’s too busy to not run over something or someone. At least Hitoshi hopes it’s the case, he’s too hazed to fathom the situation.
“I don’t remember asking for your critique, so shut up and do your job!” Hanta yells in response, dragging the steering wheel to his thighs, circling around one of the walls made of colorful, organized tanks that form a maze of narrow lanes. He cannot be really blamed for just barely decently navigating the car through the enclosed port area, but it still feels like he’s a clueless thirteen years old taking the controller for the first time and trying to master a racing game.
The only difference is that in a game you can flip slash crash and do over; meanwhile they’re prone to be as dead as a doornail.
A ray of light from above pours over the galloping car as an opening reveals the gates that have yet closed. Under those circumstances, it feels like they’re facing the doors of heaven. And if Hitoshi has any say in it, he’s going to spit god in the eye. Or the greeting angel, whoever comes first.
The speed increases abruptly, surely kissing the 200 km/h, as the car slides in between the closing doors. A loud thud at the back echoes and Hanta curses under his breath, tilting the car away catapulting into the water down from the bridge.
“Guys,” despite the wracking havoc, Eijirou does his best to keep his composure in check. “Calm down—CAPT WATCH OUT!” And spectacularly fails.
Hanta presses the gas pedal, turning a full 360° circle and sliding into the other road, almost bumping into the huge trash can from the side. “I’m in control.”
“And I. Am. Not!” Denki’s baritone clashes with Hitoshi’s ringing eardrums. In turn, Hitoshi glares at him as expressly as he can in his current state—which isn’t as intimidating as he wishes for it to be—and receives an apologetic, tight lipped smile as the best placation at the moment.
With a miserable gasp at the throb of his body, Hitoshi lets his eyes droop and regrets it instantly.
His hip is coated by a layer of thick blood that’s dripping down his thigh and marks the territory of the seat. Sweat beats down his neck as he groans at the horrible sight, violet eyes fail to load the rest of the image fully. One of his arms is splotched to the side of his body and the other raking its nails against the hem of his pants, as if trying to slice through them.
Denki, with his countenance flat, digs in Hitoshi’s flesh with the sparkling metallic object while squeezing the rims of the wound—as if pushing the bullet out using his fingers.
It hurts.
“Argh,” Denki spits out, pressing his fingers harder to the angry, aching skin. Hitoshi moans in agony and throws his head back, drool dripping down his chin.
“Is—is it—fucking necessary?!”
“No, it’s just a certain death.” Denki blinks when blood splashes all over his face, and now there’s not even a single corner on the back seat of the car that is not adorned by Hitoshi’s fresh blood.
With a bitter taste in Hitoshi’s mouth—like something died there—he forcefully averts his gaze, refocusing on the men sitting in the front. Somehow his mind dismisses the rasps coming out from the blond, and he almost pushes the paralyzing ache that sears through his muscles like tsunami waves—when the car warninglessly jolts again, so violent that the seat belt nearly gives up on maintaining him in place.
Hanta blurts stupendous curses and slams a gloved hand against the steering wheel center; firing a jarring BEEP!
Out of the periphery, Hitoshi realizes they bypass a car, the driver throws his hands to the air in visible frustration as he flashes them middle fingers. It was a potential distraction ruined by a zap of pain brazenly reminding him that he’s operated in a car galloping at the speed that is feels higher than 200 km/h by now.
It is, doubtlessly, a traumatic experience he would love to never iterate. “Gah.”
“I’m almost—” Denki growls. Hitoshi is disturbingly aware of those squishy sounds that his skin makes, the puke jumps to his mouth instinctively. “Done!” He calls out victoriously, which is followed by a loud exhale of the purple head and an even louder gasp reverberating from the front.
There’s a clang! sound that makes Hitoshi glance down, noticing a bullet covered in his blood innocently rolling over Hanta’s leg. The raven head briefly squints and his countenance changes from the concentrated stupid pothead face to a disgusted stupid pothead face in record time.
“Dude, gross!”
“Next time Imma shove it up your fucking ass!” Denki snarls in response, furiously tugging at the fresh wound without the ability to scout after the scissors. It doesn’t perturb him as far as Hitoshi can tell—be it the fact he pays zero attention to Hitoshi’s cursing at the vigorous motion, or the fact that Denki chunks his head down and—and tears the bandages using solely his teeth.
“Brute,” Eijirou wheezes.
Hitoshi’s face scrunches up like he can see the light, despite not even approximately dying. No comment from him as Denki absorbs the last droplets of blood into the paper towel, absolving the seat off blood.
After that, he leaps forward and abruptly shoves the soaked blood towel into Hanta’s face, who pitches his arms while squeaking in terror. “Meds, what the—?!”
“He could have died! See how much fucking blood, do you see it, you oaf?!”
“I can see it and it’s fucking disgusting.”
“C-careful!” Eijirou hysterically screeches, which is gladly more than enough to veer the raven head’s attention back to the road. He dodges a truck on the last second, turning the car and sliding out of the main road—nearing the beach of Musutafu.
“Are they still on our tail?”
Denki draws half a circle with his head, observing the road behind them. “Nope.”
The loud exhale slipping out of Hitoshi’s lips is momentary at best, because suddenly the blond strains, startling Hitoshi. “Fuck. Never mind—our guests are back!”
“Shit,” Hanta hisses and the car darts forward at the highest speed he can drive without losing control. Hitoshi pushes himself into a sitting position by wrapping his shaking hands around the front seat, ignoring the gnawing pang. Heat bubbles in his chest, he’s uncertain if it’s from the overflowing pain or adrenalin. His mind is as blank as a white paper but he knows he has to do something to get rid of—
“No no no, you are staying still,” Denki flaps his chest with an unexpected display of strength, bundling back to the seat.
Hitoshi scowls. “I’m fine.”
Holding up the marinated-in-blood paper towel to his face, the blond frowns. “As the medic, I’m the one to decide if—Ah!” The car jerks and Denki thrusts into the window in a concerning bamp. “Who the fuck gave you a license?!”
“The same one who gave you a medical certification!”
A black car appears on the mirror from the right and all of his muscles tense. The first instinct is to kick the door open and blow that vehicle to hell, however, the throbbing sensation prevents him from acting fast enough—but maybe there’s no need to.
Denki wriggles back and grabs his Sharpshooting Gear thrown in the baggage. “Do you mind?” Gold eyes squint at the window.
Hitoshi slams the flicker with his fist, letting it roll down while buzzing in his ears, and pressing his buff frame into the seat. The lithe blond crawls forward, half lying on his lap as he points his arm—thumb up and index finger directed forward—out. The car deviates from the route it has been riding, and Hitoshi bemoans as Denki almost smashes the wound with his sharp hip bone.
“Can’t you hold the car still?!”
“I’m trying.”
“We need to take the next exit!” Eijirou almost screams, pointing at the split approximately five hundred meters ahead.
“Roger that.” Hanta drags the car back to the lane with a spin of the wheel. The speed causes Denki’s body to jerk, hitting Hitoshi’s pulsating midsection with the sharp point of his hip bone.
“Fuck it!” He howls, grabs Denki’s hips and squeeze so hard his knuckles turn white—but it stabilizes the blond enough to fixate on the aim. Angeling his arm, Hitoshi can feel the way Denki’s breath rumbles in his chest; how his graceful figure strains and every muscle tenses from the electricity coursing through.
Zap!
A potent laser of white is set free. The chasers’ car loses balance instantly, deflecting right into the margins as steam seeps from the currents exploding and crackling over it in arches. The satisfying smell of burning metal fills Hitoshi’s compressed lungs as he secures Denki on his worming back to his seat.
Denki tucks the device aside, his tongue curls upwards as it follows the curve of his cherry red lips. The smug smirk soothes Hitoshi’s pulsating nerves in an odd way.
“Nice shot!” Hanta cuffs the steering wheel as Eijirou whistles cheerfully.
A part of him wants to grumble something in response, yet he finds himself dripping down on the seat into a miserable puddle; sucking in shallow breaths and pressing his fingers to his stinging hip. If Denki hadn’t done nor said anything, then it isn’t a terrible case.
He will live.
Especially because dying now—will be relatively lame.