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“Try to keep your hand above your heart.“
Mikado's smile is so genuine, so misplaced, that it sends shivers down Aoba's back. He does as he was asked to, holding out his hand, feeling the members of his gang watching him silently. Vowing not to draw it back, he fights the human urge to flee, knows that this is a test of courage and whether he passes or not determines if he'll be the next one ending up as dead meat on the streets of Ikebukero.
“Do we have a table in here?“ Mikado calls out and there's a shuffling in the crowd. In the next seconds, two members of the Blue Squares are dragging a small table from the back of the room and setting it down in front of Mikado, who nods, and they step back, as though dismissed. Aoba can't believe what he is seeing. They are his gang. Never mind the contract, first, and foremost, they are his members. His to command. They had been outraged when Mikado had stabbed him minutes prior and now- he looks into the faces of his gang, and only sees blank stares reflected back at him, those of anguish or irritation by far outnumbered. A bad default setting.
And it doesn't get better from here.
The smell of antiseptic hits the air, and is stomach coils in dreaded anticipation, as he watches the founder of the Dollars disinfecting his hands before equipping himself with a pair of previously packaged gloves, and then spraying the table. Next, Aoba sees him fish another mysterious wrapped object out of his bag. A paper mat. He spreads it over the table, on which he begins to place an assortment of packaged goods that Aoba has seen before, and never in favorable circumstances.
He knows how much this is going to hurt, knows it from countless visits to either his medical cabinet or the hospital, a fulfilled childhood constantly accompanied by bruises and bloody scrapes and fence-wire induced gashes (but certainly never a deep stab wound) as nothing in his surroundings could hold back his thirst for adventure. Count in necessary injections, and he can say that is indeed well acquainted with medical procedures. But as kid, it had always been his mother or a nurse or a doctor who'd smiled at him pacifyingly, explained the procedure, and he'd gotten colourful band-aids and if he'd been especially brave, a sweet to go along with it.
Aoba is completely certain that no sweets are involved in it this time.
“Hold it out, please.“ Mikado's voice calls him back in the present, and Aoba stares back, wide-eyed, realizing his hand has slacked and is hanging by his side. He's about to follow the order, when he hesitates. Unintended reluctance creeps up in him. His thoughts run astray. To be honest, he had not intended to drag Sonohara into anything. Neither had she been weak or helpless at any point, if glowing red eyes and a katana in a mysterious photo taken at the right moment were anything to go by. So, overall, his senpai is overreacting. There was no need for that vicious stab. There is no need for this scene, either.
He's about to hurl a few words, perhaps raise his fist – though he is no fan of such methods -, get his members to corner him, re-assure his leadership in any way possible.
Mikado is there so they can use him in their potential plans. Not any other way around.
Aoba nods to himself, searching for the best way to begin, the right words to choose to have the guy at their feet when- He halts, all of the sudden, seeing Mikado's smile thinning out a little. Remembering the flash of the pen and the cold, measured order.
“Accept my fury.“
If he isn't doing the exact opposite of it now, he must be gravely mistaken.
Mikado stares right back at him, as calm and friendly as before, but with this newly attained air that is both unfamiliar and unsettling. It chills him to the bone.
He's done for, he's done for beyond words, and barely conscious of the millisecond it takes for him to raise his hand back up and stammer an apology. He doesn't look up, only deems it safe to do so when he hears Mikado laugh.
He isn't dead, not yet.
The founder of the dollars, seeming amused, picks up the disinfectant and reaches out, presumably to grasp his hand. “I will be careful. You've already payed for your deed, so I'm not out for any...more.. revenge. Alright?“ The bottle looks menacing. Aoba would have made a run for it at that very second. If he'd been a coward and if there had been no blood dripping down his hand, that is.
“Yes.“ Latex texture rubbing against his skin, he feels Mikado taking a grip of his hand. Only the slightest tug causes the pain to flare. Holding in a breath, he attempts to suppress the rising panic at the thought of how the bandaging will go down. “Either way, this is going to hurt.“ Mikado says, as though he'd read his thoughts, in the gentle voice of a caring senpai that contrasts monumentally with his earlier demeanor. “But you know I will have to do it unless you want to risk an infection.“ Aoba nods, biting his lip. It's not that he isn't aware of the necessity to disinfect a wound. It's more that he wants anyone but Mikado to do it.
“Here it comes.“ And it burns, fucking shit, it burns. Tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, Aoba resists the urge to flinch, watching as Mikado picks up and opens a fresh packet of tissues, soaks them generously in the horrid substance and begins cleaning away the blood. His hand is trembling, causing Mikado to grip it tighter. He wants to turn his eyes away, but he doesn't, and instead, perhaps to distract himself from the sensation of his hand's insides having been set aflame, watches the procedure. Mikado then fetches something that Aoba recognizes as a packaged compress, skillfully unwraps it and presses it down with a certain force.
The sting is unbearable at this point. But he...he can't...
A whimper escapes his lips. He stares at the blue towel on which all instruments of torture have aligned, tries to focus and not show any weakness. Not at this point. Frankly, not at any point can he show that – he picks up on a whisper passing through his gang. So they have noticed.
Unfortunately, Mikado seems to also have heard. His eyes soften ever so slightly and Aoba almost recognizes his nice-though-inconspicuous-edging-on-boring senpai from his first day at Raira High. Almost.
Because then, Mikado smiles again and it is that dreaded smile that Aoba fears might have permanently imprinted itself on his memory. “There, there, we're nearly done.“ he informs him, continuing to press down, “This is to stop the blood flow, alright?“
He nods, again. His voice has become so soft that it terrifies him. Feeling remotely immobilized, he can't do anything, but let him finish his work.
After seconds or minutes or – he's lost track of time – Mikado hands him a glove and asks him to take over for a for a few seconds. Aoba does, presses down onto the atrocious burn, waits, as the dark-haired teenager proceeds to unwrap the bandages, then secures the compress with a band aid.
He doesn't flinch, letting Mikado sling the white cloth around his hand several times and tightening it. Two more band-aids to hold it in place, and his hand is finally released.
He staggers back a few steps, clutching the injured hand with his unharmed one. He's trembling.
No-one in the crowd has moved. But though it may not be the ideal situation, it isn't the worst case possible, either: Granted, they aren't rushing to his side to support him, but they aren't exactly standing behind Mikado either.
The former clicks his tongue, shaking his head a little: “No, leave the wound alone for now.“
Aoba freezes and, nearly on instinct, releases his hand, looks at Mikado. Waits in a strange sort of anticipation. Is it fear? He isn't sure at this point.
But, heaven knows, he is not taking another risk.
Their eyes meet. Another nod to confirm he did the right thing and Aoba wishes it wouldn't leave him this relieved. “I must ask you to let someone check it after a few days.“ Mikado says, “A local hospital will do.“ “Yes.“ Aoba replies after a moment, feeling weak, pained and downright humiliated. The room is oddly silent.
“Great!“ his senpai answers joyfully, before proceeding to sort his items back into his bag.
The bloodied gloves and tissues remain on the floor.
Aoba can't bear to look at them.
The gang members leave, one by one, after having solemnly sworn loyalty to the Dollars, and Aoba is the last one to step out into the night air. He hopes that matters will go down smoothly in the weeks to come, hopes to become a full, active member of the Dollars, hopes to retain the respect of the Blue Squares. It's a warm summer, he thinks, idly letting his hand slip into his trouser pocket. In the next second, he hisses and retracts it.
Oh, there was that.
“Good night, Aoba-kun.“ His breath stops, as he feels someone touch his shoulder. Mikado gives him another, gentle – he shivers- smile before leaving the area.
Not the last one, then.