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Akutagawa pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; and as he does so does Atsushi, lowering his stake, clutching it as he leans back against the back of the chair he's sprawled on. There's definitely going to be blood on the carpet, Atsushi can see the spilled droplets even in this state — but there's not too many, only on a corner, and anyway - they'll be long gone before anyone notices.
His arm, though, is another matter entirely: the two puncture marks on the back of his elbow stare right back at him, and they make him shiver when he brushes a finger against them, hiss when he presses down on them.
'This is bound to leave a mark,' he sighs — and he rubs his forehead with his free hand, probably adds a little red to it with his thumb. Oh, well.
There's creaks and bumps against the floor — Akutagawa rising from where he'd lain down, savouring the hit of blood, its taste - whatever it does to him - to sit, kneel up, hands gripping the rails upholding the arm of the chair to get a better look at his work, to stare, too, and hum in approval — doubt?
'It's not supposed to,' he mutters — doubt, then, guiding his voice, his hand as it rises and
Gets stopped by the stake, eliciting a groan from him.
'Come on. I just fed, didn't I? And you're still alive, aren't you?'
The stake stays, but elsewhere: it passes through the hole shaped by the arm of the chair, fixes itself right before Akutagawa's heart, in case it needs to pierce it. Above, Akutagawa delicately touches Atsushi's wound, and hums, again.
Unlike the myths, his nails are short, just like his own — it's only that his touch is fresh, like morning dew on grass, like winter greeting you out the door; and the tip of his fingers are tinged black, like they're rotten but not quite, like all they do is dig into dirt. The contrast is okay, under the low light of the candle, but the cold courses through Atsushi's veins, makes his spine tingle like it does when he dips a foot in the ocean to first test the water he'll bathe in. Except in this state, it's heightened — odd. He shakes Akutagawa's hand off him, groans in disapproval when that earns him a quick, judgemental glance.
'That's not supposed to happen,' Akutagawa mumbles, 'or so I've read.'
The admission that his knowledge ends at books doesn't put him to shame: instead it makes him frown, has his two eyebrows joining and becoming one with a lineage of wrinkles as he peers at the wound. He's — they're new at this, and there was never a guide to vampires' bites and whether or not they'll disappear, and if negative, is it possible for them to heal or at least scar up nicely, barely noticeably, so that people around don't ask too many questions, so that neither is found out, and potentially…
Nauseous, Atsushi smothers the thought with his sleeve, unrolling it, covering up the bite the way he might always need to from now on. Akutagawa disagrees with the gesture, says it might get infected, but it falls on deaf ears, is spoken by muted lips anyway: they both know this is something that falls outside of the human realm; that will heal and, perhaps, get infected differently than other wounds. It's felt in the way it closes up, in the strange sensation that lingers on, in Atsushi's skin. It's pretty sure when you look at the fangs that left those marks, long, and inhuman, and yet -
Sort of -
Pretty…?
Rubbing his forehead, again, Atsushi makes a move to rise from the chair. Vertigo gets to him first, though, so he simply sits straight — until Akutagawa follows, and offers him his help.
He refuses it, at first; wonders how the stake found itself pointed at the air without him noticing, but Akutagawa doesn't leave him much choice (he pulls him out the chair, into open arms) and Atsushi doesn't put up much of a fight. Akutagawa's embrace is cold, but it's secure, stronger than his own body currently is — the hand that slips on his waist as they make their way to the bed makes him shiver, but it allows him to rest more of his weight on Akutagawa, handles him smoothly. It rides down his back as Akutagawa sits him down, then upwards as he gently pushes him down on the pillows; it brushes back a few strands of hair covering his forehead, before covering him with the thin sheet at the end of the bed. It lingers on a shoulder as Akutagawa sits down, too, and Atsushi asks:
'You didn't drink more than you were supposed to, right?'
The words come out a little mumbled, a little less clear than Atsushi means them. Akutagawa must get them anyway, for he chuckles before replying that no, this was the dose they'd agreed on.
'But perhaps it's the bite making you fuzzy,' Akutagawa guesses out loud, 'Because you're so small and thin. Or,' he adds, meeting Atsushi's glare, 'There are advantages to being a night predator, and this is one of them. Did you have supper?'
He didn't, he remembers, and says, and Akutagawa sighs, mutters,
There, you have it
And regret blooms in Atsushi's stomach, moves on to fill his chest, to haunt his mind. Perhaps he'd be less woozy if he'd taken the time to settle in instead of investigating right after arriving, if he'd forced himself to eat like he'd fleetingly thought before shrugging the urge off — or perhaps not; but now that he's replaying the day in his mind, he thinks this might have played a part in his current situation.
Letting out a groan, displeased at his own stupidity, Atsushi rolls on his side — then back on his back: his arm hurts, the mattress hurts, and everything spins when he's positioned like this. Staring at the ceiling grounds him,
And so does the hand from earlier, cold on his waist, his back, now chilly on his forehead. Brushing back locks of hair, again; gently closing his eyes, which is new. Leading the way to another as it takes Atsushi's arm and inspects it, rests it on Akutagawa's thigh to examine it more closely.
There's fingers, cold, probably pitch black as if they'd come out straight of hell's hottest pit, dancing on what Atsushi knows to be the bite wound — there's a weight at his left, the mattress dipping a little more this way, not quite allowing Atsushi to warm up where his knee meets…something. There are whispers, and a sigh — something wet, cold too, briefly
Touching…?
The wound, followed by another whisper. It doesn't hurt any less, doesn't feel any better, but the cold that wraps around his wrist doesn't feel terrible — Atsushi lets it be, and sighs, sinks into the void that's been clawing at him ever since he took a seat on that chair.
'We have,' he says before touching oblivion, frowning before remembering what he has to remind Akutagawa, 'We've got to make an early start, tomorrow.'
And though his mouth is furred, his speech slurred, it seems the words exit his mouth okay, for he gets a hum of approval in reply, an okay that's not quite far, not quite close — above him, around where warmth doesn't reach him, where his arm is held and supported, and paths are drawn on a wound that's sensitive.
It's bound to leave a mark, Atsushi thinks as he exhales again, resting his free hand on his stomach out of habit, to feel the air entering and exiting his body — it's bound to linger into a scar, to haunt him during summers and baths and anytime it won't be covered. Had he known, he might not have offered to help Akutagawa, might have forced him to stick to moles and serows and the occasional wolf, but
It's a little too late to have this realisation, and there's no point in mourning the situation, there's no urge to. The void calls for him, after all, and where he'll be going, none will judge him for allowing to feed a vampire. And where he'll go once he awakens, at the crack of dawn if Akutagawa is willing to listen to him this time, that's something he can worry about then.
For now — inhaling and exhaling, still living in the world, heart still pumping blood as his body falls asleep — lulled by cold touches, and resounding silence, apart from the sound of his own breathing — he can allow the worry to disappear into cold, rotten hands, and come back tomorrow.
And who knows — maybe it'll be gone then. But somehow,
He has a feeling it won't.