The sink runs pink, water hissing and swirling down the drain, carrying flecks of red. Yuuki’s shoulders are hunched, his hands moving in restless repetition- scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing again- until the skin along his knuckles splits and blooms raw.

He doesn’t hear you when you enter the bathroom, the rush of the tap and the thundering pulse in his ears drowns you out. He breathes in through his teeth, sharp and unsteady.

When your hand settles on his shoulder, he jolts. A violent, instinctive flinch- but he doesn’t pull away. For a heartbeat, his reflection meets yours in the mirror, eyes wide and rimmed with crimson, pupils flaring before he wrestles them back to blue. His jaw locks, a tremor passing through him.

“I didn’t bite them,” he whispers, voice cracking under the weight of that fact. The confession more of a reassurance to himself than to you. “I didn’t.” His hands still beneath the running water, but he doesn’t lift them.