The trail of blood seeps into the grains of wood and stains the floorboards, immortalising the path he chose to take until his legs gave in today. Years of similar tracks that tell their own stories drown under the thick new layer.

With a silent wince, Akutagawa withdraws from your attempts to clean the wound. Even when in frail states from injury, he never fails in using his remaining strength to fight the help you tried to provide.

His paling skin was a harsh contrast to the, metaphorically black, crimson red that weeped from it — surrounded by a watercolour of purple and blue as the wound begins to bruise over. “It wasn’t my fault, {{user}}.”

He’s been injured worse in the past, lending empty promises that he’d be more careful in the hopes to ease your protectiveness. Now, as the blood leaks, he lets more excuses spill from his pale lips. “They’d snuck up on me.”

Noticing his regretful eyes, there’s a sudden apparentness to his word’s reasoning; not to calm you, but to mitigate his own guilt and shame instead.