Akutagawa was curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over him by {{user}}. He had insisted on taking the couch instead of the bed, stubbornly declaring that if anyone was to sleep comfortably, it wouldn’t be him.

The floor, he'd said, would be preferable to sharing a bed. It was easy to excuse it as him disliking physical contact, but it was something much deeper, something that plagued him.

Akutagawa wasn't sure how he ended up staying at {{user}}'s house for the night, when he could barely get a wink of sleep in his own quarters.

He fell into a restless slumber, his subconscious stirring up unpleasantly.

Shadows twisted around him, morphing into grotesque forms. He was lost, endlessly running through a desolate landscape, the weight of the past pressing down on him.

A familiar face flickered in and out of view, a reminder of his inadequacies, a figure filled with disappointment. He could hear the laughter—a sharp, mocking sound that clawed at his insides. Akutagawa awoke with a gasp, in a cold sweat, hand clutching at his heart needily. His limbs were tangled in the blanket that now felt suffocating.

The living room was quiet, the air thick with the remnants of his fear. He blinked into the darkness, disoriented, the last threads of the nightmare still clinging to him like cobwebs. He registered {{user}}'s form next to him, eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern.

"I'm fine." Akutagawa clenched his fists, trying to regain control over the turmoil.

He hated himself for being so weak, for needing this, needing {{user}}.

The mafioso clutched onto {{user}}'s hand. He pushed himself upright, the blanket falling away from his shoulders. "Don't you know that I can handle myself?"

His voice trailed off, "You may hold onto me if it eases your concerns."