Sees the way Corvus swallows over and over again, his body trembling despite his best attempts to mask it. The way his eyes stay fixed on the blood staining the sheets, like it's some kind of trigger, something prying apart whatever fragile hold he has left on himself.
Then, like lightning, Corvus bolts.
Akira’s mind stutters, lagging behind his body as he lifts his head, blinking hard through the dull ache forming behind his skull. He barely processes what’s happening before Corvus is half-tripping over himself in his rush to the trash can—
And then he hears it.
The wet, gut-wrenching retch.
Akira is up in an instant. Vaulting off the bed, leaving exhaustion behind like it never existed, and closing the distance in just a few steps.
By the time he reaches Corvus, he hesitates.
Because—what is he even supposed to do?
They’ve known each other for, what, a handful of hours? This is only the second time they’ve ever spoken. And sure, Akira had been the one to pull him out of that hell, but that doesn’t mean Corvus is comfortable with him—doesn’t mean he wants him here, seeing him like this, shattered and shaking and completely vulnerable.
Akira should give him space.
Should turn around, let him get through it alone, pretend he didn’t just hear the sound of someone trying and failing to keep themselves together.
But then another wave hits.
And Corvus chokes on a sob, his entire body heaving forward, gripping the sides of the trash can like a lifeline.
And—yeah. No. Fuck that.
Akira kneels beside him immediately.
He keeps a careful distance at first, watching the way Corvus trembles like a wire pulled too tight, his face ghost-pale and covered in cold sweat. Akira’s been in that position before. He knows the raw, miserable burn in his throat, the way the nausea comes in cruel, endless waves of sometimes all too pure agony when he sees another life he can't save. Another life that he can only witness as the audience to a movie, except there's no one in the cinema hall and the cinema hall is crafted to the size of his damn body and he's trapped in that body until he claps. Claps away that noise. The dulling sensation of being thrown into a movie with a script in your head but the control in his brain—knows that if Corvus is still shaking this much, he’s not done yet.
Akira doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to the mess, doesn’t let any trace of disgust cross his face. (Not that he would, anyway—this is nothing compared to the things he’s seen, the things he’s felt when diving into people’s memories or pasts.)
Instead, he shifts a little closer, his voice soft, sincere in a way he rarely lets show.
“Hey, hey—just breathe,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, steady circles into Corvus’s back. “It’s okay. Nothing to apologize for.”
His hand is warm. Grounding.
He lets a beat pass before continuing, voice still quiet, careful. “You think you’re done, or is it still coming up?” He’s already scanning the room, already trying to piece together what Corvus might need. “Do you need water? Something to rinse your mouth out?”
Re: CW: vomit
He just watches.
Sees the way Corvus swallows over and over again, his body trembling despite his best attempts to mask it. The way his eyes stay fixed on the blood staining the sheets, like it's some kind of trigger, something prying apart whatever fragile hold he has left on himself.
Then, like lightning, Corvus bolts.
Akira’s mind stutters, lagging behind his body as he lifts his head, blinking hard through the dull ache forming behind his skull. He barely processes what’s happening before Corvus is half-tripping over himself in his rush to the trash can—
And then he hears it.
The wet, gut-wrenching retch.
Akira is up in an instant. Vaulting off the bed, leaving exhaustion behind like it never existed, and closing the distance in just a few steps.
By the time he reaches Corvus, he hesitates.
Because—what is he even supposed to do?
They’ve known each other for, what, a handful of hours? This is only the second time they’ve ever spoken. And sure, Akira had been the one to pull him out of that hell, but that doesn’t mean Corvus is comfortable with him—doesn’t mean he wants him here, seeing him like this, shattered and shaking and completely vulnerable.
Akira should give him space.
Should turn around, let him get through it alone, pretend he didn’t just hear the sound of someone trying and failing to keep themselves together.
But then another wave hits.
And Corvus chokes on a sob, his entire body heaving forward, gripping the sides of the trash can like a lifeline.
And—yeah. No. Fuck that.
Akira kneels beside him immediately.
He keeps a careful distance at first, watching the way Corvus trembles like a wire pulled too tight, his face ghost-pale and covered in cold sweat. Akira’s been in that position before. He knows the raw, miserable burn in his throat, the way the nausea comes in cruel, endless waves of sometimes all too pure agony when he sees another life he can't save. Another life that he can only witness as the audience to a movie, except there's no one in the cinema hall and the cinema hall is crafted to the size of his damn body and he's trapped in that body until he claps. Claps away that noise. The dulling sensation of being thrown into a movie with a script in your head but the control in his brain—knows that if Corvus is still shaking this much, he’s not done yet.
Akira doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to the mess, doesn’t let any trace of disgust cross his face. (Not that he would, anyway—this is nothing compared to the things he’s seen, the things he’s felt when diving into people’s memories or pasts.)
Instead, he shifts a little closer, his voice soft, sincere in a way he rarely lets show.
“Hey, hey—just breathe,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, steady circles into Corvus’s back. “It’s okay. Nothing to apologize for.”
His hand is warm. Grounding.
He lets a beat pass before continuing, voice still quiet, careful. “You think you’re done, or is it still coming up?” He’s already scanning the room, already trying to piece together what Corvus might need. “Do you need water? Something to rinse your mouth out?”