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[ Yusuke's health seems to deteriorate the longer they walk for, and Akira privately huffs in tenuous relief when they arrive at their destination without incident. He can't be sure it won't continue to worsen (it's far too early to be thanking him), though he masks his apprehension with an easy smile—more for himself than for his debilitated companion. ]

Sometimes.

[ His tone is soft, but the teasing implication is there—that he's up to no good on his hours off-duty. He leaves Yusuke for a moment to gather supplies, washing his hands thoroughly before preparing the medicinal paste in one of the various pestles and mortars stocked in the cabinets. (It isn't something he does regularly, but like anything else he picks up he's made sure to practice to reasonable proficiency.) ]

...Close your eyes.

[ The salve should cool the damaged area, absorb any residual toxins and ward infection until he can get him to a proper healer... But it won't be entirely pleasant while he's applying it. He carefully pushes aside Yusuke's hair from his face and dabs only a small patch onto his brow at first, testing its effectiveness before continuing. ]

[ On a good day, he'd compliment his ability as the grind of stone on stone continues—of course he knows how to make his own medicine by now. But waiting only lets his weariness sink in. If not for his burns, he'd be fast asleep sitting up.

He stops attempting to squint through his lashes and closes his eyes, letting himself relax as much as he's able—which doesn't last long before he tenses slightly, brow wrinkling at the sudden, mintlike coolness. He manages to sit still anyway as Akira starts to dab more of the salve about, though his expression stays a bit sour. It's clammy and smells more like medicine than herb, stinging where it meets any open cracks along his skin.

His composure eventually wavers, and he blindly jerks away when he gets some of the poultice onto a particularly nasty burn splotch. ...Only to knock his head back into the wall with a hiss. ]

—Does this need to go on much longer?

[ He stops as Yusuke flinches, waiting for a silent moment before resuming his work. This time he's mindful to hold his patient still, other hand propped along his jawline to prevent him adding any more bruises to his list of injuries. ]

Sorry. Almost finished.

[ Only a few more passes before Akira's covered what he needs to. Setting aside the mixture, he cleans his hands once more before retrieving a roll of gauze, carefully tilting Yusuke's head forward so he can properly wrap around it.

—He pauses halfway through, when he notices the bold stains dotted across his collar. (He'd seen them earlier in the hallway, but hadn't been prepared to ask then.) ]

...Whose blood?

[ The gauze plasters on easily; Yusuke sets his jaw tight to bite back any complaints as Akira carefully applies the rest of the medicine. It doesn't take long, and he bows his head to let him start winding bandages over his hair, speaking softly in the meantime. ]

It's probably from Mr. Tozier.

[ Clair, at least, had been in better shape. Perhaps her training had made her more solidly built, small but filled with a knightly vigor. On the other hand, Richie probably smoked his weight and his good constitution away years ago. Even his own breaths come out short, lungs choked by smog, which only makes it harder to hold his composure, his head tilted into a dizzy tailspin as soon as he answers. (But maybe it's not just the haze that's done him in—he covers the cuff of his sleeve, seeking a hard dot of blood with his thumb, seeing a nail split on repeat and feeling nauseous for it.)

Regardless, he waits until he's sure he's found his mental footing again before continuing. He sounds melancholic at best, though that's still better than he feels. ]

I didn't make it in time to save him.

[ ...Richie.

His breath catches sharply, though he still has enough presence of mind to hold Yusuke steady when he lurches. His hands anchor carefully but firmly on either side of his head, gauze collected under one of his palms. (His own skull is reeling, trying too hard to make sense of such simple words.)

...There's no way to misconstrue their meaning. His fingers twitch against the dressings, betraying his understanding and shock.

He says nothing for what feels like a very long time, memory hollowly rolling through earlier events. (The apartment, the scattered records, the upturned furniture...)

Finally, ] ...I see.

[ He resumes, setting the last of the wrappings in place, swallowing back whatever despair threatens to rise in the pit of his stomach. He still needs to get Yusuke proper medical attention, to a place he can rest—home. ]

Can you walk a bit more?

[ Just enough to get to the entrance. Akira can flag down a carriage from there. ]

[ There's not much more to say than that. A brief acknowledgment, and some time spent in equally brief, miserable recovery. Even if he can't see Akira's surprise, vision completely blocked off by the gauze, his silence often speaks for him. It makes sense that he'd be affected, anyway. They'd both seen Richie just the week before, probably filled his inbox with a few meaningless messages to kill time—or maybe it was more than that? New context frames old memories, shifting them so very slightly. Maybe Richie hadn't just been asking about white-on-white paintings just for the sake of it, and maybe he didn't just let them listen to his records to share a passion for old psychedelic rock, or crash on their couch for the occasional, free dinner and targets to jabber at.

Was he checking in on them? ...What good would it do to realize that posthumously—why is he thinking about it? He lets out a huff, instinctively trying to blink and getting nowhere. ]

Yes.

[ He reaches out in full, blind confidence, patting up Akira's arms until he finds his sleeves, bunching up fabric for support as he tries to stand. But he doesn't even make it onto his feet. He folds over in the middle, head hanging as his back heaves. The smog lends a new, helping hand, adding an unsettling rattle to each inhale, but it's nostalgic otherwise: a twisting sensation in his gut, the same one that'd toppled him once before in a disgusting, golden chamber with high, high ceilings. He can only ride his disbelief and bottle everything else for so long, and it's time it bottoms out. He swallows thickly around a rising lump in his throat, head swimming blindly, and he rests the crest of his head against Akira's collar without thinking.

He'd practically died in his arms. ]

I just... need a moment.

[ He's too close not to catch Yusuke when he nearly collapses, and yet it doesn't really feel like ether of them are entirely there. (A bad dream. A dislocated memory.) The pull of fabric against his arms, the strange burden of his friend's skull against his collar, they're all distant impressions as Akira is momentary lost in his own thoughts—conceited thoughts, and futile.

If he had arrived earlier. If he had been there. In the aftermath, none of this is nearly enough; Richie's corpse is abandoned to the Institute staff, and whatever monster had taken him is already eating away at Yusuke as well. There isn't anything more Akira can do but to keep them both steady.

...Yusuke has always been too prideful for pity. In Madarame's palace, he had insisted on standing on his own two feet, and even now he hasn't changed in that regard. But it's as if his stare could haunt Akira, even downturned and under the bandages. (He had sought so earnestly to observe the human soul... and what ugliness has he seen, today?)

(Does Akira really want to know how Richie died?)

His mouth pulls into a rigid line, Joker's mask settling over his own eyes.

The facade of a fearless leader, the immovable pillar of the Phantom Thieves. ]

You need more than that.

[ He needs more help than Akira can give. Arsene's whispers roil somewhere in his hindmind, the persona's borrowed strength more than enough to get Yusuke where he ought to be.

(If he can't walk, he'll carry him.) ]

[ He almost calls his mask into place on reflex. Strangely, he can feel a distant twinge of Arsene's power for himself, their ceremonial connection setting off a chain reaction he still doesn't entirely get. But between that and Joker's sudden, commanding presence, Fox stops bristling and lets himself drift. He's too tired not to.

...He doesn't remember much of the trip back either, probably having passed out on Akira before they made their exit, but the next several days are peaceable. Or they are to him, anyway; the fog won't do any permanent damage, but it's enough to leave him winded if he strains himself any, and that means a whole lot of sitting at home. He works with Red on a new, improved pedestal for Sandra, takes to his paints as usual, and pays the Station a visit as soon as he's able. There's home visits and the occasional text, as well as a few extra Dias sprinkled along the way, and all-in-all, recovery is a slow but certain journey. He bounces back quickly enough from these things (or forces his way through them, which is practically the same thing), and once he's fully healed he has no intention of rotting away in his room. Sandra and Clair were recovered, Richie and Percival are returned. Normalcy comes with them. After a night spent in space, he goes back home and the dust settles.

That is, until he suddenly jerks awake in his sleep, snapped up to sitting with a headache thundering through his skull. Already the dream's starting to elude him as it's chased out by a racing heart, but it leaves him pallid, hand slowly releasing a white-knuckled grip on his comforter to comb through his hair and pull at the roots.

But he stops short on that too. It takes him a second to make out the blurry shape by his bedside, almost pushing it off. ]

...Akira.

[ Your bed's over there, guy. Still, he might be surprised, but he's not offended; they'd been roommates before, and it hasn't been long since the move. He's used to waking up to Akira there by now... if maybe a little further away. ]

[ The city settles back into its usual pace, and the rest of them their daily routine. When Akira isn't working, he trains, and when he isn't training, he cooks for the house. Even the Institute soon resumes its typical bustle, everyone keeping busy and too obsessed with their own projects and deadlines to expend any more energy on old news. The gossip only circulates for so long before it's neglected altogether.

Yusuke's injuries fade, too, however something else seems to linger. It emerges in his artwork—though he may not realize it himself—and in more than one night of restless dreams. (Akira can sense it, something vague but irremovable clotting his chest. He wonders if it's because of the pact as well.)

...He's resolved to intervene, though his best laid plans are easily thwarted by fatigue. He falls asleep at his post, arms folded over the mattress and glasses forgotten to the side, only slowly blinking back into consciousness when he hears his name. ]

...

[ He rolls his head the other way so he can catch a drowsy glimpse of his friend. He doesn't look or sound sorry at all for the intrusion, though he doesn't look very awake, either. ]

Yusuke.

[ If anything's trespassing on his rest, it's the nightmare, not Akira. Yusuke curls up his legs, resting his chin on his knee to gaze down at him, heart still beating unpleasantly quick in his chest.

At least it means he doesn't have to rub away any sleepy-eyed bleariness, startled to full wakefulness in an instant. Since it seems that Akira might still be too sluggish to explain himself without a little prompting— ]

Did you get lost? [ It's asked with an uncommon wryness, for him. ] You have your own room now.

[ That can't be comfortable... ]

[ With no great hurry, he readjusts his glasses on his face and pushes his hair around, though the overall effect stays about the same. (His flyaways are even worse than usual, half his locks in blatant revolt.)

His response is unhelpful at best. ]

I know.

[ He gingerly shifts his weight and crosses his legs under him (one of them unpleasantly full of pins and needles), both arms still propped on the bed as he peers up at his friend. ]

...Bad dream?

[ It's not really a question so much as an observation—he's paler than his sheets, far too alert for such an ungodly hour of the night (...morning?).

Akira doesn't pry any further, though. It's up to Yusuke if he wants to continue the subject. ]

[ The perpetual bedhead is worse after bed, go figure. He's almost tempted to smooth out some of the cowlicks himself, but gazes up towards the ceiling instead, recollecting. ]

Yes. Something like that.

[ The details are too foggy to share, anyway. Just bits of a surreal, strange retelling of all the events so far, twisted from reality as dreams are wont to do—he remembers briefly having some faceless figure melt through his grip as he tries to pick them up, their bodies eaten by smog as what's left of it slips through his fingers and disappears completely.

...He remembers Richie startling awake on their couch for much the same reason once, and wonders if this might follow him into adulthood too. But for now, it's already a distant dream; he's starting to settle. Enough that he can reach out and straighten his glasses for him. There's really no saving his hair, alas. ]

What are you doing here?

[ He blinks again, eyes remaining shut for a brief moment and expression involuntarily pinched as the plastic frames are gently realigned against the bridge of his nose and over the tops of his ears. (The sensation is... odd, almost ticklish.)

Of course he immediately fusses at his spectacles again when Yusuke finishes, for no real reason. ]

Thought I'd wake you up.

[ (He's been tossing and turning a lot in his sleep, lately, though Akira doesn't say it outright. Yusuke should already know.)

He huffs quietly and shakes his head. ]

...Didn't happen though.

[ He ruins his hard work as soon as he's done. Unreasonable. Akira isn't the only one who can be difficult, and this time, he flicks his glasses down to the tip of his nose to give him a Look. ]

Perhaps because you need your rest too.

[ Really, he'd be okay. It's true he hasn't slept well lately, but he doubts anyone had gotten much restful shuteye while all those people were still missing. Yusuke doesn't sound especially stern though; it's nice not to startle awake to nothing, or be left alone with his own thoughts. ]

But I appreciate the sentiment, despite your failures.

[ Now he's just being TOYED with. He shakes his head, displacing his glasses from his face and back onto the bed where they'd started. What now. ]

Maybe.

[ ...He'll take Yusuke's gratitude as a small victory, he supposes. Though it doesn't send him off to his own room any quicker. ]

...After you.

[ (He'll go back after Yusuke nods off again.) Until then he remains stubbornly affixed to the side of the bed. ]

[ This actual child.....

Yusuke lets out a soft huff, either laughter or exasperation, flopping onto his back again. Maybe he won't spend a few hours staring at the ceiling this time—even if they don't talk things out explicitly, he feels more at ease. ]

If you insist.

[ Mona's rubbed off on him. ]

Good night, Akira.

[ They've never really been the overly-talkative sort, plenty kept to themselves in any conversation, but they usually manage to find the same wavelength anyhow. Akira's weird enough to stare until he falls asleep, and Yusuke's equally strange enough not to care—or notice in the first place.

...He's reluctant to leave him (leave things the way they are). The reason is hard to pinpoint, easy to find excuses for—or maybe the other way around.

He sighs softly to no one at all, reaching over unthinkingly and tucking aside a wayward strand of hair from Yusuke's face, before he carefully uncrumples himself from the floor. ]

...Goodnight, Yusuke.

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