[ Akira isn't sure what he's meant to do either, until Komaeda says "turn him into one of them" and it snaps into place, like a rubber band against one's wrist. It's his wrist that he uncovers, pulling back his sleeve once he's close enough, tunnel visioning just like Amami does so that he doesn't even think before he pulls his keys out of his pocket, flicking off the cap of a little keychain shaped like one of those mini grasses repair kit screwdrivers except instead of a screwdriver, there's a blade inside that Akira drags across the inside of his left wrist. ]
-—not dead yet! Don't you give up on him too early...!
[ What he did— does— with all the others, he could only do once they're dead, and Rokkun is still hanging on, with each heave of his chest and gurgle in his throat, the attempt to remain standing on his own feet even when his body won't obey.
The blood drips down Akira's wrist, thin threads trailing down his palm and the lengths of his fingers as he lifts his hand for Rokkun's face— it becomes real thread, solid, weaving in and out of the torn skin and cartilage of Rokkun's throat and closing it up, scabbing over in a matter of seconds.
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-—not dead yet! Don't you give up on him too early...!
[ What he did— does— with all the others, he could only do once they're dead, and Rokkun is still hanging on, with each heave of his chest and gurgle in his throat, the attempt to remain standing on his own feet even when his body won't obey.
The blood drips down Akira's wrist, thin threads trailing down his palm and the lengths of his fingers as he lifts his hand for Rokkun's face— it becomes real thread, solid, weaving in and out of the torn skin and cartilage of Rokkun's throat and closing it up, scabbing over in a matter of seconds.
Akira Fujioka is good at sewing. In a sense. ]