Another hour in Tartarus. Another block cleared. Another swarm of shadows exterminated.
The team takes their march of victory home, with Minako and Akihiko bringing up the rear of the procession. In this simulated isolation he finds liberty to clasp at a wrist, move up close, and sneak a kiss to leader's cheek as if to say good job.
Also away from eyes - she finds the security to keep him captive, and admit with soft breath, "…I need your help."
Which would explain why she had winced in reaction, and started squeezing his hand, once offered, as if it were the only thing still keeping her standing. Without a word to the rest, but heart pounding with worry in the silence, he holds tight til they enter his room. Her shoulders shrug off their soldier stance, and shallow gasps reveal weakness as she sits on the edge of his bed and loosens all restrictive accessories. When she lifts a workout rag from the back of a nearby chair - to keep fingers from touching the bottom few buttons of her blouse as she undoes them - is when he realizes that it's not just sweat which soaks it.
A poison lash had done insignificant damage at the start, but residue left behind in synthetic material idled to fester against organic surface. Though a boxer's bedroom holds the appropriate first aid to counteract chemicals - all the towels, water bottles, balm, and bandages in the world could not prepare Akihiko for watching a precious one peel clothing from a belly of burnt flesh.
Both sets of brows furrow at angry red welts. Her stomach squirms at the sight (the tightness only pulls from underneath, which makes everything worse), and his legs go numb under him; appreciation of her musculature had never been intention to see it so directly through thinned membranes. Girlish squeaks emit as fresh air across a fresh wound begins to prickle, and it renders him near panicked in all the comparisons his mind had begun spinning, but he refuses to be powerless in the face of this. He makes sure to gather aforementioned supplies before collapsing to his knees between hers.
Minako leans back onto her palms and into terry held behind her (though she feels it shaking), and the first rinse of sweet, tepid water cascades relief around her midriff. Then, twice and again, with clean cloths, until gray eyes take in breathing less belabored. One more soft swab dabs away any last foreign remnants, and only then does Akihiko release the tension in his own lungs. Tender lips barely brush over a tender area, to prove an "all better" confidence of cleanliness.
Gratitude giggles out for his act, even though it must pulse sharp against insides. A soft, strained smile drifts down, face and posture so exposed, reliance burning in ruby red as he looks up. She lets herself be vulnerable in his presence now, trusts him to handle an intimate situation to her satisfaction. She shivers (whether chills are reaction to his closeness or a body trying to release sickness is unknown), and it shakes them both.
"I'm glad you came to me," he should be reassured, but all he can think is how obvious she still hurts and how devastating it would be if she hadn't told him, if she'd tried to - if it got - if -if..
He needs to take care of her.
So he doesn't stop there.
A safely-covered hand works at removing the rest of a contaminated garment (to be pushed off arms and tossed far away from her), and his mouth trails it in desperate ascent. The other hand, back at her back, pulls higher and unharmed surface into a gentle arch against opportunistic onslaught. Minako can still read him, and as pleasure and agony compete for receptors within, she borrows some of the strength offered to shift weight and reach an encouraging stroke through his hair, "I'm still here."
Unfazed, he continues actions as response, preferring more tangible reminders. Every touch of tongue to engrave the flavor of the living; every wet press against a sternum, every wrap of lips around ribs, every suckle at the swell of breast above above a bra - this promise to remain and to need her too is all Akihiko can give.
Kneeling on the mattress now, he pauses only long enough to remove gloves and bring healing cream closer. She tries to compose herself in the reprieve, but hitches when a husky whisper glides over her neck, "…This part's going to hurt."
(His knuckles know it too well.)
Akihiko's movements are practiced, and swift as possible, but the sensations are intense. Bedsheets would beg for mercy in Minako's grip!
His hands smooth over her ravaged tummy like a thousand hornets, stinging and flaring anew as he rubs on antiseptic, and the only race for alternate experience this time is how he bites deep into her shoulder in effort to at least even out where blood rushes to nerves. The ragged moan which follows might sound downright lewd were she not to keep oscillating into something like a wail of being stabbed in the gut. Especially when the gauze comes next, and his clamping and inhaling doesn't let up until the aching pressure of winding and tying it around her is complete.
She whimpers while he withdraws (feeling the blooming of a bruise now, too), and he hates having to do that to her. But it's all over now.
"Hey - hey," he coddles.
Though she must blame somebody for the necessary evil she just went through, and glares at him with all the (rightful) petulance of a pouty child after their first scraped knee - his hands find their way to cheeks, puffy and red for too many different reasons, and lips finally reach lips for one last, real, lingering kiss.
With a stupid grin and touching foreheads, Akihiko happily accepts the now softer scorn still sent through locked eyes. Admiration, care, the thrill of having Minako near shines bright in a glazed gaze, because even with all this fuss,
"…you're still here."