Abraxas, resting beside the bed, heard the weak voice. With his eyes closed, he reached out and felt around, rubbing the soft strands of hair once he found them. "This isn't a dream..." Propping up his head lazily, Abraxas half-opened his eyes and flicked Tom's dazed forehead with a bent finger. "You actually got sick. What on earth were you in such a hurry for...?"
Tom's muddled mind gradually calmed. He looked away and instinctively tucked his left hand beneath the covers. He did not want to see this person right now; it would only make him hate himself more. Like the vicious bluish-purple handprint on his wrist, it reminded him at every moment just how... despicable he was.
"Abou... sorry for making you worry. I'm fine now." Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Tom did his best to wear his usual gentle smile, forcing himself to imagine the person before him as a stranger.
Tilting his head expressionlessly, Abraxas kept adjusting his emotions. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out the hand Tom had hidden away. The bluish-purple marks were painfully glaring. Lowering his gaze, he recalled the scene when he had entered earlier.
After knocking for ages without receiving a response, Abraxas frowned and opened the door. When he saw the figure curled up on the floor, whimpering in pain, he rushed over in panic and picked him up. Only after casting several diagnostic spells did he finally breathe a sigh of relief—until he saw those terrifying marks.
Abraxas did not believe anyone could hurt Tom. There was only one possibility: Tom had done it himself. How could he describe how he felt? Disbelief, heartache, self-blame, anger—the unconscious person was tormenting him to the brink of losing his mind.
"What am I supposed to do...?"
For