red

RAMBLE:

Seto’s body trembles with effort. His innards convulse, as if they’re trying to crawl up his throat and splatter on the ground before him: liver followed by lungs followed by who knows what. But despite the tension clear as day within him, his limbs are limp, barely holding him up enough to avoid collapsing face-first in the puddle of sick before him.

He thinks this might be what it feels like to die.

“Hey. Rich boy.” Warm, solid hands settle on Seto’s shoulders. Though he’s completely encased in the fabric of his turtleneck, without the further barrier of his shed jacket, the hands might as well be up against his bare skin for how intimate the touch feels. It burns him. He wants to shrug the interloper away, but his strength fails him. In fact, if it weren’t for the steadying grasp entrapping him, he thinks he might have collapsed by now.

“Kaiba, hey,” the voice comes again, more urgently. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”

None of your business, deadbeat. Get lost. Leave me alone.

A groan escapes his lips, followed by a weak gag and a splash of vomit that drips down his lip to join the existing puddle.

“Shit.” Wheeler curses under his breath before, to Seto’s complete shock, he brings a hand up and places a finger beneath Seto’s chin, heedless of the vomit that soils it. “Look at me a sec.” He tilts Seto’s face up. Seto has no choice but to obey.

Wheeler’s eyes are searching, his brow creased - and whatever he sees in Seto’s face only makes it furrow further. 

“Where’s your phone?”

Seto’s phone is sitting in the pocket of his discarded jacket, utterly useless. Too far away to make a call, too far for Isono or Mokuba to use it to pinpoint his location. With tremendous effort, he shakes his head.

“Okay,” Wheeler mutters. He extracts his own phone from his pocket, laying it on the ground before Seto with the keypad up. “Can you put a number in for me? Isono or someone?”

Seto’s not sure he likes the fact that Wheeler knows exactly who Seto would turn to first, but right now that’s about seventh on his list of priorities at the absolute highest. With a trembling hand (hell, his entire arm is trembling), he keys in the number. Though he has Roland on speed-dial on his own phone, he knows the number by heart; even still, the agonizing seconds it takes him to input the number must tick up to a minute. Each mistake of his fumbling fingers necessitates further effort to delete, effort that is rapidly growing too much for his body.