Haruto is still through Nitoh's flurry of activity, eyes distant as he relives the last week. He'd saved them for three months, and that was all. Just enough time to let them rebuild their lives a little.

'Did you think you'd protected their hopes, then?'

Dragon speaking is an icy spike thrusting against his sternum, and he presses a hand to his chest, tensing his jaw to keep from speaking. He screws his eyes shut, taking a short, tense breath. His lungs feel too tight, like he's being physically crushed. Dragon has begun thrashing around in that dark secret place where he resides, his pleased teasing broken up by echoing laughter. When he looks up at Nitoh, who is too open, too worried, he has to turn physically away, unable to bear that measure of kindness. He has to be--he has to be okay.

In a fit of uncontrollable frustration, he kicks the leg of one of the chairs at the table with as much force as he can muster. It goes clattering with a loud noise even on the carpet of the library's floor, falling backwards. He stands over it, silent, and works the fingers of his right hand into his hair, pulling. He's got to get himself under control.