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“You’re…”
“Purple,” Adachi finishes, smoothing the lapels of his suit. It’s wrinkled to hell already, and the motion does nothing to improve his disheveled appearance. “I thought…” he waves his hand vaguely while still holding his pistol, in a manner that should make anyone with any firearms knowledge faint. “It looked good on you. Wanted to try it for myself, you know?”
Hazama feels ill, for all the wrong reasons. They aren’t an exact match, but the color scheme is the same. Adachi’s skin has even taken on an almost-white tone, one that makes his now-green hair stand out all the more. It’s like looking into a distorted mirror.
“Hazama-san,” Adachi begins, cocking his head. He looks up at Hazama, and oh God, Hazama had forgotten how much taller he was than him, but as Adachi looks up at him with those round yellow eyes he seems small enough to pick up and—
Hazama thinks he’s going to pass out.
“Are you alright?” Adachi’s voice nudges at the periphery of Hazama’s consciousness. “You look unwell.”
He is unwell, because the last fucking thing Hazama should be thinking about is tearing that stupid purple suit jacket off of Adachi’s narrow shoulders and shoving him up against a wall and kissing him.
“I’m fine,” Hazama manages, thankful not for the first time that he hides so much of his face. “It’s a good look. We—we match.”
“Yeah! That was the idea.” Adachi replies, far too chipper to be sincere. Hazama’s stomach drops even lower. He must know what he was doing. “‘Cause we’re so similar and all, y’know.” Adachi steps closer to Hazama, holstering his pistol.
“Ada— Tohru,” Hazama says with no small amount of effort.
“Hmm?” Adachi gives a thin smile, and one hand comes to rest on Hazama’s forearm. His first instinct is to jerk away, but Hazama finds himself relaxing into the touch. “You sure you’re alright, Hazama-san?”
“I…” Hazama can’t help but lick his lips. He’s never caught off guard like this. It’s the goddamned purple suit, it’s the way Adachi acts all innocent, it’s…
“Hazama-san,” Adachi continues, and the hand keeps trailing up Hazama’s arm and this cannot be happening. “If you’re feeling sick, we should find you somewhere to rest.”
“Yes,” Hazama answers, though it comes out somewhat strangled, as the shorter man has now yanked on his necktie and pulled him down to eye level. The empty hole in his chest throbs and twinges with pain as Adachi’s hand brushes the clothes wound. “Yeah. I’m. I’m not feeling well.”
“C’mon, then.” Adachi releases him and beckons for Hazama to tag along. “Let’s go.”
Hazama’s never followed so fast before.