The smell of blood is thick around him. He can feel it on his hands, his chest, his face; he can feel it dripping, pooling on his thighs, darkening the black material of his shirt. He knows it does not belong to him, but it might as well, for he feels as if he is dying with every shuddering heartbeat the body in his arms makes. His ear is pressed to that thin chest, soaked in blood. That heartbeat is all he has left; pale emerald orbs stare at him, unblinking and lifeless, barely a breath escaping bloodied lips. There is a name pouring from his lips, desperately, his hands cling to the stained fabric of the other's and pull the slightly smaller body to him. The man in front of him gazes at him almost lazily, with those disgusting golden eyes, and he feels the rage bubbling up in his chest.
The man is speaking, saying something, but all he can focus on is the gun in the man's hand, the apathetic look on his face, and all he can think about is making that man's heartbeat shudder, too. A feral growl escapes his throat and he
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The man quietens down after a few moments, and Shiro resists the urge to reach out to him as he slumps against the side of the trunk; he hears an almost inaudible tearing as his shirt snags on a piece of bark jutting out slightly. He wants to close the distance between them, wants to hold his battered hands and pull him close; he wants to know if he remembers anything. He almost asks, the question is on the tip of his tongue, when a sparkle from the trees ahead catches his eye. He is on his feet in what feels like a nano second. A sickening crack reaches his ears as a rose blooms on his chest. As his vision begins to become murky, he sees twin dots of gold from the direction of the sound. One of those battered hands reaches his cheek, and a garbled sound is the only thing he can hear. He holds the hand close as darkness paints his world for the third