❝ ever so stubborn, aren’t you? ❞
@millionsnife // 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 ( accepting )
his breathing had finally started to slow to something other than frantic gulps, something other than painful attempts to swallow down as much air as possible into stiff lungs. but each inhale, however much slower, steadier than the last, still shakes as it enters then goes.
stiff and cold, so cold—like fingers left to sit too long in a bucket of ice after a bare knuckle punch against some ugly mug—except all over, everywhere, all at once, even in thought. so the presence of another at first goes unnoticed, as wild eyes, pupils blown, fixate on the parched earth below, where the dead man rests on hands and knees, head hung. he looks like the dead, with clods of dirt stuck and entangled in a nest of raven locks, and staining anywhere on his person that is not already set with the acrid stench of oxidized, rotting blood that never had the chance to dry. ( he also smells like the dead. ) yet, one hand, indiscernible from the soil and ichor that adheres to it, clutches at equally mangled and soiled fabric just above the left side of his chest, because he had to be sure.
a heart beat — slow but steady and gradually growing stronger. it chugs on, forcing blood into veins to return warmth to its vessel.
with those that still prop him up, Wolfwood's fingers curl against the ground like an unoiled machine, choppy and dragging. too slow, he's moving too fucking slow. this becomes ever more apparent by the second, then alarming when his head does not immediately snap up upon finally registering a familiar voice. instead the motion is sluggish, not truly in his control, much like a bad dream where hurried strides feel like running through water. but eventually, though delayed in reaction, an animalistic gaze looks up to land on the one who stands there — waiting.
under any other circumstance, whether casually with a drink in hand or while spitting up blood with three rounds in his chest, Wolfwood would have readily thrown something sarcastic and spiteful right back. but nothing comes to the man now ( if he could even be called that anymore ), as arteries pump a fog-riddled mind with nothing more than one chemical instinct: survive.
❝ what're you … what d'ya … ❞ fuck. the musculature to form words fails him, and speech passes over numb lips and tongue in a slur. why was he so goddamn cold? a crinkle forms on the gunman's brow, the subtlest sign of something more than just a thing still inhabiting his mind. distress.
