oh my god! it falls before he can really think, before he can properly react to the sight of him. sickly, boils over his skin and dark black veins carving their way over his face, bloodshot eyes looking at him in a silent plea, half dead. allen cross has seen a lot of things in his lifetime, watched the effects of war change people, watched them change under exposure to certain war agents or radiation, knew what it looked like to see someone on the verge of death. he remembered what leon looked like before he became what and who he is now, the sickly boy that sometimes looked at him the same way he looks at him now as he reaches out to him, a hand over his shoulder and gripping weakly. whatever this is that's effecting him, it's killing him. fast.
he can't breathe. and just as allen is about to try and help him, pull him inside his apartment and find a way, whatever way, to do what he can ... leon crumples forward, his body no longer willing to keep him upright, and not even sheer strength could keep him from falling forward into him. allen did his best to adjust, arms out and taking fistfuls of what he can of his armored suit he's still in, gathering him in but his own strength isn't enough to keep them both from falling to the floor. not anymore.
β not like this... hey! β soft but stern, trying to get him to rise or stir or do anything. please, not like this. he deserves better than this. this can't be the last time, he can't fucking die here and not like this. not when he fought for so much. a groan when he tries to move himself, barely wiggling them both enough to move out of the door so he can slam it shut with a bare foot. okay allen, you have to be smart about this.
carefully, he moves them both so that he can adjust and lift himself to his knees. he has no idea of this is going to work but he also knows that he has to try. with as much force as he can muster, he moves to let leon drape across his back, holding one arm around his neck to keep him stable as he walks -- well, half drags them both to the bedroom.
β leon? hey, you gotta tell me you can hear me. tell me you're still alive. β he hates that he has to drop him on the bed, that it kind of pops as he does and allen doesn't waste a second before he puts his ear to his chest. fucking goddamn breastplate! calloused hands navigate the armored piece before he finds the pieces that hold it together, unclasping them and barely managing to lift it free of his chest. then again, in a fraction of another second, ear to his chest. β breathe, baby. please breathe. β