"Isaiah, please," Andrew said, and he felt that silence press into him, egged on by the delirious light in his friend's eyes, and the way his lips curled away to reveal his teeth in a skeleton grin. "Stop. Don't make me do this."
The statement triggered a fit of laughter in the other man, one that shook his shoulders and doubled him over for a second. He paid no attention to his broken wrist, and did not coddle it.
"'Don't make me do this'? What, you gonna kill me, Andrew?"
It's less of a challenge and more a genuine question, Isaiah's eyes bright and focused on Andrew.
Andrew shook his head, taking a step away from the man he still considered to be his leader.
"I'm not going to kill you, Isaiah," he muttered, feeling his gorge rise momentarily when he saw the bright red flicker of ADAM skate across Isaiah's eyes.
The man in front of him frowned, looked almost disappointed, before perking back up, grinning so wide Andrew thought his lips would split.
"You should, Andrew. You really, really ought to."
And with that, the man launched himself at his friend, one fist smashing Andrew's nose to the left, and the bright burst of pain behind his eyes was the last thing he felt.
When he came to, the first thing he was aware of was the blistering pain sparking outwards from the wound in his chest. He could smell burnt fabric, and his shirt was stuck to his body from the combination of sweat and blood that had dyed it a dull maroon. Andrew didn't have the courage to pick himself up off the floor, to inspect his injuries.
He turned his head to the side instead, one eye tearing up at the pain that caused him, the other too swollen to do anything but pulse weakly.
Isaiah was laying beside him, one hand resting under his cheek as if he had laid down with the express purpose of taking a nice nap. His lips were cut, both his eyes swollen shut, and his nose was twisted obscenely. His teeth were still bared--even in death the man's final act had been to grin--and Andrew turned his head sharply, bile rising up to sting the back of his throat.
When he did get up, and he did, slowly, he couldn't avoid looking at the man's bent body. Limbs twisted, torso curled, Isaiah looked more like a caricature than a human.
Andrew bent, one hand pressed to the burn on his chest, the other holding his sore abdomen, and vomited all over his shoes.
"I'm so sorry, Isaiah," he gasped out, voice breaking on a sob. "I'm so goddamn sorry."
