#mokutcki

just no

     Sometimes, he could pretend they were alright.

     Sometimes, usually at late hours when they could both allow themselves to let down their guards, things were almost calm. Having his archer pressed up against him, arm loose around his shoulder and idly rubbing circles into tensed up skin, releasing the day's physical pressure if nothing else, it was almost enough. Almost enough to pretend neither would be haunted by nightmares later (something that is bound to wake them both, anyway, taking turns in reassuring and calming), almost enough that they deserved anything good.

     That they deserved this.

     His movements still upon the words, sudden in the comfortable silence, and as always when something like this leaves his lover's lips, his heart breaks a little more. His breath hitches, slightly, and not in the good way that comes from having him this close, gorgeous and wonderful and scary and so much more than he could ever ask for.

           "Stop."

     Soft, and he leans back just enough to not talk into Hanzo's hair, leans back just enough to take a proper look at his face.

     Don't go where I can't follow. Not again.

           "Yer better than any dream I'd have. Wouldn't trade you in for all of 'em combined."

     I know you don't feel the same. I know I'm not enough. I'm trying, but it's just a matter of time till you realize that. And leave.

           "Stay here with me, willya?"

     His voice does not betrayl him, surprisingly, and there's just a light trembling when he shifts to turn Hanzo's face to him, fingertips soft against his skin.

last voicemail | not accepting

     There's so much blood.

     Funnily, he didn't even noticed the bullet piercing through at first — impact, sure, but he'd been pretty sure the armor would do what it's been supposed to do, and had been dismissed at the point. A difference of minutes at best, but a difference nevertheless. Maybe if he paid more attention to it, retreated immediately, things might have been different, but there had been more pressing matters at the time, and it's only after the adrenaline rush ebbed out that the dull pain really does get noticed, and attention is brought to the wound.

     Ironically, it's not the bullet itself providing a problem, but the shreeded armor itself that dug deep into his side, blood a constant stream. Even with applying pressure to it, he can only do so much and there's something deep down in his guts that screams, has probably been screaming for a while already, and has been simply drowned out by the weird state he always go into when fighting, one that zooms in too far on some things and throws all others out of the window.

     Requesting backup at this point is useless (not that he didn't, but he knows they'll not be here in time). The more he tries to stabilize it, the worse it gets. His concentration, too, is failing. Probably thanks to the lightheadedness from the blood loss. (Although, didn't intel say something about coated bullets, shit that fucks up your system real bad? Guess they'd get first hand experience on that now.)

     He's trying to battle down whatever emotion it is when he switches the comm to call Hanzo. It turns out to be downright panic when he can't reach the other. He knows his archer is fine — far away on the other side of the fucking globe, might as well be on the moon right now, but in safety — but he needs to — needs to — he has to hear him.

           "Han?"

     His voice, when the automatic one tells him to speak, is surprisingly clear. Just flat, and low. Barely above a whisper, the desperate hope for him to still pick up. It's making it hard to breath. (Maybe it's the possible chemicals in his system, but more likely, it's the panic.)

           "Listen, if you're there — please, please pick up. I don't. I don't know how — darlin', I don't think I'm — I'm not comin' home, I don't think."

     He tries to battle out the fear out of his voice, but it's getting harder and breathing gets hard, too.

           "I'm so sorry. Hanzo. Love. I'm — I'm sorry. Y'know — y'know I love you? You do, right? An' — please, talk t' me, I need y'right now — 'm glad you're not here, 'm glad yer safe b— but."

     He tries to breathe. Calm down. Get the tremble out his voice. Doesn't work.

           "Hanzo. 'm scared. Never was, not 'fore I knew you, had never — never anythin' t' lose, y'know? An' I don't — "

     There's a thousand things he doesn't have the energy, or the time, or the words for. Never had the words for, never could say them. How much better Hanzo deserves. How much he helped him. How much he really means. How he never wanted to leave him, never meant to, and now he's going, leaving the love of his life behind like he always swore to himself to never do.

           "I — I love you. I really do. Should've. Should've showed y'more. Told you more. 'm. I'm sorry, darlin'. Sweetheart. 'm just. Glad I had you."

     It's hard to speak. It's so hard to stay awake.

colors

Magenta: I aspire to write like you. Silver: How are you not famous for your writing? O_O

hurt him, break his heart

     Thinking properly, he finds, is a hard task to do when you're currently losing your weight in blood on the floor.

     Interestingly, the initial pain dulled down — it's there alright, and it feels still like someone was trying to rip his insides out through his side, which isn't too far from what happened there either — but it's a little sharp. Instead, cold seeps into his body where his blood leaves, soaked  entirely through the fabric used to hold the wound together a little longer.

     Not that thinking was a thing that he did before. If he did, he might not lay here bleeding out after catching a bullet for the other. That's hardly a decision made by thinking (although he'd do it again immediately, no question).

           "Think that's —  th' first time — y'told me you love me."

     Words are meant to come out good spirited, instead are drawn out between sharp inhales with a trembling voice. He needs to stay awake. It's hard enough with the cold and the lightness that makes his head go all dizzy from the blood loss, but he knows he has to stay up until backup is here. Or at least hold out however long he can do.

           "We'd talk 'bout that — back home, dontcha th— cojeme!"

     The curse is much louder than the rest, have him curl inwards at a sudden wave of pain, hissing even more at the movement. But sharp pain is good. It's better than the dizzy creeping one that pulls him under, tries to get him to drown in it.

           "Talk t' me, Han."

     Begging. Oh so low. There's nothing soft, nothing even slightly amused left in his voice. It's reduced to something flat, hoarse when he tries to reach up, own hand pressing against the others. He's vaguely aware that he gets his blood all over the archer.