Adrian Chase dying pisses you off
“You’re fucking fine! Jesus fucking Christ!”
He coughs again, eyes unfocused. “B—uh…”
There's a churning squelch that echoes from his side. It's nearly louder than his voice. You never thought that would be possible.
Loving someone so much, when something like this happens, it feels personal. It's a karmic lesson, superstition finding you. Maybe if you didn't step on sidewalk cracks. Maybe if you hadn't almost clipped that cyclist in a rush to turn right.
Maybe if you hadn’t let Adrian go first into the warehouse. Maybe if you hadn’t grown so close it wouldn’t be so obvious that you're losing him.
“Stop, just stop. You’re pissing me off. You can’t." Fear claws up your throat. "You can’t, you—you won’t.”
“Yeah, totally... I won’t.”
But he actively is, and that makes him a liar, and you know why he’s lying. Even while he bleeds out he’s worried about you, concerned with shielding you from reality, protecting you from yourself. Letting you be mad at him as distraction. Stupid fuck.
And now he’s giving in. It’s not going well.
Quickly - "Wh… what were you gonna say? Back then, in the woods."
There's a thick patch of blood oozing through his hair, staining your glove. It makes you shove your palm under his ribs even further. He can't even moan. "C'mon! You, you had been talking about the dimples in my back, y-you said you liked them, and…"
His blink is so long you're worried you won't see his eyes again. "Oh. Just, that... uh... I thought we were going to last." There's this look that passes over his washed out face, like he's taking on the pain, accepting it's lack of pleasure. Maybe he's simply tired. Believes it's not worth it. Shit. "I... I get you. And it's okay, that you don't—like me... because I love you a, so... lot."
Holding his head is difficult. You move down, but holding his hand is worse. He keeps slipping from your grasp - his palm too cold and damp and yours cramping and sweating from squeezing so hard. Something hot brews behind your eyelids.
"You’d really been about to say that?" Your tongue stings. Distantly, you register you're biting down. Preventing yourself.
"Nahhh." His eyes close, lashes fluttering once after a particularly hard grip from you. "I can’t remember what I was going to say then. I just said what I wanted to say now." His green eyes, dim and murky, grace you once more. "Was it romantic?"
Brushing his hair back, you adjust the collar of his suit. Dip the tips of your fingers in, to hold his pulse. Your touch isn't gentle. He needs to know, since it's hard to say. With the smear of blood you've left on his temple, for the first time ever, you find him scary.
"No," you choke out, unable to fight back tears. "It was awful, Adrian."
And he fucking smiles. Because he knows. But he deserves to hear it, even if it's just this once, even if it's late. Cradling his neck that's quickly turning cold, you hold him so tight and steady you're sure you'll leave bruises.
"I like you! I like you, I like you, I-I— you're disgusting, and insane, and I don't know why or how you did it, but I like you." A sob slips out. Your nose goes runny, and tears catch the corners of your mouth. "I don't want you to go. I'm such a liar. I-I'm not better than you. I like you so much. I like who you are, and—and who you are to me. And you can't leave."
It's not up to anyone. The team takes too long, even though their reaction time is a personal best. He's gone and so are you, because who are you without his love, his devotion, his sight?
Fucking idiot. Why did he protect you?
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