concentration fizzles at fedyor’s movement and ivan glances back up with furrowed brow. his words wash over ivan, their meaning rearing up like a slap to the face and he shakes his head.
an open palm applies pressure to the wound. lips press in a grim line and ivan leans closer, tipping the other’s chin up so as to hold his full attention.
❝ i’m not going anywhere, my heart. ❞ not without you, the words hang in the empty air, a solid note above the soft drumming of two hearts alone, surrounded by the silence of death. it’s a tense score after the presumed climax and yet, there’s something waiting like a promise in the dark where the shadows meet.
he returns to the task at hand, focus coming to a point as he works to visualise the broken veins mending themselves — he cannot linger on the losses they sustained. that alexei, their healer, would have been able to save fedyor without a second thought. that mila, their inferni, should have been able to defend them to afford ivan precious seconds to stop the bleeding sooner. lips twist and he does what he can to shove the thoughts aside. ❝ and, for the record? ❞ ivan spares another lingering look, lips pulling up into something that might have been a smile were it worn by anyone else, ❝ neither are you. i won’t allow it. ❞ it’s meant as a joke, though it falls decidedly flat as two fingers trace a line in the air above the wound and he fights with every ounce of his being to mould his power to his will, ❝ you can’t. ❞
crimson tinged lips suck in a heavy, rattling breath. fedyor can feel the wounds shifting and changing — healing, thanks to ivan - but his pain is fading to a dull numbness even quicker that ivan can work.
an untrained mind might find that reassuring, but fedyor knows otherwise.
reaching for ivan’s frantic hands, cooler, steadier fingers move to wrap gently around them in comfort, “it is okay, ivan. i know you are trying your best.” a harsh wet cough. a hand lifts to cover his mouth, sticky crimson liquid staining the red of his kefta even redder.
fedyor always admired their hearttender colors, saw them as a symbol of strength, their dedication to their crafts. now, it’s almost cruel irony, a great big cosmic joke — that a man wearing blood red armor, might die, adorned in his own blood.
he could tell ivan was growing tired, the other man still emphatically attempting to heal his wounds, when they both knew that was not his greatest talent.
“it’s okay, mishka. it doesn’t hurt.”