Hold on, please.
Send “Hold on, please.” for my muse to die in your muse’s arms.
His first coherent thought isn’t about how there’s a few bullets lodged in his chest because of how he pushed her out of the way (He’d apologize for being so rough, but he figures she understands), nor is it the distant shouting (Is it really so distant? He can’t tell.). It’s actually–
“Your d-dress… It’s…”
Becoming quickly soaked with my own blood, but he finds that he can’t make himself say the words, anything and everything around him already getting blurred and faint, from the worried look on her face–which he silently scolds himself for; no matter if she’s an Elite or not, it’s still his duty to fret for her well-being, not the other way around–to the increasingly-quiet murmuring for him to hold on.
My heart. he dimly realizes, and then the immediate, unavoidable reality hits him.
I’m going to die.
How much time has he lost thinking about this nonsense?
What he should be doing is telling her that she should be sure to let his Pokemon know what happened to him when she gets the chance, to alert the Castle’s staff, that he had–in the event of his death–written that she was to receive his pocket watch (because it’s the same one he had when he first started his job as her valet, and it has immense sentimental value to him as a result)…
–but he only gets as far as “L-lady Caitlin… I’m s-so… sor–” before his voice quickly trails off and his head lolls back, eyes still wide open and glasses askew.
(By the time help arrives, it’s far too late.)
