💆♂️ - brushes hair from my muse’s face / t-tender.....?
💆♂️ - [Brushes hair from my muse’s face.]
Battista’s not going to survive this.
The realization comes crashing in like a bird through a window, like his heart plummeting to the bottom of his chest. “If I call them again-”
“They won’t come faster.” The Captain strains, glancing down at the growing pool of red that’s bleeding through layer upon layer of gauze. “You’ll just h-hold up the line for other people. We’ve done… What we can.”
It’s classic, Tomas thinks despairingly, that even now, whilst bleeding out, Battista’s more preoccupied with inconveniencing others than preventing his own mortality. He reaches shaky hands to help staunch the bleeding, despite the fact that his stomach all but somersaults in revulsion. He’s scared, he’s so scared and there’s blood just everywhere. “Please tell me what to do,” he agonizes, wishing it was louder than a whisper. “Pl- Please tell me how to stop this.”
Battista forces out a chuckle that ends abruptly in a wet cough. “You can’t.” He says, making no attempt to sugarcoat, not even to spare Tomas’ feelings. For all his faintly-uneasy kindness, the man has never given him that. Never a white lie, nor an opium of half-truth. He’s always given him this; blunt truth edged in irony and swathed in something almost-condescending, like pity. Tomas has never minded, though - until now. Until Battista’s truth sounds too much like goodbye; too much like ‘try not to lose your head without me’.
That’s when hysteria kicks in. His hands start to shake uncontrollably, tears welling in his eyes until he can’t see straight; something rising in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me,” he begs, he sobs and the dam bursts as tears begin to chase themselves down his cheeks. He’s beginning to see the futility of it all; they’ve staunched the wound as best as they can, he’s followed the man’s instructions to the letter but it’s still leaking, he’s still growing weaker and weaker and wea-… Battista’s hand rises, grazing blindly against his cheek as if to wipe away the wetness.
“Save-… Save those for the f… Funeral. Gonna look… Real shit if-…. No one cries.”
He uses what’s left of his strength to sit himself up with a groan, but even Tomas realizes then that he’s pretending to be strong and it’s not for his own sake. The actor reaches out imploringly to his strange Montague friend; opting for the comfort he knows how to give instead of the life-saving treatment he does not. So he scoots closer over the floor, tugging him in so that Battista’s spine finds warmth against his chest. Tomas’ trembling fingers rise up to push limp, matted hair away from the Captain’s face as he tucks his chin down against the divot of Battista’s shoulder. He thinks he feels him shudder in response. “Just stay with me. Stay with me, I’ll do anything.” He croons, squeezing his eyes shut as he leans his temple against the man’s cheek. “I need you, you’re my friend, you mean too much to me.”
In the distance, the wail of sirens grows steadily louder.
In the foreground, life slips quietly away.
