Characters: Bruschetta (my Trigun sona), mentions of other trisonas (Penance + Ghost, from the disc server im in!)
Summary: Bruschetta tags along on a mission and
Content warning: getting shot (hoplophobia?), blood
Word count: 483
There was a loud bang, followed by the retreating footsteps of the enemy yelling something. Bruschetta didn’t hear anything for a second, but they felt everything. As if to hide it, they slap a hand over it. Penance, Ghost, and two others check themselves. Even when it matters, they’re bad at remembering names. They’re clean.
“We’re good,” one of them calls, before turning around to Bruschetta, “and you?”
Bruschetta don’t meet their eyes, tears already welling in their eyes. And their face always gives away if they’re lying. Instead, they laugh. Over how stupid getting shot first is. How they were prepared for anything but a blow to the gut. Over their racing thoughts that land on one person who isn’t here.
Bruschetta slumps against a wall, trying so hard to hide it. Their laugh dies, and it feels like it’s bouncing off the walls and mocking them, but their sad smile stays. “Hah. . . Ah, ol’ Chetta’s gotta rest a bit. Y’all go on. I’ll be there in five.”
They fall to the floor faster than they meant to, and Ghost is at their side in an instant. As always, Bruschetta can’t see their eyes, but his gaze feels sharp. They try to fight against the other from removing their hand from their wound, but it’s to no avail. Ghost pries their hand from their wound, and just. . . stares. There’s one more weak attempt to tug away, but he keeps their hand where it is.
“Ghostie, let’s not overreact here. It just looks worse than it is,” Chetta lies with a big smile, “Go on now. Please.”
He shakes his head no. It forces them to laugh, which makes them cough. They can’t hide the blood anymore. Not to mention how they’ve been fighting against the room slowly spinning. A little bit due to blood loss, mostly because of the smell of their own blood—the admission of their own mortality.
“Heh. . . I guess you don’t know when to let go either, huh? Ah, dear Ghostie. . .” They finally turn their gaze and body towards Ghost. Bruschetta gives them their full attention, instead of watching the blood soak their shirt fabric. A beautiful purple soiled by a deep crimson. . . How stupid are they for wearing their favorite clothes on this mission. They weren’t even listening when it was briefly discussed what they were doing here. . . They just wanted to spend time with Ghost. Speaking of family. . .
Chetta pushes up their glasses to make full eye contact. Through the hair, they’re sure they’re looking at Ghost’s eyes. They don’t care if they’re looking back or not. It doesn’t matter. They’re here—and also blind, from what they remember. Tears stream down their face, smile as wide as ever.
Their voice wavers, thick with tears and blood and probably snot, but they press on. Not that it matters, they think bitterly, but regardless. . . “Please, don’t tell my sister.”
