"I can patch you up. You'll be fine."
hurt/wounded sentence starters
Dying on the battlefield had never been his expectation, particularly now that he had been a full-time Academy teacher for nearly seven years. The missions he was given were B-rank at best, and usually C-rank. Yet, here he was, with a fuma shuriken of all things, embedded into his stomach.
He had received serious wounds before, but this hurt more than he remembered. It was a constant battle between scrunching his face against the pain and trying to keep his eyes open. His vision swam. The people looking over him were mostly strangers, Killer B being the only familiar face. Was he glad or disappointed? On the one hand, he would be proud to die alongside his old students, or his friends, to be able to see their progress and keep them safe. On the other hand, now Iruka would not have to see the pain on their faces.
His vision, which was originally only blurry at the edges, became increasingly patchy and inconsistent, a function of both blood loss and oxygen deprivation. The shuriken plugged the hole in his abdomen, but it jostled every time he took a deep breath, settling in deeper, causing more damage. He was going to die, and he knew that, and the main thing on his mind was getting something to Naruto to ease his pain.
“B-san,” So far, he has mostly relied on shallow breaths, they were the least painful but left him unable to say anything or to function. He sucked in a deep breath, one he would need to speak properly. “Can you tell Naruto that I love him? I’m so proud of him, and he has a family now that he can rely on. He doesn’t need me, and he doesn’t need to be sad.” Breathing was getting increasingly more difficult, and he reached up to cling to the B’s shoulder strap. Iruka was, and always had been, a shinobi. His duty was to always be ready to die, but he didn’t want to. He could feel his mind becoming watery, slipping away from him like his vision already had. Nothing meant anything anymore. He took in information, and sensations but none of it made any sense.
If he could, he would have stayed, but that seemed increasingly impossible.
“Fuck…” he hissed, trying and failing to pull himself upright by the white cloth. His muscles wobbled and failed him the minute he tried to put any weight on them.
“Did I mention that I’m proud of him?”
