Send me 🔪 to stab my muse.
He feels the blade slide between his ribs before he can register what Shikamaru is doing. The glint of the blade and the sudden shift of the other’s arm comes too fast, his reaction time too slow. It doesn’t hurt at first, just a dull throb of discomfort, but then he feels something warm rolling down his skin and he can’t stop himself from looking.
“Shika–” Tadashi staggers back, gasping as he his the wall behind him. “What did y…?”
This doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense. THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE.
He blinks at the quickly blurring shape of Shori’s brother, unable to understand why. It’s true that he and Shikamaru had never hit it off very well, but Tadashi didn’t think that any true hostility hid behind the other man’s words.
A strained sound of pain pushes out through gritted teeth. He slides to the ground, one hand pressed awkwardly beneath the wound and the other hovering over the handle of the knife. He can’t pull it out, he can’t stand, he can’t do anything. Given that the one guy capable of helping him right now is also the one who stabbed him, Tadashi doubts asking Shikamaru to help him would do any good. He was going to die like this.