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He’s still staring in wonder at the blood running down their wrists when Lu pushes him down, knife glowing in the dim light. He tears Allen’s shirt apart with just a flick of his wrist, throws the tattered thing up into the air, watches as it slows, freezes. He drops a hand onto Allen’s chest, taps his fingers, traces a dotted line from sternum to navel. The knife is cold where Lu digs it into his skin, pushes it so deep Allen thinks he can taste it, feel the tang of metal against his teeth.
Lu drags the knife down like they’re still cutting up books and the sound is the same but Allen distinctly remembers there being less blood then. It beads up, drips up into the air like they’re hanging from the ceiling and maybe they are but Lu is pushing his hand into his gut and Allen can’t think clearly. His fingers are so so cold, ice curling around the folds of his intestines, pulling and squeezing.
He thinks it should probably hurt but it feels good, like stretching when you first wake up in the morning and he leans up on his elbows, presses his own fingers just inside the slice. Lu leans in, then, trails his lips up the split in his flesh until he can kiss Allen’s fingers, pushes his tongue between them to reach the slick heat of his stomach. He presses his teeth to it, feels Allen’s whole body jolt and curl around his head, feels the blood smear across his cheeks and into his hair.
Everything shifts suddenly, blurs back into focus and Allen hears David shouting but all he can see is Lu’s head on his belly, fingers digging into him through his shirt, eyes glowing the same sickly blue as his knife.