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Blood. Blood was everywhere. On his hands, his arms, the ground. Scattered glass crunched beneath him as he tried to catch the source of the oozing blood, his breaths stuttering as he did, nearly falling over from the added weight as Ryouji fell into his arms.
The gunshot rang in his ears, though it had not been real. Earplugs protected his hearing and yet- and yet it wasn’t the sound itself that had his mind blanking, his voice cracking over tears he’d yet to shed as the love of his life’s head fell back, eyes glazed over as he stared up at him.
Somewhere, he could hear himself. Could hear the desperate pleas of a man wanting nothing more than for this to not happen, please, no, no no no, don’t leave you can’t leave, don’t leave me, please - but...
Shōkashi could feel Ryouji in his arms. Could feel the weight of him, the damp of fake blood oozing through his shirt and onto his palm where he tried to staunch the false would. Felt as his love’s hand came up to grasp at his own as if his last effort was to comfort him, to get through to him - but Shōkashi also felt himself as if he weren’t him. As if he could tell he was overreacting - this was a scene, nothing more than acting out the death of a character that never existed, but he was falling apart, truly falling apart over him, losing himself to grief as he pressed his lips to Ryouji’s hair and sobbed.
It took far too long to console him after they cut filming, and he felt utterly silly beyond belief needing Ryouji to hold him as he wept. His fiance still in makeup, still looking like he’d gone through a gunfight and lost, shushing him as he pet at his hair and reminded him over and over that he was okay.
But it was hardly his fault that he loved Ryouji so much and couldn’t fathom ever losing him.