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Everything glows, green hues reflecting off sidewalks and buildings. The night is almost silent, almost. There's a tension in the air that sets your blood ablaze, hair on the back of your neck standing up. It's not good, you know, and you can't believe you didn't realize the date before now.
Your feet slam against the pavement, mind racing far ahead of you, trying to figure out the fastest path. Turn left here, then go straight for two blocks. You didn't - you couldn't - wait for Fuuka and the others to catch up.
It's just you and the guilt, rising like bile in your throat, as you skid a little when you take the turn without slowing down. You can't slow down, not now, not when they're together, the anniversary hanging heavy in the air -
In the distance, you hear a gunshot and you can't breathe.
But you're nothing if not resilient - stubborn, a wry voice croons in your ear, deep like his - and you keep going, ignoring the exhaustion from the battle. Gekkoukan's Golden Boy. Another gunshot rings in your ears, echoing on the buildings around you. I'm almost there, you want to scream, lungs burning as you push yourself, faster, faster, faster -
Just hold on, Shinji.
All you can see is blood.
There's a ringing in your ears that doesn't quite block out the gasps and cries of your squadmates. You don't pay them any attention - not even the malnourished, shirtless man slinking back into the shadows - no, you only have eyes for the burgundy jacket and the steadily-growing pool of blood. The dark hour's green hues make the red pop against the cobblestone and you recognize only a dull throb of pain when you fall to your knees beside him.
"Shinji," you murmur, voice hoarse and a whisper compared to everyone else's frantic voices. "Shinji, please." He's bigger than this, you know he is. He is an unstoppable force - he uses an axe, swings it around like a baseball bat - he can shake this off. Nevermind the fact that his coat is quickly turning a completely different (and darker) shade of red, nevermind the blood trickling from his lips. He's talking - not to you and please, Shinji, don't do this - but it's hard to hear what he's saying around the rattling cough, the one that puts pure fucking fear into your bloodstream.
You grab his hand when he offers it, fingers curling tightly (too tightly, you're probably hurting him; if it was any other situation, he'd give you hell for that - ) and slicking on the blood between you. It's all his, though, the mortal fucking son, and when you bring your joined hands to your lips, the coppery taste makes you want to vomit.
"C'mon, Shinji, let's get up, let's go home - " you babble, voice broken even as Mitsuru places a hand on your shoulder. You want to shrug her off, because this is Shinji - this is your Shinji; if anyone can get up and walk it off, it's going to be him. But he meets your eyes and gives you a look, and that's when you know he's not going to leave this alley.
This is how it should be.