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cold jabs at his skin where blood stains yet another shirt. somehow it still burns where the blood was before. he gulps, suppressing the itch to rip off his clothes along with his skin.
that won’t help. he stops at pinching the bridge of his nose where glasses, now crushed by someone’s boot, were.
“fuck.” he whispers.
tonight, he actually misses miserable, disgusting, exhausting and simple times of french military.
his nostalgic spiraling is stopped by loud and snarling “so much for a guy who never misses,” from yoru. and uncomfortably foreign warmth of leather on his shoulders.
“come on, chamber. i’d rather not bleed to death tonight.”
his feet crashes something. vase, glass, breakstone, garbage. his bones, maybe. bones crash the same way.
“that’s right, my friend. i appreciate your help.” he maintains a straight face and steady voice while his head spins and his vision goes blank after standing up. something in white noise reminds him of the explosion, recent one and the one on so called fracture.
yoru scoffs, patting his shoulder in condescending manner. it pokes at chamber’s senses, buzzes blood-red in the back of his mind. he knows better than to act on the impulse.
luckily, yoru gets it and leaves him without any more words. only his palm presses somewhere near chamber’s shoulder blade, grounding. and also leading him the right direction without tripping over literally anything on their way.
he sees nothing. no spare glasses with him tonight.
“stairs,” yoru warns him, “careful.”
“i do see them.”
“ugh, yeah. i’m trying to be nice here.”
“quite unusual for you.”
“oh, fuck off.” he slides his hand down the chamber’s back, stroking him. he’s not that dumb to nudge a swaying man when he’s walking down the stairs. and he also probably dislocated that arm before, too. or twisted it badly. whatever, it’s been worse.
they walk towards the vulture in silence. neither of them wanna talk right now. chamber is a yapper only when he’s comfortable with his surroundings and topic of the conversation, nothing on the list checks out. yoru busies himself with a cigarette instead. smoke curls around their heads in completely still air. chamber inhales and coughs, wincing.
yoru just turns his head away, facing dusty and mossy brick walls.
“by the way, you didn’t have to take the bullet for me,” yoru mutters as he crushes the butt with his heel when they reach lz, “that was stupid.”
“no need to sound so angry. it’s just another scar.” he shrugs with uninjured shoulder and it hurts anyway. slouching against hard seat feels like a blessing, honestly. second best experience he had.
meanwhile, yoru checks on jett and sova. they’re ready to leave, but it all drifts away in soft hum.
he’s sprinting away from collapsing building. no rendezvous card in his pockets, it simply does not exist. he won’t be able to escape. floor crashes underneath, and it’s all cold disgusting liquid that suffocates him. he can’t move.
limbs twisted, he’s being held down. he’s not drowning, he just can’t breath. can’t fight back. he feels slick cold sweat on his forehead and spine when he twitches. dim lights are blurry. he needs his glasses right now. yoru turns his head at his direction, knowing that his usual expressionless glance won’t be enough. short nod. turn away.