[ For throwing all he has behind that punch, the fact it does nothing has his teeth grinding to the root. Akira feels more like a statue made of steel than a person, and that means something to a man used to throwing his weight around to win his fights. He can feel the impact, feel the blood from Akira's nose dripping and splattering on his cheeks and leaving warm trails in their wake, but his knuckles are the only ones splitting.
The wrench of the blade has his body seizing up despite his best efforts, a ragged cough drawing a coppery tang from the back of his throat to coat his teeth. He can feel the blood starting to pool beneath him from where it seeps from his stomach, nothing to hold it in anymore, but that's something that leaves his mind quick at the blow.
Shinjiro's vision swims from the slam of the handle into his head, grip slipping as his skull throbs painfully. And if that's not enough, then another comes, and that just about knocks him straight out. There's nothing but pain, now, and the adrenaline hardly matters when you can barely see straight.
Still, Shinjiro can hear him. The fact it hits uncomfortably close to home is what has him hesitating, fingers twitching, but in the end his hands still rise.
His arms, then fingers shake as they grip weakly in Akira's collar, but he hopes the fucker can see his lips move, understand his petty wordless response.
[The final words of this miserable thing mean little to him, but they irk him. They leave his jaw tense and his fists tight at his sides. Fighting desperately to live even when death is an inevitability is a flaw all men have, but it sickens him all the same.
When he died, did he fight just the same? Did he go down swinging, cursing, determined to leave his mark before his flame was abruptly snuffed out? If he hadn't pursued the path of magic, he might still be here now laughing and smiling and living a full life alongside the one he loves. If he had never abandoned him, maybe they both could have been happy.
Too bad life is seldom so generous.
Rising to his feet, Akira straightens out his shirt, flicking the blood from his knuckles. It splatters on Shinjiro's prone form like abstract art, an untitled masterpiece left abandoned on a filthy tile floor.]
Give my regards to Alec.
[Signed with a final kick to the ribs. Akira wanders off, leaving Shinjiro to die in a pool of his own blood. As he deserves.]
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The wrench of the blade has his body seizing up despite his best efforts, a ragged cough drawing a coppery tang from the back of his throat to coat his teeth. He can feel the blood starting to pool beneath him from where it seeps from his stomach, nothing to hold it in anymore, but that's something that leaves his mind quick at the blow.
Shinjiro's vision swims from the slam of the handle into his head, grip slipping as his skull throbs painfully. And if that's not enough, then another comes, and that just about knocks him straight out. There's nothing but pain, now, and the adrenaline hardly matters when you can barely see straight.
Still, Shinjiro can hear him. The fact it hits uncomfortably close to home is what has him hesitating, fingers twitching, but in the end his hands still rise.
His arms, then fingers shake as they grip weakly in Akira's collar, but he hopes the fucker can see his lips move, understand his petty wordless response.
Fuck you. ]
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When he died, did he fight just the same? Did he go down swinging, cursing, determined to leave his mark before his flame was abruptly snuffed out? If he hadn't pursued the path of magic, he might still be here now laughing and smiling and living a full life alongside the one he loves. If he had never abandoned him, maybe they both could have been happy.
Too bad life is seldom so generous.
Rising to his feet, Akira straightens out his shirt, flicking the blood from his knuckles. It splatters on Shinjiro's prone form like abstract art, an untitled masterpiece left abandoned on a filthy tile floor.]
Give my regards to Alec.
[Signed with a final kick to the ribs. Akira wanders off, leaving Shinjiro to die in a pool of his own blood. As he deserves.]