so. yeah. angst my beloved <3
could not think of a good title for this one so :/
uhhh what else to say..... oh! this was originally supposed to be a happy ending but i got tired and wanted to kill someone off so. well. yeah 😌
oh uh this has. minor keefitz (or major. matters on how you interpret it really)
warnings: main character death, battle, panicking, really really really in-depth descriptions of blood and gore and stuff, lmk if i should add anything!! (that sounds inappropriately cheerful doesn't it—)
word count: 600 words. pretty short.
The blood is red.
It's such an obvious realization. Of course blood is red. It would be more concerning if it weren't red.
But Fitz is looking at the stab wound, at all the warm blood gushing out, covering his hands, his clothes, the grass, with dark wetness. He looks and he sees red. Red, red, red.
Red, coming faster and faster—too fast. But Fitz can't stop it, he just looks helplessly at the knife hilt—soaked in red, it's all soaked—it's all so bright and angry and it hurts Fitz's eyes but it's everywhere—and everything's twisting around him, it's all a haze of red—a cry of pain, anguish that twists right into Fitz's heart—and it won't stop, there's so much red and it won't stop.
"It won't stop!" Fitz is screaming and sobbing at the same time and he cries the words out to everyone that can hear, but no one hears. No one hears, except for the blonde boy whose life is quickly fading as Fitz desperately cradles him in his lap.
"It won't stop, Fitz." Keefe's voice is soft. Resigned. Fitz hates it. "It won't. There's no use." He's struggling to talk, but he manages. Fitz needs him to keep managing, to keep holding on until help arrives and he'll be okay. He has to be.
Fitz's throat is too thick to respond, so he just shakes his head wildly. He doesn't know what to do, how to help. Does he take the knife out, or not? Should he apply pressure to the wound or would that make it worse? He doesn't know what to do, what to say, what to feel. There's only one clear thought pounding in his head—Keefe has to be okay—and with every second that goes by, Fitz fears he won't be.
Fitz screams again, but the clangs of swords and shouts of soldiers around them are a sea of noise, and he's just one voice. Still, he screams, and screams, and screams, and time seems to slow down and speed up at the same time, and his throat is hoarse and his voice scratchy, but he keeps screaming. He pleads, begs for Keefe to keep his eyes open.
But it'll be too late, because the light in Keefe's eyes is already dulling and his heartbeat is slowing and he's getting stiller, colder, and Fitz knows it'll be too late but he keeps trying. He can see a medic making their way across the field but they're moving so slowly, and Keefe's breathing in ragged gasps now, and Fitz is so scared. He's going to lose Keefe. He's going to lose Keefe forever and he'll never get him back, never get to tell him all the things he wants to, never be able to—
Fitz does it without thinking. He leans forward and presses his lips against Keefe's. The kiss tastes like blood and sweat and grief, and it's not even a second before Fitz pulls back and grips Keefe even tighter, begging the world for a miracle, for something, anything, just let Keefe stay.
The medic is here now, and they're joined by another, so Fitz moves back to let them do their work. He hovers around, trying to catch a glimpse of ice blue, but Keefe's shut his eyes tightly and his mouth is open in a silent scream and his face is white as a bone. More and more people crowd around and Fitz can't see what's happening, can't help. He's useless.
Still, he stays, he watches, he prays.
Finally, the healers shake their heads. They move away from the body. Fitz walks closer to see Keefe. Pale, cold, lifeless Keefe.
Fitz crumples to the floor and won't get up. In the end, all the prayers in the world are never enough.
