When he opens his mouth to scream, he finds himself choking instead, his voice ripped out.
It's the most ridiculous thing to feel the loss of right now but it still makes him reel because this just can't be true, it's a trick, a trap, and if only he can cry out, call out to him (Claus, Claus–), he'll open his human eye again and Lucas's psi will finally hold life within his flesh instead of flowing through and into the ground like this. He tries again, tries to wheeze out his name but all he can feel is his face distorting in effort and pain, and the sudden heave of his lungs when even air won't make it through.
Please.
He isn't even sure who he's begging, his psi, his father, the world, the still sizzling body in his arms. His mind just reaches out where his voice cannot, and he keeps breathlessly, voicelessly pouring his psi into him just to keep something there because Claus should never be empty, never, not he who has been Lucas's lifeforce when he was too weak to live his own life, not he who is warm and bright and full of movement and passion.
Even the Commander had that scalding edge, passion converted into knife-sharp, efficient action, but now the only movement in Lucas's clenched arms is that eye of metal and glass, spinning weakly and shining through the faint glow of the needle. Still alive where Claus is not; alien and a reminder of everything he hates, but when that last trace of movement finally dulls and stills he finds himself crying silently, breath finally coming out in small, shaky sobs.
He doesn't even listen to his father's voice trying to soothe him, and presses his face to Claus's chest and neck instead, breathing in the last hints of his smell before that too can disappear. He can still catch it in the mess of metal and smoky flesh, a familiar tinge that reason tells him is close to his own but has always been different for him. Even now it takes away his anger and fear, instead only leaving spine-deep pain and helplessness. He wants to call out to him again, now that his breath is back and voice has slipped into his sobs–I love you I missed you I've never blamed you I'm sorry I let you go I'm sorry I didn't get here faster Please don't go Claus–but even those feelings seem meaningless now. There is no worth in them, not when Claus has left beyond his reach, not when he failed to save him, again and again, not with that emptiness in his bones. Even his betrayed anger at his mother is gone now. All he has left is grieving, a smell, and the smile still on Claus's face.
Deafening blast of lightning, burning his eyes and filling his nose, shove to his heart and stumbling backwards.
I'm sorry it turned out like this.
Burned flesh and seared metal on his palate, and the slow, weak circle of arms around his neck.
I'm really happy you could be with me just before the end.
Warm, loved weight in his arms, heart rushing with sudden, mad, hopeful happiness, the smell of his oldest comfort.
Thanks.
Throat plunging and chest filled with ice, weight slipping out of his hold and dragging him down, his psi's grip wavering and grasping at thin air.
Lucas... I hope we meet again someday.
Words staggering out of his mouth before his throat closes down.
Thanks.
Silent scream.
Bye.
The world feels empty and motionless now, and maybe it is, all dead and cold beyond the warded borders of their islands. And inside, now. Silent Tazmilly, deserted factories, heartless New Pork.
The world is already coming to an end, and he? He has nothing to lose anymore, not when his last piece of hope and love grows cold in his arms.
Kumatora and Duster rise and groan behind him, and Boney is already rubbing his head to his back. There is nothing to do but get up and end it all.
His world and hope have come to an end. But that means he can create a new one. After all, all there is to lose is death.
Thank you. I'm sorry.
He stands.
I'm sure we'll meet again.