There is blood everywhere. Spirit absently notes this fact, calmly because there is no other reaction possible, even as he slams to his knees in front of Stein hard enough to bruise.
"Stein!" His voice is raw, panicked and terrified and bleeding emotion more freely than Stein's face oozes blood.
Stein smiles, and it is nothing like the tight tenseness of his usual restraint. This is loose, and relaxed, and sensual. It makes Spirit's skin crawl even as his pulse reacts to that languid pleasure across Stein's bloody face.
"It's beautiful." Stein drag fingers across his stained skin before digging them into Spirit's hair. They are sticky with blood, pulling at individual strands painfully before tugging free.
"What is?" Spirit doesn't want the answer, can't handle the answer, but Stein speaks anyway, eyes half-lidded and out of focus even as they brush over his features.
"Look." Stein holds his arms out and Spirit stares at them, mind finally blessedly detaching to coolly document instead of gibbering in panic. Stein's arms are bloody, wrists, forearms, biceps, long curves of wound conflicting with the natural contours of his body. The injuries are clearly from an outside source, too clean and precise to be accidental.
"It's amazing." Stein continues, and then he brings his hand up to the edge of his neck and collarbone. Spirit doesn't realize he is still holding a scalpel until a fresh line of blood is curling away from the visible pulse in Stein's throat. He slaps at Stein's hand, jerks the blade free, but in the process the curve swings sharply back and for a moment Spirit's hand directs the incision. Stein shudders, eyes shutting and head falling back, and Spirit freezes, too conflicted between instinctive horror and unwilling arousal to determine which is dominant.
Stein brings his sticky fingers up to smear through the new blood, brighter than the dried darkness spotting his skin and hair and hands, and presses them against his lips. They leave a bright spot, a pair of vertical red lines across his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, the green in them is glowing bright, shining against the pallor of his skin and the ebon of darkening blood in the dim light.
Spirit want to kiss him, wants to slap him, wants to cry and hold him and scream at him all simultaneously. His expression is locked in place by the indecision, but his eyes determine that tears are acceptable in all scenarios and overflow. The salt pools in the curve of his lips.
Stein smiles again, that same appalling pleased smile, and reaches out, this time to curl both hands into Spirit's hair. Spirit's mouth falls open, to sob or shout, and Stein leans forward from the wall - his usual jerkiness forgotten for the moment, replaced by an astounding and terrifying grace - to fit his lips against Spirit's open mouth as if this has happened before, has happened regularly forever. Spirit would protest or perhaps encourage, but that sob-shout is trapped in his throat and won't let any other sound past, and Stein's tongue is slipping past his parted lips and then his desire is winning, even while the back of his brain wails this is wrong, this is too much, this is unhealthy and sick and broken. He lets his eyes shut to block out the contrasting colors of Stein's fever-bright eyes and deathly pale skin and life-red blood, and even though his tongue is full of the taste of copper and iron that is easier to ignore, especially with Stein purring into his mouth and clutching at his hair like a lifeline.