The hallucinations clear all at once.
It's like coming up from a dream, the haze of Madness vanishing as Spirit blinks until it feels like some overdone sequence in a film, all disjointed transitions and uncharacteristic behaviors that flicker away and out of his memory as he tries to place his location. The sky comes into focus first, white clouds scudding across a blue-paint sky unlike any Spirit has ever seen in true reality. Then the rest of it, the still air of an enclosed space and the desert-warm of the sand, and then Spirit looks down and gravity lurches, jolts into place so he can properly feel the ache of suspension in his shoulders.
He can't help the instinctive tug, the flex of his arms in reflexive attempt to drag his hands free of the cords lashing his arms out and back to restrain him in place. When he turns his head he can see the outline of one of Lord Death's crosses behind him, the resistance coming from the maybe-wood maybe-metal of the structure at his back.
"What the hell?" he says aloud. He doesn't recognize his own voice for a moment; it's raw, scraped aching on sound he doesn't remember, some remnants from the past still absent of context for the moment.
"Ah." That's familiar, the chirp of Lord Death identifiable even under some strange tone over the shinigami's voice. "Spirit?"
"Lord Death?" Spirit turns his head, squints until his vision clears on Lord Death's familiar mask. "What is going on?"
It's impossible to see the slump of shoulders in relief under the shinigami's cloak. Even so, Spirit would swear he can see the heaviness drawing Lord Death momentarily shorter. The bounds of shinigami-shadow around his wrists release, drop him so suddenly he stumbles and falls to his knees; when he looks up that slump is still lingering, something beyond relief that sends a chill through Spirit without Lord Death saying anything at all.
Maybe it's weapon's premonition. It wouldn't be the first time that Spirit has reacted to something he hasn't seen, something he couldn't possibly know; all he knows is that he's looking before Lord Death gestures, before the shinigami has even lifted his to look at the wall. He can feel the chill of terror rush through his veins even as he moves, the action drawing into slow-motion like he can avoid the pressure of reality if he just doesn't look. But he does look, of course, he has to look, and he's moving to match, skidding his feet under himself even before he's seen the telltale hunch of Stein's shoulders against the wall of the Death Room.
"Stein," and he's moving, he's falling and skidding across the sand but he's moving forward, still, reaching out with hands gone numb to grab desperately at the meister's shoulders where Stein is collapsed against the wall, only upright for the wall at his back. Stein flinches at the touch, hisses with the shape of pain, but Spirit can't stop his forward motion, he's leaning in close and falling all but across Stein's lap. "Stein, god, what happened?"
Stein is still cringing back, shoulders hunching in half-formed defense, but he glances up, meets Spirit's gaze long enough to manage the ghost of a smirk. His hand comes out, his hand lands far too lightly at Spirit's shoulder, and when he speaks it's with a shadowed approximation of his usual unconcern.
"Gentle," he manages, the flat of his voice gone strained over pain. "You never will learn to be careful, Spirit."
Spirit's breathing sticks in his chest, his lungs ceasing function as his stomach drops away. It's been years since Stein called him by his first name, over a decade since he was anything but 'senpai.' He can't help the reflex that pulls his gaze down, tracking the awkward angle Stein's arm is making across his chest, catching at the dark stain seeping into the pale cloth.
"Oh god," Spirit says, and he can hear his voice crackling up, up, into the ranges he hasn't hit since Stein last called him by his name. "Fuck."
Stein laughs, short and choking but sincere for all that. It's better than Spirit can manage in the circumstances. It not like he can't recognize a mortal wound, after all, especially one carrying all the marks that say it's from his own weapon-form.
"It's fine." Stein's hand is tangling into Spirit's hair, the pallor of his skin bled human-red from the color spilling too-liquid from the wound across his chest. His touch sticks, the liquid interrupting the slide of his fingers against the fine strands, but Spirit can't find his breath, much less the words or the will to protest. "I'm glad you're back."
"What did you do?" Spirit manages, choking on the words as he reaches out, closes his fingers at Stein's shoulders like he can stave off the glaze over the other's green eyes through sheer force of will. "Stein, what did you do?"
The meister blinks, slow and thoughtful, like every motion costs him thought. His fingertips press against Spirit's cheek, so cold Spirit doesn't identify the contact for a moment. Then he smiles, slow and slipping and true, and Spirit's heart clenches like he's the one struggling for breath.
"I saved you." Stein sounds disbelieving, shocked into delight like Spirit's never heard from him before. He takes a breath, deep and shuddering, lets it out like it's the last. "I'm glad."
"Shit," Spirit chokes, the word turning to a sob, and he's leaning in closer, grabbing at Stein's hair as if to hold him where he is. "No, no, no, this isn't how it's supposed to go, you can't leave me like this."
Stein laughs, so close the failing gust of his breath blows over Spirit's mouth. "What, then?" The hand falls from Spirit's face, catches momentarily against his shoulder before falling weak and boneless to the floor. "You die saving me?" Another inhale; Spirit can hear the struggle for this one, the way Stein's whole body is wracked with the effort. "This is better."
"It's not," Spirit sobs. He isn't sure when he started crying, only that now the tears have him, they're blurring his vision and choking him with loss and grief and guilt, an unbearable guilt too much to even look at properly, yet. "It's not, how can you say that?"
"Sorry." Stein's laugh is a weak thing, more a gasp than it is amusement. "I've always been the selfish one."
Spirit can't help the laugh, more hysterical than it is amused. "Stop it, Stein."
Contact at his cheek, cold friction that he thinks are fingers for a moment. Then there's a gasp of air, jagged edges of an inhale tearing over his skin, and he realizes it's the press of a kiss the moment before Stein falls back, a moment before Spirit can turn in to offer the heat of his own mouth to share.
"Thanks," Stein says, and his eyes are shut and Spirit has to wake him up, he can't let it end like this, but Stein is shaping "Spirit" soundless on his lips, and in the first moment of frozen panic Spirit can't think to move, can't think to speak before the lingering strength in Stein's shoulder slumps into true bonelessness.
By the time he manages to sob, "I love you" past the knot in his throat, there's no one listening anymore.