A/N: Hi, this is my first solely Infernal Devices fic and I must say, this came out of nowhere. I'll tell you more about it at the end. For now, please read and review!
He was coughing again, always coughing. It was worse than normal; each round brought up more blood and twisted his thin frame as he shook like a leaf in the wind. His skin was scorching to the touch and the flush in his face made him look like he really was ablaze.
He was dying.
She stayed by his side into the night when all others finally listened to him and retired to their rooms. She refused to leave him. He would insist that she needed to sleep, rest –he would be fine for a couple of hours while she shut her eyes. She never listened.
He was dying.
Eventually, he started rambling as delirious visions and hallucinations caused by fever clouded his vision. He yelled out in Chinese and English, Latin and ancient Greek. No one came because, unbeknownst to all of them, he had put a Silencing rune on his door earlier. She tried to calm him down. She spoke to him in a low, comforting voice and pressed cool rags to his forehead while she tried to bring his fever down. She even went so far as to try healing runes. She knew in her heart of hearts that it would do no good, though.
He was dying.
When it was drawing to its tragic end, he grabbed a knife that she had not known he had had and tried to stab himself. She had been nodding off, but noticed in time to stop him from plunging the dagger into his chest. The blade tore into his arm instead and his blood spilled onto the bed, onto the blankets and sheets, and onto her skin. The drug running through his bloodstream burned her skin to the touch and soon enough her left hand was suffering from fifth, borderline sixth degree burns. The rest of her arm and torso were inflicted with burns varying from second to third degree while she tried to patch him up. It made no difference.
He was dying.
He pled with her to just let him die –it was going to happen anyway, so why not hasten the inevitable? She told him not to talk like that. If it were up to her, he would be perfectly healthy in a heartbeat. It was not up to her and there was nothing she could do but watch as the process sped up. His other friends and family filed in around four a.m., claiming they could sleep no longer. They saw that he was much worse and she told them what had happened –how the night had progressed and what he had done to himself. They gathered around his bed and watched helplessly as his skin grew paler and paler, something they had thought impossible. He started making final requests and they all tearfully agreed after arguing that he would live –he had to, for them, for himself, for everything he had yet to do and everything he could one day do. Then, he seemed to have one final burst of energy and hope filled their chests... and then nothing.
He was dead.
Okay, so I was actually writing this as a dream for a personal Wholock fic that will probably never be on here.. But it's at 105 pages! I'm proud :)
Then, I read it and realized that, though feels-y, it was rather okay!
Please, tell me your thoughts on this quick one-shot! It would make my day!