Disclaimer - i lay no claim on anything.
notage - i have no
idea where this came from. i just like hazy minds and illconceived
thoughts. theres a few mistakes in the whole grammar and structure of
sentences. but then again, its thoughts. people dont think in perfect
sentences.
Hes gasping for air by the time you get his side. and theres blood. and you're not sure how much of it is his, how much of it is yours, or even how much of it is that other things. and it all seems so fucking stupid because you cant find a wound with all the fucking blood everywhere. and its making your hands slip, even as hes reaching for his gun and trying to eject the spent magazine, you're searching his torso for the blood source. his sticking his elbow in your way, pushing you back, and you're pretty sure hes trying to tell you something, his mouth working without sound, your eyes telling you hes speaking, not hearing anything but the roar of blood in your ears.
hes got his hands in your jacket pockets gotta fucking clip sammy and you realise hes looking for ammo, a magazine, anything he could possibly load into the gun in his hand.
hes shouting, you decide, hoarse words seem to be floating around your head and you still cant work out what they all mean. but dammit they must mean something because he frowns when you dont answer, and taps a blood stained hand onto your cheek, goddamnit sammy, focus trying to pull you out of whatever trance you seem to have fallen into. your cheek feels all sticky and for some reason the idea of blood on your face is revolting you. and you can feel it slowly sliding down your cheek bones and dripping from your jaw. maybe you'll throw up but you can't really recollect where you are and whats happening.
and hes not leaning against the wall , crouched on the floor anymore, hes got a strong hand on the collar of your jacket, pulling you up and steadying you, even though you tower over him, and hes finally gotten ammunition in his gun.
you make a half hearted attempt at shrugging off his
hand, fumbling for your own weapon. a gun or a knife or something. he
steadys you again as you sway, and you manage to get the gun, from the
waistband of your pants, out. armed again, you swallow hard because you
still cant hear anything he's saying, even though youre sure he hasnt
stopped talking since you got to him, and he looks fucking worried, and
it doesnt suit him, and you just want him to cockily grin at you and
make a stupid joke about how the blood stained look is so goddamned in this year.
but
hes looking at you and down the corridor that youve both just been
thrown down and looking every-goddamned-which-way because he doesnt
know where the hell the thing is, because hes worried about you,
because you havent answered him. Because theres still so much blood.
you try and make your mouth say im fine to him so he'll stop looking at you like that, but you still cant find your voice and youre not sure either of you will believe it, even if you can get the words out. something moves to the left and he lets off a shot before you can lift your arm in the right direction.
but the fucking gun is slipping from your bloody grasp and you cant even get a better grip on it and he looks at you with those worried eyes as the gun clatters to the ground
this is fucking retarded you say, not realizing that its out aloud, but you can hear it and cant believe that your voice sounds so choked, so fucking broken.
he's laying a steadying hand on your shoulder taking his eyes off the corridors and looking into your blurry eyes.
hes saying your name you realise. his fucking worried face in your face, his arms sliding under yours, keeping you from crumbling to the ground as your knees buckle no more burgers for you, you lanky bastard and hes managed to slow your fall so you just lower gently onto the floor and hes leaning you against the wall, that same hand wiping at the blood on your cheek. hes got your dropped gun in hand, checking its ammo lock and load sammy and placing it in your hands, his serious worried face telling you to hold it dammit hold it, because hes not sure how long he'll be standing and god how he wants you to be safe, but will have to settle for means of self defense.
you hold the gun with one hand, wiping the other on your jacket, trying to at least dry it so it doesnt slip so much and he grins at you because he can see you're still in the fight. That makes all the difference to him, even though hes leaning heavily against the wall and youre sure that pretty soon he'll be slumped down next to you.
we're good, sammy, we're all good
You manage to get your voice working enough to say its sam, and the look he gives you as he leans heavily against the wall, is worth the pain that feels like crushed glass in your throat, because hes your brother and you're his, and you'll both walk-limp-crawl out of this together
reveiwing will make my pants happy