His shuddering breath is weak and ragged against the freezing January snow. His blue eyes that once held the spark of every star in the sky are faded, dulled and moist with sweat and tears as his body trembles against the cold sheet of midwinter white.
His vision blurs in and out of focus as he pants, feeling the ache as it thrums and courses through his nerves with each slowing heartbeat. He can hear it in his ears; the thump, thump of his pulse and it's like drums – like a clock. Like a timer that's running out of seconds, and the crimson blood that leaks from his wound is an hourglass down to its last pinch of sand.
It's cold. It's so damn cold and the burn of his injury is quickly faded as the chill of the air freezes the sweat on his skin like ice piercing into his body. It's not all bad, he thinks bitterly. He'd always wished this day would come in his sleep, painless and at piece, but he supposes not everything works out the way you want. That's just life, and though he's never been known for his wise ways he knows that rule very well. He knows that he's dying, and he's content that he's been able to live every day like it was his last.
But he chokes as he feels something pushing up his throat and for a moment he can't breath, and for a moment everything seems to rush back to him.
More blood splatters onto the snow as Alfred coughs and hacks violently and all of a sudden he's crying – sobbing and he's so scared, so terrified and he doesn't want to die. Not yet, not now. Nineteen years was too short of a life. It's not fair. It's not fair.
He wants to be a child again. He wants to go back to when nothing mattered and the only worry on his mind was if he could catch a big enough fish for the Sunday dinner to put a proud smile on his mother's face, or if that pretty girl down the road wanted to hold his hand as much as he wanted to hold hers.
He wants to go back to the days when Arthur would pick him up and cuddle his tears away when he was frustrated, or climb into his bed and sing him a lullaby when he was too scared of how the house creaked at night ("Arthur! Arthur, I'm scared!"). He remembers his first day of high school; how he walked through those doors clutching Matthew's hand in his own, how they were both terrified, and how they were laughed at almost instantly for their bond. He remembers the pain he felt when his elementary school innocence was forced out of him by the bigger boys, and how he did things he was never proud of just to fit in.
He remembers his first kiss, first cigarette, first party and drink. All in one night. None of them had been the kind of experiences he'd hoped them to be. He could still remember how Arthur waited for him at home that night, how angry he got at him as soon as he walked through the door, how he was with him every second when he had his head over the toilet pan. He remembers the talk Arthur gave him that night when he finally got put to bed. Arthur had told him that even though they were only half brothers Arthur would take a bullet for him ("I love you, little brother. Please don't worry me so.").
And so he cries, teeth gritting as he clutches the gashes of his side. The blood leaks past his trembling fingers and he feels himself slipping away, feels the pain and cold fade and his heartbeat slows as his vision fades to black.
"Arthur. Arthur, I'm scared..."
