Twelve: Touch of Death
It was unfamiliar, yet at the same time, so painfully recognizable. Hot tears fell from his eyes, burning acid down his pale face. The hands tightened around his throat. He choked, blood scorching his lips, frigid against the cold.
As the spindly fingers compressed upon his airways, thumbs expertly pressed against his jugulars, his throat tightened. He could literally feel his esophagus closing in upon itself, mimicking the ache in his breast.
He didn't need air to sob. He didn't need to breathe in any longer. He doubted that he would even inhale even if those hands weren't there. They were just a prop, just an aide to the presentation. He was dying anyway. He trembled, breathless, soundless cries leaving his body. He didn't resist. He couldn't even if he tried.
It wasn't that the hands were too fast, too strong; he had no will to fight any longer. Snow danced before his eyes, and a faint noise of sorrow left his lips—a soft choke, a garbled last exhale, a musical distortion that was his voice. It echoed with immeasurable grief, the last cry of a mourning bird. He'd escaped death many times before, and each time, he damned himself for living—now that he faced the periphery of death, he gave grace to each escape, but now, he was ready.
His heart thudded in his ears, the only sound now in the corpse littered room; he stared up at his killer. Veins burst in his eye, blood spreading across the viscous lens of his vision. Eyes cold as the winter he spent in the valley turned crimson and all else faded away until it was just a pair of strong red eyes.
A trembling mimicry of a sigh left his lips, now the same shade as his eyes, and he lifted his hands to his killer's, holding them tightly, aiding instead of abetting.
He would do anything for those eyes; if he was wanted dead, then he would die. He'd been promised death long ago. A faint sob wracked his body—
Dead, both dead… they would die together. His eye fluttered shut, and he fell limp against the hands, half-dead in body, dead in mind.
He registered a faint cry and the sound of footsteps, then the harsh sound of metal permeating bone and flesh.
He fell.
He was falling in the relief—he knew the sound of those footsteps, he knew the weight and strength behind them, he knew the voice that the force of impact ripped from that body… He was drowning in relief and air.
He gasped.
It was unfamiliar, yet at the same time, so painfully recognizable. He remembered it from years before. Hot pain lanced through his body, radiating from his shoulder. He could feel his blood leaving his body, scorching the cold body he blindly clutched to him. There was no sound in dimensional travel, but he could feel Fai screaming. He could feel the sharp nails digging into him, the shaking; he could almost hear the harshness of Fai's bruised voice vibrate against his chest.
And they landed. He could no longer stand, he could no longer think; he and the magician tumbled to the ground, the blonde landing atop him, from the feel of it. However, that too, was lost as his shoulder was jarred. He kept his mouth shut; mentally glued it closed. He wanted to scream. Normally, he would, warrior's pride be damned; but Fai…
He could hear the man screaming, pleading at Syaoran. He could hear him screaming the same thing over and over, and he wanted to sit up and smack the beautiful, idiotic blonde to keep him from saying things in such a fearful, grief-stricken, broken voice. But he couldn't, and he couldn't stop himself from fading away, but he was desperate to prove Fai wrong; he would live.
He needed to breathe. Each movement was like torture, but he needed it. He had to.
He opened his eyes to the dark.
He fell.
He was falling into the familiarity—he knew the place he sat, the gentle condolences, the pad of footsteps behind the screen doors. He was drowning in that sweet smile, that sparkling blue eye.
He smirked.