[LMFSKDJHGKS WELL MAYBE OBSERVATION JIM SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THAT!!!!
But okay, well. DAHUT IS HAVING SUCH A BAD TIME RIGHT NOW. Seeing him in this sorry state breaks the hold his anxiety has on Luke--all at once, memories of the Eudora slam back into his head, forced through by guilt and terror. He scrambles over, grabbing Dahut by the shoulders and dragging him halfway into his lap, away from the spill. His hands are bloody, but Luke pays no mind to his own wounds.]
Hang on, just hang on--
[Hang on for what? There's nothing Luke can do for him here. But he looks around futilely anyway, frantic eyes darting towards the window, the door, trying desperately to catch sight of those heartless figures that shoved them in here.]
He doesn't have the same strike of clarity as Luke. His head is still a fuzzy jumble of memories and bloodshed and betrayal, getting fuzzier still as he shudders and jerks, froth and blood oozing from his mouth.
But he does, at least, recognize this: that despite his fear, and in spite of his own intention to leave here at the cost of a life, Luke has chosen to treat his with care. To attempt and save it, even. His body cramps and spasms in a way he can't control, but at the very least, he works hard to force his stiff and twitching fingers to relinquish their hold on the blade. A thanks, since he can't get his words out, can't even smile.
Here - half in the lap of one of the friends he can call his own, only half-remembered - he takes his last few choking gasps, chasing visions of warm smiles and hands and kinder times.
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no subject
But okay, well. DAHUT IS HAVING SUCH A BAD TIME RIGHT NOW. Seeing him in this sorry state breaks the hold his anxiety has on Luke--all at once, memories of the Eudora slam back into his head, forced through by guilt and terror. He scrambles over, grabbing Dahut by the shoulders and dragging him halfway into his lap, away from the spill. His hands are bloody, but Luke pays no mind to his own wounds.]
Hang on, just hang on--
[Hang on for what? There's nothing Luke can do for him here. But he looks around futilely anyway, frantic eyes darting towards the window, the door, trying desperately to catch sight of those heartless figures that shoved them in here.]
Enough! End it!
no subject
He doesn't have the same strike of clarity as Luke. His head is still a fuzzy jumble of memories and bloodshed and betrayal, getting fuzzier still as he shudders and jerks, froth and blood oozing from his mouth.
But he does, at least, recognize this: that despite his fear, and in spite of his own intention to leave here at the cost of a life, Luke has chosen to treat his with care. To attempt and save it, even. His body cramps and spasms in a way he can't control, but at the very least, he works hard to force his stiff and twitching fingers to relinquish their hold on the blade. A thanks, since he can't get his words out, can't even smile.
Here - half in the lap of one of the friends he can call his own, only half-remembered - he takes his last few choking gasps, chasing visions of warm smiles and hands and kinder times.
Dahut is dead. Fourth time's the charm!]