Part of him feels he deserves it, but still he argues, "I'm not dying here."
He looks from their clasped hands to her face to her wound, colored all painful and disturbing. He sniffs and blinks hard; he doesn't want to be crying, though he knows there's bound to be more.
"I have a knife. I can fight. I'm fine." He looks back up. "Don't make me leave you, Nill." His hand squeezes back. "I'm--I'm responsible for this. I can't fucking run away like a coward because, because it might be dangerous, not when you're hurting and can't even stand anymore. Who do you think I am? I've said it too many times: I'm not leaving."
No sobs clog his voice, but his tone creaks with the effort of making words past the hurt of this. He's so tired of friends always dying, of things going to shit, of his own inescapable mistakes. It doesn't matter that she's the one telling him to do it; leaving would still be running from things.
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He looks from their clasped hands to her face to her wound, colored all painful and disturbing. He sniffs and blinks hard; he doesn't want to be crying, though he knows there's bound to be more.
"I have a knife. I can fight. I'm fine." He looks back up. "Don't make me leave you, Nill." His hand squeezes back. "I'm--I'm responsible for this. I can't fucking run away like a coward because, because it might be dangerous, not when you're hurting and can't even stand anymore. Who do you think I am? I've said it too many times: I'm not leaving."
No sobs clog his voice, but his tone creaks with the effort of making words past the hurt of this. He's so tired of friends always dying, of things going to shit, of his own inescapable mistakes. It doesn't matter that she's the one telling him to do it; leaving would still be running from things.
His head tips as he asks of her, "Nill, please."