Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright...

[britchillsout]

Who: Phil (britchillsout) and Dean Smith (respectedman) // Philip (sadfreezingbrit) and Alex Kralie (40410)
Where: Smith & Phil's room on the mirrorside // 5th floor on the realside
When: The evening of Christmas Day
Rating: R for character death
Summary: The event is over and Phil walks back to Smith's room. Hey, did he mention that he met his regular just before being transported back? It

Comments

[respectedman]

Smith moves closer anyway, because he knows that Phil needs it, and he needs it, and the gravity of the situation is hitting him like a ton of bricks. He hasn't wanted to acknowledge it, because denial is so much better. Denial lets him think that everything is going to be okay, like it always is.

And Phil is dying.

Phil is dying, and all Smith can concentrate on is how angry he is. If Phil dies, who is he going to look after? Who is he going to berate for leaving all the dishes in the sink and the fridge empty? Who is going to play with the cat?
Who will make hot chocolate for him when it's cold outside?
Who will curl up behind him and hold him while he sleeps?
Who will smile lazily and tell him his bitching is cute?

No one. But it's not about Smith.

It's about the infuriating stoner trying to reassure him that he's fine despite everything, the person who frustrates him more than anything else, the one he never thought he'd care about. Not like this.

"It's not just a scratch, you're...there's so much red, Phil, please keep talking to me, what do I do?"

Smith takes a shaky breath and tries to imagine life without Phil, to remember life before Phil.

"Please don't leave me."

[britchillsout]

Phil is vaguely convinced he was about to mention the Queen, how she seems like a sweet girl and how she'll patch him up again in no time.

Now he really doesn't know why he'd even need to bother. He's fine. Granted, a bit cold maybe, but that's why he's in bed. With blankets. And Smith.

"You're warm."

Smith, whose shampoos and colognes and body wash Phil will never remember by name, who smells minty and a little like sage, strong enough to distract from the stale scent of iron in the air.

Smith, who looks really good in a red shirt, even if this one is just a blotchy and wet draft.

Smith, who worries entirely too much about something Phil can sleep off in no time.

"Stop fussing."

Phil pulls closer still and presses the back of his nose against Smith's shoulder.

[respectedman]

It doesn't matter that there's a way to fix Phil again - it isn't that future that Smith is worried about. He's floundering in the present, which is still very real and very horrific.

"I'm trying," he half-chokes, half-laughs, because fussing is what he does best.

Abandoning the wound in Phil's stomach, Smith curls over him, one hand pressed to the back of his head, the other clinging to a bloodied shirtsleeve.

"Don't go," he begs quietly, mumbling into Phil's ear. "Don't go, I'm here. I'm here."

[britchillsout]

He can't feel his right arm. Maybe it's trapped under Smith or his own body. Maybe he never had one to begin with, but Phil senses that this particular theory might have some holes in it.

Something they've got in common.

He chuckles at the private joke, though at this point he might as well be coughing or breathing loudly or--

"'M not going anywhere, pet," seems important to add, but to describe the quiet mumble as intelligible would be a blatant lie for Smith's benefit.

At least he can still drag his other arm to let his hand meet Smith's, letting it rest there as he buries his face in the other man's chest and closes his eyes.

[respectedman]

Phil seems to be moving less than before, not that he was moving much to begin with. He's still warm. His chest is still rising and falling. Sort of. This can be fixed. Smith just needs to get help, but he can't get help if he stays here, but he has to stay here because Phil needs him, and his vision is getting blurry and his lungs feel as though they're shriveling into nothing.

Everything smells like blood. Blood, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.

"At least say goodbye, you asshole," Smith jokes feebly, curling his fingers into Phil's hair and ducking his head to try and make eye contact.

"...Phil?"

[britchillsout]

Half-lidded eyes reveal large pupils, staring not so much at as through Smith.

But at least his chest is still rising. And falling.

And rising.

And falling.

And rising.

And falling.

And--

A finger twitches. Then Phil's hand slips down.

[respectedman]

"Phil."

Nothing.

"Phil."

Smith doesn't even know why he's trying when he can't do anything. The hand slides away from his and his stomach lurches.

"Phil, say something. Anything. Phil."

He tilts Phil's chin up and rakes his fingers through brown hair matted with blood, where did it all come from, how is there so much, and why can't he breathe.

[britchillsout]

Smith's narration is entirely correct in the one and only thing that is left to add now:

Nothing.