Air rasped in Asuma's throat; he forced it into a laugh.

"Don't go getting all polite, darlin'. You'll scare me. I'm--" not remotely okay. He braced his hands against his knees, fighting for breath. Sachiko's head had landed by his side; the blue t-shirt he'd wrapped it in was almost entirely black, soaked through with coagulating blood and stained by dirt and mulch. Asuma swallowed hard and shoved it away.

He could feel Natsumi's concern spiralling into something else. He could feel his own panic welling up, twining around scorching heat and gut-level nausea, taking advantage of snarled thoughts he couldn't straighten out. His side blazed; sweat burned in a multitude of small cuts and grazes.

He lifted his head and focused on Natsumi's worried face. Cut out in a shard of moonlight, she was as black and white as their lost armour. Bone-pale skin, ebony-dark hair. Wide eyes and pain-tensed lips. Her broken hand was still held close to her chest, the ancient sword pinned in the crook of her elbow; the other was clenched around their dented canteen, holding it out.

Asuma smiled and felt his lips crack. "Anyone ever tell you you're very pretty? Because they should. Often." He grabbed his balance, grabbed his common sense, and hauled himself back up to his feet. Everything lurched sideways; he steadied himself with a hand on Natsumi's ice-cold shoulder. "I would, if you were mine. Every day, I think."

Water, demanded his body. Finish the job, ordered his mission sense. He reached for the canteen and Sachiko's head at the same time, and almost pitched back to his knees.