If there'd been any justice in the world, he would have passed out the moment the point of her shoulderblade cut up into his side. But he didn't. Solid muscles strained beneath him, shifting and locking into place, then Natsumi stood up. For the first time in a very long time, Asuma found himself being lifted. His boots swung clear of the ground; his knee was trapped by the grip of her elbow. One arm hung down her back, uncurled fingers level with her thigh; the other fell against her side, held at the wrist and jarred with each step.

Everything jarred with each step. Five scrolls dug into his lower back, still trapped by his waistband. His trench-knives sliced through denim and skin with equal efficiency, blades biting into a part of his anatomy that was definitely south of the border. He didn't have the breath--or the willpower--to yelp. Natsumi's shoulderblade dug into his ribcage, bringing agony and crushing it out with each lurching stride.

Hold on, she'd said. Don't give up on me.

There was a limit, he thought with savage exhaustion. But she was still walking, carrying him, bracing his weight up with shaking legs, holding him together with shattered fingers, bleeding cold from her skin into the stretched furnace that made up his, and all he had to do was breathe. Refuse to give in.

Delirium ate the journey away. Asuma found the last scrap of flickering resolve still smouldering near his core, grabbed it with both hands, and threw it against the towering walls of nothingness. It was enough--just enough--to let him see the vague impression of opening gates through greying vision. To hear distant voices lifting with alarm. Beneath him, Natsumi shuddered, staggered, and collapsed to her knees. Asuma slewed off her shoulders, legs hitting hard stone, weight dragging her sideways--

Cool hands caught his back, steadying them both. He used his last reserves to grab for her wrist, felt the briefest connection of a fast-flickering pulse, and drowned in crashing darkness before he ever got a word out.