| [Nov. 14th, 2011|07:36 am] |
The summer sun and koi pond vanished as if they had never existed. The right side of Ginta’s face was an inferno. His left eye saw green-lit darkness, his right a shower of phosphorescence that pulsed in time to his heartbeat, rapid-fire like a lightning strike.
There was a crinkling sound behind him, as Kakashi shifted and pulled on the thin foil emergency blanket tangled around their legs. A groan that resolved itself into words. A word. Morphine.
Yes, please.
Ginta rolled towards Kakashi, groping blindly for his medkit. Baiji was still there, back braced against the crushing weight of the destroyed bunker, keeping their air pocket intact. Their tomb. Morphine could kill you if you were already bleeding into your brain.
But pain could kill you if it sent you over the edge into unrecoverable shock.
It’d be better to die without pain.
Kakashi was shaking.
“Getting it,” Ginta said, slurring his words through his smashed mouth. He could feel thick moisture in his throat, rattling with each breath — not a comforting sound — and the rusted iron taste of a blood pill coating his tongue.
Had Ryouma died without pain?
“You shouldn't have done that. I shouldn’t have let you.” He found the kit and dragged it towards himself, finding the little vial and syringe by touch. “How’s your head?”
“It’s been better.” Kakashi had one blood-stained hand pressed over his face as if the dim light from the glo-stick was enough to hurt his eyes. He had the sharingan left completely obscured, but Ginta could see a flicker of iron-grey eyelashes on the right shadowed under Kakashi’s fingertips.
When Ginta got the drug drawn up, his own hands were surprisingly steady. He pressed the needle against Kakashi’s arm, but didn’t push it in. “If you cracked your skull, this could kill you. Are you sure—” He stopped himself. Of course Kakashi was sure.
Kakashi lifted his arm, pressing it against the needle, so Ginta had his answer anyway. He pushed the plunger down.
After a moment, Kakashi sighed. Ginta wasn’t sure it was actual relief, or just the idea of it, but it didn’t much matter. He drew the syringe back, groped for another, and came up empty handed. There were still several doses of morphine in the vial, but if he had another syringe, he didn’t know where.
“You’d better not have any blood diseases,” Ginta said. Then he refilled the syringe and used it again, stabbing the needle into his own thigh. |
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