Ryuuji gives a curt nod of his head, his focus already set solely on those wounds marring Shiox's pale chest and stomach. Now that the shirt has been removed, the quantity and severity of those wounds is only that much more clear to the kokuei. Still, it's going to take closer inspection to find out whether or not healing his brother in his current state will be possible, so for now, he focuses solely on this task, ignoring that growing panic rising into his throat, threatening to choke him.
“Hold him up, let me see,” he blankly orders, his voice sharp, but otherwise toneless. “Shiox, this is going to hurt. Bear with it for a minute, alright?” he quietly adds—for the first time, that flat tone giving a faint shake. Hold on, Shiox, just... please....
God, the wounds. This is all his fault. Why? Why had the boy jumped in front of those bullets? Idiot... idiot, I.... Again, the kokuei forces his focus back to his task. He gently—yet quickly—examines those wounds, one by one, his lips set in a deep frown. He eases his brother onto his side in Varada's arms, enough to see his back—clean shots. He releases a shuddering breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in. “Clean. We can heal him.”