Work Text:
When Yuta slides his sword through the soft give of Yuji Itadoris chest, he can't help but dip the tip of his thumb into the warmth of the open wound.
It makes sense that, even in death, Yujis body gave under the ministrations of others; the sponge texture greedily sucks in the prude of his fingertip with a wet, soft obedience, the boy himself gasping and gurgling on his own blood; white-tipped fingers clutched at the front of yutas jacket, smears of red where they drag, spilling all the more life out of himself in the process.
Yuji doesn't — can't — speak, but his body spams and twitches, vying for the warmth of another body but trying to slide off the impaling sword; every movement just pushes him further onto the blade. There’s a wet, obscene sound to it, a squelch, and Yuji sobs around it, breath hitching, chest rattling as blood floods his mouth and spills down his chin to consolidate with what the wound is leaking out. His whole body trembles, caught between panic and the failing need to live, seeking warmth, pressure, anything.
Yuta drinks it all down with the hunger of a man starved of his last meal.
Theres a gentleness to how he wrap his arms around Yujis shoulders, Rika falling back to let him manhandle the pink-haired boy who only clings to the front of Yutas jacket even harder. Yuta guides him down, step by step, until their knees sink into the filth below them and then lower still, until Yuji is dragged gently—deliberately—into the mud. Yuta follows him there, staying close, chest to chest, forehead nearly brushing sweat-damp hair.
Yuta finally — finally — pulls out the sword, slowly, eagerly wolfing down the beautiful arch of Yujis body as it flails and tries to get away from the wrong wrong wrong feeling of having something inside it moving; shuddering, breath breaking apart in sharp, ruined fragments as steel slides out of living flesh with a thick, obscene resistance, muscles seizing, the wet sound of the wound struggling to let go of what’s killing him. He lets the tip of the broken sword (because this boy is as terrifying and strong as he is beautiful and selfless) linger in the tender opening of the wound, only the very edge being unseeable inside the wet tunnel of spongey give.
Yujis body had mostly stopped its flailing, full encompassing racket, not enough energy, too much pain, only weakly groaning and twitching and gurgling on his own spit and blood. He was gorgeous; Yuta tenderly wiped strands of hair out of the boys face, sweat having plastered the pink locks flat against skin that is already losing its warmth, its color paling to something waxy and faintly reflective under the grime. Despite how much he was fighting to stay aware, his wide amber eyes were starting to drop, focus slipping through like sand; honey-gold, sticky and cloy, dripping down yutas throat with every eyeful he got of the boy.
When he sees Yujis attention dissolving to somewhere off to the side, anchoring, desperate, He catches Yuji’s chin in his hand and pulls, firm enough to hurt even through the haze of death, forcing his head forward again. Fingers dig in, grounding, possessive. Here. Yuji’s eyes lurch back into alignment, wide and unfocused, and for one terrible second Yuta thinks he’s already lost him.
Then Yuji looks at him.
Yuta’s heart stutters, then races, blood roaring in his ears as he stares straight into that vast, amber gaze; too open, too endless, like standing at the edge of something that could swallow him whole. Yuji’s skin is clammy under his grip, cooling by the second, and Yuta’s thoughts spiral faster than he can rein them in.
Look at me.
The words don’t leave his mouth, but they crowd his head, frantic and overlapping.
Yuji-kun, don’t look away. Don’t leave without seeing me. Won’t you keep me here with you, just for this? Won’t you remember your senpai at the end? Can’t you see it, what I see when I look at you?
He thinks Yuji tries to say something in return of the man handling, but pain filters in like a beaten dog. The words hitch and die a rotten death on the curdle of his tongue, poison slick and thick, useless as a wounded animal’s whine. Is he even still alive, Yuta wonders? Is this the dying twitch of a grasshopper, legs still scraping at air long after it’s already gone, a body uselessly continuing motions with no input? He greedily puts his hand over the top of Yujis heart, uncaring of the wound just barely below it; palm slick with blood; a rabbits pulse, trapped and failing, each beat weaker than the last, giving out underneath the wet warmth of a wound sluggishly bleeding and coating his hand crimson.
No one else would be allowed to witness this moment.
Yuta stares into Yujis eyes as he dies, honey gold dulling into a cloudy amber, as the focus slips completely and never finds its way back. He does not look away when the body finally gives up pretending.
And he is immediately brought back by yutas Love.