It’s been a long time since he was last like this. A long time since he last tasted the bitterness of his own blood on his tongue. A long time since pain had eroded every single one of his senses until all that’s left is the bitterness of living, the burn of every single breath. And the regret. Ilya regrets this. Regrets leaving home. Regrets leaving Luka when he knows how unstable the boy is. His eye closes. His only hand clenches slowly into a fist - it’s painful, the way his muscles tense up his shoulder and down his chest. What’s left of his chest.
A shuddering breath. A whimper. It’s so out of character that he almost doesn’t believe it’s coming from him.
And then he hears the door. It’s so far out in the distance, in the back of his attention that he almost passes it out as imagination. Because he knows what’s happening. Like a tree that’s started to petrify. Like a fossil that’s so old it’s turning to stone. His legs are fading away. Bone and muscle and flesh and skin slowly fading into stone. Perhaps it’s time. He’s lived for so many years. Done so many horrible things. Hurt so many people. Maybe this is his punishment. Dying on his couch… turning to stone. Crumbling to ash.
‘Ilya.”
Luka’s voice breaks through the pain, and slowly he swims to the surface of consciousness. His remaining eye opens, the iris glowing silver. Swollen lips part to speak, but then he chokes on a breath and his body arches. A seizure rocks through him, until he’s struggling to breathe and his stone limbs are shattering with the force of his actions.
When it ends, and he’s finally able to focus on something, he feels the warmth of fingertips against his forehead.
"L-Luka," the younger’s name is rough on his lips. His gaze lifts slowly, taking in how crappy Luka looks, but he’s just happy the boy is here… here with him.
Again his eye closes, and he breathes in slowly. “Y-You need to leave. I n-need to feed. And I’m hungry. I can’t… c-can’t do that to you.”
How? How does he possibly keep himself sane when he’s faced with something so horrible that it makes his bones shudder with fright. He aches, everything aches but he knows it’s nothing compared to the pain Ilya must feel, to what he must be going through at that very moment, when Luka is as close to petrified as he could ever be. It’s a bit like basing your entire life on a lie, up to a certain point and at that very moment he’s so sure that he’s weak that eh doesn’t know how to handle himself but he pushes it away. Because the way Ilya speaks his name makes his heart warm and he blinks away the tears in his eyes. He’s afraid, he’s so afraid that he barely gets his lips to part because it’s so obvious that if anything, Ilya us dying right before his eyes and Luka doesn’t know what to do to stop it.
“ Don’t tell me to go. ” He almost hisses, teeth gritted to keep his voice from wavering, from breaking as he makes himself close his eyes, to keep away from looking at blood and injuries, from decaying limbs that turned to stone and ashes, It hurts too much, it all hurts too much and of course he blames himself for most of it. For not searching for hi earlier, for being terrified of visiting a place littered with enough memories to make him quiver. He hates it. Hates himself. But he can’t hate Ilya, even if he’d want to he just can’t. Because he doesn’t deserve it like this. “ Just.. take my blood. If it makes you better I won’t regret it, it’ll make me happy okay? ” He utters, words breathy and almost strained as he dares himself to peer at features he adores more than anything he can think of. “ I won’t take no for an answer. ” He adds only moments later, because he knows Ilya is stubborn and that he’ll most likely have to make this happen.
I won’t be angry, if saving you means I have to die.
Luka shifts, he moves in order to stand and he acts with eased speed. He gives himself a mental pat on the back, for always keeping himself armed. Because this will be one of those few moments where he’ll actually put his knife to use. His heart is thundering away in his chest, speaking of the turmoil he has forced aside. Because if anything, Luka is good at letting determination take over his senses, for a little while at least. It is what makes him good at his own job. Therefore, it’s so simple, when he bares the gleaming silver, when he stares at the edge of the blade. He keeps it between his teeth, when he slips out of his jacket, when he bares bruised skin even further, cuts and graces still healing and it’s more than clear that he’s been beaten senseless more than once.
The blade glides easily over his wrist, beads of sanguine surfacing immediately and he stares at them for a few seconds, for a moment before he moves back up close. “ Just… for once Ilya, let me help you while I still can. ” He mumbles as he sinks back to his knees, as he holds his arm out for the vampire and almost presses it against his lips.
Let me save you, like you’ve saved me from myself.