Reddened hues slowly bleed back into silver. Fangs slide out of sight. Every aspect of him that is born to kill slowly disappearing until all that’s left is the bloodied man underneath. His skin is pale despite the natural bronzed coloring. His eyes are filled with something very close to fear, and despite being almost fully healed, every breath in feels like shards of glass digging into his lungs. This shouldn’t be so horrible for him. He’s killed before. At one stage in his life he’d loved the sensation of another’s blood on his hands and in his mouth. He loved the hunt, loved the slaughter even more.
But not this. Not like this.
Not his Luka.
Swallowing his regret, Ilya watches with panic as Luka caves inwards. His hand drops, arm colliding with the floor, and then his eyes close. No. Not like this. Stumbling, the immortal falls to his knees next to Luka. He’s careful in the way he gently lifts the boy into his arms, settling his dead weight against his knees and chest. There’s still a pulse. There’s still breathing. There’s still hope.
Ilya’s fingers curl under Luka’s chin, tilting his head to examine the damage he’s caused. Leaning closer, he presses his mouth to the gash in his throat, closing the wound with his healing saliva. When he’s satisfied with the resulting scar - it’s better than an open wound - his attention shifts to the younger’s paling limbs and the open vein. It takes longer to heal this one, and as every second ticks by slowly he can feel Luka get colder and colder. Can hear his heart slowing. Can hear his breath shallowing.
"Not like this," he whispers, eyes lifting to watch Luka’s face as the wound finally heals.
His body restored, he has enough strength to draw blood from his own wrist, lips parting against Luka’s to force him to drink. If he can’t get him to at least drink, he’ll have to do something so much worse. It’s a life he never wants for Luka. Not the life he has. Not the killing, the regret. He wants him to live, live as he is now.
"Love, please… please come back to me." His voice softens and he gently kisses Luka’s forehead as he holds him. "You aren’t allowed to die. Not like this. You hear me? I won’t let you. I love you too fucking much to let you go because I couldn’t restrain myself."
— Shallow and fleeting, each moment more distant than the previous one as he’s slowly enveloped by creeping chill. It almost feels like warmth, an illusion of something he needs, wants and craves. He doesn’t realize that he’s fading, doesn’t realize that he’s being enveloped in comfort to ease the knowledge of that he’s about to face the reaper, that bony fingers will clutch onto his soul and drag him down into the depths of a darkness so solid there would never ever be any sort of escape. Not a single mention of it. It’s why he lets weariness take over each fibre of his body, why the last whisper falling from his lips is the vampire’s name and not a profanity.
Because amidst chaos and pain, he’s content like this. Confident in dying for a better cause. He doesn’t reflect over the fact that maybe, just maybe Ilya won’t let things end like this. Because Luka has since long lost faith words that had been spoken months ago and even if he was to walk out of this alive, he’d never see Ilya again on his own accord. It’d only cause him pain. Gruesome, intense pain.
He can’t really feel the way his body is moved, too hazy and far to deep in his own personal chaos. But he feels the shift in temperature, the way his surroundings turn more pleasant to rest against. That’s when everything starts to fade entirely, when his hearing gives out and is breaths slow further, shallow as can be. He slips further and further away from a reality he wants to escape, but something in his mind tells him his business is unfinished, that he still needs to exist. Sadly, Luka doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t believe anything before he vaguely registers the press of something against his own lips.
Chapped tires part on instinct and what he’s faced with tastes bitterly, makes him grimace after swallowing faster than imagined. It’s as if a small dusting of fire sparks through his veins, a tickling sensation like no other and it awakens strange bouts of energy within aching limbs. The chill is subsiding, breathing is getting easier and senses he deemed lost are returning, timely enough for him to actually catch the vampire’s soft pleas, his words of affection. His head hurts, badly, together with every other cell in his body and he shifts, as slowly as ever.
He has always been stubborn, but not stubborn enough to fight against salvation. Albeit prepared for death, being saved from it felt better than turning into a cremated pile of ashes ; lying forgotten in a cemetery. ” I’m.. here. “ He rasped, biting back a cough as his arms moved slowly, fingers curling into the back of Ilya’s shirt. He’s still weak, still hurting but it’s getting better for each passing second. He can feel it in the marrow of his shattered bones. But he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
” I’m.. still breathing. “
” All for you. “
All because of you.