Red Is The Color Of Our Lives (And Red Is The Color Of Our Blood)

noun
a feeling of discomfort or weakness caused by lack of food, coupled with the desire to eat.

verb
have a strong desire or craving for.

WARNING THIS CHAPTER IS DEADASS SMUT..and then some fluff 🫶

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It's a fickle thing.

Death.

How she dances and swirls beneath the poor, the damned, and the unlucky ones of life just as much as she croons and beckons to the loved, the young, and the destined
Puppetress and her strings of fate interlinked within everyone's existence, their flesh...their bones..their heart..their..

Their soul.

It's fickle.
Funny even.
How she even wrenches one from the very life you reside in just to spit them back out for her own amusement of watching human beings crumble beneath the weight of losing close ones.

Johnny was dead.

Was...

It's an amazing wonder on what the human body can go through and come back from just from the cemented extent of medical technology today..it's a wonder..how the Sargent had taken a Bullet to his fucking skull and survive. Even more so on how he was coherent in the room next to yours, balking a mix of Scottish dialect lost beneath the low thrum of your ears and English that gets swallowed whole by Simon's own murmured hisses in his attempts to..soothe the man.. Those two would always be interlinked-

Everyone on the team knew it.
Everyone knew it...they all have their own relationships with another.
Price and Gaz.
Johnny and Simon.
Price or Simon at times. Simon or gaz. Price and Johnny... Gaz and Johnny..
They were 141. A whole. Interlinked and a team.

How.. how did you fit into it?

Then again.. you were always there for them. Apart of the team-

You can't help but blink, and the hospital room swims back into focus as an all too-familiar gruffened frame swarms onto your field of vision. Crowds. Suffocating-
It'd been a close call.
Johnny almost died-
A bomb almost denonated-

And you? You had gone against orders and chased after Makarov in a heated blinded surge of pure adrenalinized rage after watching him blow a gun point blank into Johnny skull-

(You're a fluttery thing, aren't you? Through and through-)

You flinch back against the gloved hands that slip free from their leather confines; only for the ringing in your ears to grow aggressively within the drums of your skull- pounding...

(You don't get to flutter through my fingers again. Not this time Damhirschkuh..)

You had killed Makarov.
Blown a bullet from your pistols chamber in the midst of the large man trying to strangle you as the world around you both screamed into a bloody chaos. His brains indented themselves onto your skins memory- you shudder when calloused fingers caress against skin like it's glass..

Warm..familiar-

Him..
Him.
König.

"Easy..easy..breathe ja? In..out. Breathe Damhirschkuh.." He huffs the words out through the mask; that damned wall between the two of you that clouds your memory fuzzy enough to let him get this close as your lungs constrict- closing in from the shell shock that the aftermath had left you stranded with.

He tisks at you like an unruly child the moment you try to shove his hands away from your frame until he grunts; and shoves a hand against your chest.

Right above the connection of the cage that is your ribs; against your fluttery heart and hiccuping lungs..his hand is warm against the skin as he drops his other hand from your face before grasping your shaking hands; clammy and trembling in his grip as they press against his chest. The fabric of his sweat stained fatigued shirt bled his breaths so..easily through his own heartbeat..