he clasps his hand and hauls him to his feet, gloves drenched red and sticky.
"get up," he says, with none of that sharp edge in his usual bite. "you're walking. you'll live."
what he really means is "you're safe, you're going home, i watched you slump and held my breath."
he gift—wraps self-sacrifice and calls it love; he has never known how to love any other way. he has never given his heart in scraps—— it has always been laid bare, whole and beating, on the altar.