He heard the whizz of a portal, along with the smell of cackling flames. Giddy, he turns, but is met with sorrow.

"I think I'm dying."

Seto's voice is serene; a bit too calm as his hand quivers over his lower abdomen. From Brice's standpoint, his eyes brush over the oozing liquid slowly building up behind the barrier of his pallid hand—like a dam, except smaller. Ever so carefully, it finds its way to the surface. A stream of blood drips down onto the marble floor, staining its prestige and leaving behind a puddle of battlefield.

"Why—" Brice sleuths from his ill-spoken, chapped lips, "—why didn't you go to the hospital? Why are you here?"

There's something in his throat that prevents more words from escaping. His heart pounds against his ribcage, bursting into passionate flames of renowned grief. He feels pricks in the corners of his eyes—his nose and ears tingling, heating a peachy shade of red. His fists unfurl from being clenched while his jaw softens.

"I wanted..." Seto speaks, a gurgling liquid emitting from somewhere deep within his throat, "...to see you."

He topples forwards—Brice catches him, holding his frail body within his arms. Was he always his skinny—so fragile like glass? They're sitting now—on the floor in the middle of the Crafted hideaway. Brice feels the blood trickling onto his hands, but not nearly as much as the hot, fresh tears slowly making their way down Seto's cheeks. All Brice could do was stare with hysterics.

With every breath, pain was felt strumming within both parties. Snapping out of his trance, he softly places the injured Sorcerer on the floor, heading towards the first aid-kit sitting atop a shelf. Seto grabs at Brice's pants, tugging him back weakly.

"Please," he whispers, continuing to tug, "don't."

Brice turns around in haste, sitting back on the ground and laying Seto's head on his lap. He strokes his calloused hand through his mop of brunet hair. It's as silky as he remembers it, like a river of chocolate flowing through candied forests.

"Remember that time—" Seto takes a moment to wheeze. More blood spews both out of his wound and mouth. Brice flinches, hands quaking as he grabs onto Seto's hand tightly, forcing a small smile on his face. He continues to speak, "—where I tripped and scraped my knee as a kid? You held me, just like this."

Brice laughs, a bitter feeling settling into his chest. His vision begins to blur, then clears as droplets trickle down his own cheeks onto Seto's bloodied cloak. "Of course, I do."

"A-And you never left my side, from that point," he sees the life being drawn out from his body. His eyelashes flutter while those lively hues of honey-brown eyes begin to draw to a close.

"I never will," Brice croaks, clutching onto Seto's shaking hand, "I made a promise to you—a vow."

Brice's eyes shift towards the wound once more. His purple cloak is a bloodied velvet, growing wider like waves across his whole attire. His breaths become more shallow—his chest rarely can make it upright. His mouth, opened slightly, takes small, lifeless inhales and exhales. His eyes are half-lidded—Brice can barely see them.

"I'm scared," he weeps, breaking loose from Brice's grip and clinging onto his shirt, "I'm dying."

A weak son escapes from his lips as more blood trickles down his chin. Brice pulls the brunet closer, kissing his forehead and tightly hugging him. Seto's head tilts backwards as he continues to grow weaker.

"Why can't you heal yourself?" Brice grits his teeth, shifting his perspective towards Seto's blank-slate of a face. "Why couldn't you just let me help you?"

"I can't—" he wheezes once more, lips like ghosts, "—I cant keep escaping death."

"Yes you can!" Brice exclaims, clutching tighter onto his limping hand. "Just one more time, one more time—please!"

Just escape death one more time for me. The sentence almost escapes Brice's mouth, but he refrains.

"I'm sorry."

You could hear Brice's tears hit the floor as the Sorcerer makes his last breath. The life escapes from him as his body goes limp—Brice has held many corpses in his arms without any remorse. He's dead, there's no other way around it.

He deserved an honorable way to go, Brice thinks to himself. Instead, he's laying there in his arms, eyes half-lidded and darkened like the night, rather than grinning like the sun. His lips are ghosted, chapped and dry. The wound is still seeping with blood, and upon closer inspection, the skin is laced with midnight. The dagger he's been stabbed with, it appears, had been poisoned.

"Come on, Seto," he pleads, shaking him slightly. "Y-You've got this—just wake up."

He isn't responding.

Something is howling in the room—bloodied cries of murder and anger fill the silence. He feels more droplets transforming themselves into streams down his cheeks. It makes the paintings bounce and the walls shake—the ground beneath their feet trembles like an earthquake. His heart pounds in his ears while his throat grows dry. He screams until he can't.

"Why are you sorry?" Brice whispers, pale as a ghost. "Why are you always sorry?"

He pulls the corpse closer to his body. Seto always smells like lavender, but now, the scent turns into ashes under his fingertips. He let him slip away into a foul, metallic bitterness that he will never dare to taste on his lips. He wants the vanilla back—he wants the lavender back. Anything but this; anything but the blood staining his clothes and the void growing larger in his heart.

"You never stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault," Brice says, his voice echoing through the empty house. "Your damn stubbornness got to you—now look where you are!"

Silence.

Teardrops.

"...You're not here in my arms when it should've been the other way around."