do i not bleed too;

His hands found his pockets as she spoke so calmly about his own death, his gaze shifting as he found himself unable to meet hers. He could safely offer no more than an apologetic grimace, letting her words linger heavily in the silence as she reached for the spare clothes. With a sigh, he prepared to step back and sink into that ever welcoming chair once more, but the sound of her crashing to the floor had him blindly moving towards her with a string of curses under his breath.

But then he stopped as he noticed the way she was looking at him. Painful. Starving. Feral. He’d seen that look before, been pinned beneath it, begging, pouring out what little of his heart he’d been able to give.
That had been Basileios, though.
Sebastien was only a stranger.
So this time, heartbreakingly so, he caught himself looking for a weapon as her teeth sank into her own arm.

Fuck.

Blood boiled from where her teeth met her skin, bubbling over to spill onto the floor. Sebastien reached to his waist, where a hidden blade waited tucked in his belt- or at least, it should have been. He felt his throat tighten as his grasp came up empty, his only form of defense lying within the shadows. His magic waited patiently, thick in his veins, as he slowly took a step towards her, hands outstretched as she spat blood to the floor and rasped for help. He shakily lowered to his knees and reached for the shirt, pressing it firmly against the bleeding wound as she clutched her arm to her chest.

Would he use his magic on her?
Could he use his magic on her?
When it came down to it, was the risk worth it?

His magic waited patiently, thick in his veins, as he slowly took a step towards her, hands outstretched as she spat blood to the floor and rasped for help. He shakily lowered to his knees and reached for the shirt, pressing it firmly against the bleeding wound as she clutched her arm to her chest.

“Hold this here.” He had to fight to keep his voice from breaking, tone hushed and breathless, “and don’t argue with me.” He pushed himself to his feet and immediately scooped her up into his arms. Those teeth still gnawed in his direction, hungry and ravaging, but he did his best to ignore them as he carried her down the hall.

The washroom was small, dark… cold, as he carefully lowered her to the counter and made quick work of drawing a pan with water and clean rags. He took her arm back gently, pushing the bloody shirt to the floor, and carefully pressed the cold cloth to her skin. He would have apologized for the chill, but he found himself fighting too hard just to breathe.

He had never considered himself a medic, though he did find himself quietly thanking the few training courses that Namarast had forced him to take. And blood on his hands had never bothered him the way it did now, his fingers shaking as he tried to scrub what he could from her skin. A shaky breath left his lips as he reached for another damp cloth, unable to look her in the eye in fear that his mask would crumble. 

“How long have you been like this?” He asked quietly, almost afraid of her answer. "And how long do I have before you look at me like that again?"