#and yet my sick brain fog doesn't let me remember why omg

[infamous-if]

Oh, damn. No 25 with MC trying to protect/take care of Seven in a dangerous situation sounds nice.

Hope you feel better soon, Amy! Take care!

Thank you! <3 Dangerous situation, you say?

Double whammy (the amount of seven asks...)

CW: blood

This is all your fault.

You shouldn't have said anything. You shouldn't have fought with the person at the bar. You should've left it alone.

You should've known that Seven wouldn't let it go. Even when they hate you.

You should've known Seven. Has it been that long that you forgot who they were? Once, they were as familiar to you as the very lines on your palm.

"Seven, please."

You're holding onto them as you two stumble out of the bar, moving like two drunkards though both of you are terribly sober. The warm sensation of Seven's blood on your shirt sends dull fear over you. You're spiraling. Breaking. You don't know what to do.

Seven lets you guide them outside, your arms wrapped closely around them as they keep a hand under their nose which spews blood like an open faucet. It sends another round of fear down your spine, but it's not their nose that has you so breathless you're dizzy.

Their stomach.

In the heat of the moment, the person Seven was fighting threw them on the table littered with glass cups and broken bottles. Seven claims to be fine, but the way blood makes an angry stain on the green fabric of their shirt and Seven limps like their body is failing them, you know they're anything but.

Seven loses their footing, tripping on the last step and making both you and them fumble to the wet, concrete ground.

Your body shakes when the cool water of the alleyway seeps into your jeans. Seven coughs, rolls on their back, and lets out a sigh.

Blood is smeared across their face, their eyes are hazy, the blooming flower of blood grows larger across their stomach.

Your hands flail in front of you when you get on your knees, fingers shaking, lips shuttering. You feel the burning sting of tears. "Seven, what do I do? My phone is dead. We need to call an ambulance."

Seven groans. Coughs. Their hair turns damp when it sinks into a puddle by their face. "Stop...yelling."

"How can I stop?!" you cry. "I need to see it-" You begin to lift up their shirt but Seven stops you.

"No."

Anger replaces your previous fear. "Seven-"

"I don't want you to."

That hurts. Hurts more than it should in this moment. Seven is hurt, bleeding, and even now they don't want you to touch them, to care for them. Has everything been for nothing? Have all the years you two spent together meant nothing?

"You fucking asshole."

"What?" They burst up and groan, hissing and laying back down.

"I need to help you." The fear returns anew when Seven's eyes glide towards you slowly, their lips parted. Not from pain, but from slight surprise. "Please. I know you hate me. I know you have no reason to trust me. But please... I'm asking you to anyway." You bite your lip to hide the way it shakes. "Please let me help you."

It takes them a moment. They stare at you so long you feel like you're being judged. Then, in a move that shocks you even now, Seven nods and looks away.

"Go ahead."

You clear your throat, slowly peeling the shirt that sticks to the blood on their skin. Seven winces, and you let out a small sound when you catch the piece of glass lodged to their rib.

"Not bad," you try, wincing, "just a tiny piece. You'll be fine."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

You look at them, ready to shoot them a glare, when you see a small, amused smirk on their face.

"Shut up," you mumble, turning back to their wound.

As you inspect more of their skin, slick with blood, you catch their stomach heave when a small laugh leaves them. You look at Seven, quirking a brow. "You called me an asshole." They look at you. The blood still smeared all across their lower face, they look at you and laugh. "I'm about to die and you call me an asshole."

"You're not about to die," you say strongly and then quieter: "and you are."

Seven hums. "Maybe. Maybe you just bring it out of me."

"That's not helping," you mumble.

You move to lift their shirt higher when you feel a wet hand on your wrist. Seven's blood leaks from their fingers to your skin, but you hardly notice it. Not when they're looking at you with a face so soft it disarms your every defense. "I don't hate you."

Your heart rate quickens. "...You don't?"

They shake their head slowly, stifling a small grown with the movement. "How could I?" they mumble, but don't elaborate.

A sigh leaves them and they glide their gaze to the sky. The sound of an ambulance rings in the distance; the bartender must've called the cops.

"I don't hate you either," you say.

Seven says nothing, but their face twists into a satisfied smile, their eyes closing.

I never did.

and then seven dies. JUST KIDDING