Daniel never got nosebleeds as a kid. The first and only occurrence was his freshman year of high school, and it was causing by downing one too many decongestants while he had a cold. He had a line of deep red staining the front of his shirt, crimson smeared across the desk of his Earth Science class, and his hands saturated in the liquid by the time he’d walked down two sets of stairs and across the expanse of the school to the nurse’s office. Dry sinus pathway, it's completely normal, grab a few tissues and get back to class.
Adolescent free time was spent with an NES controller in his hands and eyes glued to the television, or permanently damaging his hearing through playing his music way too loud despite being warned numerous times. He’s never even broken a bone, never endured anything more severe than an occasional scraped knee or a minor cut. The most dangerous thing he’s ever done is to swim in his backyard pool unsupervised.
He’s lived a sheltered life, and he has never been more aware of that fact until now.
So how the f*ck is he supposed to know how to deal with a bullet wound? This sh*t wasn’t f*cking taught in the health class he got a D+ in. Daniel can feel his throat tightening, threatening to close up if he lets himself succumb to the stress for too long.
The body below him shifts, frame shaking through another fit of coughs. Daniel struggles to suppress his sobs. Tears fall down onto the red-stained grey mass of fabric attached to the body sitting in his lap. He’s trying to apply every bit of first-aid he’s learned from the sh*tty cop shows his dad subjected him to watch when he was younger:
Direct pressure to the wound, supplied in the form of his rain-soaked blue jacket that’s not very blue anymore.
Trying to calm the shaking mass in his lap, a task he’s certainly failing at because he’s far too caught in his own head to provide emotional support at this moment. Not to mention Hunter keeps running his mouth, saying its fine, saying to just go somewhere safer. To stop worrying about it.
Keeping himself calm, which may as well be a f*cking joke. He’s nearly hyperventilating and praying to whatever inhuman being controls the cosmos that he doesn’t have an asthma attack right now. It’s difficult to see past the tears clinging to his eyelashes, and when he looks down all he sees is blood and who the f*ck can just stay calm when their boyfriend has been f*cking shot for f*ck’s sake?
But nothing is f*cking helping anything and Hunter is dying and, oh not to f*cking mention, there’s a f*cking massive hurricane outside so emergency services will be taking their sweet ass time to get here.
Daniel’s molars radiate a dull throb through his jaw with the force he’s been grinding his teeth together from the stress.
“D,” It comes out through a mouthful of blood and Daniel’s trying to not think of the medical ramifications of a collapsed lung. Of Hunter’s airways slowly filling with blood until he either bleeds out or suffocates. Of how little time they have left. Of the mortality rate. How the outcome could be different if he arrived sooner. How he could have stopped this from happening in the first place. He startles from his thoughts when he feels Hunter’s hand wrap around his wrist, weakly trying to pull Daniel away from tending to his wounds. More like trying to f*cking kill himself faster, “Stop, it’s-” He’s struggling to form a sentence, and sounds nearly breathless. Daniel’s having none of it.
“I got you,” Daniel says firmly, prying Hunter’s hand off his wrist and pressing it to the mass of wet fabric over Hunter’s wound. “I got you, shut up.”
Hunter coughs, and Daniel feels the surge of blood with each shake of his chest. His lips are moving, but he’s not saying anything, and Daniel isn’t entirely sure if he’s more relieved that Hunter isn’t putting more stress on is lungs, or fearful that the stubborn prick isn’t fighting as hard through this anymore.
“Danny,” Hunter’s left hand reaches behind him slowly, catching a handful of Daniel’s shirt, “Just go.”
“f*ck you.” There’s no bite to it. Daniel’s eyes meet Hunter’s, half-lidded in exhaustion, and he ignores the stinging pain in his chest when he sees the edges of Hunter’s lips quirk upwards, only slightly. He nudges the side of Hunter’s head with his elbow softly, opting to not chance releasing a single hand’s pressure on the wound. “Hey, we got this, alright? f*ckin’ ambulance is gonna get here and they’re gonna pull a miracle. Don’t you-” Daniels voice breaks. He swallows hard, blinks back a new onslaught of tears, and tries to speak again. “Don’t you f*cking die on me.”
Hunter opens his mouth to speak again, the only thing coming out a pathetic gurgling sound as blood leaks from the corners of his mouth. Daniel tries his best to block all of this out, to completely ignore the paleness of Hunter’s complexion, to block out how his breathing is getting shallower by the second. He can hear the quiet gurgle indication of liquid in Hunter’s lungs with each inhale, watches as profound amounts of blood spill from his lips every time his body forces him to cough. His hand stays gripped on Daniel’s shirt, however weak the grasp is.
“Please,” Daniel’s sobbing in his earnest now, tears covering the dried blood on his hands and soaking into hunter’s shirt.
Hunter’s looking up, clearly trying to seek out Daniel’s gaze, but it's obvious his vision is too faded to make out the body mere inches from his face. Daniel grips Hunter’s hand tighter and presses their hands against the wound harder. He knows full well what’s happening, and he can’t avoid it, but he feels like accepting it at this stage is akin to doing nothing. That if he didn't fight tooth and nail until the last second, he may as well have not been here at all.
But that f*cked up sense of responsibility means nothing.
Hunter’s final breath passes, and so does Daniel’s desperate grasp of control. His chest flutters spastically with the force of his breathing and despite how desperately he wants to, he can’t look away from the carnage. Hunter’s eyes are lifeless, and Daniel is left to stomach what was, mere minutes ago, the love of his life. And now he’s just gone.
Daniel’s hands raise to hesitantly cradle Hunter’s head, fingers shaking where they rest on Hunter’s jaw. He hiccups out sobs as he takes in the pale, empty complexion. His brain rejects it, promises him that there’s still some way everything will be fine.
That there’s some way to revive a corpse that's getting colder by the second.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there; if it’s been hours or perhaps, days. But he comes back to reality when he hears a voice. It’s familiar but shaken with fear and hesitation. Daniel looks up to see dirty blonde hair and rain-soaked clothes on a small frame. Her eyes are red-ringed from tears that started long before this moment. She’s shaking, but it would be impossible to determine if that was from the cold, or if it was brought on by what she just walked in to.
“Daniel,” She sounds unsure, but the hint of accusation to her tone is quickly blossoming into fury, “What did you do?”
