A red hued liquid—the very foul and metallic smell. It bled through his tunic, blade impaled through him. Stabbed, practically; to the heart.

You wouldn’t have hurt him. You wouldn’t.

Tartaglia. Childe. It’s all the same thing. You had enough, needing to end this all, all of his sought for manic thrill and endless battles. He would lie, lie to everyone about himself. To his family, to the public,

To you.

Before the incident happened, you two were caught up in a fight. Or rather, argument, really. His relationship with you… well, it was certainly confusing. What was who to who, what was he to you? Why was he so… obsessed with such violence? He was insane. He didn’t care about getting hurt, he didn’t even care about dying.

If it you were that killed him, he wouldn’t mind a bit.

And so that happened. Out of a fit of thoughtless rage, your weapon swiftly found its way to his chest. You stabbed him.

There, on his stupid, stupid face… His breath trembled and wheezed erratically, like he was struggling to breathe. His hands were gripping the hilt of your weapon, trying to grasp it out of himself. It would be foolish to pull it out, he’d loose more blood.

Blood spilled from his mouth, coughing and hacking out the liquid from his throat. There was no doubt that it was severely painful.

It felt like he was dying. Dying, impaled and bleeding—to only look up at you with a smile on his face.

A soft gaze in contrast to the resentful expression of yours. His slowly lifted a blood stained hand, the pad of his thumb brushing against your cheek, smudging a small streak of red on your skin.

“You’re… beautiful.” He murmurs weakly.