It was warm and sticky, and he didn't like it.

It wasn't supposed to go like this, It was supposed to be an easy win —the guy was high after all—, but it had completely backfired. His older brother was also not supposed to appear in the middle of the fight after disappearing for two months. But, eh, he guessed that was the way things go.

The problem was that, in his small moment of distraction —the joy of seeing his older bro overpowering his sense of awareness—, now he had a large cut on his side that was bleeding a lot. Like a lot.

"you gonna be okay, jus' keep still.." his brother whispered to him, rough voice now soft, as he grabbed Rusty into his arms. "jus' stay still, don't move, sh, shh.." he practically cooed to him as he eased him up into his grip, carrying him bridal style.

"'re you mad t'me, man?" Rusty breathed out, voice all raspy and wheezy as he groaned in pain.

"no, shh, don't move" was the last thing he heard, his brother's voice, and then he blacked out.

,,

Next thing he knew, he was coming back to consciousness while being laid a comfy bed all too familiar that definetely wasn't his own. It didn't smell like his house —of alcohol and cigarettes— either, it smelt like flowers. Like you —his girlfriend.

"my— my girlfriend— she's gonna be so mad if we stain her sheets, man-" Rusty managed to choke out, squirming on the flowery bed. His side was downright burning, the gaping wound on his side staining his shirt with blood.

"hey, shh, who do you think let us in?" his brother sushed Rusty, his hands working on carefully inspecting the bleeding wound.

Rusty swore that he was hearing colors, seeing sounds, as if his head was inside a weird calendoiscope. He was sweating buckets.

And then the door to the room opened, his ears filled with the familiar 'clicking' sound of your heels on the floor.

"baby—" his voice was a strangled whine, shaky hands reaching for you under his brother's gaze. The former gang member sporting a smirk.