There's blood everywhere.

There's blood in his mouth, his ears, his nose, pouring from every single orifice. Gushing, dripping, cascading, shining wetly against his pale skin.

He chuckles. His licks his dry, chapped lips, showing his teeth stained an awful red, and then his tongue is nothing more than a few strips of flesh held together by his mouth.

He laughs again, louder this time. The corners of his mouth split apart.

It's hard to tell where the parts of his body meet. Everything's coated with a fine layer of dried blood, cracking and flaking off with every slight movement he makes. The pale white of his skin barely peeks out from the scarlet blanket draped over him.

Still he laughs, grabbing at his face, the skin of his cheeks peeling off from the gentlest contact with his fingers. And gentle he is. Frighteningly gentle - as if he wants himself to know that the softest, most caring touch will break him. Everything will break him, and he wants to be broken.

He slowly brings his hands down, stiff fingers running down his chest, the skin bursting open and letting blood bubble out. He lets his hands linger down by his stomach and feels his flesh cave in with just the slightest bit of pressure.

Without a moment of hesitation, he presses his fingers in.

His skin splits open as if it knows what he wants. His fingers slide in up to the first knuckle, then the second, without any difficulty.

His breath comes out in harsh pants. He'd never done this before. The action itself was just an impulse decision, and the roiling pain nearly threatens to make him black out.

But if he blacked out, that wouldn't be fair.

So he grits his teeth. He can feel them cracking and breaking as he forces four fingers into his abdomen. It feels… warm. Warm is the first thing he can recognize when the screaming pain begins to die down.

He knows what warm is. It's like hot, but not as strong. He can remember it from drinks, after he'd let them cool down enough to drink without getting burned.

But that had been a pleasant warmth. This was uncomfortable. Sick. He can feel his organs directly underneath his fingers - intestines, he thinks to himself - wet and wrong on so many levels, so very vulnerable. He could grab them and rip them out and there would be nobody to stop him.

Yet, even so, he decides not to.

Blood pours out from the newly-made cavity. For a moment, he's afraid to pull his hand out. Thoughts push and pull in his mind, vying for attention.

What if this is the end? What if he's gone too far? What if his blood will gush out and there won't be any more and he'll die, the pain will cease, he'll be cold and empty and -

He chokes, fighting back tears, but they come anyway, flowing down his cheeks and making his wounds sting. Somehow, it hurts even more than everything else, and he can't take any more.

He sets his watery gaze on the blue-haired man lying off not too far from him - or, rather, what's left. His human form isn't even discernible anymore.

He knows it's his fault, and he knows he was stupid. If he'd gone a bit slower, if he'd taken his time, then Aoba would have lasted him much, much longer.

He chuckles a little bit at that thought. He'd never felt pain before, and yet he'd lasted longer. So much longer.

He'd lasted so long.

Laughter. Again, the horrible laughter, making flesh split and blood pour, and he's back to where he started.