"Kircheis!" Lohengramm reached for him, fingers trembling to the sticky-red pool at his shoulder, the soft parts of him limp and wet. The look he gets in return is fond, so fond.
"We'll be together, you and I, oh, and Annerose, and the universe will be ours, oh just think of, think of —"
The nude stretch of his wrist is uncharacteristically wide, bone-white cape pushed away at a foreign angle across his shoulders, back a willowly bend to the floor.
Red, all around him, with the hard tendrils of carpet pressing beneath his knees. And Kircheis thinks of something, the waft of a smile in the lines around his eyes.
"Your Honor," says Oberstein, a bit more forcefully than the last.
Warm hands remove his own, but there's an oddly-cloying sweat that slips down past his cufflinks to settle, dew-like, at the corners of his arms. "The cryobed is here."
"Cryobed?" the melody of his voice dips wrong as Oberstein holds him by his outer edges, feet planted widely with heavy, soldier's boots.
The blood seeps further into the floor behind his legs, as if evening come to greet him.
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