The shots rang in his ears, and when he turned around, he hardly had the time to feel relieved at the sight of Zitao standing alive before his excited nerves kept him moving in action. “No, keep the fucking thing,” he insisted, forcing the gun back into Zitao’s free hand, however weak, before glancing back at the still — some barely breathing — bodies scattered on the floor. An apologetic gaze was directed at Soohyuk, the thin man curling his body up in a fruitless attempt to save the blood pooling from his stomach, and he was crying, really crying as he managed to crane his neck and return Jiyong’s gaze. This was it. Jiyong had really burned all bridges back to his gang now, and the only way was forward. He tucked his gun into the back of his pants, and without another glance over his shoulder, followed Zitao up the stairs and out of the doomed building.
Once in the car, Jiyong wasted no time in burning rubber. He juggled the steering wheel as he pulled his button down off, exposing a wife beater that exaggerated the flatness of his chest, the boniness of his collarbones, tattoos that had regained meaning with the return of his memory. “Here,” he reached over to press the balled up clothing to Zitao’s wounded shoulder, letting go only when Zitao took over the task of applying the pressure himself. “Fuck!” he seemed to howl out of nowhere, a mixed burst of frustration and relief as he banged against the steering wheel with his palms. He took a few breaths, letting some sense of sanity come to him before he continued. “We gotta get to a pharmacy... I remember passing one on the way over.” He sped down an empty street, running a light as he tried to swallow down the thought that Zitao’s gunshot wound was once again in thanks to Jiyong’s own erred judgment. “Hang in there,” he said quietly, hand going to rest on Zitao’s thigh. “I’m gonna take care of you.”
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-04-29 01:50 am (UTC)Once in the car, Jiyong wasted no time in burning rubber. He juggled the steering wheel as he pulled his button down off, exposing a wife beater that exaggerated the flatness of his chest, the boniness of his collarbones, tattoos that had regained meaning with the return of his memory. “Here,” he reached over to press the balled up clothing to Zitao’s wounded shoulder, letting go only when Zitao took over the task of applying the pressure himself. “Fuck!” he seemed to howl out of nowhere, a mixed burst of frustration and relief as he banged against the steering wheel with his palms. He took a few breaths, letting some sense of sanity come to him before he continued. “We gotta get to a pharmacy... I remember passing one on the way over.” He sped down an empty street, running a light as he tried to swallow down the thought that Zitao’s gunshot wound was once again in thanks to Jiyong’s own erred judgment. “Hang in there,” he said quietly, hand going to rest on Zitao’s thigh. “I’m gonna take care of you.”