[ It's his fault. He should've moved. He should've taken the blow. It was Hadrian who killed her. It was Royce's responsibility to take care of it. But he didn't, and Tifa's hand hits the floor with a dull thud, and Royce can't breathe. Feels like panic, feels like being strangled, feels like - feels like there's something in him that dies with her, and Royce quietly smothers it all down. He can't handle pain like this - he learned, a long time ago, to shut it all off, to retreat.
Royce doesn't care about the blood. She doesn't feel it anymore, either. It's okay. He can carefully pick her up again and take her to the couch, wrap her in her blanket. If not for the bloodstain, she'd look like she was sleeping. His breath stutters and catches at the sight, at the knowledge that she isn't, and for a good, long minute, he just trembles, holding the arm of the couch with white knuckles, struggling to breathe. He's alone, he's alone, it's overwhelming and lonely and it seizes his lungs in a vice, he's so damn dizzy that he has to drop to his knees to try and get ahold of himself.
He curls up on the floor. Back against the couch, sitting up with his legs pulled to his chest, hands tangled in his own hair, Royce cries. He cries until he's weak, until his head hurts and he's exhausted, until all he can do is drag himself up onto the couch to hide his face in her hair. She's cold, and it nearly sends him right back into the middle of a panic attack. He's cold, and he holds his breath until he's dizzy, shivering, tears leaking down his cheeks.
When he wakes up, she's gone. The blanket is still there. Royce doesn't leave the house. He curls up on the couch, clothes ruined, and wraps himself in her blanket. ]
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Royce doesn't care about the blood. She doesn't feel it anymore, either. It's okay. He can carefully pick her up again and take her to the couch, wrap her in her blanket. If not for the bloodstain, she'd look like she was sleeping. His breath stutters and catches at the sight, at the knowledge that she isn't, and for a good, long minute, he just trembles, holding the arm of the couch with white knuckles, struggling to breathe. He's alone, he's alone, it's overwhelming and lonely and it seizes his lungs in a vice, he's so damn dizzy that he has to drop to his knees to try and get ahold of himself.
He curls up on the floor. Back against the couch, sitting up with his legs pulled to his chest, hands tangled in his own hair, Royce cries. He cries until he's weak, until his head hurts and he's exhausted, until all he can do is drag himself up onto the couch to hide his face in her hair. She's cold, and it nearly sends him right back into the middle of a panic attack. He's cold, and he holds his breath until he's dizzy, shivering, tears leaking down his cheeks.
When he wakes up, she's gone. The blanket is still there. Royce doesn't leave the house. He curls up on the couch, clothes ruined, and wraps himself in her blanket. ]