[There's something indescribably starling about it- there's the sight itself and with it the bone deep knowledge of what's taken place before they could get here, and then there's Bolin's hand, rising to cover it up. In the shinobi world there isn't any equivalent. People can't be protected from the reality of the times they live in, that friends and family will kill and be killed- there are different tellings and there are people who fight and people who don't- but there isn't any way to really stand between someone and violence.
The smell of blood is heady and familiar- copper and wetness and warmth and rot.
Bolin's voice is unsteady and Naruto wonders how many times he's made himself a shield to protect other people and been willing to be hurt instead. His shoulders form a solid line, steeling himself maybe, against the inevitable. There's a moment, beneath Bolin's palm, that his eyes close. Then they reopen and he reaches for his friend's arm. The curse punches out of him as a whisper.]
no subject
The smell of blood is heady and familiar- copper and wetness and warmth and rot.
Bolin's voice is unsteady and Naruto wonders how many times he's made himself a shield to protect other people and been willing to be hurt instead. His shoulders form a solid line, steeling himself maybe, against the inevitable. There's a moment, beneath Bolin's palm, that his eyes close. Then they reopen and he reaches for his friend's arm. The curse punches out of him as a whisper.]
Damnit.