It begins with a bang, the heated falling that so entranced his soul, his very being entwined in the decent, twitching and cascading and bending through the light and the dark. Feathers curl and disintegrate and languish on the ground, broken fragile remembrances of a glory that once was, a being powerful and holy Chrysler building fucking huge and HOLY.

Ave was his name and his eyes shown the power and glory of the almighty.

He can't feel his wings.

The bones are shattered and the feathers are mostly gone; what's left are mottled, diseased patches of limp black pinions, dropping in intervals, one or two here and there.

His abdomen feels like lava, heated and gushing, a red geyser, splatter patterns across the windows.

His eyes have flittered in and out of focus and emblazoned in them is green-ever. The hands belonging to the green press, tight, tight, stemming the flow, and he wants to say, drink, drink, because the red is life and healing.

Drink.

He thinks that he's choked the word aloud when the green widens.

They are eyes. They are speaking to him now, but he can't make out the words. They aren't his language anymore, he thinks, and cool glass is brought to his lips, but that wasn't what he meant.

No. No.

His hand lifts from his wound, red and dripping, pushing towards the green.

Drink.

He doesn't know why he insists, but the green is so, so, important.

When the eyes realize what he means, the face is pale, and he wants to apologize for the blanch-toned skin.

Mumbles sound, unintelligible and furious and worried.

I bleed for you.

He knows he's rasping it, in some language, in all languages and maybe one of them will be the one that green eyes - so important - will understand, because he's leaving behind the world, in a blur of agony and a greyed-out haze and there isn't much left of him to cling to the green.

He sees the mouth move (soft feminine lips, so un-green) and makes out the words. Hang on.

For you. All for you.