In retrospect, this was never supposed to happen.

It would be a little impossible to justify why a blade was pressed against his throat - he swallowed thickly, and he could feel the cold harshness of the metal against his delicate skin.

He could feel the dryness in his throat as he opened his mouth to speak; he could hear his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage with every syllable that he uttered, he could taste the nervousness that lingered heavy on his tongue, he could see the way his vision went blurry, he could scent the metallic tang of his own blood in his mouth.

He heard his own voice ringing too loud in his ears as he spoke his final plea, as the words that could be his last finally fell out of his mouth.

He dared to look up, he dared to meet the mysteriously dark, unreadable orbs, he dared to let the solitary tear slip down his cheek and fall onto the unforgiving surface of the blade.

And he was there to watch - he was there to watch as everything fell apart.

He was there to feel the drumming of his heart in his chest, pounding as if he’d just ran a full marathon.

He was there to hear the sound of the blade impacting a surface.

He was there to taste the acrid tang of smoke and blood and everything in between hanging