That he bore them now was a cold comfort. Any color would have been awful soaked in blood, but the contrasting hue served only as a reminder of how horribly he’d failed today-- both in service as a Depot Agent and as a brother. Emmet had been hurt and he’d just stood there, uncomprehending. His twin was bleeding out, and all he could do was clutch at his form in the vain hope that, somehow, this might help.

 

Blood seeped between his gloved fingers, the pressure doing absolutely nothing to stem its flow. Unwilling to let go, Ingo shifted to grab the glove from his opposite hand-- angling Emmet’s face against his neck in the process-- and pressed it to site; the white fabric immediately soaked through, but he he kept it in place, hoping it might make some kind of difference.

 

A sob began to work its way up his throat and, furious with himself, Ingo fought it down. Not now. Not now. What kind of good would that do? Who would it help? Nobody. Nobody at all. It wouldn’t help his brother, it wouldn’t help the other attendants or the passengers who’d been scared half to death, it wouldn’t even help him. If there was a chance to assist and he missed it because he was busy panicking, he’d never forgive himself.

 

The logical part of him reasoned that there wouldn’t be any such opportunity; this amount of blood loss couldn’t be overcome. No matter how many ways he tried to staunch it, the damage had already been done.

 

The part of him that had wanted to cry in the first place told that logical part, in no uncertain terms, to shut the fuck up.

 

Ultimately, Ingo ignored both lines of thought in favor of keeping the hold stable and reaching up with his free hand to steady his brother’s head; it was around that point that he realized the shallow puffs of breath against his neck were growing weaker and weaker. Frantic, but trying not to cause any more harm, he cast his gaze across the cab and futilely called for help. It wouldn’t do any good. Their other coworkers were busy keeping the aggressor from causing further harm or had already rushed off to find the onboard medic, and any passengers had wisely been guided to another car. The only one there to hear his appeal was his dying twin.

 

Seconds passed without another inhalation, and then a full minute. Ingo’s hand fled from the slowing well of blood, idling, useless over Emmet’s chest for far too long, and then to his face. There was no sense in looking for something that wasn’t there, and he forewent the cursory check entirely, moving straight to repositioning his brother and trying to clear the airway.

 

It didn’t work.

 

As Ingo tried everything his scrambled thoughts brought him, the minutes ticked by without response until, finally, he was forced to admit defeat. There was nothing more to be done. Emmet was gone.

 

The howl he’d swallowed worked its way free and, heedless of the blood covering both of their persons, Ingo buried his face in his twin’s shoulder. Maybe it was meant to muffle the bone deep grief, maybe it was one last desperate grasp-- that the roar might somehow kick start a heart gone still. Either effort was equally useless.

 

Without meaning to, he tightened his grip past the point that Emmet preferred. There was no protest, of course, no outraged squeak of dissent as he tried to extricate himself from the hold. Dragons, Ingo was going to miss it. Immediately, dozens of quirks and nuances sprung to mind, none of which he’d ever see again. He’d never known a life without them. He was unable to envision one.

 

The warmth hadn’t left his brother’s form yet, and Ingo wasn’t sure if it would be better to hold on and feel it seep away or force himself to let go and begin the distancing process. As if the thought itself was a threat, his fingers dug into the stained green fabric and his arms locked in place, refusing to yield. He might have had more to think on the matter, if not for the strangled outcry against his jaw.

 

“Ingo. Too! Tight!”