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All he could hear, feel, see, was the flames and debris surrounding him. Broken metal and glass seemed to dig into any part of his body it could, furthering the ache that already encompassed him. He felt weak, unable to move. His mind reminded him of the last time he had felt so exhausted, crawling over the concrete of a parking garage and blood stained floors of the airport. Even then he had been able to drag his sorry state enough to get help. He doesn’t think he could do that now.
He felt so unbearably tired, blood loss and pain clouding his mind and blacking out his vision in short bursts of darkness.
He knew he would die here.
And yet all he could think about was Makarov. Did he do it? Was he finally dead? Or would Yuri’s death be worth nothing; useless towards stopping whatever hell Makarov surely had in store as retaliation. Would the man he formerly thought of as a brother come rising from the ashes of the burning hospital to gloat about his victory, how even though they had tried so hard Makarov had still prevailed.
He closed his eyes.
God he was fucking scared. He felt stupid, idiotically young for feeling such childish emotions. He was a soldier. There was no fear among fighters. But he was scared, horribly so. He was dying, by the hands of a man he used to trust wholeheartedly.
Makarov had been a friend, perhaps he considered him more than that, at a time. It had been slowly deteriorating the further Makarov had started to go, the final crack in the already fragile relationship had been the nuke. Watching, helpless, as so many die by his friends order, in the name of power. It had corrupted his mind, the sweetness that came with the illusion.
He heard something then, a shuffling of sorts. Debris creaking as the sound of footsteps becomes more and more apparent. His eyes pulled open slightly, blurry vision scanning across what lay in front of him. He was too tired to move his head.
Boots stop in front of him, unmoving. He thinks the owner believes him dead, he doesn’t blame them. He’s on his back, short breaths barely moving his chest, eyes unfocused and bleary, too much blood staining the floor beneath him. He more than likely looks as bad as he feels.
His brain can’t seem to decide whether the person is friendly or not, his mind clouded in a fog that felt too thick to cut through. It could be Makarov, for all he knew. Coming to watch in morbid satisfaction as Yuri takes his final breaths. Perhaps there would be some mercy, if it was Makarov. A final shot to the head if he was lucky. They were friends once… Then again Makarov wasn’t one for mercy. Yuri wasn’t one for luck.
A cough worked it’s way through him then, and he could feel the thick, warm liquid that rose with it and he knew it to be blood. The familiar taste reminding him of the first time Makarov had brought this type of pain upon him. The wet cough is barely audible, serving more to splatter the ground in front of him with blood than clear anything from his body.
It was worth something to the man in front of him, though.
He knelt down quickly, grabbing Yuri’s shoulders and forcing him up in a desperate attempt to help. The English patch that met his eyes took a second to register in his mind.
“…Price…” he sounded weak, out of breath.
“I’m here, son, I’m here. C’mon Yuri, you can’t die now.” Price responded to his muted call.
The voice of the captain sent some muted wave of relief through him. At least he had kept the captain alive, if nothing else. He wanted, ever since soap, to prove himself to the man. To make it up to him, for taking away the man Price so blatantly viewed as a son. For being the reason his only true friend was gone.
Shouted words sounded muted in his ears, he had to force himself to listen to Price. It was hard, between the flow of blood somewhat steadily streaming from his mouth and chest, and the aching pains that seemed to take now as the perfect time to show up.
Blood covered the vest in front of him as he coughed out a distorted question. “Mak- Makarov-” another cough. “Is he dead?” His head held gently in Price's arms, moving to finally see his face. It made it slightly harder to breathe, but he could deal with that, if only Price told him what he needed to hear.
“Yeah, yeah you got ‘im, Yuri. Just hold on, okay.” Price looked frantic, jolting him in a way that was more forgiving for his already frail body. He focused on not blacking out as Price reached towards his radio, sending a message unheard from the man in his arms.
“You have to stay awake, alright Yuri.” The hand previously sending a message cups around the back of his head, and his eyes focus on Price once again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Price. It’s my fault.” He’s muttering, barely thinking about what he has to say. He can’t form the right words to apologize for everything, for hiding who he was to them, for Soap, for every little thing that has been because of him.
“Don’t. Dont, son. You’ll be alright. Just hold on a little longer.” He can barely feel the hands holding him now, and the word Price uses slips right past him.
“I wanted to help.” He coughs out, “To repent for sins committed by his side.” Yuri seethes. There’s so much anger and hurt that runs through the kids veins as he think of Makarov. Price can see what’s left of his resolve, bright and burning as it was, fading as his body tries and fails to heal itself.
“You have, Yuri. You’ve done so well. Just a little bit longer and we’ll get you some help.”
“You are so certain you can help me, Price…” Yuri says quietly, settling towards resigned. “I would not be so hopeful.”
“You’ll be alright.” Price’s grip is tight, bruising as he says the words over and over, comforting himself more than he comforts Yuri. “You’ve fought this hard, don’t give up now.”
“If I fought so hard, why can I not rest?” Yuri whines, trying his best through Prices constant shaking to fall asleep. The tone is completely unlike what Price has ever heard from him before, the usually stoic and determined man breaking in front of him.
“I promise, as soon as we get you patched up, you can rest as long as you want to. You need to stay strong, just a little longer.” Price says, desperate.
“Just a little longer…” Yuri mumbles, eyes half lidded. “Just a little longer.”
Price was eternally grateful for the sound of helicopter blades, barely audible above the roar of flames around them. He listens to it approach, clutching Yuri’s weak body as he prays for Nikolai to come faster.
Price didn’t say anything out loud, but he knew what Yuri was really apologizing for, earlier, or rather whom. He couldn’t help but let the guilt overcome him. He knew where Soap was, safe, stable, alive, though barely. He had chosen to keep that from Yuri, some sort of leverage against the former ally of the very man they were up against. It chose to eat at him now, as the man who had given his life to protect Price's own lay dying in his arms, blood pouring from too many open wounds. He didn’t know how he even got up to save him, rising from the rebar that had struck straight through his abdomen and stuck him to the open floor of the hotel.
Yuri had proven himself, over and over, and Price had the nerve to question him any chance he got. Yuri was willing to die here, in this blazing hell, so that he could live. So that Price could kill Makarov. That was how desperate he was for absolution.
The helicopter lands, and he ignores whatever shout came from the person inside. As gently yet quickly as he could, he secures Yuri in his arms, the man groaning in protest at moving, keeping him off the edge of passing out just a second longer.
He secures Yuri on the floor of the heli, getting Nikolai up in the air as fast as he can. He’s yelling, loud and harsh, at his friend. Price doesn’t mean to, any other time, any other person, Price would be as professional as always. But he has a debt to repay.
He yells, ordering Nikolai to go as fast as he can in the damned aircraft. He feels the recoil as they take off, the pure speed at which Nikolai leaves the burning inferno that would be Makarov‘s casket pushing him back.
Price regains his balance quickly, grabbing onto Yuri’s lifeless form in front of him.
There’s a horrid red that stains his hands, spreading to the floor of the helicopter underneath Yuri. The image haunts him, and he knows he’ll see that red in his dreams.