They do not speak. Neither of them knowing which words to let slip out, instead falling in a synchronous rhythm of breathes, inhaling then exhaling together, feeling the weight of the world, the full breadth of their bond, in what both of them know are the last moments they will ever spend together.
Hawaii and Zee grew up with the two proud Puerto Ricans. They have known Outlaw since he was born, and Sweetie since each of them were born. They aren’t like a family, they are a family. They could’ve never been prepared to lose one of their own. Hawaii holds Zee, her hand grasped over her mouth, and his head resting against the top of hers. The trickle of his tears leave a faint sheen on her hair, the stream of hers wet his shirt. Their lungs puff, their chests convulse, and they weep.
Rosaline doesn’t often cry. She doesn’t often allow herself to feel sadness, but the sight of the woman she loves embracing someone she cares about so deeply, as the life of that loved one slowly fades away, hits her hard. Harder than she would’ve ever expected, and she weeps.
Mikey holds onto the leg of his adoptive mother. He knows Outlaw is in trouble, and in pain, and he knows the teenager is going to die. He knows people live and then they die, but the process, the outcome, the absence, are beyond him. He doesn’t wholly understand what death means, but he does realize that tomorrow Outlaw will not be walking with them, and he weeps.
KP is still on the ground, having sat up now. She carefully, and quietly, removes her shirt and wraps it around the bite wound on her arm, tugging it firmly into place. She is immune, and will not suffer any dire consequences to her own self from this tragic event. She understands loss, she understands grief, and she knows them well--much more than she would like to. She is not close with these young people, but she cares for them as if she were. They are her responsibility, and in this moment she feels that she has failed them, and she weeps.
When Sweetie raced across the impromptu battleground and fell to the soil, scooping her brother up into her arms, Rad’s knees buckled, his rifle tumbled from his grasp, and he sank to the dirt. Realization, anger, and sadness did not need time to manifest within him. They came quickly, overwhelming him, filling his mind, weighing his body down, flooding his eyes, and weakening his spirit. His brow hangs as low as it ever has, his mouth gapes, his face contorts. He knows he’s hearing the last living gasps that will ever escape his best friend’s lungs, and he weeps.
Luis Santana Ortiz, lovingly known as Outlaw by his banded together family, lay on the ground, mushy dirt soaking his shirt and pants, blood pooling just below his head. His jaw loosens, hanging, leaving his lips agape, his motor functions beginning to fail him. The wound in his neck is large and deep, a baseball size chunk missing, the blood gushes from the lesion, and his hand is no longer properly covering it. His skin has paled, his eyelids have sagged, and his breathing has become shallow.
His hand upon her cheek loses tension and slips. His eyelids quake, for a brief moment, then fall shut. Sweetie pats his face, an immediate urgency overtaking her.
“Luis! Luis!”
She calls to him, her voice low and soft, but the words blurting from her. Her hand taps quicker and harder, each beat intensifying.
“Don’t go, not-not yet, please, please!”
She pleads, she taps and strokes his face. After a short moment his eyelids part, ever so slightly, the whites become visible, a sliver of the curves of his irises coming back into view. His jaw bobbles, his tongue flicks out, licking his bottom lip. He swallows meekly.
“I-I’m gonna miss you.” he says in a hushed whisper.
“Oh” -a sudden heaviness fills her, the dam to her tear ducts breaks- “mi hermano." she says, a tenderness weaved in her words.
His head sways to the side, slipping down her forearm, his eyes no longer gazing at her.
“Bendicion.” he mutters through loose lips.
“Dios te bendiga.” she gently murmurs.
The hand against his neck falls to the dirt, and his body limps in her arms. She clutches him tightly, pulls him up, presses her face against the clean side of his neck and weeps again.
Sweetie remains on her knees, holding the depleted body of her brother, rocking back and forth, and weeping softly for twenty minutes, before KP gingerly approaches her.
“I hate having to say this, but he passed out from blood loss. He will wake up again, but it won’t be him.”
The Latina slowly turns her head up and peers at the Guide.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but-”
“I will.”
The reply comes from behind KP. She pivots to see Rad pushing himself to his feet. He stands defeated, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his knees bowed in, and his face still glossed--no attempts made to alter the presence of sorrow within in.
“I will. H-He’s” -his jaw trembles, his chest ripples- “my best f-f” -another tremble, a ripple, a shake of his head- “I’ll do it.”
KP bows her head, then turns back to Sweetie.
“This is-is, well, there’s nothing I can say, and nothing you want to hear. You will cope however you need to, and that’s more than okay, but we don’t have much time-”
“I know.” the weeping sister replies, her voice hollow and low. “I don’t wanna watch.”
“I understand. It would be a good idea to take your clothes off, um”
