A/N: Just a little heads-up about what you're getting yourself into: this is a one-shot that's similar in style to another story of mine called 'Scant.' In this piece I don't mention any names but rather let my readers figure out / interpret for themselves whom the story is about. I hope you enjoy!
It's drizzling as you make your way across the gravel pathway to the small gathering of people who have already arrived.
Light gray clouds are moving swiftly overhead, carried by a mild breeze.
You don't know if you should be here.
You'd be okay going unnoticed. Wish for it, actually.
There's a big oak tree slightly removed from the gathering, and that's where you plant your feet. Your heels ache from the long walk it took to get here and you've got a cigarette between your lips that you don't remember lighting.
As you take a deep drag on it, everything starts to hit you.
This is it.
They're really about to bury the toughest hood you know.
Knew.
Up until now you'd been in denial. Thought it might be a sick joke.
But being here, seeing the mourning flock of people… you know this is about as real as it gets. A pit forms in your stomach.
Gnaws at you.
There are two caskets because they're burying them side-by-side. He belongs to one and his kid – the one he couldn't live without – belongs to the other.
Your heart feels like ice.
You wonder if his kid knew how much he cared for him.
Because you never knew.
Never knew that he had it in him to love.
Didn't think he was capable.
But damn, if you know one thing, it's that he got his jollies off of proving you wrong.
"Christ. Even in his death…" you mumble, and stomp your cigarette out on the damp ground.
There's unwelcome emotion in your throat and you swallow it down. You replace your used cigarette with a fresh one. As you light up, your brow furrows at the people that have accumulated around the gravesite.
There are more people here than you expected. And it's the type of people that really throws you for a loop.
Parents with young children.
Children that he and the kid saved from that fire. Their families are here to pay their respects.
You should've known.
Hell, it's those families that made the funeral happen. Covered the cost.
Because heroes.
You scoff a bit and spit.
He was supposed to be untouchable.
Goddammit.
xxx
His gang – or what's left of it – arrives all at once.
It's raining harder now, but they pay it no mind as they step closer and closer to the caskets.
The youngest one captures your attention the most. For starters, he has bleach-blond hair that looks out of place. More than that, he looks like a dead man walking, like he shouldn't be out bed – let alone outside in the cold rain. His brothers are hovering close to him. Football Star even sheds his own jacket to drape it over the kid's shoulders. The middle brother has his arm around his waist, seems to be the only thing keeping him upright.
Orphans.
Jesus.
The other two are standing on either side of the brothers, posture haggard. Both of them are red-eyed and desperate and it does something to your gut to see them like this. These are your go-to guys for a rumble and here they are.
Reduced to nothing.
You think that maybe you should go. You feel like you're encroaching on something bigger than you; something that you shouldn't be witnessing.
But then a twig snaps behind you and someone joins you under the tree.
"It start yet?" he asks.
His voice is quiet. Timid.
You turn your head to face him, eyes nearly falling out of your sockets at what you're seeing.
Well, you sure as hell belong here more than he does.
You recognize him, but not because he's an ally.
Quite the opposite.
In fact, you think you're the one responsible for his crooked nose.
"'Bout to," you say gruffly and square your feet. You fold your arms across your chest, putting on the defensive because it's a reflex when the likes of them are around. "Why are you here?"
You hear him swallow. "I don't know," he says.
Brutal honesty.
You follow his gaze to the orphan kid. Parents are trying to get to him, to thank him, no doubt – he's the third hero, after all – but Football Star stands firmly between them.
Protecting him from the survivor's guilt.
Or at least, trying to.
You feel a pang in your heart as you think about your own kid brother and all the times you failed to protect him.
Now he's in the reformatory, and there ain't a thing you can do.
xxx
She comes late, when they're halfway through lowering his casket into the ground.
His girl.
She's screaming and crying and lanky bucktooth takes it upon himself to restrain her. He catches her around the middle and squeezes her lights out.
"Jesus," the guy beside you whispers as she elbows and bucks beneath him.
"Yeah," you say, and it comes out strangled because it's coming at you full-force now.
Does he even realize all that he left behind?
"Selfish… pig-headed…" the words slip out of you, accompanied by a curse, and tears start to materialize in your eyes.
Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.
Your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, picking up speed, and you're on autopilot.
He's dead.
And suddenly, your legs are carrying you out of there, faster than you've ever run before.
You saw it with your own two eyes.
You saw what you needed to see and you're not looking back. Can't look back.
He's in the ground.
He's dead. He's gone.
So what are you running from?
Fin.