"Man," Paul whispers, "I don't think I've ever felt this bad."
Butch doesn't say anything, just continues chipping at the edge of one of the clinic's tables with his switchblade, interchangeably worrying his lower lip between his teeth and grinding his jaw.
"…Butch?"
"What?" the older boy almost snaps, nearly slicing his finger when he stiffly flicks the knife closed.
"What if I don't make it?"
His voice is weak, and there's a childlike fear in it. It makes Butch's leg stop bouncing, makes his fingers stop tapping. Because he knows the answer to that question - hell, he's known for days. 'I'm sorry, Butch, the kid hasn't got a chance,' that's what Brotch had said. Butch had shoved him, called him a piece of shit liar, very nearly took a swing at his face - but it did nothing to change the teacher's verdict. He'd said that Paulie's wounds were too badly infected. That if there was still a doctor, antibiotics could have saved him - but without someone with the necessary medical knowledge, there was no way of knowing what he needed. Butch had screamed that they should fucking try them all, anything,anything would be better than just waiting for him to die - but Brotch had just shaken his head sadly, telling him it didn't work that way.
"Shut up, Paulie," he says simply. He's got nothing better.
"Butch, I'm serious," Paul presses, gripping the bedsheets in shaking hands, and Butch could almost laugh at how stupid this is. Paul asking him that - he's been in a constant state of fever since he got bitten. He hasn't stopped bleeding. He's been vomiting nonstop. He's washed out. He's shaking. He can barely even speak.
And he asks if he's going to die.
'Course you're gonna die, Paulie, you dumb shit, Butch's mind says. But that's not what he says aloud. He shakes his head, sniggers, looks down at Paul with a challenging grin.
"'Course you're gonna make it, Paulie, you dumb shit. Jesus, are you a Snake or not?"
That makes Paul smile. He relaxes visibly in the bed, and some of the creases in his sweat-coated brow smooth out a little.
"Yeah. Hell yeah. Womb to tomb, right? Wasn't that the deal?" There's barely any resonance in his voice. It's little more than a breath. He's still smiling a little as he closes his eyes. Nausea twists Butch's gut, and he boots the chair he was sitting in out of the way so he can kneel by the edge of the bed, poking Paul in the ribs.
"Hey, hey, hey, c'mon now, don't go passin' out on me like some kinda sissy. I not interestin' enough for ya or somethin'?" he demands, prodding again when Paul takes a moment to even register it.
"Huh? Crap, sorry man," Paul mutters as he lifts his head with a weak laugh, pawing absently at Butch's hand. He almost misses, and Butch notices his eyes are out of focus, like he's not seeing anything that's in front of him. "Guess I fast-tracked to grandpa stage, huh?"
Butch laughs mirthlessly, lightly butting their heads together with another mumble of 'dumb shit'. His voice cracks, and he absently hopes Paulie hasn't noticed. Paul laughs again, though Butch barely hears it, and clumsily raises his hand, though it's clear he has no idea what to do with it. As if he'd had something in mind, but forgotten. He ends up patting Butch's head. It wrecks his hair, but for once, he doesn't really give a fuck.
"You better watch yourself, man. Maybe… maybe one day this dumb shit'll take over the gang. Imagine that. That'd… that'd give you something to talk about, huh?"
And when Butch leans back again, Paulie's not breathing anymore.