Work Text:
“Charles Cuevas, pronounced dead at 3. Cause of death: being fatally unfunny.”
Oh, how Whit wished he could take those words back. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed things, but at least he wouldn’t have this cruel, bitter irony chasing him around, plaguing his very existence.
It didn’t matter, either way, he supposed.
Because either way, Charles was dead, and it was his fault.
If he had just been a little faster, he could have untied the chains connecting the chemist to the pair of dumbbells and pulled him out of the water in time.
The worst part? It was supposed to be him who died.
How are you supposed to overcome grief when you’re hit with a fact like that?
It was supposed to be you who died, but God decided to intervene and kill the most precious person to you here. He kept losing faith in any deities every day he spent in the building. Today sealed the deal. No diety existed.
Whit shook his head out, hoping that it would help clear his thoughts. Charles would hate to see him like this.
Charles, who lay dead not ten feet from him.
He was the only one in the relaxation room; everyone else was... he didn’t know. Veronika was probably forcing Ace and Arturo to watch more of her horrible films, J would be relieved she was finally free from Arturo, and... who was he kidding, he didn’t care. Charles was dead.
And everyone else was none the wiser.