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Nobody spoke in the long, hushed moment that followed Max’s death. The air hanging above them smelled faintly of tar and rotting wood; it felt as if all of Hatchetfield had fallen this quiet and still.
“...Don’t thank me.”
It was Grace who broke the silence, taking another long drag of her cigarette. She stood ghostly against the gleaming light of the football field, face flushed and ruffled sleeves pale and rippling in the light. She wasn’t looking at Pete or Steph, only the empty bleachers where Max Jagerman had stood only a moment ago. The metal there was discolored and slightly warped, the only evidence that he’d been there at all.
Then she tore her gaze away, passing the cigarette to her other hand to rake the hair out of her face. She turned and began walking off the field, the astroturf crunching beneath her feet.
“Where- where are you going?” Steph’s voice, thin and shaky.
“Gonna go get a coffee,” Grace drawled, not turning back. “A real one.”
Pete and Steph only watched her go, soft white shoes stained with blood and mud crossing the field.
“And she’s gone,” Steph huffed from beside him, and her shoulders slumped with something like relief. He watched her blink dazedly, then turn to look at him. “You okay?”
Pete could feel the adrenaline leaving him all at once, seeping out of his veins and leaving him with the drained, hollow, euphoric feeling of it being over . It was relief like he hadn’t felt in weeks, the kind of exhaustion that made him want to crumple to the ground right there and wait until someone made him do something.
It also left him in pain. His knees were cold and aching from collapsing too many times, he was sure he was scattered with various bruises from running away from Jagerman, and most notably, there was a thick, rising ache through his whole right arm, blooming from just below the joint of his elbow.
He flexed his fingers, unsure why some parts of them still felt numb. “I, I think so.”
“You ‘think so’?” Steph replied, but the tentative smile on her face was worried, sad. “Here, let me see.”
She stepped toward him, hesitating a moment before reaching forward, taking the sleeve of his sweater. Pete could only hope she didn’t feel him tensing, hear his heart beating faster, too quick for what little energy he was running on.
Pain surged under his skin with every slight movement of his arm, but he did his best to press it back. He made himself breathe through it, focusing more on the pressure of Steph’s fingers against his arm than the little bursts of pain that followed. She slid his sleeve up to his elbow, and even Pete could see that it was swollen and bruised now, still twisted at an odd, deformed angle.
“Oh, Pete, that’s… definitely broken.”
“Oh,” Pete replied, his voice feeling slightly distant as he looked down at his own arm, Steph’s fingers still tucked beneath his sleeve. He swallowed. “I- I didn’t even notice.”
Steph was grimacing, biting the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, this is… I’ll see if I can–”
She moved to gently lift his arm from where it was bent, and pain suddenly shot up Pete’s arm, all his muscles seizing in protest. He gasped sharply, starting to tug it away but only setting off another spike of agony flooded through all his nerves. It was so overwhelming to the point where he was dizzy, stumbling slightly to keep himself standing.
“Sorry! Fuck!” Steph immediately let go of his arm, drawing her hands back. “Just wanted to, to–”
“It’s fine! It’s fine,” Pete forced out, cradling his arm closer to his chest and blinking the spots from his vision. “I think, I think I j- just need to sit down.”
“Yeah, we- we can do that.” Steph’s fingers linked around his uninjured wrist, leading him to the bleachers and sitting him down on the lowest steps. It was a relief to sit down, and he only realized after he had closed his eyes that Steph hadn’t moved her hand away completely– they weren't holding hands, but her fingers were resting on top of his. He resisted the urge to turn his hand over and take it properly, interlock their fingers and squeeze it tightly.
“Better?” Steph asked, and her voice was soft.
Pete opened his eyes. “Much.”
“Good.” Her gaze flicked down to his arm again, brow still furrowed with concern. “...Aren’t you supposed to hold broken arms a certain way?”
“No idea, I’ve- I’ve broken a leg before, not an arm. I always figured it’d be Max who’d do it, I just didn’t guess it’d be 3 weeks after he died.”
Steph scoffed, the ghost of a laugh. “Funny how those things work out, huh? And I think you’re supposed to hold it… there,” she frowned, hands hovering slightly over Pete’s, where guided him to bring his arm to rest against his torso. A twinge of pain made itself known, but it wasn’t unbearable. “Something about blood flow? I don’t really know what I’m doing, actually. Could be making this ten times worse.”
“You’re making it better,” Pete blurted, and by the look Steph gave him, he could tell she knew it wasn’t about the pain.
“Yeah?”
Pete nodded quickly. “Yeah.”
A small smile curled on the edge of her lips, and she let go of Pete’s hand to shift back and shed the flannel from around her shoulders. Folding it, she moved back to slip the flat of it beneath his arms, the sleeves around his neck and shoulder into a makeshift sling. The fabric was warm with body heat, and he didn’t even realize he’d been shivering slightly until it began to subside.
“There. So I can’t keep fussing over it, and inadvertently fucking it up more,” Steph muttered as she leaned over him to adjust the sling.
Pete couldn’t help thinking how close her lips were to his, couldn’t help feeling Steph’s fingers brush away the hair at the nape of his neck as she brought up the sleeves of the flannel to tie in place.
He couldn’t help realizing how much he’d prepared himself to never see her again, pressing down the urge to turn around and glance at her one last time before she pulled the trigger. He’d only wanted one more chance to catalog her face in his mind properly, trace and memorize every detail as if he’d be able to keep him with it after death.
A slight tug at his arm triggered another bright flash of pain, and his breath hitched. He felt a tear spill from where it’d been gathering in his eye, giving him away.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, using his free hand to press the sleeve of his sweater beneath his glasses. He wasn’t a kid, he’d been through too damn much to be tearing up over the pain of a broken arm, especially in front of someone else. “Should be, um, braver about this,” he managed with a watery laugh.
Steph’s hands stilled where she was tying the flannel behind his neck, moving them away in favor of setting her palms on Pete’s shoulders. Her hands were soft, warmer than he was, and he swore Steph should have been able to hear his heartbeat. She drew in a breath, staring down at his shoes for a long moment, and a shallow, shaky sort of laugh escaped her lips.
“Pete, less than twenty minutes ago, you… looked me in the eye, and asked me to shoot you. You- you were ready to, to abandon any chance at life right here before I even understood what you were asking for. You were willing to die , Pete, and all so that you could save a world that you’d never get to know.” She finished wrapping Pete’s arm in the flannel, setting her hand on his thigh instead. “And that’s braver than anyone should ever have to be.”
Pete ducked his head away from her, throat feeling tight. “More stupid, maybe.”
“But you know it was stupid. And you knew that before you even offered, didn’t you?”
He had. But then he’d met her gaze and decided that he was more than okay with her being the last person he ever saw, her eyes the last set he’d ever meet. So long as he didn’t have to see them in the moment just after she pulled the trigger, whatever terrible combination of finality and guilt and regret crossed over them.
“...Yeah.”
Steph smiled weakly, squeezing his thigh. “Yeah. That’s what makes it brave.”
While Pete fumbled to find a response, trying and failing for any words that would prove her infinitely braver than him, Steph shifted closer, enough to press her side up against his. She tilted her head to the side to rest it on Pete’s shoulder, and he forgot everything he’d been meaning to say. He fell silent instead, heart in his throat.
“You know, Pete, I’m really, really glad you’re not dead.”
Pete swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodding. “...Me too.”
The football field they looked out over was so much more surreal at night, absent of the clamor and intensity of the big game. The air was silent, and the harsh white lights illuminated only a vast, empty field. Pete could almost trick himself into believing they had come here together intentionally— just him and Steph, meeting up together for something that neither of them were calling a date, but definitely was. To make up for not making it to Pasqualli’s, and without any homework or studying involved. Just them. It was everything he could want, just the kind of opportunity he willingly gave up when he learned what Steph had to do.
I’m what she cherishes most .
…That was going to really hit him at some point, wasn’t it? Whenever he thought of it, he felt a small bit short-circuited, and all he got was an error and a notice to check in later. He hoped ‘later’ would be somewhere he was alone, because he could only guess that he’d break down crying.
For the minute, though–
“What are we gonna do now?”
Steph sighed, then hummed thoughtfully. “Good question. Wait til the cops find us?”
“...Ah. Shit. I forgot about the cops.”
A shrug. “Hopefully they forgot about us, too. Too busy trying to wrangle Grace into a cop car to give a shit about what we’re doing. By the time they deal with her, we’ll probably be let off with a stern warning.”
“If, if that happens, are we still on for Homecoming?”
He heard Steph let out a soft breath, nestling closer into his side. “Yeah.”