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He shouldn’t have gotten attached. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. Ever.
Why does he always do this? He always tells himself he won’t, but he always does. He always fails to protect his loved ones.
Here he was, sitting in what’s left of Club Crépuscule, holding Deacon’s cold, unmoving body as close to his chest as he could.
Arthur hasn’t cried in decades, yet he could feel a sob ripping and clawing its way from his throat. He could feel blood dripping from his cheeks, staining the cowboy’s dumb frilly shirt red.
“Please…” he whispered, “Please wake up…”
His hand went up to cradle the other man’s cheek, stroking it lightly. Deacon’s eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. His cowboy hat was lost somewhere in the rubble, never to see the light of day again.
Arthur leaned down and gave Deacon’s lips a loving kiss, his sobs growing stronger. He buried his head into his neck, shaking.
“I love you Deacon, I love you. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice suddenly raspy and shaky. People could see him like this, weak and hurt but he didn’t care.
He lost another one.
He couldn’t do anything about it.
He failed.
Again.