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Surgery— god that’s laughable. They’d been allowed to perform surgery.
They’re 14. Oliver is at least, Kaz is maybe freshly 15. Maybe.
Oliver isn’t moving. He can’t seem to get his legs out from under him, can’t lift them from the linoleum floor. He just stands still in the now empty (yet much too crowded) operating room, arms held out, like something had just been pried away from him.
Bloody latex gloves covered his nimble hands, ones that just minutes ago were stitching up minor wounds. He doesn’t move his arms, doesn’t move his hands, but his fingers twitch every now and then, trembling.
Kaz on the other hand, is always moving. He’s already peeled his own gloves off, pacing back and forth. He’s at a loss for words and yet his movements say so much. His hands flex, grasp and ungrasp, tighten and release.
Back and forth, up and down. There and gone.
He moves in and out of Oliver’s peripheral. Disappearing and reappearing again and again and again— he wishes, internally, that they’d wheel that operating table back in here. That they’d say it’s fine, it’s been fixed. That he can try again.
Kaz stops, eventually, attention turning to Oliver’s still figure. He steps forward, hand very gently wrapping around the boy’s exposed wrist.
Oliver’s head whips up to face him, eyes wide and errant, he lets out a shuddering breath.
Kaz’s gaze stays on him, steady somehow, he swallows down the lump in his throat. “Ollie? Hey, let’s— let’s get those off, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just begins to guide him towards the disposal bin, grip tight but not hurtful. Oliver follows, quiet and still so, so horrifyingly blank. Kaz ends up taking off the gloves for him, maneuvering Oliver’s hands this way and that to make it work. Oliver doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fight, doesn’t twist away like he would any other day.
Any other day— any other day he’d be laughing, biting out lack-luster insults as he swats Kaz’s hands away, complaining about germs or—
Not today.
Kaz hesitates for a small moment before reaching up to take the surgical mask off of the other. Knuckles brushing past Oliver’s cheeks ever so gently in the process, letting just a smidge more life into the boy.
“We killed him.” Oliver finally says.
Kaz averts his gaze, staring at the disposal bin instead. “We didn’t—“
“It’s our fault. It’s my fault.” Oliver continues, voice rising in its usual pitch. He sounds like a girl, a fact that Kaz would typically slug him in the shoulder for and make one or two jokes about.
Not today.
“It’s not.” Kaz states. This time he doesn’t pause, grabbing the other’s hands and guiding him along again, out of the room, away from this stuffy and so very tense area.
They step just outside, the air in the hall is crisp and clear, like a glass of water late at night. It brings reality back to the both of them.
They’re…. They’re at Mighty Med, at work. They just did surgery. (They botched it— desecrated it, messed it up so badly there’s no way they won’t get fired on the spot—) They’re tired.
Their bones feel like lead pipes, heavy and weighing them down. The two of them, ever so in sync, lean against the pale wall in unison, breathing out shaky exhales.
Their backs slide down. Oliver instinctively curls in on himself, legs pulled up to his chest and held tightly by his arms. White-knuckles gripping his calves like they’ll fall away any moment now.
Kaz, on the other hand, sprawls out. His arms flip down to his sides, exhaustion rolling over him. His legs splay out unto the floor, uncaring of by-passers. He doesn’t want any, anyways.
Internally, he’s wading desperately through a sea of molasses. Picking up each knee with his arms and pulling himself further despite how badly it wants to drag him down into the abyss. He stays aware, as aware as he can for just a moment longer. He needs to, he needs to.
A pained cracking noise pushes him forward in his mind-molasses, his head whirls to the side, looking for the source.
Oliver, of course, why would it be anyone else? Well, he’s crying, very clearly. Tears streaming down his face, dribbling down the still ever-present baby fat that just hadn’t ever dissipated. His expression is all screwed up, scrunched and ugly, as is the human expression.
He’s muttering things, things Kaz can’t quite comprehend in his current state, but he knows what to say in response anyway.
“It’s going to be okay,” he speaks, voice as grounded as he can force it to be. His arm raises and snakes up towards Oliver’s shoulders. “It’s going to be fine.”
Oliver keeps going, and Kaz keeps reassuring. He thinks at some point, tears prick at his own glands, but if he did begin to cry, he didn’t notice.
No one walks by. By some miracle, or perhaps some tragedy, the hall is silent. Save for the two boys sobbing on the ground, there’s not a peep from another living being. Still though, there is the hum of machinery, a quiet buzz that fills in the holes, running through the drywall and concrete building, radiating its energy to and fro.
A thrumming, a beating of sorts. Like blood running through veins, keeping a heart going time and time again. Like a heart stopping, seizing in its final moments, blood all over latex glov—
Kaz squeezes his shut a little harder.
“We’re going to be fired— and— and cubed. Kaz I w-won’t ever get to see my mom again— or my– my dad— or my-“ Oliver’s broken ramblings break through the fog. He’s blubbering, stuttering.
Kaz does all he can think to do, and allows his arm to pull the boy in further. He engulfs him into a tight hug. “It’s fine, we’re going to be f— fine.”
He is acutely aware of the way his own vocal cords tremble, the way he doesn’t believe a word he’s even saying, the way he stuttered over a single word and broke whatever calm resolve he kinda had.
Yes, he is aware.
(In the end, they will actually be okay. Horace tells them earnestly that this is… part of the job. That it happens and sometimes it just can’t be helped.)
(In the end, they go home with about a week’s worth of leave, time to process, to grieve. (It’s not enough, it could never be enough.))
(They stay together that night, neither of them say a word. It’s just a bit easier to sleep in the same bed, holding on tight.)