nobody covers for the matador {nemo/tate}

"I'm serious guys," I tell the three men that stand before me, "Unless you give me what I came for, I'll blow us all sky high."

I stand comfortably, slouching slightly like the gawky teenager I am despite the row of grenades strapped to my chest in a neat little row. One tug of a string and they'll be set in one foul swoop. After that we'd only have to wait seconds before we're all nothing more than flying limbs, burning away into charred bits of ash.

If they could see beneath the scarf that covers the lower half of my face, they'd catch my easy grin and maybe think that I was joking. Maybe I am joking, maybe I'm not. None of us know. I've never thought about what I'd do if someone actually tried to attack me. My self-preservation instinct has always been lacking something important. Tate tells me so often, especially since that night a couple of weeks ago when he pulled that needle out of my chest.

I suppose if they attacked me I'd do as promised and pull the string. Before now, that thought never bothered me much. I enjoy life but I always suspected that death could be a nice break from the struggle of trying to figure out where my next meal is coming from. I'm nearly one hundred percent sure that when I'm dead, nothing will matter much.

Now I've got Tate to worry about. I care about him a lot, last time when I woke up, stomach killing me and brow slick with sweat his eyes were rimmed with red. He'd been crying. He'd kissed my skin despite its heat and he'd whispered sad broken things against my flesh, all of them laced with fear. "I thought I'd lost you."

I don't want to get blown up, despite the swift and easy death, I think I'm one hundred and ten percent invested in Tate Seraphim.

However I stand my ground, one hand gripping the string as the men in front of me stand still, tense with fear and frustration. They mutter among themselves, gesturing angrily. The fact of the matter is, they can shout and moan all that they want, they're my hostages. I'm also my hostage. (I'm also an idiot.)

They know this. There's not a soul in the factory district that doesn't know this because I am well known for how much of an idiot that I am. I work very hard to keep that facade strong. "You hear 'bout that kid who nearly blew his own leg off robbing a factory last night?Shards 'a glass all up his leg, he had." I've got the scars from that night to prove it, dozens of white little dots and lines in my upper thighs. I got wasted on Nel's moonshine only two hours after and couldn't walk well for two weeks.

They hand over two thousand, five hundred and thirteen dollars in cash and I leave, hands in my pockets and at my own pace, never looking back even once. Either I'm a cocky bastard or an idiot. I choose idiot. It's a wise man who plays the fool. I'm no wise man but I'm no fool either.

As soon as I'm out of sight, I break into a run, letting out a woop of joy from beneath my scarf. I've got a meeting with my parent's dealers tomorrow, she said that she had a new batch ready, put aside just for me. Aunty Brooks from down the street said she's been needing money for food real bad and I can also give some of the cash to the Elliots for their two little tikes. James Elliot has been needing a new pair of shoes. Maybe I can use whatever is left over to take Tate out for once instead of him always treating me.

My cheeks heat up at the thought of Tate and I nearly change my direction, thinking I should go and see him tonight. I think he said he was working though. I don't want to bother him if he is, I don't want him to know how clingy I a-

I trip, feet hitting an object in the dark that feels like a sack of grain but when my knees hit pavement sticky and wet, I know it to be a body. I know it's a body becuse it didn't cry out when my foot hit it. That's nothing new. I live in the slums, I'm used to bodies. Still, I curse lightly from the pain in my knees and the knowledge that I'm going to need to get blood out of yet another pair of pants. It's the soft whimpering I hear coming from beside me in the dark that concerns me. Someone is still alive. I don't know if I should see if they need help or not because it could be an enemy.

I guess I've got quite a few enemies though. If I stop helping people just because they're in an opposing gang to Tate's then I'll have to stop helping everyone. I'm not like that. I'm an idiot. Idiots are good at stumbling in and out of messes so I decide to see who this poor bugger is.

I crawl over to the other body, lying on it's side, legs curled up loosely, arms covering his stomach, black, shortish hair, a weird gangly frame, gorgeous neck, very lovely shoulder to waist ratio and an ass that won't qui-

"Tate?"

The question leaves my lips before I even understand that the boy bleeding out on the asphalt is someone I know. For one wild moment I ask Ripred to let it not be him, to let it be someone else who looks exactly like him, for it to be someone else that is as hot as the kid I love but when I put my hand on his shoulder and gently roll him onto his back, it's Tate's face, sure as day staring up at me.

There's blood all over his shirt and my hands shake as they trace his jawline, wondering if he's even still alive. He's breathing, long and shuddering breaths that fill up the night air like a ghost rattling it's chains. Tenderly my hands slide down to his, pulling at where he's holding in his blood or at least trying to.

Fear grips me as it feels the slickness of his skin. "No, no, no, no, no," I whisper as if it will help. Quickly, I pull off my sweater and bunch it up, pressing it against his skin, applying pressure like old Nel taught me to, like she had me do on my own wounds so many times. "What happened to you buddy?" I ask him, voice strangely calm despite the absolute panic filling up my head.

"Are you going somewhere?"