Author's Note: Writing is incredibly therapeutic, just like crying. I heard this somewhere – might've been my Bio 30 teacher, might've been my EMR instructor, might've been (probably the latter) – that crying feels good, like a weight's been taken off of one's chest because the body builds up hormones (such as cortisol, which can be caused by stress) that may be released from the body while crying. I have no idea if this is true, I don't pretend to know the inner-workings of zee human body, but all I know is that the effect of crying, that "maybe things will be okay now" feeling is something that does happen. That's writing for me. To all those out there like me, and I bet there are many, keep on writing. Sometimes it's the only way to let go of the built-up toxins.

The summary is entirely Stephen King's (from The Duma Key), a person I definitely admire. Ever read Desperation? I recommend it highly.

Oneshot. Tragedy/Angst. Nick/Ellis. Slash.

Acknowledgements: A huge thank you to Amanda for reading and editing.

Summary: "[This] really taught me just one thing: the only way to go on is to go on. To say 'I can do this' even when you know you can't."

Dead Weight

The body felt so heavy in his arms, the weight on his legs reassuring, pressed against his chest, dead weight though it was. Just that: dead. The blood had pooled all around him, his white suit now irreparably stained maroon. The blood was drying to a burgundy color, dark and sticky and thick on the cement. It was in his shoes, had soaked his socks, coated his hands; his fingernails were nearly black with it. His palms were a ghastly reddish-brown color, and the creases – life and head lines, he recalled – stood out, as they were a darker shade of dried-blood brown.

He held the body tighter, squeezing it, wishing that some sort of sound, a grunt of pain or sigh would escape through the now chilled lips. Graying lips. Cyanotic.

No more smiling. No laughing. No motion. No frowning in displeasure when a shot was missed, no more upturned corners when a chainsaw was found. No flashes of white, no quick movement of a pink tongue.

The sick, overbearing stench of metal had moved to the background of his consciousness. He no longer smelled it; instead, the body's scent permeated his senses: unclean skin, body odor, gun powder, boomer bile, and terror.

Usually people don't think that fear has a smell, or if it does it smells like shit or piss. Both of those are a byproduct of fear, the body's response to being in such intense situations. The body in his arms smelled like neither. Fear – it was sugary and sickly; like rotten chocolate milk, almost, something that was once good that had turned, was off in some way. It had the scent of sleepless nights, of disturbing thoughts; it made him think of unendurable pain and having no choice but to carry on, of not being able to slow down. Running. Never being able to truly rest. It brought images of dehydration, starvation, and exhaustion to the forefront of his mind. The fear he smelled made the taste of tears come to the tip of his tongue. Desperation. The nagging belief that no matter how hard they fought, it wouldn't matter. The inability to place the muzzle of a pistol in one's mouth and pull the trigger.

That's what he smelled.

One of his hands found the body's right hand and he gripped it tightly, chafed it slightly, absentmindedly. It was lukewarm. Not the right temperature for a living, breathing person, but not that of a cadaver either. In between, like water that had been left in a room for hours on end. The fingernails were already taking on an ashen tone. He couldn't bear to look.

He knew those hands. There was a scar on the right one between the knuckles of the pinky and ring finger. On the right forefinger, almost on the underside of the middle joint, there was a crescent-shaped scar. Without looking, he could trace the pattern of veins on both hands. He knew the exact length of the ropy scar across the left wrist. He knew the knobby knuckles, the strength in the solid fingers; he knew the life that had shown through hours ago.

There was nothing left to this body. Dead tissue. Flesh. A shell.

He couldn't let go.

How does one simply do that? How does a person just … let go? Is that even humanly possible? 'Cause he was here now wondering that very thing; he knew he couldn't stay like this forever, he knew that the others needed him to keep going, to be strong, but fuck, how – how could he release the body in his arms, the man he loved, and just … stand up, turn his back, keep going?

How? Without ever hearing him laugh again? Or seeing his smile? Or feeling his touch?

As if against his will, he looked down and found himself peering into sightless blue eyes. They were rigid, forever fixed on the ceiling. Staring right past him.

Just tissue.

Gone. The man he'd known was gone. There was nothing left but a husk. Even though he knew this, reaffirmed it to himself over and over, he still couldn't find the strength to place the body on the floor, to feel the weight leave his arms.

His feet were completely numb, his back ached, his head roared, his jaw was unbearably sore from being clenched, and his eyes hurt like a son of a bitch, but he couldn't bear to move.

He heard sound from behind him.

"Nick, sweetie … it's the next day … we have to keep moving."

Keep moving. Not giving up. They were still alive, all three of them.

He turned his head slightly and found Rochelle kneeling beside him, looking down at the body. Her expression was unreadable. She gently, as if with a mother's touch, placed her hand on the dead man's jaw, let her fingers trail up towards his cheekbones, and then dropped off near his ear. She sighed.

"It's so strange to see him not smiling, y'know?" she said softly, tilting her head slightly to the right.

Nick said nothing.

She put her hand on his shoulder as she got to her feet and then disappeared in to another room, leaving him alone once again.

Strange wasn't the word Nick would've used. Heartbreaking seemed to fit better.

Rochelle was right, though. They had to keep going. They were almost there, almost at the finish line. Just another fact that made this death seem so unnecessary. They could've all made it; they could've survived. They were so close.

Steeling himself, forcing his mind to go blank, he shifted his weight and lowered the body to the dirty floor, as gently as possible.

Nick remained on his knees, staring numbly at the body. They couldn't stay. He couldn't stay. He wanted to – more than he could express, it was a desire that seemed to burn him from the inside out – but he knew the choice he had to make. He couldn't put the others in danger just because he wanted to die too, to be released from this agonizing hell.

All he felt was pain.

He knew he had to fight through it.

Before he clumsily got to his feet, he reached over and grabbed the dead man's hat, not even bothering to wipe off the blood that was smeared across the visor, and put it in his pocket.

He swayed, looking down, wondering if he'd forget all the words they'd said to each other, the words they'd never said, the gestures, the exchanged smiles. He prayed he never would. It would be difficult to live with, being able to recall the happiness he'd experienced, the first real taste of love, but he wanted that.

He knew he'd always regret not telling the man how he felt. That was inevitable. But, as he placed his hand in his pocket and gripped the tow-truck hat, he knew he'd be able to live with the sadness. For a short time, he'd known true happiness. That made it all worthwhile.

He took a deep breath, tensed up, tried to soak in everything about the man on the floor just one last time, and turned away. He walked stiffly to the doorway and softly called through, "I'm ready."

Other note: This has been sitting on my computer for a very long time, before I moved away from home and away from my friends to be with my boyfriend. Days after having him break up with me, I came across this. Broke my heart. Almost as if I'd been predicting the future. Seems stupid, not being able to take my own words at face value and move the fuck on, but I feel like I'm Nick and my failed relationship is Ellis. It's so hard to leave the pieces on the floor and get up and walk away. Just leave them there. And try not to look back.

To anyone out there who's suffering like I am right now, keep on struggling. I'd like to say it gets better, but I don't see it just now so I can't say it. But the days get easier, somehow. They do.