Re: [No. 22 -> No. 8: Hunter R & Cris M]
He was down to his thin sweater, just that eggshell brown, vee wet, the rest plastered and darkened down the middlea his chest with sweat, marred on elbows and cuffs and the back with earthen spatter. His camiseta underneath was prolly transparent by now, rucked up in the back, sticking to his skin. He could taste soil on his tongue. Some had prolly gotten kicked up. (In fact, if Cris coulda seen himself, he'da seen the muck freckling his shining cheeks, even stinging at his eyes with salt-drip.) He was breathing hard, lungs working overtime to match the energy expended, and he was sure a couplea times he'd lost Hunter again—but he hadn't. He hadn't. He wouldn't.
It wasn't a promise made it explicit. It was just how it was gonna play out. He'd bend the world to match his will, if he had to.
The kid came up and over the terrible lip in shock. He looked bad, and Cris knew it was worse than it looked. It always was. Hunter shook, mumbled, stared, and hung the fuck onto the fraying flannel sleevea the useless coat so slick with earth it prolly weight five pounds more.—It was in his blood too—Cris'—, the reaction, the coolanta shock as it excavated out from his heart as it trembled. But, the Sheriff, he bit it back down as best he could. His eyes were a complete collapsea black and the vertigo from moments before was trying to clamp onto his brainstem, to shake him from the inside and make him sick. He got a hold on his breathing, even, and he put a hand on Hunter, gentle, huh? Gentle, so he wouldn't get scared.
"Hey, flaco," he said, quiet and close. He was on his knees, thankful for the cold clay even as it impacted swollen joint and tender cartilage. Cris kinda forced his face into Hunter's dazed view, cutting off stars. His own hand managed steadiness, though it was clammy, and he held the kid's jaw, firm. "Look at me. Mírame, m'ijo. I'm gonna elevate your legs, huh? Nod if you understand me."
The hole was almost forgotten. It was an absence, an abscess to Hell, huge and impossible, and forgotten. Cris' focus was on the shivering gringo. He was exhausted, wrung out, the bowlsa his eyes burning weariness. He gave a smile, too jagged, but warm, that looked outta place in white amid browns and golds everywhere. He let go-a the kid's face, dark fingers on light skin washed brown, and picked up a small handfulla cold, squishy ground. He pressed it to Hunter's palm, as best he could. "Solid ground, huh? We're okay."