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smallsies · 4 years

Text

bitter tragedy

ship(s): ralbert?

word count: 2.0k

trigger warning(s): mentions of guns, death, & injury

description: albert and race meet again while the world is ending.

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a/n: apocalypse au. title is from "this will end" by the oh hellos. thanks to my wonderful friend morgan (@santa-fe-maniac) for beta reading!

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Albert DaSilva never expected to see Racetrack Higgins ever again in his life.

Which, considering the way things had been going, was due to end shortly anyways.

Yet there he was, standing on the doorstep. Out of breath, hollow-eyed, and covered in blood, but he was alive.

The pair regarded each other for a long moment, a thousand words passing between them in the silence.

“Brooklyn?”

“Gone,” Race replied, and the look on his face told Albert not to ask anything further.

He stepped back, inclining his head by way of invitation, and Race gratefully came inside. “Well, Albie, how have things been here?” he proffered, instinctively reverting to the old nickname he’d used for the redhead.

“So-so. Charlie got bit, but Davey managed to amputate his leg before he was infected. Goes by Crutchie now.”

The blond drew in a hissed breath between his teeth. His way of showing sympathy. “Any casualties?”

“Just one. Henry, the stupid kid—” Albert paused, drawing in a breath before continuing. “A few weeks ago, Smalls requested backup, so Tommy Boy and Blink went up to assist. He snuck out after them, but, uh, he didn't make it to the Bronx,”

Race cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry,”

Albert shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. He’d have to ask Sarah about getting a haircut.

“He knew better.”

A silence blanketed them for a moment, and then Race jammed a hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

“Want a smoke?”

Albert couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped him as he tilted his head to one side, studying his friend.

“The world is ending and you’ve still got cigarettes?”

“I’m just keeping my priorities straight, Albie,”

In truth, when you live every moment thinking that it could be your last, you stop caring about a lot of things.

For Albert, it was other people. They could be the death of you, if you weren't careful. And Albert DaSilva hadn't ever been anything if not careful.

For Race, it was himself, though he’d clearly never stopped caring for cigarettes. Even now, he had one dangling unlit between his lips.

It was a way to cling onto what made them human. Amidst the ruins of civilization, that was an easy thing to forget.

———

“You wanna go say hello to the others?”

Race nodded in confirmation, so Albert bounded up the stairs, with Race right on his heels.

They stepped out onto the roof as several pairs of eyes turned to regard their entrance.

Jack, Davey, Kid Blink, Crutchie, and Katherine were all crowded around a table. One of its legs was broken, so someone—probably Davey—had propped it up with a book.

“Racetrack?” Davey stood to greet them, shooting Albert a confused look. “Is everything—”

“Brooklyn’s taken,” Albert interrupted swiftly as he felt Race tense at his shoulder.

Condolences were muttered, along with the Manhattaners exchanging looks of shock. It was clear they tried to be subtle, for Race’s sake, but it was unsuccessful at best.

Then Jack was there, pulling Race into a fierce hug.

Crutchie took longer, tucking his makeshift crutch underneath his arm before stiffly crossing the roof.

“Hey, Racer,” Crutchie murmured softly as Race hugged him in turn.

Jack touched his younger brother’s shoulder. “Welcome home, kid,”

That night brought Race curled up under a blanket borrowed from Elmer, on a bed borrowed from Henry, who’d been the previous owner.

Race whimpered in his sleep, thrashing about for what must’ve been the seventh time since he’d finally drifted off to sleep, and Albert sighed, just once, before shifting to lean over the railing, down at the boy on the bunk beneath him.

“Racer,” he hissed, and Race jolted awake, eyes immediately alight with a wild, animalistic panic as he caught sight of Albert. “Hey— ‘s just me. Nightmares?”

Race blinked and nodded slowly, tears welling up in his eyes, and Albert frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Cut it out, will ya? ‘M tryin’ to sleep,”

“I can't—”

“Figure it out, a’right?”

With that, Albert rolled back over, burying his face in his blankets.

Not twenty seconds later, there was a quiet shuffling beneath him and then Race appeared, resting his chin on the bedrail.

��Can I stay with you? It helps, a-and we used to share a bed, so—”

Albert sat halfway up, tufts of ginger hair flattened to the side of his head due to the way he’d been laying. “No.”

“Al—”

“Go back to bed, Racer.”

———

Several weeks after Race’s return to Manhattan, he appeared in the kitchen early one morning with a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Hey, Al, I’m goin’ out on a supply run. You wanna come with?”

“Sure. What ‘re we after?” Albert slid past Race to grab his hunting jacket off of a hook in the hallway. He’d looted it right after the start of the apocalypse, and rarely went anywhere without it now.

“Davey's runnin’ low on first-aid supplies, so we’ll go uptown to check out that corner store. Hopefully we can scrounge up some stuff,”

“Got your gun?”

Race made a show of patting the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants before nodding. “Yep. Good to go,”

“A’right,” Albert grunted, double-checking that he had his own.

The pair headed outside, making for the middle of the street, their way lit by stars still clinging to life, defying the sun just starting to rise.

“Lead the way,” Albert nodded to the west, falling into step beside Race as they set out.

Fifteen minutes of weaving through streets littered with miniscule fragments of glass, abandoned vehicles, and the occasional rotten corpse, they reached the corner store.

It was in one of the nicer parts of town, with the windows still clinging onto life, though the door was long gone. “C’mon,” Race jerked his head in the direction of the building and stepped inside, pausing uncertainly in the doorway as he caught sight of the shelves, set perpendicular to the entrance.

Goods had been more or less thrown around, scattered across the floor and piled on the shelves in a way far less than organized.

“Guess we weren't the first ones to find this place,” Albert had slid past Race and was investigating a display of candles. He picked one up and sniffed it, before scrunching up his nose. “Pumpkin. Gross.”

Race rolled his eyes, starting down an aisle at random. After another minute or so of aimless wandering, he triumphantly returned to Albert’s side, holding a plastic box emblazoned with a red cross.

The redhead seemed to be on a mission to smell every candle in the store, but he lifted his head, studying the kit that appeared in front of his face. “You think that’ll be good enough?”

“If Dave doesn't like it, he can hunt down a different one on his own,” Race shrugged, an easy smile crossing his face. Evidently, he wasn't serious, though he rarely was.

“Winter Fir, or Blueberry Waffle?”

“What?”

Albert pointed at the shelf. “The candles,”

The corners of Race’s mouth twitched up as he shook his head in exasperation. “I haven't had a waffle in a long time,” he finally said, so Albert picked up the blue-and-white candle, stuffing it into his pocket.

———

After leaving the store, the pair set off in the direction of the lodging house.

They didn't make it any more than three minutes down the road before running into their first zombie.

Albert remembered Davey saying they were diurnal— only active during the day, if his memory served him right.

Race frowned as Albert felled the creature. “I didn't know “sun’s out, guns out,” was meant to be taken literally,”

“Nine o’clock, Racer,” Albert warned.

The blond spun, cocking his gun and firing it in the same fluid motion.

More zombies were stumbling toward them, but for every one that went down, two more seemed to take its place.

The pair fought like they were fighting for their lives, like one wrong move meant an untimely end. Fought with the pent-up anger of those wronged by the world. Fought desperate and tired and scared.

Albert and Race were losing ground, and they fought like they knew it.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes and the zombie nearest to Race dropped, but Albert wasn't having the same luck.

His gun had jammed, or run out of bullets—whatever it was, he flicked it over his shoulder, then kicked fiercely out at one of the zombies, sending it stumbling back into the others.

When he abandoned his gun, Albert abandoned his last chance of survival.

At the time, he had no idea, but it soon became evident as the distance between him and Race increased, and the number of zombies between them did too.

Race realized it first. Got this frantic look in his eye, started shooting wildly to pave a way to his friend.

The redhead’s location was obvious amidst the drab sea of greens and grays, but Race could do nothing more than watch on in horror as one of the zombies opened a long cut on Albert’s side.

An inhuman scream tore from Albert’s throat, and he disappeared under a wave of undead.

“Al!”

There was no reply, but Race’s focus was redirected as his own enemies were getting too close for comfort, though a new fire had lit in Race’s chest and he battled the zombies without mercy.

———

Eventually, the last zombie collapsed with a bullet embedded in it’s chest, and Race was left alone, standing on a street littered with bodies.

Movement caught his eye, and Race turned his head toward the source as it keened quietly.

His heart lurched in his throat and he began to pick his way over to Albert, who lay sprawled across the pavement.

Blood was matted in his hair and he was as white as a sheet. He’d managed to stem the flow of blood from the gash in his side, at the very least, fingers splayed over a ragged strip of cloth torn from his shirt.

“Al—”

“Get away, Racer,”

“No, Al, ‘s okay— i-it's just a little blood,” Race kneeled beside the boy, who was shaking his head.

Foolishly, Race tugged the box of first-aid supplies out of his pocket, flicking open the lid.

“We’ll put some gauze on it, just until we can get you back home,” he said, but knew the idea was impossible once he met Albert’s gaze.

Time was running out.

Race’s hands shook as he dropped the kit, but Albert must've noticed the terror on his face because he stopped him from reaching for it again.

He’d grabbed his hand and laced their fingers together. Strangely cold against Race’s sweat-slick palm.

Albert gritted his teeth, removing the hand that had been clamped over the cloth that was covering the wound in his ribcage.

Before Race could question what he was doing, the redhead had jammed a hand into his pocket and pulled out the blue-and-white candle.

“Here. Until you have waffles again,”

“Don't talk like you aren't gonna be there to eat ‘em with me,”

“And you don't be a fool, Racer,”

Three words was all they needed. Three words they’d both been too scared to commit to reality for years, even if they knew them to be true, in one way or another.

Albert gritted his teeth. “I’m dyin’, okay? Let me die human,”

“You aren't gonna die,”

Albert didn't reply, remaining quiet until Race found his voice and spoke again.

“I need you.”

Just three words, but time was running out. They’d left so much unsaid, and now it was too late.

“I could say the same,”

“You don't get it, Al,”

“Maybe I do.”

Three words that were the reason Race ran away to Brooklyn. The reason Albert shut everyone out.

Silence settled over them again, carrying on as Albert's skin chilled and his eyes darkened, a peculiar growl building in his throat.

Three words they couldn't quite say, seemingly fated to remain unsaid.

Race’s hands shook as he pulled out his gun, miles and miles of silver glinting coldly in the half-light.

And, if it was even possible, Race thought he saw Albert’s eyes soften a moment before he pulled the trigger.

—

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