the progress project [3]

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aidan

"aids," quentin smirks, kissing him softly before sitting down across from him in the crowded coffee shop. two cups of coffee sit on the table, accompanied by a head-sized cookie.

"q," aidan can't help but smile back. he holds the other man's hand, which rests on the table. quentin is dressed down in a white nirvana t-shirt and shorts, and his cheeks are full with some of the dessert, and aidan's heart can't help but do a flutter-kick.

the other man swallows, opening his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the sound of fireworks. aidan jumps, as do the several people around him, but he can't focus on anything but the red spot blooming through the fabric of quentin's shirt. "qu—"

quentin doesn't respond with words, but his face falls forward, slamming into the wooden table. aidan can hear the gunfire that fills the void of emptiness now, can't comprehend what's happening. he needs to help quentin, he needs—

a stab of heat blooms throughout aidan's back, settles into his ribs like a flame being held to kerosene. he loses his balance in his seat, drops out of it, and slams the right side of his body against the hardwood floor. all around him are bodies of other customers, lying there without a breath of life. he has to force himself to still his breathing, despite the fact that all he wants to do is call for help or cry. he watches the middle-aged man's back, watches as the middle-aged man puts the gun up to his head, watches as he pulls the trigger.

it happens so fast. he can't speak, can't move. he can't do anything. it feels like a dream that he can't wake himself up from.

he doesn't know how long he's on the floor, trapped, doesn't know how much blood he's lost, doesn't know anything until a woman's face is in front of his, blocking the light from reaching him. she says something he can't make out, and he winces, the ringing in his ears dying down. "we're... to get you out... here."

she and another man pick him up, one arm slung under each armpit, hoisting him upright. aidan sees the white light again, feels his eyes shoot to the back of his head because the pain is so unbearable in his ribcage, and he screams so loudly that his voice immediately goes hoarse.

"it's okay," the woman says, rubbing the blood off of his forehead. he doesn't know how it got there, doesn't care. she helps him onto the stretcher, into the ambulance. she puts the bag-valve-mask over his nose and mouth, eyebrows furrowed in fear.

aidan grabs onto her hand tightly, can feel fresh tears roll down his face. he's tired, so tired, but the panic inside of him is strong. is he going to start hyperventilating? "i can't feel my legs. i-i can't feel m-my legs, i can't, i can't—"

his eyes droop even though he's begging them not to. what if—