escape the night - oneshots

there is no upper hand (manpat)

His muscles strained, bicep bulging against the soft green fabric of his outfit. Manny feared for his life as he pushed ever harder; it was obvious that the presence of death that loomed over them had only forced the man across the table to find that last ounce of strength inside of him.

Manny was certain that Matthew hadn't been this strong just earlier, after all.

He looked upwards from his stance staring downwards at the table, staring straight down at Matt. The detective's entire body was shaking. His eyes clenched together, teeth bared and grit, a futile bead of sweat trailing down his temple. Manny's heart sank. Was he really about to be the cause of this poor boy's death? He was going to win. He knew that much; he was pretty sure they all did. Perhaps a selfish thought, but was anyone about to deny it...? Manny was about to (indirectly) kill this innocent theorist, the bright-eyed detective that made friend or acquaintance with every person alongside them in this damn town, the smartest member of their team, one of the brightest lights in this stupid fucking place.

As Manny pushed his arm against Matt's, he found the opposite side of the table to shift as the other man lifted his head. The record producer huffed out a breath, his brow furrowing as their eyes met.

They locked gazes. Manny's lips parted slightly and the world stopped for a second, just a second, as hazel-green met honey brown. And for this second, his imagination ran ramped. He saw them; they were finally out of this damned town and back in Las Angeles—no longer were they The Record Producer and The Detective, they were Matthew Patrick and Manny Gutierrez.

He wished he could stay in his thoughts forever.

"No—!"

Matthew's desperate cry shook him out of his trance and the record producer came to realize that the other's fist was mere inches from the pad on the table—inches, and then centimeters, and then no space at all. Matt's hand fell, disconnecting from Manny's as the defeated detective crumpled to his knees. The adrenaline that coursed through Manny's body mixed with Joey and Nikita's cheers of excitement told him that he should celebrate, he should throw up his arms in victory and run to embrace his friends, but as he looked across the table... he knew it wasn't right.

The record producer's hand came to hover in front of his mouth, shocked as he casted his gaze towards his friends on the deck of the arcade. He could only halt in his tracks, shocked.

"Are you ready to die?"

Manny's breath caught in his throat. As little energy he had, he forced his legs forwards, swerving to avoid the hulking mass that was the Strong Man so that he could grab the fourth artifact. Maybe if he was fast enough... maybe if he moved agile enough, just maybe, he could finish this demon before...

Just as Manny frantically tore the artifact from its container, trying to tear his focus away from Matthew's screams, a sickening crunch from behind him clued him in to the poor detective's fate. Manny tensed, freezing in place.

"Oh my god." He muttered, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.

He forced his head to turn over his shoulder, only to be met with the sight of Matt's lower half poking out from behind a barrel, and he was absolutely gagged.

He blinked away the tears that had formed in his eyes, turning towards the others. His heart lurched at the sight of a grieving Rosanna, her face buried in Safiya's sweater—would she forgive him? Damn, sure, he did what he had to do but... he was certain that didn't make it feel any better.

Defeated, he turned slowly to face Nikita, holding the artifact in his hand and presenting it forward. She was his girl; he trusted her with it.

"I'll be in in a sec," He stated softly, nodding to her. They all seemed apprehensive, naturally, but eventually found Calliope ushering them through the doors.

This left Manny standing alone in the cold night's air, staring downwards at the dusty ground. Was this how the others felt afterwards their challenges? Fuck, he didn't know how they'd done it. Placing one of his hands into his pockets, Manny slowly dragged out his rings, one by one. He gently slid them over his fingers, idle in effort to feel the cold sensation of the golden-colored metal on his skin. He just wanted to feel something other than this pure and crushing sensation of dread and guilt that pooled in the pit of his stomach. Honestly, he was just an innocent beauty guru. He didn't know how to handle these things.

His attention diverted ahead of him, and he found himself without control of his body. Manny wasn't even thinking, it was almost an instinctive sensation to tread forwards toward what used to be the brightest man he knew.

It wasn't an easy scene to behold.

Matthew's face bordered on unrecognizable, the upper half of his face near to caved in and covered in ugly bruises, and the lower rendered almost unseeable due to the amounts of blood that leaked out of his mouth and nose. Manny turned his head away for a moment, quickly covering his mouth to suppress any unpleasant reactions.

Strong Man, sure, but was all this really necessary? Manny was all for being extra, but...

The record producer stifled an uncomfortable chuckle, sighing. As horrid as the sight was, he couldn't manage to walk away from his friend. He couldn't help but imagine what could have been.

Suddenly, a weak chest heaved. A spurt of blood erupted from the brunette's throat as he hacked—somehow, alive.

"Holy shit-" Manny breathed, quickly dropping down to his knees. "Matt? Matpat?" Maybe it wasn't too late...?

There was no coherent response, a wheeze and a twitch of the arm as his head turned slightly to to the side. Manny cringed; he couldn't even imagine what the half-dead detective was feeling.

"Oh, honey," He whispered, eyes welling as he gingerly grasped Matthew's head and placed it into his lap. "Shh, you're okay, babe." Manny muttered, ghosting a hand through Matt's bloodied chestnut hair. He noted that the detective's blood was probably staining his shorts, but he decided to brush that off. Not the time, Manny.

Feebly, Matthew's hand raised ever so slightly. Manny's eyes clouded with gentle emotions as he reached outwards, taking it into both his own. This seemed to calm his rapid and shallow breathing, the detective's chest falling ever so slower. Manny smiled sadly.

"Goodbye, Matt." He spoke tenderly, holding the dying man's hands desperately in his own.

It wasn't long before the stuttered rise and fall of his chest slowed to a stop.

Manny's ears rang as he stared down at Matthew, dead in his lap. The record producer hadn't prepared to cry on this mission—both he and Nikita were intent on not allowing their emotions to cloud their heads. Plus, his makeup was too good to cry off. But still, his hands worked upwards to dry the corners of his eyes, looking upwards to halt the potential flow of tears that would work their way out of them if he let his guard down.

"Manny?"

Nikita's voice. Nikita's voice, Nikita's voice, Nikita's voice. He fixated himself onto it.

"You gotta come back in, who knows when the next bitch is gonna come for us." She insisted, and Manny glanced upwards to see her leaning against the wooden post outside of the building. Her gaze was soft.

"...Yeah, right. I'm coming." He nodded, as if affirming this to himself. Gently moving Matt's head back onto the ground, he slowly stood up and brushed off his legs.

He began to step back, but paused, noticing a certain pair of cracked orange-lensed sunglasses on the ground. Perhaps having fallen out of Matt's pocket. Sighing, he leaned down to pick them up. He gazed at them for a moment before folding them into his hand and walking towards Nikita.

With one final glance at Matthew, Manny entered the arcade, contemplating the feeling of holding The Detective's hand.