Two months is all we have left with him.
It doesn’t sound real when I think it, but the man sitting next to me…beer in hand, grin still in place…is dying. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
I hate that.
Hate that I can’t fix it.
Hate that I didn’t notice sooner.
Knuckles coughs, a rough, wet sound that makes me tense. He waves me off before I can say anything, like he’s sick of people worrying.
He’s had that cough for a long while now. Hell, we all noticed it. But Knuckles is a smoker. We didn’t think much of it. Neither did he.
Which is why the cancer wasn’t caught in time.
Now, every rasp, every labored breath, is a reminder of just how fast time’s running out.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I’ve had a good run. More women, booze, and fights than I can count. Guess I finally pissed off the wrong organ.”
“Not funny,” I say quietly.
“Sure it is,” he grins, taking another drink. “You just forgot how to laugh.”
I snort despite myself, shaking my head. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, but you love me.” He smirks, then looks at me sideways. “So… brown-eyed pretty boy, huh?”
“Damnit, Knuckles.”
“What?” he says, grinning wider. “Man’s got you all twisted up. I can see it clear as day. You’re lookin’ at him like he’s the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.”
“Maybe I just see something worth protectin’,” I mutter.
Knuckles leans back, studying me. “Careful, brother…protectin’ has a way of turnin’ into lovin’ when you’re not payin’ attention.”
I glare at him, but he just laughs, coughs again, and raises his beer like a toast.
“Too late for me, Skip,” he rasps. “Don’t be too late for yourself.”
Knuckles was being a dick these past few months because he was adjusting to the news that he was going to die. I’d be angry as fuck too.
“Why were you such an ass to Eli?” I ask.
“Fuck man,” he sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I just saw the eagerness in his eyes to please those around him, and it made me fucking furious that someone so weak still had so much life to live while mine is slowly draining out.”
Knuckles leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I need to apologize to him,” he says quietly.
“Tomorrow,” I tell him. “It’s late.”
He shakes his head, stubborn as ever. “No. Tonight.”
“Knuckles…”
He cuts me off, voice rough but steady. “Skip, you don’t get it. I don’t know how many ‘tomorrows’ I’ve got left. Every time I close my eyes, I wonder if I’ll open them again. I’m not wasting what I’ve got left on guilt.”
That one hits me right in the gut. I look at him…really look…and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the unbreakable bastard I’ve always known. He just looks… tired.
“Fuck, Knucks,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s three in the damn morning. He’s probably sleeping.”
