your tear-filled eyes flicked up to Santiago, who walked more up the rocky hillside, grumbling curses as he ran a hand over his stubble, eyes puffy from the salt of his own freshly shed tears.

”let me go talk to him,” Frankie buds in, but you shake your head, pulling yourself from the ground and to your feet.

”i’ll get him,” you respond, acknowledging the sympathetic nod he sent your way.

going after “Pope”, your eyes laced with concern at the sight of him. his fingers tugged through his dark curls, anxiously adjusting the backwards cap on his head.

Tom is dead.

and technically, it’s his fault.