Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

“I did!” Mateo takes off the helmet.

“You didn’t want me riding the bike, and now you’re going ahead and throwing yourself off one?”

“I was in the moment.”

I wanna take full credit, but he’s had this in him all along, always wanting to do something exciting, just being too scared to go out and do it.

“You feeling better?” Mateo asks.

“A little,” I admit. I get off the bike. I limp toward the deserted playground as some college-age-looking dudes play handball in a nearby court, splashing in the puddles as they chase after the ball whenever someone misses. My basketball shorts are damp and dirty from the cemetery, same for Mateo’s jeans, so the wet bench doesn’t bother us when we sit. “I hate that we were there for that.”

“I know. You never want to see someone die, even if you never knew them.”

“It pulled me out of my bullshit zone. My whole I’m-ready-for-whatever-is-gonna-hit-us thing is bullshit, and I’m scared shitless. We could legit die in the next thirty seconds from rogue bullets or something, and I hate that. Whenever I get into this freaking-out headspace, I end up here. Never fails.”

“But good times brought you here, too,” he says. “Like finishing your first marathon.” He takes a deep breath. “And having your first kiss with some girl.”

“Yeah.” That kiss bothers him, huh. I guess my gut was right. I stay shut for a solid stretch of time, only staring at squirrels climbing trees and birds chasing each other on foot. “Have you ever played Gladiator?”

“I know the game,” he says.

“Good. Have you ever played?”

“I’ve seen others play.”

“So no.”

“No.”

I stand, pull Mateo by his wrists, and lead him to the monkey bars. “I challenge you to a Gladiator match.”

“I can’t refuse, can I?”

“Definitely not.”

“We just survived an explosion.”

“What’s a little more pain?”

Jungle gym Gladiator isn’t crazy like an age-old coliseum match, but I’ve seen schoolmates get hurt before. Hell, I’m the reason some of them got hurt. Two players—gladiators—swing from the monkey bars into each other to try and knock their opponent down. It’s the most barbaric childhood game, mad fun. We’re both fairly tall, so we could just tiptoe and grab hold of the monkey bars, but I mini-hop and lift myself up, like I’m doing pull-ups. Mateo hops and takes hold but has zero upper-body strength, so he falls back on his feet ten seconds later. He jumps again and holds himself up this time. I count down from three as we swing toward each other, closing the small distance between us. I kick at him and he swerves to the side, almost falling. I lift my legs higher, throwing my legs around his midriff. He tries breaking out of my grapple as I rattle him, but no dice. My hands are kind of aching, so when he lets go, laughing, I fall with him onto the mat. I bang against the mat, shocks chasing each other around my body, but the pain doesn’t kill me. We’re side by side with each other, laughing while we massage our aching elbows and legs. Our backs are wetter and we keep slipping while trying to get up. Idiots. Mateo gets it together and helps me up.

“I won, right?” I say.

“I think it’s a tie,” he says.

“Rematch?”

“I’m good. I’m pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes when we were falling.”

I smile. “Let me get real with you, Mateo.” I say his name a lot, even though I’m obviously talking to him, because it’s just cool, seriously— Mateo . “Past few months have been brutal. My life always felt over even without the alert. There were days I believed I could prove Death-Cast wrong and ride my bike into the river. But on top of being scared now, I’m pissed off because there’s so much I’ll never get to have. Time . . . other stuff, like—”

“You’re not going to off yourself today, right?” Mateo asks.

“I’m safe from myself, I promise. I don’t want everything over. Please promise you won’t go dying before me. I can’t see that.”

“Only if you promise the same thing.”

“We can’t both promise this.”

“Then I’m not promising my promise,” Mateo says. “I don’t want you to see me die, but I can’t watch you die either.”

“That’s messed up. You’re really gonna go down as the Decker who didn’t promise to grant another Decker his dying wish?”

“Forcing myself to watch you die is not something I’ll promise you. You’re my Last Friend, and it would wreck me.”

“You don’t deserve to die, Mateo.”

“I don’t think anyone deserves to die.”

“Except serial killers, right?”

He doesn’t answer because he probably thinks I won’t like his answer. If anything, it only further proves my point: Mateo doesn’t deserve to die.

A handball bounces our way, and Mateo races past me to catch it. This guy chases after the ball, but Mateo gets to it first and tosses it to him.

“Thanks,” the guy says.

Homeboy is really pale, like he doesn’t leave his apartment nearly enough. What a shitty, stormy day to come out and play. I’m guessing he’s nineteen or twenty, but I’m not ruling out he’s our age.

“No problem,” Mateo says.

He’s turning away when he sees my bike. “Nice! Is that a Trek?”

“It is. Got it for off-road races. Do you ride one?”

“Mine got wrecked—brake cable got busted and the seat clamp was all screwy. I’m buying another one when I get a job that pays more than eight an hour,” he says.

“Take mine,” I say. I can do this. I walk to my bike, which carried me through a brutal race and everywhere else I wanted to go, and wheel it toward this guy. “It’s your lucky day, seriously. My friend isn’t about me riding this thing, so you can have it.”

“You serious?”

“You sure?” Mateo asks.

I nod. “It’s yours,” I tell the guy. “Have at it. I’m moving soon anyway and won’t be able to bring it.”

The dude throws the handball over to his friends, who’ve been shouting for him to come back and play. He sits on the bike and plays with the gears. “Wait. You didn’t jack this from someone, right?”

“Nope.”

“And it’s not broken? Is that why you’re leaving it behind?”

“It’s not broken. Look, do you want it or not?”

“We good, we good. Can I pay you something?”

I shake my head. “We good,” I say back.

Mateo gives the guy the helmet and he doesn’t put it on before riding back to his friends. I get my phone out and snap photos of him riding my bike, his back to me as he stands on the pedals, while his friends play handball. It’s a solid portrait of kids—a little older than me, but they’re kids, don’t fight me on that—too young to be worried about shit like Death-Cast alerts. They know their day is going to end like it usually does.

“Good move,” Mateo says.

“I got one last ride out of it. I’m set.” I take more photos: the ongoing handball match, the monkey bars where we played Gladiator, the long yellow slide, the swings. “Come.”

I almost go back for my bike before remembering I’ve just given it up. I feel lighter, like my shadow just quit his day job, walked off, and threw up a peace sign. Mateo follows me to the swings. “You said you’d come here with your dad, right? Naming clouds and shit? Let’s swing.”

Mateo sits on the swing, holds on for dear life—I know—takes a few steps, and propels forward, his legs looking like they’re about to kick over a building. I get a picture before joining him on the swing, my arms wrapped around the chains, and I manage to take some pictures. Puts me and my phone at risk—again, I know—but for every four blurry shots I snap a good one. Mateo points out the dark nimbus clouds, and I’m straight wowed I get to live in this moment with someone who doesn’t deserve to die.