Tate took long breaths from his position on the ground, sitting with his elbows on his knees, fingers shoved through his golden locks that were now struggling to stay within its topknot hair-tie. He was trying to dial back the ragging sobs that had torn through his throat, that still wanted to. Dangling within the eye of that storm, he knew he was teetering with lingering in agony or shoving all this pain deep down in his gut and rub some dirt on it.
His parents, who still lingered on either side of him; his family, who looked down at him from their lofty perch 400 feet above, did not interfere with Tate as he worked through his s**t, even if their sorrowed eyes and solemn faces showed they wanted nothing more than to interfere, than to grab him into their arms and hold him until he banis
