Noble Little Boys
You were always so strong. You would grin and smile, laugh and joke. Ever since you were young. When people thought of you they heard the ringing of a carefree boy's laughter. They would grin and smile with you, even though you felt certain that they could see that dash of terror across your face, the one you couldn't stop when you prayed no one was watching.
You were Warren. The charismatic, light-hearted, loving boy who never got the chance to grow up.
You could scream. You could throw yourself against walls in the black of night, where no one could see you. And you could let tears slip down your face to wet your collar. But you never did. You couldn't let a smile falter. For even one second.
So instead your jaw was always clenched, always working to keep your mouth clamped firmly shut. Your entire body felt stretched and brittle, as if your bones had been elongated before their time.
And your face. Your face was too hard, too old. Too scarred for what should've been soft and freckled.
Even as you twine your arms around him, your throat begins to ache. Begging, pleading for you choke out just one, tiny, little sob. But you swallow hard and bury your face into his chest.
It was always dark when you lay together, side by side. And sometimes you're grateful because you could pretend his touch was a woman's, soft and supple. Not screwed up, not fucking perverted.
But you can never quite convince yourself, because even when your eyes are squeezed shut and only darkness fills the room, you catch sharp intakes of air. Which quickly turn into gulps, and gulps avalanche into quiet sobs. And then guilt floods your mouth and you can't speak, only hold his face and press kisses to his temples. Knowing that the wetness on his cheeks is just like yours; doing nothing too cool the hot shame that burns your face.
He sits up and holds his head in his hands, pushing you away when you place a hand on his shoulder.
"Dale." You say. Your voice is painfully tight, barely making it out of your mouth.
He rests his brow on his forearms. He isn't breathing, just convulsing, trying not to make a sound.
You climb out from under the sheet and crawl in front of him. The chilly air slivers over your bare skin and you hardly notice.
You take his head in your hands and slowly kiss him below his hairline, then on his forehead. You continue planting kiss down his nose, across his jaw and then finally press your lips to his. His mouth responds numbly.
Your entire body feels sick when you drop your arms, defeated.
He looks up at you, lips quivering, and lifts an arm to cup your face. You manage a frail smile.
He brushes away a tear.
"Please don't cry."
His voice cracks on the last syllable and you see him bite down hard on his lip. A frown crumples his face.
"Please." He chokes it out.
"I'm not." You whisper. But even as you say it you feel a drop of water splash down your cheek to meet his hand.
He wails and throws his arms around you. His movements are slack, and you know that he is barely aware of where he is, only knowing hurt and loathing. His whimpers stab at your insides, but you don't cry.
You thread your arms around his back, quietly shushing him. Guide his still shuddering body back down and murmur comfortingly into his ear.
You extract yourself from his limp grip and fight down the desperate sounds clawing at your throat, kiss his temple and fit yourself boneless in his side.
His breaths eventually slow and he holds you tight, knowing that he is your brother and he needs you to keep him strong.