Disclaimer: Four Brothers isn't mine.
A/N: Sorry if the code is cheesy but I just kind of whipped it up and it sort of made sense if you think about it from Jack's funky perspective.
He had thought it was over when they put Jack's body in the ambulance and drove away with it.
But he'd been wrong before.
He sat on a chair, one of the few dining room chairs that wasn't broken, and looked mutely at the bullet-riddled wall, at the pictures Evelyn kept of all of them hanging above her record set, but his eyes stayed glued to the picture of Jack from school. A bullet had hit the picture so it looked like there was a hole in Jack's right shoulder. He had cried when he saw it after coming into the ruined house, after getting out the battered vacuum to suck up the broken glass, but at four in the morning he was done crying and was ready to die. He reflected on how ironic it was: Jackie's picture with that smart-alec look on his face, hair ruffled like always, and a big hole through his shoulder. He might have told Jack a week ago that he would die just like that, cocky, rock star through and through, smirking at the bullet through his chest. But he knew that Jack hadn't died like that. Jack had died from a bullet through his chest with tears in his eyes and blood running down his cheek, his face tight with pain and fear.
Bobby looked down at the thing he held clenched in his hands. They'd given him Jack's shirt, later, hours later, along with the guitar pick and rosary he wore around his neck. They'd given him Jack's belt, Jack's shoes, Jack's pants. They'd even given him the pack of cigarettes he'd had in his pockets. Bobby had been surprised to see how small his brother really was, how small his clothes were. But he really only wanted Jack's shirt right now. That and his necklaces, but right now only his shirt. Because it had been closest to Jack's heart and it still smelled like him. In time that smell would fade and Bobby would have to rely on his memories of Jackie crawling in to sleep with him when he had nightmares. He lifted the blood-stained shirt to his face and breathed deeply. A faint whiff of cigarettes, his deodorant, but mostly just Jack. He tried to ignore the smell of dried blood.
He padded upstairs in the dark nearly an hour later, ignoring the faint color of the sky, and collapsed on Jack's bed. That smelled like Jack too. A little bit like Jack's sweat—he'd had a nightmare last night. He'd always had nightmares. When he was little he asked to sleep with Bobby. And Bobby had let him. Now he just fought them off himself and was a little more sensitive in the morning, a bit more clingy. Was. Not anymore. He'd never have another nightmare again. Bobby would never come down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to find Jack sleeping with his head buried in his arms on the counter, a glass of water in front of him. He'd pick Jack up and sling him over his shoulder gently and make his way upstairs again. By the time they got to his room Jack was usually awake and could stumble into his bed after giving Bobby a drowsy shove and mumbling a few choice phrases. Bobby would tease him about being such a fairy and then he'd go back to the kitchen for his own glass of water. Jack didn't know that before he went to bed Bobby always checked back on him, just to make sure. Used to. Not anymore.
Now he was in Jack's bed and Jack was somewhere else but he'd left behind his guitar, his first one that Bobby had gotten him. He said it wasn't his favorite, but all his old guitars he'd thrown away after they became too battered. This one he'd kept, taking it out to strum on every so often. He said he got tired of hooking up the amp all the time when he just wanted to figure out a tune. Bobby just shrugged like he didn't care but was secretly pleased that Jack kept that guitar. He picked it up now, carefully, like it was some sacred object. It was scratched a little bit, but the strings were good, and the neck was rubbed smooth from Jack's hand. He'd etched some little designs on it, probably because he was bored, but it gave Bobby a little glimpse of what really went on in his brother's head. Various symbols were on different parts of the neck: a diamond, what looked like a spade, a heart, a B. He didn't know what they meant, they seemed so random that he doubted anybody but Jackie could have figured them out. On impulse he ran his hand on the back of the guitar and felt a new set of symbols. He looked at them, trying to decipher them. They were faint from rubbing. He was about to set the guitar down, but he heard a small rustle in it and flipped it so a small piece of notebook paper fell out from the gourd. There, in pencil, was written the key to the symbols, in Jack's careful hand. He'd always had good writing, Bobby remembered. Evelyn had liked it. He couldn't read the note after a moment for the tears clouding his vision.
Sustenancespade
Loveheart
BBobby
Bobbybrother
Familydiamond
It was just like Jackie to write something down that he knew he'd remember. If he had asked Jack, he probably would have shrugged. But this was important to him. It looked like the code had been carved out over years, like every so often Jack would work on it. The oldest symbol was the B. He knew it meant him. It also stood for brother. Next was the diamond. He was surprised that a kid as young as Jack had been able to put two things together like that, to realize that he valued his family more than anything else, loved his brother, loved the things that sustained him. The spade was carved last, very recently, almost like it was yesterday. It might have been yesterday and the thought warmed Bobby's heart. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes, surprised that he still had tears to cry. He had been important to Jack. He curled up around the guitar, still lying on Jack's bed, and sobbed. Jack had been life to him.