-:-
what you were
will not happen again.
-Charles Bukowski.

The headless cupid that seemed to visit Mekt consistently since leaving prison had visited him again in the night, half plastered from cheap Rimbor wine and vodka shots, in celebration of the Legion getting their little human-Coluan back into their ranks. Garth had decided that the best way to welcome back the tiny blonde haired, green skinned intellectual of the 12th level was to diminish his capacity to act so up-tight around both Supermen, and had offered to get himself and everyone else that couldn't get out of the way in time in the same position.

And then he had remembered that Mekt lived in the area-New Metropolis, a vaguely nice apartment building that only had one wall covered in graffiti and allowed Mekt to actually be able to pay rent as well as eat on the salary he made now working for the offices of R.J. Brande as an administrative assistant (secretary) and secondary bodyguard for the Legion's patron; Brande was affectionate, given that he heard from his son that Mekt was Garth's brother and didn't realize that their past was a little rocky, so he was constantly informing Mekt about things that he simply didn't know-but let's digress.

Mekt had answered the door that night at two in the morning, assuming he was receiving a surprise visit from his parole officer, only to get an armful of sappy, happily drunken little brother. Mumbling about how great it was that he lived just around the block from Legion HQ and how he was a secretary without a skirt and how pretty his hair was.

Lacking anything similar to a couch, Mekt had sighed when Garth trailed off, rubbing his chafed fingers (not the metal hand, thank Sprock) through his elder brother's snow white hair and then hauled the ginger into the bedroom.

"You're lucky I don't call your girlfriend to come deal with your drunk ass, she'd probably give you a lecture tomorrow instead of toast and orange juice," Mekt griped, unlacing Garth's boots and prying them off with both hands and one foot braced to the bed for some leverage. Garth might have been shorter than Mekt, but he weighed a good twenty pounds heavier on pure muscle, which was dead-weight at the moment. Like himself.

Garth sighed from inside the giant, soft red coverlet Mekt had gotten from a thrift shop for a ridiculously low price, ginger head settling on Mekt's smaller pillow as he pulled his other foot out of his boot to assist Mekt, when in actuality, it had him lose his balance and almost smacked himself in the face with Garth's boot, "Don't like her toast...too crunchy..."

"Uh-huh," Mekt hummed, moving onto Garth's pants while hoping that he had a zipper somewhere and he wouldn't have to feel him up for too long just to find it; durable spandex was awkward to maneuver when the parties involved weren't in full co-operation. Lifting Garth's left leg by the knee, Mekt felt along where his own zipper had hidden in his old outfit when he and the half-conscious ginger had been on the outs and touched where he always knew the zipper head to be-no GPS necessary.

"Like your toast, though," Garth continued, making a rather-for Mekt, still fishing, though grasping the zipper and pulling it down was a success-odd sound just shy of keening and pointing his toes forward when Mekt wrangled his pants off and his bare legs touched the elder boy's bare legs (he'd been sleeping, therefore only bore the utter necessities of boxer shorts, ankle high socks and his own skin; summer being in the air and no air conditioning left much to be desired) that were without the same chafing, bristled hairs; delighted.

"Yeah, okay, little brother, you like my toast; high compliment coming from you-raise your arms."

In the end, Garth had fallen asleep just after Mekt had fished him out of the rest of his spandex, folded them into a pile and then resumed his position on the bed nearest the window so he wouldn't suffocate from the heat. His little brother had always been able to sleep just about anywhere, so it came as no surprise that he pretty much claimed the sleeping space for his own in his unconscious state; twisting around so that their legs tangled up, he'd fisted his metal hand under the pillow closest and then wound his fleshy arm around Mekt's middle during the night, using him as a teddy bear like he did when they were smaller and Garth couldn't handle being alone in what had been his and Ayla's shared room. He even found that spot along Mekt's back that allowed his face to meld perfectly along his scarred eye.

And it was a pleasant enough night for Mekt, no interruptions and no struggle, the sweating something to ignore as the nature of someone dreaming.

The morning came with its own surprises, as was the nature of things unexpected.

"...Ow...Ow...Ow..."

"Well, Garth, this is what you get for drinking your own body weight. Also, kindly go to the bathroom and change your underwear with the clean ones I left in there. I have to get these sheets in the wash before your fluids harden."

"So loud," Garth whined pathetically, slithering from his place at the top of the bed, sluggish, miserable form moving like a mole in the ground under the blanket and only flinching a little at the cold hardwood that his feet touched down on. He tightened both of his eyes and tried not to notice the slickness rubbing and marking his sensitive appendage as he practically collapsed onto the floor, balance lost momentarily, and then basically crawled the rest of the way to where he was pretty sure the toilet room was.

Mekt had to hold back his previously infamous cackle as his brother hobbled on the floor, avoiding the light from the partially drawn shades and the window in his kitchen he'd left open on purpose, "That's the linen closet; turn left."

"Grahhh, bullshit..." the hungover Legionnaire muttered, rolling over to change direction as well as absorb the hardwood chill into his already uncomfortably heated skin, elbow banging the arched entry of the hall. That time Mekt did cackle a little, pinching the large blanket between his fingers and making sure there wasn't any of his brother's residue from having a good dream, before tossing it to the side of the room and moving onto the sheets that in fact did have fluid turning from nearly pearl sheen into a crusty finish not worth giving a named color to.

Honestly, he would have been more offended, but it actually brought back a few good memories of when they were both young, extremely hormonal farm boys that couldn't do anything but ruin their bedsheets during the night-during the day, during lunch, after a piece of candy, at the smell of soup, looking out the window and seeing a girl or boy that they'd interacted with-and then hurry the linens into the washing machine before their mother tried to run her rounds and discover their stains on her own. Sneaking around like bandits in perfect unison, some of the few things growing up that didn't let them outright hate each other.

Stripping the sheets and winding them into a ball to avoid exposure to the least wanted of Garth's interactions, Mekt heard his little bother knock into the toilet, tripping up a little to get out of his underwear and into the ebony boxers that were technically too small for him given that they were Mekt's and Mekt was a lot thinner than Garth was, but they would still make it around his hips and grip on like briefs or a swimsuit thong.

He moved to place his haul into the washer before his ears could pick up the sounds of running water or the procession of morning ritual that presented among most species of the universe, flicking the button to run on hot and then pressing to start it up; a loud rumble making the machine shake and cause Garth to moan in amassed misery of all of his senses being assaulted with the aggression of nothing at all being out to make his current existence even more horrible.

"Karma, karma, karma," Mekt clucked, thinking if that was exactly the right or wrong word for the situation, feet leading him to the fridge to unload milk and honey into the two glasses he'd taken out when he'd changed into his clothing of his weekends; ratty white T-shirt that hung off of his always thin form, jeans torn at the knees, bare feet too comfortable this early in the morning to stuff into socks and boots; the milk filled both glasses, but the honey was only for Garth. Pure white honey, from China, as well as the last two slices of toast Garth would have to muscle his way through the gag reflex to help his hangover. Mekt didn't need to eat in the morning.

Garth ended up stumbling out of the bathroom, the water draining with him actually recalling to flush it (points to Imra, she'd been training him well) and keeping his eyes closed to make his way to the kitchen island like a proper blind man, that underwear indeed small but snug in their place.

"Drink up, Garth," Mekt smirked, the bell of the toaster pinging like a gunshot to the ginger as Mekt slid the honey milk into his open flesh and bone hand, moving to lathe the golden brown toast with goat's milk butter and sharp green apple jelly using a wooden spoon meant not for such an activity but for trying to pound cookie dough into submission, "Hopefully it'll end the buzzing in your ears."

"...Water?"

"No, you don't want to drink my water," the edges of Mekt's nose crinkled as he eyed the puddle of liquid in his sink, a dirty bowl from the day before full of grease that made it look like a deformed mass of rainbow, "It tastes like all the minerals that are supposed to be good for you but might also give you lead poisoning. Drink the milk, then you'll have the toast, and I'll call up your girlfriend for you."

Garth had to bracket his contempt, but he did as he was told, downing the milk and honey-the snow white sweetness sticking to his tongue and the inside of his throat like the flesh was something to admire and hold onto-in three gulps and squinting at the chill hitting his stomach like a sledgehammer or a punch from Kell-El during training exercises. He leaned back in his seat and put the glass gently into the sink, directly into the bowl already full of water, earning the roll of the eye from the older Ranzz.

"Well, I'm not embarrassed to be miserable, it proves I had a good time last night," Garth pointed out for perhaps no reason at all, folding his arms and perching his head on the counter, "Where'd you learn this stuff is supposed to help my misery?"

"Trial, error, waking up in the wrong places way too many times to count."

He turned and placed the plate full of toast in front of his little brother, sipping his own milk and enjoying the chill and the taste and the smell of the food-but ignoring the last and how it made his stomach tremble a little.

Garth still noticed, though.

He only took one piece of toast and nudged the plate with the other slice over to Mekt, pointedly taking a bite and talking around the breakfast that would have been burnt near black if he'd woken up with Imra, "Eat, you're far too skinny."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I can hardly fit in these shorts and I counted all of your ribs falling asleep last night. Eat."

Mekt didn't comment on how well Imra had been training Garth, since apparently he was only talking with his mouth full to be the annoying little brother he was. His long fingers picked up the toast at the edge and after he just nibbled on it, giving Garth a reason to snort, he opened his mouth as wide as it would go and practically vanished it into the pit of his stomach with one, two, three bites.

"...That's a little sick, dude."

"Says the boozy hero who used me as a plush toy and counted all of my ribs."

"Jerk."

"Brat."

Before their infinite maturity could progress further, the washing machine took that moment to go into second cycle and make the horrible rattling noise that all old building washing machines made. Something like a chainsaw murder in Bouncing Boy's old movies that had Garth falling off of his seat as he grabbed his ears and allowed Mekt a moment to cackle without actually cackling-it was an actual laugh.