Title: So do I say sorry first?
Character(s): Dick; mentions of Cassidy, Kendall, Mr Casblancas.
Word Count: 2,912
Rating: PG-13. To be safe.
Disclaimer: Uhm, I disclaim?
Summary: I'm sorry. For everything.
So welcome to my nightmare/My heaven and my hell/This passionate contradiction/Of bitter sweet is where I dwell/You choose a day like today/To get me upset/The more I love you/More I hate you/More it scares me to death//
17 February, 2007 - Neptune Grand Penthouse
It scares me to death sometimes. I should have learnt how to get over it a long time ago, but I can't. Every time I pass somebody in the street who appears to have gotten the role so easily down pat, my heart begins to thump, and jealously rears its ugly head. I know that I could never be like that, but I can't help but wish I could be. Instead, I'm stuck masquerading as a conceited, rich playboy. Which, I suppose I am. But it doesn't make it any easier - watching others who have perfected the big brother role, or are living up to the family expectations, the perfect eldest son.
But me, I'm not even close to perfecting these roles. And I guess the remains of my family is proof of that: my father has recently been exposed as a fraud, cheating hundreds of people out of thousands, if not millions of dollars - so he took off, leaving my brother and I to fend for ourselves. Because everybody knows that leaving a baby in charge of us is probably more helpful than leaving us with Kendall. Although, I guess it's just 'me' now - no Kendall; no Beav - no Cassidy. No Cassidy. A few months after sending eight of my classmates plummeting to their deaths, he jumped off the roof of the Neptune Grand. Shortly after, Kendall shipped out, taking all of Cassidy's inheritance with her. I suppose there's not much he can do with it, six feet under.
You know what sucks, though? It's not Dad taking off, or Cassidy killing himself and eight others, or Kendall being a trophywife-turned-inheritance thief. It's the fact that I wasn't even a good enough big brother to listen to his problems. It's the fact that the last thing that I ever said to Cassidy was something along the lines of, or at least meant, "You're a moron. I can't believe I'm related to you. Dude, why don't you just go and die, or something?" And you know what it was over? A PlayStation. A stupid, useless friggin' PlayStation. And for the past few months, all I can think about is how much I love my brother - and hate him, all at the same time.
I can't keep fighting this battle with you/I can't hear words when you scream like you do/If I cry will you hold me just like we rehearsed?/So do I/So do I say sorry first?//
15 October, 2006 - Casablancas Mansion.
I was rudely awoken at the ungodly hour of 9:00 AM on a Saturday, by the sounds of thumping footsteps, sprinting down the stairs; three at a time. The result of this sudden awakening involved me rolling off the couch and landing heavily into the ten-centimetre deep pile of soft drink bottles, pizza boxes, half-filled packets of junk food, and a half-filled tub of melted vanilla ice cream. When I finally managed to untangle myself from the three day old rubbish (and that was just the best of it), an image of Beaver, dressed in his usual jeans/button down shirt combo, flickered into view. He looked more than slightly startled at my coming into consciousness.
"Uh... Dick? What's with the whole face-plant in the pizza box?" His voice was slightly apprehensive, out of his desire to say out of trouble. Then again, I had a long history of losing my temper and taking it out on Beaver, so maybe it was more to do with not wanting to make a morning trip to the emergency room. I scowled, and he gave me a tight smile, and a dry, humourless laugh.
"Dude, I didn't do it on purpose," I muttered reproachfully, feeling slightly embarrassed that my little brother had caught me doing something so... uncool. It was equal to total blackmail, the next time I took out my temper on him. He would tell the whole school... and the repercussions would be severe. Instant, total shame. So not cool.
"It's, uh, it's a good look," he added, obviously playing up to my habit of constantly looking in reflective surfaces, "but I, uh, I can't gurantee that Gina Goodman would approve of it. Possibly because it involves a lot of foods belonging to the 'restrict to once or twice a week' food groups. Eating disorders are the latest thing in Hollywood, see." He finished off his monologue with a nervous laugh, and clasped his hands behind his back.
"Okay, what-ev-er..." I trailed off, trying to think of something to say to my brother. I didn't really talk to him. In fact, I did everything in my power to avoid spending time with him. But, I had to admit, it was nice talking to him, rather than beating the crap out of him. He looked at me tentatively for a moment, seemingly sensing that I wanted to say more to him, but then he simply shrugged and headed out of the room, towards the kitchen. Five seconds after his depature, I pulled myself out of the garbage and followed him, not entirely sure why I was trying so hard to connect to a brother when I spent most of my time denying that he existed. He was pouring milk into a bowl filled with Coco Pops.
"Just like a chocolate milkshake, only crunchy," I remarked. Beaver glanced up at me, confused, before following my gaze to the cereal box.
"Yeah," he smiled. "I always thought it was a ridiculous statement. How can it be just like a chocolate milkshake, only crunchy? You've gone way out of the milkshake stage, if it is crunchy..." Suddenly, he laughed. "I'm not making any sense, am I?" I shook my head, and grabbed a box of cereal from it's home on the bench.
"You're still, uh, 'going out' with that chick..." I trailed off, trying to remember her name.
"Mac?" he supplied, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, Mac. You're still going out with her, right?" He shook his head in reply. A little sadly, may I add.
"Why the sudden interest?" he asked. I looked at him, an expression of mock hurt on my face, but deep down, I was feeling a little wounded that my brother felt that I had no interest in his life. I was his big brother, after all.
"Would it be completely out of character to suggest that I'm sick of fighting with you, and that if we keep on shouting at one another, then we're not going to be able to speak for much longer?" I enquired. He nodded. "Well." I paused. "In that case. Never mind." I shoveled the cereal into my mouth, feeling milk dripping down my chin. While I was wiping it away, Beaver pushed away the bowl and headed for the door.
"Dick? Do you remember when I was eight, and I came home from baseball training, crying?" His voice was soft; his expression was nostalgic. I nodded, surprised that he was bringing something up from so long ago. "Well, in case I never said it... thankyou."
"For what?"
"For being a big brother. For being my big brother."
I'm flawed/I'm so imperfect/But I ain't insecure/Your jealous heart is poisoned/Tell me how could I trust you more?//
I was whipping Logan's arse by about fifteen thousand points. Beaver entered the house with a crash and a bang, kicking the door shut as he wandered in with his hands full of boxes. He murmured a greeting to the two of us.
"What brings you to my domain, Beaver?" I asked, hoping my voice sounded mystic and all mentor-like. Beaver looked at me, an incredulous expression on his face.
"Well, I don't know," he said sarcastically. "It couldn't possibly be the stairs." Logan let out a snort, and I sent a muderous glare his way. Little brother embarrassing me? Not cool. Beaver stomped up the aforementioned stairs, and moments later, we heard his bedroom door slam shut.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, my fingers flickering over the controls easily. "That kid has serious problems." I drove the virtual sword into Logan's Japanese alter-ego's stomach, bringing the game to a close. Logan chucked the control onto the floor, and leant back against the couch.
"Must be the whole 'fading-silently-into-the-background' thing," he shrugged, and closed his eyes. I bit my lip and gazed at the staircase, knowing that it was so much more than that. It was so much more than that
"Dude, what's your problem?" I asked. Beaver was spread out across the couch, hand tightly gripping the remote control, watching television. The light from the TV flickered across his face. "Hel-lo. Beaver!" I snapped, when he continued to ignore me.
"What?" he asked, his voice coming out irritated. I was momentarily surprised - Beaver never lost his temper. He left that to me. Me. The egotistical, chauvanistic older brother, who didn't give a damn what people thought about him. 'I am what I am, and I'm not changing for anybody, or anything' was my motto, and had been for years.
"What. Is. Your. Problem?" I asked, emphasising each word. He shrugged, and went back to watching TV. "Beaver. Talk to me."
"Fine. I'll talk. But will you listen?" I nodded. "Why is it, that you'll so eagerly spend time with Logan, but the closest you ever get to spending time with me is telling people that we're not related? Why is it, that despite me telling you that my name is Cassidy, you insist on calling me Beaver? Why is it, that everytime you do something, it's me who gets the blame?" His voice quickly rose, and in a matter of seconds, he was standing on his feet. He wiped away the tears that had formed in his eyes. He began to slowly walk up the stairs. He paused when he reached the last one, knowing that I had his full attention.
"Just say that I died tomorrow, Dick. Would you care?" I sighed and ran my hand through my hair, and glanced at the TV. The program being aired was Leave it to Beaver. It was ironic, in a weird kind of way.
I can't keep fighting this battle with you/I can't hear words when you scream like you do/If I cry will you hold me just like we rehearsed/So do I/So do I say sorry first?
16 October, 2006 - Neptune Beach
Beaver had slammed the car door, sitting patiently on the passenger side, still not talking to me. He hadn't said a word to me last night, and it was likely that he wouldn't all day. It wasn't like him to sulk... or maybe it was, and I had just been too busy to notice. Or, more likely, I hadn't cared enough to notice. Beaver in a sulk I couldn't handle - I couldn't even deal with him in a normal mood, and I dealt with him by beating him up, when things got too much.
"Beav, you're going to have to talk to me sometime soon," I reasoned. "It's you we're talking about. You can't hold grudges." He just tilted his head away and stared out the window. I sighed, feeling the familiar sensation welling up in me. Frustrated, I slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "Ignoring me isn't going to solve anything, Beaver! It just isn't!"
"My name," he said, his tone even, " is Cassidy." He returned to watching the scenery outside, passing fast food joints and surf shops... discount stores and op shops... variety store... moving slowly towards the area of apartment blocks and community pools. Finally, we reached the 09 district: sprawling, three storey mansions with neatly manicured lawns and gardens. I pulled into our driveway, feeling the car roll to a halt, just outside our garage door.
"Fine. I'll call you Cassidy. Happy?" I winced as the words came out harshly. Trying to fix the broken relationship that I had had with Cassidy for the last eight years or so was harder than I had expected. But then again, Rome wasn't built in a day.
"Nope. I'm not happy. It's like in that movie, with Jerry Lewis? He made a potion to make women fall in love with him. But just because they thought they were in love with him, doesn't mean that they actually were." I glanced at him, confused.
"What does Jerry Lewis playing the role of 'Mad Scientist' have to do with me calling you Cassidy?" I asked stupidly.
"I tell you to call me Cassidy, so you comply. But you don't actually... mean it." He paused, trying to find a better way to phrase it. "You don't want to do it. You do it because I tell you to." He shook his head, sadly. "I can't... I don't... I won't fight with you anymore, Dick. I don't think I can. It's just... it's just too much effort."
Sometimes I think we feel too much/Too deep/This all consuming love/Can't breathe/So angry/So frustrated/How we got here?//
Channel surfing. Logan was hanging around the pesky, blonde, inquisitive one, and I really didn't feel like being the third wheel. It was way too late to go surfing, and besides, I'd already done enough of that for one day. Coupled with my disastrous conversation with Beav- Cassidy, I was wiped out. Cassidy came thumping down the stairs, and stared at me defiantly.
"I'm going out. I'll be back later." His voice came out hostile, angry. His gaze was cool and direct, and I couldn't help but feel like I was being scrutinized by him.
"OK, have fun." As he wandered over to grab his keys off the top of the dusty glass coffee table, the toe of his sneakers kicked the PlayStation lying on the floor next to it. I leapt of the couch, knowing I was overreacting.
"You idiot," I snarled, picking it up off the ground. He shrugged, and tucking his wallet and phone into his pocket, and swinging his keys around his pinky finger.
"What's it to you? You can just buy a new one."
"That's not the point, you moron! Dude, sometimes I can not believe we are related." His eyes narrowed, and his hands went to his hips.
"No, I can't believe that I have to be related to a brain-dead idiot, who counts his PlayStation as his prize possession! Grow up, Dick. Get. A Life. A real one," he added, already knowing the comeback I was about to use.
"Whatever. Why don't you do a Lynn Echolls, and jump off the Bridge?" I muttered, stuffing the PlayStation into the TV cabinet, praying that the stupid thing wasn't broken. I received no answer, just a few moments of silence, and the creaking of the front door as he closed it quietly behind him. I stood up, listening to the sounds of the car starting and backing down a driveway, and I wondered how I had managed to let my relationship with my brother get so bad, that I cared more about a PlayStation than him.
Hear me/And listen what I say/From my heart/And I swear to you that won't change/I hope you learn to trust somebody//
"Hello?"
"Dick... it's Veronica. Cassidy just jumped off the top of the Neptune Grand."
"No... Beaver wouldn't do that. He... he can't. He's Beaver. He doesn't do things like that." He can't do things like that. I need him here.
"Well, he did." Her voice was gentle, and I think that's what made me so angry. I felt like she was pitying me.
"No. He. Wouldn't." My voice was tight and angry, and I felt my knees give way; felt myself falling onto the couch behind me. I love Beaver. I know I pretend like he doesn't exist, but I love him, and I need him here. And he wouldn't do anything like that, not without telling me first.
"I'm sorry, Dick. He's dead." He's dead. Dead. The finality of those words. Dead. He wouldn't be coming back. Dead. Buried six feet under. Dead. Never breathing again.
"But... why?" I need to know. I need to know why my brother would do something so stupid, so... so... so senseless. Any explanation. Just... please.
"He needed somebody to care for him, and he felt like nobody did." I did. I did in my own twisted way.
"I did." I whispered.
"I know."
I can't keep fighting this battle with you/I can't hear words when you scream like you do/If I cry will you hold me just like we rehearsed?/So do I/So do I say sorry first?//
I'm sorry, Cassidy. I'm sorry that I called you Beaver, even though I knew that you couldn't stand the name. I'm sorry that I ignored your pleas for help. I'm sorry that I didn't defend you enough times when the PCHers would bully you for things that I would do. I'm sorry that I let you take the blame for things that I would do. I'm sorry that I didn't spend all that much time with you. I'm sorry that I was always denying that I was related to you. I'm sorry I let you die.
I'm sorry.
Fin.