Title: Useless
Summary: William Anderson considers his brother: Blaine. More than anything, he wishes he had been there when Blaine needed him most.
Warnings (including triggers): mentions of hate crime, self harm, depression, general family angst.
This is dedicated to Aaron, who despite his beliefs, is a wonderful brother. And also for Pan, because he's never been able to write this himself. Also, Pan needs to keep his chin up, because he has all the family he needs right here :)
With love and affection, StormySally xx
"It's got nothing to do with you liking guys. It's about you being my brother, you dickhead. Because you mean the fucking world to me, and no bastard will ever treat my brother like that. I know you're not a fucking girl - you're my brother, not my fucking sister. I'd protect you no matter who you were in love with, even if I am fucking useless sometimes...ok, most of the time." - A wonderful brother.
You are useless.
Sometimes it's a hard thing to come to terms with (it's always a hard thing to come to terms with) and this time it's hardest of all.
Because this time, you aren't useless to your friends, or your teachers, or even your parents. You're useless to your brother.
He's your little brother, though you're not even a full year older than him, and you've never lost the need to protect him. You can still remember him at two years old, chasing after you shouting "Willum! Willum!" and you remember he couldn't say William until he was almost eight.
So helpless, and so young, and so god damn small.
You are useless to him, now.
Because you were there to help him up when he fell off his bike, and you were there to hold his hand as his knee was sewn back together after a run in with the oak tree at the bottom of the garden, and you were there to stand in the way of him and that big dog from next door.
But you weren't there the one time he truly needed you, and that kills you.
Sundays have always been family days in your house. Dad doesn't go to work, mum doesn't meet up with her book clubs or her music clubs; you never make plans with your friends, and neither does Blaine. Even though you're eighteen, now, and Blaine's seventeen, you never make plans on Sundays, because Sunday is family day.
Until one day it all stops.
The first family Sunday to be forgotten was because it was spent in the hospital. The day before, a crisp wintry Saturday in December, your brother had been found in the park by a man and his dog, naked and unconscious.
It's one of those things you don't really know how to react to. Because this is your brother, and things like that aren't supposed to happen to Blaine. You just let your parents drive you to the hospital, and when you get there the doctor tells you he's getting fixed up at the moment, and you'll have to wait.
And when you try visit him in his hospital bed, he has the nurse ask you to leave. He doesn't even look at you.
Your mother cries into your father's shoulder, and you're left thinking why? over and over again in your mind.
You visit him every day. For the first three days he repeatedly has you thrown out, but then he stops doing that after he sees how much it hurts you.
Instead he ignores you.
You sit by his bedside and he lies on the mattress with his eyes closed until you leave, tears of frustration in your eyes, because he's your god damn brother, and you are nothing but useless to him.
He comes home around Christmastime, but he still has to go to the hospital for regular check ups. You think being home will make things easier, but it doesn't.
Because he's your little brother, and all he does now is lock himself in his room all day and all night, refusing meals and just not talking. He goes to his hospital sessions, and his therapy sessions, and you think (hope?) (pray?) they will start helping him.
Until February.
It's a Friday night, and he's stopped going to therapy sessions by now. He goes for a shower, and you wait until he's finished to have a quick shower before bed. He hurries from the bathroom to his bedroom with his head faced down and his back hunched with the weight of his depression. And you strip off quickly and leap into the shower, because the water will still be hot.
That's when you see it.
In the drain at your feet there's a single spot of blood, swiftly washed away by the spray from the showerhead; if you'd have looked a second later, you'd have missed it.
You leave the water on, but you step out and reach for the cabinet. You inspect the line of razors, and you find Blaine's.
It's damp from recent use, and there it is.
The edge of the blade hasn't been put in properly, and in the corner of it there's a line of mushy crimson grit; blood. Blaine's blood.
It falls from your numb fingers and hits the floor along with your knees.
You jump out of the shower and you run. And you don't care that you're naked and soaking, because he's your brother, and you can't bear to be useless.
His bedroom door is locked (big surprise) and you kick it down with three wet slaps of your foot. And then you're wrestling with your brother, who's tugged on his boxers and is trying to hide those awful lines of crimson he's marked himself with. He's screaming and clawing at you, and hitting you and bleeding on you, and he's crying for you to let him go. And then you're crying, and you're hitting him, and you're pushing him to the ground. Because you just can't take it anymore.
You just can't bear to be so useless.
Because as if those bastards who hurt your brother haven't already done enough.
Blaine's adding to the scars they gave him.
You tell your parents, and you know you're doing the right thing.
But Blaine hates you for it.
His empty glances are now venomous, and his silence is angry instead of indifferent. He'll probably never forgive you for this.
And your parents are arguing, because they don't know what to do.
And then one day your father suggests taking Blaine somewhere, so he can get professional help. You know deep down your father loves Blaine, but you can hear the hopefulness in his voice - someone else can take care of him.
No more responsibility.
And you snap.
You call your father names you'd never call your worst enemy, and he threatens to kick your scrawny ass out of the house if you don't show him some respect, and you're in each other's faces, and then you catch a glimpse of the figure stood in the doorway.
Blaine's watching with wet eyes, small as a child in his fear, and when you reach to embrace him he flinches away from you. Because your anger scares him, and there's guilt in his eyes because he knows you're fighting about him.
You are useless.
His hands are pressed to his scarred chest, clutching at the t-shirt that covers the offending scars of those brutes that broke him like it's a lifeline, and then he runs out of the door.
If you were a good brother you'd follow him, but you're not. You're useless. So you let him run, because you know he's running to his best friend, and as much as it breaks your heart, you know he'll be happier there.
So you just fight with your father some more, until the resentment is so thick between you that you feel sick to know this man fathered you. And when he tells your mother of it, she argues with him some more, too. And she argues with you, for getting involved, as if you have no right to get involved in the affairs of your brother.
Blaine doesn't come home that night, and it's not the first time he's stayed away from the battlefield that your family home has become.
On the eighth of that fateful December, a Friday, you and Blaine had talked about the future, and you'd talked about girls for you and boys for him, and you'd laughed at one another, and you'd admitted you had a crush on Brad Pitt, and he'd admitted he had a crush on Kate Winslet.
On the ninth of that fateful December, Blaine was attacked, and you realise that the last conversation you'd truly had with him had been about Brad Pitt and Kate Winslet.
You are useless.
And when finally that day comes, when he walks out of your house and doesn't come back, you think about that conversation. You think about the little things that made you love your brother, but more importantly, you think about the big things that drove you apart.
And you wonder if you'll ever be able to talk to him again - if you'll ever find the nerve to call him and tell him you miss him. And you wonder what you'd say if you did call (if he even answered?) and you wonder if things would be easy or hard and you wonder if you'll ever be able to forgive yourself for being so useless.
You go home for Christmas, even though you're a university student now, and you stare at the empty place Blaine should be sitting at. You wonder if he's enjoying his Christmas away from his family, and one thought turns turmoil in your head.
You are useless.