I don't own any of the Animaniacs characters. This is my very first fanfiction so reviews/constructive criticism would be welcome! Thanks!
Everything he did, he did for her.
She was the reason he woke up in the middle of the night, massaging his throbbing temples and feeling the onset of the familiar rush of worries that had plagued his world for months.
It was because of her that he crept silently to her room every morning and brushed his hand against her feverish forehead, playing with her soft ink-black fur and smiling at memories of when times were easier; when he and his siblings could sit at the kitchen table and laugh without a care in the world. Yakko would skeptically snort to himself; he couldn't even remember the last time any of them had actually laughed.
At the moment, she was his only tangible source of hope. With Wakko gone and his town in shambles, there were times when he felt like he could no longer handle it. There were times, though he would never admit it to Dot, when he would nearly break down into tears, almost wishing that he could melt into the ground and escape the bleak existence that had enveloped the entire Warner family. But then he would look at his sister. He listened to her fits of coughing echo through the mildew-covered walls of the decrepit water tower, watching her take in deep, shaking breaths. And when she would look up at him and give him her weak but still beautiful smile, he could feel hope bubbling up in his chest. After all, if she could be strong through this, through all of the physical pain and torment, then he could, too. And he did his best to smile back at her, to show her that her big brother, the person on whom she currently relied the most, was strong, too. He made it his goal to have enough hope for the both of them.
For her, he put himself through physical hell, disappearing for hours at a time in order to make ends meet in their weakening household. Before the town's depression hit, Yakko was far more accustomed to talking than to working. Every component of his life—his relationships, his career, his entire existence—was controlled by his clever manipulation of words. Everybody who knew the Warners knew what each one stood for: Yakko was the talker, Wakko the creative artist, and Dot, of course, the cute and sassy little girl. Come to think of it, none of the Warners were genetically equipped for manual labor. Nevertheless, he persevered, trudging miles each morning in the frigid winter air to find any scrap of food to fuel his and his sister's weakening bodies. Yet it never seemed to be enough; every day she grew thinner and thinner, and every day he would be forced to walk farther and farther. Despite the small space the siblings' one-room home took up, something new managed to break on a regular basis. When his sister slept, he would struggle to rebuild the decaying shack, trying to ignore the lack of heat present in his nearly frostbitten fingers.
For his sister, he continued to love. Of course, he would always love his siblings; they were his reason for living in this world of continuously dwindling hope. But there were times, when the temperature gauge reached below zero and his stomach's growling was louder than the howling of the icy wind, that this love seemed almost to take the back seat. After all, in such hostile environments, it can be natural for physical needs to overtake the emotional pleasures derived from things you normally take for granted. Oftentimes he would think of his little brother, hundreds of miles away from him and completely without any of his family, and would start to experience an onset of fear, hopelessness, and vulnerability rarely known to him before the already taut rope holding their lives together began to fray. But when he tucked Dot into bed each night and gazed into her glowing face as he told her her story, he knew that love was the only thing that could get each of them through this. He had to love her and be there for her, because if he didn't, he might just give up.
Everything he did, he did for her. He did it because she depended on him.
Everything she did, she did for him.
He was the reason why, every single day, she forced herself to open her crusted eyes to the blinding light shining through the cracks of the tower's rotting wood. If it were up to her, she would lay in bed all day, trying desperately to slip back into the peaceful world of dreams in order to escape the nauseating fits of coughs that would plague her body until she once again lay herself down to sleep. Nevertheless, despite the skull-cracking headaches pounding at her head, she knew she had to open her eyes and face the day. She knew her brother would be waiting at her bedside, gazing eagerly at her exhausted visage. She knew that if her day didn't start, neither would his.
It was because of him that she forced the nearly inedible food down into her fragile stomach. She may have been young, but she wasn't stupid; no matter how many times Yakko tried to reassure her, no matter how often he returned home from hunting with a confident smile falsely plastered on his face, she knew food sources were scarce. She knew how hard he worked each day, walking for miles upon miles and sitting for hours in the icy-cold snow, to obtain the pathetic morsels of food they consumed each evening. And, although she would never dream of telling Yakko, if it weren't for his hard work and prodding stares, she wouldn't be eating any of it. She would never tell him that her small stomach, which violently revolted against any type of food she put down there, could barely handle the tough, gamey pieces of meat he managed to bring home. But she would look across the rickety table at the exhausted boy staring back at her, his eyes shining with pride at the knowledge that he was helping to keep his baby sister alive, and she would force the mealy food down her throat and choke back the bile that rushed back through her esophagus. She knew that if she did not eat, the miniscule glimmer of pride and happiness that kept her brother going would disappear.
If it were not for the fact that Yakko was at her side, she would not have asked for the story each night before she went to bed. Of course, the story brought her comfort as well, but on the nights when fatigue's heavy hands yanked down on her eyelids and her bloody throat felt as if it had been rubbed raw by a jagged rock, the only thing she wanted to do was curl up under the tattered sheet and let sleep overtake her. But she knew that now, with her brother out of the tower for hours at a time and her dizzying coughing fits and sandpapery mouth prohibiting most conversation, their time spent together was rare and silent. However, when he told the story, they could almost pretend that things were back like they were before—before they were kicked out onto the streets, before Dot got sick, before Wakko left and she and her eldest brother were forced to cling to each other for hope. When Yakko told the story, he seemed to get lost in another world, a smaller, safer world in which the only thing he needed to keep himself alive was the comfort of having his arm around his sister's ailing body and her enraptured eyes gazing up at him.
For Yakko, she kept smiling. Deep down, she knew that she could not truly manage one of her characteristic effervescent smiles without both of her brothers with her. She missed Wakko more than words could describe; true, observers of the family may have believed that she and her eldest brother shared a deeper bond than that of her and Wakko, but in reality she loved them both equally. This wasn't to say that she wasn't grateful to have Yakko with her—without him she undoubtedly would not have survived the hellish year—but she had a feeling that she could never be fully happy without the company of both her siblings. Yet, with difficulty, she continued to shine her cheerful yet weary smile, and for Yakko, that seemed to be enough. In many ways, he appeared to derive a certain hope from this—for when she smiled at him, a glint of relief would spark in his eyes, and he seemed to reach inside and find a new strength to keep himself going.
Everything she did, she did for him. She did it because she depended on him.
Everything he did, he did for them.
For them, he cramped his aching body into the almost invisible spaces between the train walls and crates, awakening each morning to face his stiff, sore body that had obtained little to no rest throughout the night. He didn't care how easy toons could make it look in the shows—eight hours of squeezing your organs against one another hurt, especially in a jarring freight car that made every bump feel like you had just been ricocheted off the top of a mountain. For his brother and sister, he cowered in the corners of bus depots and subway stations, praying that the stern-looking, weapon-wielding police officers would turn their heads simply for a moment so he could make a panicked dash into whatever vehicle would carry him to his next destination. Occasionally, he would get caught, but usually it wasn't too big of an issue—they would simply give him a warning and order him to leave the station. He supposed that was the advantage of looking so young and vulnerable; after all, most guards found it difficult to throw a frightened little toon in tattered clothing in jail. It was still difficult, though, especially when his clumsiness forced him to miss his last chance at getting a ride for the night. He hated sleeping in subway stations; the entire floor smelled like urine and exhaust fumes, and he could hear his own terrified breathing echo off of the moldy walls. Yet for them, he endured it, for he knew that if he were to leave and return home, he would be greeted with the hopeful faces of Yakko and Dot, faces that would soon become clouded with disappointment. That thought alone made his stomach start to churn; even huddling in the bathroom of a subway station was better than that.
Because of his siblings, he worked day in and day out doing whatever odd job he could find, whether it was scraping food bits off of farm animals' slop pails or hauling pieces of timber to the houses and factories that demanded them. He sacrificed the pure white of his previously untainted gloves, caking them with dirt and grime while he struggled to dig up the crops that had sprouted in farmers' fields. Each morning, he caressed his aching hands, cramped from milking dozens of cows that had not given nearly enough milk. While he didn't particularly enjoy it, he did most of his work on farms; he found that in the middle of nowhere, most farm owners were pretty eager to have a helping hand. He knew one thing, though—when he got out of this, he never wanted to drink milk again.
They were the reason why he so bravely faced the world, which, he had found out, was not nearly as calm and gentle as quiet Acme Falls. In his journey, Wakko had discovered that the world was a frightening place; he could not even begin to recall all of the angry calls of the subway's toothless meth addicts or the slurred responses of drunks that reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. At these times, Wakko wanted nothing more than to curl up next to his younger sister and listen to his brother's soothing voice spout witty remarks, but when he turned to the seat next to him, he was greeted with emptiness. He would then remember that he was completely alone. It would dawn on him that, while his brother and sister could count on each other to pull themselves through the dark and tumultuous times, he had absolutely no one; he sometimes wondered if they ever even thought of him. This idea scared him most of all, more than the security guards, more than the empty-eyed homeless men smiling at him from across the car, more than the idea of returning home with nothing to show his desperate siblings. Yet he tried his best to push this thought from his mind, knowing that if it overtook him, he would lose the bravery that had been guiding him and all his work would be for naught. He had to keep going, because if he didn't, then his siblings wouldn't, either.
Everything he did, he did for them. He did it because they depended on him.