He was always a sensitive kid. Not a wuss by any means, but, well, considerate. He never made scenes, never made me uncomfortable. Mike could talk to me just fine, but always liked to express himself in other ways. Like that first time. I guess he knew it's easier sometimes without words.
Mom had been dead for four years, so we'd been alone together for some time. We'd always been close but I was beginning to make a name for myself, and was becoming an absent douche in the process. I told myself it was better. He didn't need to see what I was doing. I was just a punk kid, but Michael, he seemed older than his eleven years.
I was leaving, going to score or sell--doesn't matter which. Point was, Michael would spend the night alone again. He tried to ask me when I'd be home, in his sweet unobtrusive way, but I'd just blown him off. I'd felt burdened. I didn't want to play older brother, not that night.
I came home early the next morning, the high wearing off and the reality weighing in. God, I was such an asshole.
I wanted to wake him. I wanted to hold him, apologize, make promises we both knew I wouldn't keep. But he looked so peaceful, I settled for kneeling beside his bed and watching him sleep. I tried to stroke his face, but he began to stir. I retreated to my bed.
That's when I saw it. Perfect and poised atop my pillow, gleaming nearly blue in the faint light--a swan? A crane, I later learned. Michael had told me in such a nonchalant manner, as if it didn't mean as much as it did. I guess he didn't want me to feel guilty. Man, it was perfect too. Where did Mike learn this stuff? Surely not in school, and I'd never seen him with a paper-folding book. He was always good with dimensions, I'm certain he crafted it himself.
Now, I can only imagine the complex engineering Mike's up to. I try not to worry though; he's always crafted everything with utmost care.