Disclaimer: Still don't own the boys. Although, I would like to.
A huge thanks to my beta Darkflame's Pyre.
A helping hand is a way to stand.
How true. From the time that you learned to walk, you always had a helping hand to stand up again.
There were helping hands there to steady you, as you ran on wobbly legs to say hello to me. You held your little arms in the air to be picked up, and there were brotherly hands there to take you from me, and swing you up into the air and hug you tightly against their chest.
A helping hand was there when you fell down a staircase in your haste to get to the potty at two years old. They would pick you up and rub away the hurt and tears, and make it all better.
A helping hand was there when you wanted to walk in your bright yellow walking ring. They were there to pick you up and put you in it, legs pumping and ready to go. They would ruffle your hair and give you a soft pat on the back to start going as fast as your little legs could carry you.
A helping hand was there to hold on tight to when you saw the big blue sea for the very first time. A hand was there to cling to in excitement as you ran straight into the waves.
There was someone to put your own little hands just so, to hold your new baby brother and the person who would become your closest friend. There was helping hands to show you how to hold the ones much smaller than your own, and guide him, like the elder had guided you.
There was a helping hand to show you how to ride your brand new tricycle. The hands were there to guide you back onto it when you would fall over as you went too fast around a corner.
There was a helping hand to tug you along when you were hesitant to go to kindergarten for the first time. That hand was there for you to just feel safe and close and know that they were always there, close, and warm and protection against the big, wide world.
There was helping hands to change your clothes; a hand ruffled your hair affectionately, to let you know that you were a big boy now, and that 'I'm so proud of you'.
There were hands that picked you up when you fell, and wiped away the tears. There was the time that you didn't know why everyone else was crying; you turned your little head and used your own small hand to wipe at a few stray tears that were making their way down your big brother's face.
There was a helping hand that changed from a softer and younger one, to a big, older hard one. A helping hand that belonged to your big brother.
There were hands that tried to catch you as you tried to run, when you knew that you had done something wrong. A helping hand, teaching you how to put your things away the right way around, though it was funny to watch your brother's faces as they skidded across the floor.
There were hands to help you get dried off after your first ever swimming competition at seven years old. Strong hands picked you up and spun you around and around, letting you know how proud the owner is of you.
A helping hand was there, assisting you with your homework.
There were hands to put you to bed when you weren't able to keep your food down. A helping hand felt your forehead and making you feel better, just by feeling the cool and gentle touch.
There were helping hands showing you how to shave the very first time, and making you blush a deep shade of red as you tried to do it yourself, but cut your cheek in the process. There were big brother's hands as they helped you tie your tie, and straighten your collar, as you got ready for your final school dance.
There were hands holding tightly with your own as you fought to stay alive. A helping hand held your up as you took your very first painful step. A helping hand holding you up as your legs tried to give out from beneath you.
There were many helping hands lifting you up from the ground and holding you close as the world spun around you, and your spine screamed frantically for relief. There were helping hands to hold on to as you fell asleep; terrified of never waking up again. There were fingers from the hands, as they wiped away your tears, after you broke down countless times in your slow recovery and journey back onto your feet.
There were the hands of that brother to help you save that little girl, as you managed to pluck her from the water as her parents drowned.
There were helping hands to drag your behind off to the sickroom to get checked out when you went flying off the rescue platform, after some guy managed to flip you up and over before you could get your harness on, in their desperation to be saved.
There were hands trying to grab your own when you tried to steal away your birthday cake. A strong embrace to hug you tight, as voices cheered, "Happy birthday little brother!" Helpful hands then passed you your gifts, one by one.
That hand has pounded you on the back, as you had coughing fits from laughing too much at the aftermath of your pranks, as your green eyes streamed with tears and widened with mirth.
That helping hand was so much harder and bigger than your own. It is a hand that had given so much love and care, when the oldest of us wasn't there for a while, many years ago. It is a helping hand that pushes you towards your bed now, even though you are now grown, and by all means should know to get there yourself.
He follows you, and I remember watching from the doorway, when you were younger, and he smooths your hair away from your face after you have been asleep for a while, creeping in to watch you sleep, as he does every night. The lips whisper the same words though, that has never changed in all the years I have watched your brother's helping hands as he showed you how to grow.
"I love you, Little Brother."