AN: Remember that warning? It applies to this chapter. I'm serious. Dark.
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Chapter Two
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He finds Aimee crying in the stable, hugging General MacArthur, a chestnut stallion belonging to some rich oil baron down in Texas. The horse snorts upon Lindsey's entrance, alerting Aimee to his presence.
"We broke up," she sobs into the horse's mane, which sorely tempts Lindsey to look heavenward.
"Again? Why'm I always the one who has to deal with this?" He settles for a sigh instead and prepares calm down his brother's hysterical ex(again)-girlfriend.
"No," she insists tearfully, seeing his expression, "It's different this time. It's…It's like he was sayin' goodbye for good. Like he's gonna leave again."
Later, he thinks that he should have realized, he should have gone cold, should have felt something after hearing that. But all he thinks now is that goddamn it, Eliot's gonna go off and do something stupid again, like sign up for a second tour on a rebound.
He manages to work Aimee down to a ladylike sniffle, enough that he doesn't feel like a cad for leaving a weeping female on her own (no matter that Aimee Martin can take care of herself just fine), and sets off for the woods on the outer edge of the Martins' property, to the place where he knows Eliot has gone.
It's a secret, secluded spot, a place just the two of them know. Not even Aimee, for all the years she's lived there, and all the time she's been Eliot's girlfriend, not even she knows about it. It's Lindsey and Eliot's place, Eliot and Lindsey's.
He finds him sitting on an old, rotting log, head bent down near his knees. His back's towards him, so Lindsey can't see his expression, but his shoulders are shaking and that's enough to get Lindsey moving again.
He sighs softly, hating seeing his brother like this, then walks up to the log to sit beside him. He makes sure that his leaf-crunching steps are loud enough that Eliot won't be startled (a startled Eliot is bad, bad). He sits down carefully next to him, his shoulder almost touching Eliot's but not quite.
And that's when he sees.
The gun, Willie Martin's gun that's supposed to be inside the drawer of the hallway table back at the house. The gun, that gun, is in his brother's trembling hand, its muzzle shoved deep into his mouth. His finger's on the trigger, and all Lindsey can do is stare for one heart-stopping moment, breath and scream both caught in his throat.
Until his brain catches up.
"Eliot," he says, voice shaking, "Eliot, what the hell're you doin'?" He reaches out, wanting to wrench the gun out of his brother's hand, out of his brother's mouth, but afraid he'll make him pull the trigger instead. "Eliot. Gimme the gun, Eliot. Please," he says desperately, God, you can't do this, not this, "Please, El, gimme the gun."
He puts his hand on Eliot's shoulder, at first lightly, then grips hard. "Eliot, give me the gun" he says sternly, ordering instead of pleading. His fingers dig hard into his brother's shuddering shoulder, "Gimme the gun."
The cold metal comes out of Eliot's mouth, trailing strands of saliva, but his finger's still on the trigger and it's still pointed in the vicinity of his throat, but that's good enough for Lindsey (at least it's not in his mouth). He puts his hand over Eliot's and slowly, slowly, pulls it so that it's pointing away from the both of them. Then he uncocks it.
So far, so good.
Eliot's still sitting there, eyes clenched closed and shaking with dry, hiccupping sobs, still holding tightly onto the gun.
"Gimme the gun, Eliot," Lindsey says again.
And slowly, slowly, the white-tipped fingers unclench, allowing Lindsey to take the firearm.
Once the gun's in his possession, well, that's when Lindsey's very rational mind deems it safe enough to blow up at his twin.
"What the hell were you thinkin', huh?" he screams, standing over his brother, spittle flying, "You were gonna eat a bullet over breakin' up with Aimee? Huh? The fu-"
"It's called 'eatin' your gun,' moron," Eliot cuts in, voice dry and cracking, looking down at his now-empty hands. "Not 'eatin' a bullet'."
Lindsey's nostrils flare. "Oh, that's great. You're correcting me on my choice of words? Fine. You were gonna kill yourself over a girl. That's pathetic, Eliot. What's wrong with you?"
"No," Eliot starts (no, not because of Aimee, broke up with her because of what I've done, she's too good for me now, sinned, killed, killer, murderer), but is interrupted by Lindsey, now going into a scolding rant full steam.
"Yes, it is pathetic, Eliot," he fumes, "You go to fight in a war halfway across the globe and you come home in one piece, only to shoot yourself in the head over a girl?" he says, even though he knows that it's not about Aimee, that he's skirting the issue here, just like they've all been doing since Eliot's return. "Seriously?"
He looks down at the gun in his shaking hand then back up at his brother, sitting on the log, looking smaller and more alone than he's ever looked to Lindsey, and then back down at the gun again.
"You don't get to do that to me, Eliot," he says slowly, feeling his chin quivering and hearing his voice waver. A tear rolls down his cheek, quickly followed by another. The air's around them is too thick, too thin, and he can't get a decent breath in his lungs. Eliot almost left. Eliot almost left. Eliot almost killed himself. Almost…Almost died.
He takes a breath that sounds more like a sob. "You don't get to do that! Not you. Everybody- Everybody leaves us, they always, they always go. But you, you don't get to leave me like that. Not- not like Dad," he says, reminding his brother of the easy way their father had taken out of a hard life. "Not ever. Not ever, Eliot!" he repeats, face crumbling, and raises the gun, thumb cocking it as he does so.
Red-rimmed eyes follow the gun up, horror replacing the despair when Eliot realizes exactly where the gun is going.
"No!" he shouts, and full-body tackles Lindsey back onto the ground, a move learned in their childhood years of playing football in the fields.
The gun goes off, creating a cacophony of startled wildlife sounds in its wake, while the brothers stare into each others' faces, panting in perfect sync.
"What the hell?" Eliot croaks, hand clamped so hard around Lindsey's wrist that it'll leave a bruise, a vivid reminder of that afternoon's events. "What the hell didja think you were doin', Linny?" he screams into his face. "What the hell?" he asks, voice breaking.
Lindsey swallows under the fierce intensity of Eliot's gaze. "How's it feel, Eliot? You were gonna do the same thing to me." Almost, almost too late.
Eliot blinks rapidly, breaths coming quicker, then abruptly scrambles off of Lindsey as if getting ready to launch off into a run, but all he does is fall clumsily on his hands and knees and retch into the grass.
Lindsey looks down at the gun again, and in one fluid, angry movement, takes it apart, tossing the pieces in opposite directions. Then he crawls over to his brother and rubs circles on his back until he's done vomiting.
Eliot collapses into his arms, his close-cropped, sweat-slicked hair brushing against Lindsey's tear-stained cheek, their legs tangling in one jeans-clothed knot. Lindsey pulls his brother in as close as he can and just holds on, as Eliot heaves dry, tearless, gasping sobs into his shoulder, fingers clenched tight into Lindsey's shirt, warping, rending the thin cotton. Lindsey can feel himself ripping along with the cloth, but he can't, he can't break because he has to fix Eliot, has to keep him from shattering. So he holds on tighter, squeezes harder, and tries not to cry (but the tears come anyway, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off of his chin and the end of his nose [Tears enough for the both of us, he thinks, clutching his brother tighter to his chest and pressing his lips against the top of Eliot's head]).
Gradually, the shuddering breaths even out, quiet down, and then they're breathing in sync again, like they're meant to.
"I don't feel like a goddamn hero," Eliot says, sounding broken.
"American government says you are," Lindsey replies softly, "That medal you got says you are."
"Don't feel like it," Eliot says again, just as quietly. You weren't there. You didn't see what I did.
"I say you are," Lindsey says. Whatever they made you do, you're still my brother and that means I'm proud of you.
Eliot doesn't say anything, so Lindsey takes that as his cue to add more. "Remember when we were kids, an' everyone used to tease me about my name? I never really had to defend myself, y'know? You always did it for me. I mean, anyone even looked at me crooked an' they had a bloody nose, no matter how big they were or how many of 'em you had to go through. I never truly appreciated that until I started college and everyone started lookin' at me funny all over again. I even had one guy ask me if I was a girl or if I was just gay. Y'know, 'cause of my name. And I knew, if you were there, you woulda whupped his ass so hard, and anyone else who laughed, too. I knew that for a fact. So I guess that makes you m' hero in my book. Just so you know."
Eliot's limp in his arms, unmoving, and Lindsey thinks that maybe he's fallen asleep, since it's not like he's slept all that much lately anyway, but after a minute, there's a weak chuckle, and Eliot says, "You are a damn girl, Linny."
Lindsey scowls, but the small smile on his brother's face and the grateful look in his eyes when he opens them are good enough for him to keep his mouth shut. Almost. "Shuddup. B'sides, you owe me. I had to deal with your cryin' ex-girlfriend. She used my shirt as a tissue, man. On second thought," he says, feigning dawning realization, "so did you."
He gets a fist in his stomach for that, leaving him gasping as Eliot rolls himself out of his arms and onto his feet.
"Dick," Lindsey wheezes when he can speak. He wipes his face with his sleeve. It's already got snot from two people on it, so a third won't make too much of a difference.
"C'mon. Let's go home," Eliot says, holding out a hand. "They'll be lookin' for us."
Lindsey snorts in reply, but takes the shaking proffered hand anyway. Eliot hauls him up, clapping him on the shoulder when he's steady on his feet, then turns away to pick something up out of the grass.
Lindsey stiffens when he sees the gun, but all Eliot does is tuck it into the back of his jeans. He nods in the other direction. "Get the bullets. Willie's gonna want 'em back."
Lindsey has to trample the long grass down in quite a large area before he can find the magazine.
"Shouldna thrown it so hard," Eliot snickers, trying too hard to sound like his old self. Lindsey glares at him, but can't find it in himself to care too much. Eliot's smiling again, just a little bit (shaky, too shaky to be real), and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can fix his brother after all.
Eliot doesn't say a word when Lindsey pockets the bullets instead of handing them over to him. He does, however, throw an arm over Lindsey's shoulder and cup the back of his neck with a warm hand as they make their way through the trees, starting the long walk home.
"Linny," he says in a low voice, "I- I know I've kicked ass for you before, I mean, it's my job ta look after you, but I ain't never saved your life. An' I ain't never thought you'd save mine first. So…" he clears his throat, "y'know."
Lindsey stares into his brother's face, speechless. "You're my brother," he finally says, "Of course I did. Woulda killed me if I didn't try, at least."
A dark cloud passes over Eliot's expression. "Don't you ever try ta kill yourself again, Linny," he scolds. "I mean it."
Lindsey scowls, immediately irritated beyond measure by his brother's twelve-whole-minutes-older attitude. "Ain't that what I'm supposed to say, ya idiot? You don't ever try ta kill yourself again, Eliot."
Eliot snorts. "I ain't gonna."
Lindsey rolls his eyes. "Says the guy who had a friggin' gun in his mouth."
Eliot glares. "I said, I ain't gonna," he says. "You can't either." He catches Lindsey's eyes and jabs a finger at his nose. "You can't, not ever."
Lindsey nods. "You either. Not ever."
"Okay," says Eliot, nodding.
"Okay," Lindsey repeats.
"Now we've got that settled," Eliot says after a minute, "you hafta tell me what you did to that guy who called you gay."
"Huh?" asks Lindsey, bewildered by the complete turnaround in his brother's mood.
"The guy from your school. You did get him back for that, didn't you? 'Cause I swear, if you didn't…"
"Oh," Lindsey chuckles, "him. I uh, he got caught for cheatin'. Turns out, it was his last chance, and he got kicked out completely."
Eliot snorts softly. "That's great. So, did he really cheat?"
Lindsey grins. "Hell no! Everyone knew that he was a 'serious student' after he got caught the last time, but all it took was one sample of his handwriting and a switcheroo in the stack of tests. You wouldn't believe how easy it was."
"You didn't!" guffaws Eliot.
"Oh, I did," Lindsey says, extremely satisfied with himself.
Eliot thumps him on the back (then lets his hand rest on Linny's shoulder. Just because.) "I always say you're smart enough for the two of us, Linny."
"You're not stupid, El," Lindsey says, looking up at him with eyes barely visible through the long, tangled mess of bangs. His fist tightens its grip on the hem of Eliot's shirt. "You just act it. People don't have to think you're dumb, y'know."
Eliot shrugs. "That's kinda the whole point of it, Linny." He sighs heavily. "That was dumb, though. Wasn't it?"
Lindsey snorts loudly and rudely. "Yeah. Extremely. Dumbest thing you ever done, and that's sayin' something."
Eliot makes a face at him. "Don't hafta rub it in."
Lindsey sniffs haughtily into the air. "I'm sure there's something very wrong with you."
"There's something wrong with you," Eliot retorts. "If I recall correctly, you did somethin' pretty stupid, too."
"I was makin' a point," Lindsey explains. "I wasn't actually gonna do it."
Eliot's only response is to stare at him, eyebrow raised. I call bullshit.
"Okay," Lindsey admits slowly with a sigh, "I guess, if you'd done it, then I mighta, too. But only 'cause I woulda been the one to find you."
Eliot flinches at the not-so-silent reproach.
"I'm sorry," he says shakily after a minute.
Lindsey shrugs uncomfortably. "You did want me to find you, didn't you?" he asks softly, "That's why you came here."
Eliot gapes at him, unsure of what to say, not knowing the answer to his brother's question himself.
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AN: What? I warned you. Don't tell me you didn't see that one coming.
