Home

They have grabbed a cab from the airport.

Charlie watched tight muscled and sturdy arms throw his bag into the cab in a gesture and movement that is equally closed off as it is covered in misery.

They have not talked.

For one second, the fingers resting on his upper leg are close to her fingers, but she stills her hand as his other hand leans with his elbow into the door of the cab, his fingers curled and his hand folded over his mouth, his fingers touching his lips.

Bass feels her there, sitting next to does. But he needs to keep his fingers and hand close to his mouth, as a barrier between her and him. Drill new boys, hang out with Miles later to grab some beers. Their joined green shirts sitting closely together, while tanned arms, his with darker hair, his own with lighter hair and freckles, as it has always grab a beer and talk shit about their day. Whine, jerk around, laugh.

Instead he is here, in this fucking place where he does not want to be. It could have been so simple.

Time that is compressed in a place where it does funny things as he walks next to the bushes at the side of the street. Bushes he used to hide in with Miles. The tree, growing ever since he can remember, before the house, growing strong, with a thick branch and green leaves, meandering to the sky, framing the house with green shutters next to white wooden windows and square glasses. A porch.

1716. His house. Home.

But the sky is silent. He can almost see the white light behind the windows, as he hears the crickets and remembers a younger Miles on the couch splayed out after a beer to many, a woman they both loved and the rug in the living room. His mind taking him back there somehow, as his face softens, his lips almost turn into a smile. A habit, a fucking habit of memories meeting him there.

The walls, painted by his dad because his mom loved the yellow so much, it reminded her of Europe and the trip there she never got to make, not keeping the ones he loves.

Loved. Whatever.

Don't think about that.

Four steps are waiting in front of him.

Four steps and he is home.

And he can never say, never look back and say, I walked those stairs home.

After he takes them, it is over.

He feels the standing of Charlie next to him, a little bit behind.

He draws a deep breath, that comes out with a shake of his head.

Charlie know he is deciding something. She can see it in the eyes that linger everywhere, and him unable to meet his eyes. She wishes Miles was here. She never felt his absence so heavy as she does now. But she stands, because she is Charlie. And she can do this. For him.

She lets him be as she is in a dark awe of the lingering motionless of the house. Bass looks around. Feels, senses. His jaws clenching so hard together it hurts.

He sees the rug in the living room, soft blue and patterns of sand and golden orange, where he had opened Christmas Presents with his sisters so many times.

A magazine and a notebook near the lamp her mom gotten from that market he hated. The magazine still open. Waiting.

The marble pattern of the kitchen top, soft in the light of this day. A green towel on the side of one of the couches.

The books, filled with history, of his dad. Books he had gotten to know as his own as his father could tell stories like no one else could, swiping him into the world of battles, right there safely under his father's arm next to him on the couch when he was just a kid.

The floor sounds under his boots.

He looks at the stairs. He walks up. Going on with a torture he is inflicting on himself. But he can't stop. He wants to be there, but at the same time, he can't. So Bass keeps on moving, like he always did as a Marine, outrunning what would be next. The assault of emotions already lingering heavy in the air.

And then, when he reaches Angela's bed room with a sweet softness of a woman that is yet with one step into the world of being a girl, it all stops. The rims of the grieve touching him, as he does not know who to grieve first.

The rim of his grieve touching him, as he feels the heavy wave and he does not know how to carry that. The certainty there in the pressure of numbing tears in his throat that he will have to. He always loved having his family close, loving them, laughing with them, his family. His.

You won't be anyone's kid anymore.

He does not know how to stand anymore.

You won't ever be a big brother.

His eyes, his sight blurs. The heavy tears falling over his honey blonde eyelashes.

He stumbles, reaches for the bed and hits the floor.

Charlie hears the wail that is rough on a breath. She feels her instincts telling her she needs to be with him.

She finds him in the bedroom upstairs. His back is against the bed with a pink coverlet that has symbols of all that is all 16 year old. The frame of his back shakes.

She slowly guides herself next to him. She can feel him tense up.

Bass knows she has already see him cry. But he still can't... he can't feel her touch. He wants to sit, wallow in his own misery.

Charlie's face moves into a determined stretch of features. She pulls him closer by drawing an arm over him. He might push her out, but she won't let him.

He can be all tough and strong but he can't fight this.

Bass wants to push her out, he really fucking does.

But then her willingness to fight, to sit here and not move away when he can't bear her for him to see, deep inside moves something.

He starts to cry harder, in a cry of agony and pain, wanting to curl up in some foetal position and never get the hell up. He meets her, somewhere against her shoulder and then he is there. His head in her lap. She moves her fingers over the curls that are playing with the rim of his ear, they are light blonde and hers to caress, as the motion of her hands seem to calm him down. The dark brown hair, silk with sweat and tears shoved away from his cheeks rest against the skin that starts to flow towards his jaw.

Charlie does not know how to carry so much of grieve with her without crying. Warm tears that fall over his face now too.

'I am so sorry, Bass.' She whispers. It is the same thing she tells him, but it is the same thing there is to tell.

Bass feels her cry. Her tears falling a corner of something they share, a corner of safe. And it is in her tears, for his family, for him, he finds some comfort.

Her voice is soft, so god damn soft. Her touch strong. Not in the tips of her fingers, but in the way she carries him now.

Charlie is quiet. After he pulled a hand over his face and waits, in silence, he moved out a hand for her, she accepts with her slender fingers in his hand, they move back from the silent place they shared tears.

He pulls back, she can feel it. The first wave over as they head to the kitchen.

She knows it will be the first of many. As calm salty sting of tears in the back of your nose gets replaced by another one building up, ready to rip you apart. Again.

And Again.

They eat. They sit. The share a beer.

Bass looks at his right. The beer still in his hand as he can feel it again. Another shrapnel that forever rearranges who he is.

They sit.

And then the hear the sound of a familiar car.

Charlie watches Bass pressing his lips together as he takes a swig of beer. Then he can't anymore. The beer falls silent against the kitchen counter tops below him. He puts it down. He feels the outburst of grieve. And when he sees the mirror and the keychain on it from his dad, his dad that is supposed to be here, he can't bear it anymore. His hand crashes into the mirror.

Charlie looks startled as she looks at the sad punch Bass delivers as his face is locked in so much pain she does not recognise his face anymore. Before she can reach him, Bass has started walking.

Drops of blood on the floor.

Miles has been riding. The road taking too long as he needs to be with him, with her. Reach home, make sure they are both all right as he dreads it at the same time with a weight around his boots that makes it uneasy to move on. Miles Matheson. Give him a fight, and he fights it.

But this, he is not sure who to fight this. How to deal with this.

He needs to reach home.

And so he does.

He makes the last familiar turn after he has reached the sign that says Welcome to Jasper.

The hand on the steering wheel.

He stops the engine.

And then, with a face of grieve and sadness he steps out of the car.

The front door opens. Bass gets out of the house. His hands empty, his hands bloody , shaking as he looks so lost it makes Miles want to drive to his own knees. He looks so completely lost, looking at his own hands as he walks down the porch steps, a long breath in, filled with contained tears as his little brother's face changes. Miles takes the steps towards Bass fast, dropping car keys onto the ground. He catches Bass, his whole face one wail of grieve as tears mixed with saliva drops from his mouth. Right before Miles catches him, Bass starts to cry, rough cries, that twist his sounds into the moment Miles can't contain his own. Bass falls into Miles arms, as Miles shoves an arm under his armpit to steady him and feels Bass' weight collapse against his side and against the side of his body. Bass crying inwardly as he feels his brothers weight against his body.

His dark eyes bewildered and filled with tears as he holds Bass and both men are one heap on the fucking ground as Charlie filled with tears as her own and a cloth in her hand, watches both men from the porch.


I wanted to thank you so much for reading! I know this is not an easy story. Oh this story is so hard to write, but the moments of support, brotherhood, family and comfort are shining through. That is what this story is about and we will work towards. Love from Love