Good Until it Hurts

20. January 7th

"You ain't gonna say shit to me?" Tim says, sounding both annoyed and amused at the same time. "I'm goin' all the way here to get you and you give me the silent treatment?"

I make a half shrug, push my hands deeper into my pockets and kick at the snow as we walk toward his car. It's fucking freezing outside, and I use that as an excuse to huddle inside my jacket, but I steal a glance at him as soon as he turns his head away.

Seeing him again after three months feels so weird. When I first saw him I almost got surprised he don't look older, that he looks the same with his black hair and scar and leather jacket, eighteen now - don't think about that - and able to come alone to pick me up. But I can't help but wish it was pa that came instead, 'cause he wouldn't say anything else than maybe cuss at having to pay for all the gas driving out here. He wouldn't care to ask anything, wouldn't notice if I didn't say a word.

Tim stops, lean his back against his car and wait. I swallow the lump in my throat and blink away the snow falling into my eyes.

"Got a cigarette?" I ask him, and it comes out too fucking quiet.

He hands me the whole pack, gives me a strange look as I snatch it from his hand and move a couple of steps away from him. I know he wonders what's up with me, and the lighter shakes in my hand as I try to set the stick on fire.

I look up and meet his gaze, and I'm dreading that he knows. I'm leaving this place but I don't leave anything behind, it's even with me now and if he can read my thoughts, if he can really see them, I think I want to die. He's my brother but I feel so far away I don't know how to come back, if I can keep pretending 'cause I'm fucking failing already. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the cigarette, I can't even feel it when putting it between my lips, everything tingly and chilly and it feels like I'm falling.

"You cold?" Tim says, picking up the keys from his pocket.

"Yeah," I mumble.

He makes a small movement with his head. "Get in the car, then. I'll put the heater up."

I do as he says, fumble with the car door as I shut it, leaning back and closing my eyes.

Shit, I'm going home. I'm really going home, and it should be a relief but it's not.

I snap my eyes open again as Tim closes his door and puts the key in the ignition. "Wanna stop somewhere to eat?" He throws a quick glance at me as he pulls out of the parking lot. "Got any dinner today?"

"No, just breakfast." I light another cigarette, move my seat back and put my feet up on the dash board as we drive. He don't say a thing about the dirt and snow I leave on it from my shoes, still keeps his mouth shut as I go through the pack, light one cigarette after the other, trying to smoke out all the thoughts having a fucking war in my head.

I keep staring out the side window at the fields and trees we're passing, my thoughts all messed up, I'm sure he must notice. Sometimes I think he wants to say something, ask questions, but he don't - he only lets the radio blast, so maybe he don't want to talk to me. Or maybe he just likes the music.

About half way home he turns the volume down, asks again if I'm hungry. This time I tell him I am and he turns a couple of times before parking outside a DQ. I follow him into the hamburger joint, ignoring all the people in there while watching him order, not really listening to what he gets us, and I know he asks what I want to have but I don't answer. Don't matter, I get a Coke and a burger and fries, and that's fine with me. The food should taste good after the bad food in juvie, but every bite grows in my mouth, and Tim is finished long before me.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he says eventually, leaning back and placing his empty glass on the table. It ain't an accusation, though, he sounds almost like he cares. "You eat like a little girl, and you've said about two words since I picked you up." He grabs the pack I put on the table as we sat down, shaking out the last stick.

"I'm just tired, okay?" I snap, feel my cheeks start to burn, and I bow my head while picking at my fries, just to have something to do with my hands. I really wish I took the last cigarette before he did. "Fuck off."

"You have always wolfed down a burger faster than me."

"I ain't hungry."

"You said you were when I asked." He grabs some fries from my tray. "You ain't happy goin' home? You liked being locked up in there?"

I hastily look up, finding him smirking at me.

"No, I fuckin' hated it!" I exclaim. "An' you don't even know what it's like 'cause you've never been there!"

"'Cause I'm too fuckin' smart to get busted."

"Yeah, but you could've come," I grumble, looking down again, knowing I wouldn't have wanted him to come anyway.

Or maybe I would. Maybe it had felt good, knowing he cared enough to come and see me. Only it's probably better he didn't, 'cause this really sucks.

Tim sighs. "You mad I didn't visit, is that it? Shit, it ain't like you were gone forever. Three fuckin' months are nothin', Curly."

I blink a couple of times, continue to stare down at the table top. In his eyes three months may be nothing, but everything changed for me.

"Shit, I didn't think you wanted me to baby you," Tim says a bit annoyed.

"I didn't want that!"

"Then what the fuck is the problem?"

"Nothin'! I don't care if you didn't come, okay? I said I'm just tired!"

We go quiet after that, the silence strained for a while, before he shortly asks if I'm finished. I nod, and he gets up to leave, not even bothering to see if I'm following him or not.

As we head back to his car, I start thinking I wish Scott had been here instead. I could have told him, or not, but he still would know how to make it better, what to say. I would get a little time without having to pretend, could tell him what I wanted and he wouldn't judge me.

I need to hear his words so fucking badly right now. I don't know if I would believe them, but at least I wouldn't feel so fucking alone.

xXx

He picks up my clothes from the brown paper bag - the one from my first day here - tells me to undress and put them on. I stand by the wall, really trying to do that, but I can't move, can't get my arms to drag the sweater over my head. It's just a small room, a small space with no window, a locked door, just like the other times, and I can't -

"Shepard."

I snap my head up, but meeting his gaze makes me shake. Fuck, I hate that he makes me feel like this, act like a stupid, weak little boy. Why can't I fight him, I could fight anyone, I wouldn't give up without trying.

"C'mon. Get changed, you're goin' home. Don't you want to go home?"

I want that. Christmas and New Year went by, we're in 1966, beginning of January, actually the 7th, my release date. I only had breakfast and then I was taken here to get my own clothes back. By him.

He steps closer and I try to shrink away, but I have the wall behind me, and I can't fight. It wasn't your fault, Scott kept saying, all the time since I told him, every day, but he don't know a thing. He don't know how I just stand here and let him put his hand on my shoulder, not saying anything, not even trying to push him off.

Not my fault but it is my fault. I'm doing nothing to stop it.

'Cause I know there is no use anyway. If he wants to, he just do it. Maybe I should just let him, it wouldn't be the first time anyway. Don't matter anymore, right? It can't be worse and it can't be better, it's just something that happens.

Something that happens to me.

He tugs at my sweater, saying, "You need help with that?" Pressing closer, and I shut my eyes so hard I only see dark.

I wasn't sure if I should post this with the traffic stats still not working... to see the views, knowing someone reads this really means a lot! But it's been a week now and since we have to idea when they will fix the problem, I feel I couldn't wait updating.

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