Ya Gotta Move On

Author: Hex

Rating: PG-13 for attempted suicide.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

Pairing: None specified. You can make the third part any character you wish.

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I hate graveyards, they give me the creeps. The thought of all those faceless corpses staring up at you through the soles of your feet, their envy and loathing an almost tangible thing. I am one that walks and breaths and I am hated for that simple fact.

I feel like the walking dead. My heart and soul died a long time ago and now I am nothing but the shell of the child I once was.

I reach the very back of the graveyard where no one goes and push aside the thick branches of a long dead bush. Behind it I find that for which I have spent my whole life searching. The only brother I have ever known.

I am presented with a simple marker, made from two pieces of warped metal found lying in a gutter somewhere. They had been hammered them together into a shaky cross because that was all the maker had known to do. When someone died, you made them a cross.

I had made this cross. At the time, I hadn't known the significance of it. All I had known was what it meant to me. The last mark my brother had made on this world. I remember sitting by if for weeks, hardly moving in case someone come to take it and sell if for scraps. I was so alone. I had never been this alone before then.

I am still alone now, in my mind. Oh, I have friends and they mean well and I am even in love with the most wonderful man but... I have no big brother to take care of me. Now all I can do is take care of this simple grave and hope it is enough.

I begin the arduous task of cleaning the dead plants and animals away, my mind an empty hollow. All was blessedly silent. Later where would be yelling and pleading and curing the heavens but for now I am numb. For a time, God grants me a reprieve.

I can still feel the glares from those of death who stare, unseeing, at me from the darkness. It makes that place between my shoulder blades itch. Solo does not stare at me. He is not buried here. I don't remember what happened to his body. Perhaps someone took it away or the rats ate it.

I used to fantasise that he wasn't really dead. That after I left him he had simply stood up and walked away. It was more bearable to think he hated me and had left than to think of his truly being gone. If he was alive somewhere, at least there was another kid with a big brother.

But I knew he was dead. My beloved brother...

Solo would laugh if he could see me now. I can almost hear him, roaring in amusement every time I cut my hands or scraped an elbow on this makeshift tomb.

"Ya're a sentimental fool, kid! Whatcha wasting yer time on a corpse fer?"

I ignore the jeer and continue on. I know his voice is only in my head. It's only been in my head for almost ten years. My big brother is only a memory now.

That was the hardest part of it all, to think of him as only a memory. I could make no more memories with him now and it still eats me up inside.

"I never let you go did I, you old rat." Not a question.

"Ya gotta move on, kid." His voice is tender but rough with emotion and I find myself reaching out to stroke the cross as I think of him.

"I can't." I'm too scared.

"But ya got so much goin' fer ya now, kid! Ya got a job and a home. Ya've got a family kid!"

We used to dream about families. We dreamt about a mother and a father, sitting in front of a warm fire or being held as the nightmares passed.

I alone of all of us had tasted that in my youth. I remember the Maxwell Church for a moment and my chest constricts painfully.

Then my mind turns to my friends and I know they are my family. I have built a life for myself but I keep on coming back here.

I never left.

"I wish I had gone with you, rat."

"I sorta wish ya had too, kid."

I wish I could cry for him but boys don't cry. Not even over the voices of ghosts in the dark places of their minds. "Why can't I stop coming back?"

"Ya gotta let yerself move on."

"I don't want to. I feel safer here than I do anywhere. I love and loathe this place all at once."

"Yer messed up kid." The affection is back in his voice and I am glad for it.

I feel a hand on my shoulder suddenly and look up into the eyes of the man I love. I did not hear him approach. I wonder how long he has been there and how much he has heard. There is a war of emotion in his gaze as pain, fear, love and relief all struggle for power. I reach up to take that hand and he sees my badly bandaged wrists.

"You promised you'd stop this."

He kneels on the dirt beside me, like an angel giving up the heavens for squalor and I feel guilt tear at a heart I'm not sure I have. He takes my arms and removes the bandages. The bleeding has stopped but I know I feel light headed somewhere. I feel so detached.

"You have to stop doing this to yourself. To us."

I hate myself for hurting him.

There are more scars on my arms than I can count. Each white welt marking a painful memory I have tried to bleed out of me.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop being so damn sorry for everything!" He growls. I see fear win the war. He pulls me close and I can feel him shaking. He tries so hard to be strong but I seem to break him without even trying too. I hurt him so much but I love him too much to be able to leave. Only the death I seem to seek at every turn will ever part me from his side.

"I stole the shuttle." An admission of guilt. He sees past it to what I truly mean.

"I know."

"Are the others angry?"

"No. Just scared. Like me. Why do you keep coming back to this God forsaken place?"

"It's not God forsaken!" I yell, unable to stop myself. "I - I'm... God forsaken."

He knows better than to argue. He just pulls me to my feet, never once losing his firm grip on my shuddering body. Before we leave he produces something from the back of his jeans and tosses it onto my brothers grave, pulling me away.

I find myself turning back. There is a lily there now. The flower of death.

I smile as I turn my back on the grave. My arm finds it's way around his waist and I feel him relax. Fear has been overthrown and relief and love have taken joint control of him.

"Will you do something for me?" I ask, sounding oddly timid. I am afraid of a refusal.

"What?"

"Bring me here. Next time."

He smiles at me. That is all he wants. To be a part of my pain and help me heal from the inside. I do not want to tell him I cannot heal so I don't.

He nods and we leave.

I hope one day I can move on.

"Ya gotta move on."

*****

R&R Much appreciated!

Laters

Hex.