"Congratulations."
Joe whirled around: his brother had taken him by surprise. He had not seen Frank in months, throughout the spring as he returned to classes and struggled back into his normal routine, throwing himself into work, therapy, and applications. When his report card—covered in Cs—had finally arrived, the acceptance to U of Michigan had been hot on its heels; in addition to his roommate request form.
"They took me," the younger Hardy smiled. "They understood the psychological issues and they said I deserved a new chance."
"I know."
"I gained weight," Joe held out his arms proudly. "See?"
Frank just nodded, keeping his distance on the other side of the room.
"And Vanessa and I…we're working things out. We've been seeing each other again, but we're going slow. Really slow."
Another nod.
"Frank?"
"I'm really proud of you, Joe."
"Are you all right?"
His brother nodded slowly. "Just…came to make it official."
"Make it…" Joe faltered, his face paling.
"Joe, you knew this was coming…"
"No! You can't leave! I'll get sick again Frank I'll—"
"Stop. Look at yourself. You're happy, you're healthy. You're the brother I left behind."
"Because of you! Because you're here and you look out for me and—"
Frank was across the room and touching his brother's hands in a second.
"Don't talk," he murmured. "Trust. The way you did when I told you it would be okay. The way I did when you followed me to the cemetery. The way you always used to. I'd never abandon you if I thought you needed me, Joe. I mean, really needed me. But it's over now, brother. You're gonna go on and be happy and make others happy and help people, the way we used to. You'll still think about and remember me, the same way I'll always think about and remember you, and when you're time comes I'll be waiting. All right?"
Joe felt a tear break loose from the water filling his eyes and make its way down his cheek.
"Oh Frank…" he whispered, falling forward and wrapping his arms around his ghost brother who felt slightly less solid, slightly more cold.
The way I used to be.
"I know little brother," Frank whispered, his own voice strained, "I'll miss you too. But you'll have eternity to put up with me. Promise."
"What do I do?" he sobbed. "What do I do when it hurts too much to think straight?"
"You think of me and imagine me beside you and relax and feel for me. I'll be there, Joe, especially in those moments. You may not be able to see or hear me, but you can sense me. Remember how we used to be able to do that? Sense when the other needed us, when the other was in danger? We'll be able to do that still. Because we're bonded, little brother, so tightly that even death couldn't break us."
Joe shut his eyes, his bottom lip trembling as the tears slipped down. Frank reached out and brushed them away.
"I'll be with you," the elder Hardy murmured. "Always."
"I love you Frank," Joe whispered, opening his eyes to meet his brother's fading brown ones. Frank smiled.
"That's something I did always know."
***
"I brought you flowers this time, bro," Joe murmured, kneeling beside his brother's grave.
Joe had read of the Reaper's execution four months later. He did not attend. Instead, he lit the article on fire and scattered the ash over the cemetery, which he visited loyally every month on the date Frank had lead him to his grave. Each time he brought flowers, or a letter, or some photographs, something to make his older brother's stone unique. To let him know he was not forgotten.
The transfer had been simple and successful: Joe's first report card was a line of A's with positive comments from each professor.
"See?" Chet had laughed when he'd told him. "I knew rooming with me would be good luck."
"He's proud of you," Callie had murmured, giving him a quick hug. He'd found himself looking out for her since he'd transferred; encouraging her to date, but screening each prospect. She'd laughed at his protectiveness, pointing out that he was a threat again: he'd gained not only weight, but muscle. Frank's coat no longer fit across the shoulders, and he'd covered it in plastic and left it in his closet at home, in the room he no longer feared, in the bathroom he no longer cut himself in.
"The doctor says he can do a skin graft to cover the skin on your wrist," his father had told him, looking at his eldest son's now faded name without flinching. Joe merely nodded his agreement and cleared his schedule during the first week of summer.
"I'll go with you, if you want," his girlfriend murmured, squeezing his hand.
"Thanks, Van," he answered, kissing her cheek.
"I go in for surgery tomorrow," he said softly to the tombstone. "I know you'd want me to, but I want you to know that I'm not trying to erase your name. I just…need to hide the scars, you know? But I'm all right now. Really all right now."
He silently arranged the flowers about the base, beside a photo of him and Vanessa and the report he'd written on his brother when he applied to schools. He felt he should cry, but his eyes were dry and his chest was light. Besides, his brother wouldn't want him to.
"Everyone thinks about you," he murmured. "But they don't grieve anymore. They remember the good times. There were lots of those, weren't there?"
Joe ran his fingertips over the name.
"And there'll be more," he whispered, leaning to rest his forehead against the indented letters. "Because I'm going to die one day too," he drew back, looked to the sky, and smiled, unafraid.
"And then I'll always be with you."
