Frank took a deep breath, steadied himself, then raised a hand and knocked on his brother's door. It amazed him: what used to be the most simple, casual gesture now left his heart pounding, so afraid of his brother ignoring him, of Joe shouting "go away!" or some other form of rejection. But instead there was silence; Frank knocked again.
"What?" came the muffled call from the other side of the door.
"It's Frank."
No answer.
"You okay?"
The door opened; Joe stood there in a hooded Bayport sweatshirt and black sweatpants.
"I've been better," he murmured.
Frank nodded sympathetically. "Just thought I'd check in."
Joe bit his lip, then pulled the door back. "You want to come in maybe?"
The elder Hardy nodded and allowed his brother to hold the door open, crossing the room and sitting on Joe's bed as his brother shut the door and came almost shyly over to sit beside him.
"I'm sorry," they both said at once.
"Me first?" Frank asked.
"No." Joe sighed. "I don't want to talk anymore tonight, Frank, please. I'm not over it."
"What's 'it?'"
"That you went to see Coach Finley. That you won't listen to a word I'm saying—"
"Even though you won't hear a word I'm saying—"
"I hear you, I'm telling you you're wrong—"
"I'm telling you you're hurting yourself—"
"Stop! I said I don't want to fight anymore!"
The elder Hardy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I don't want to fight either."
"Then quit acting like everything I say and do is wrong!"
Frank turned and seized his brother by the shoulders, startling him.
"Joe, I care about you. Do you know that? Do you believe it?"
The younger Hardy looked wary, then slowly nodded.
"Good."
The elder Hardy released him, then started to get up.
"Where are you going?" Joe asked, startled.
"Well, you don't want to hear anything I have to say—"
"That's not true!"
"—so I figured—"
"Frank, stay. Let's talk. About other things. Can't we still do that? Aren't we still friends?"
Frank's felt a tug at his chest, of sympathy, of sadness. "Of course we are," he said gently, "and friends have disagreements they have to work through. They can't pretend they're not angry when they are."
Joe didn't answer. Frank sighed, ran a hand through his hair, sat back down.
"I ate dinner," Joe said softly.
"I know. I'm proud of you."
The younger Hardy snorted angrily. "Don't think I'm okay with that either."
"How did you feel? After you'd eaten?"
Joe looked down at the bedspread and closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it. Frank, please, let's not talk about it."
"Joe, you're scaring me. You're scaring me so much."
Joe shut his eyes and fell back on his bed, hitting the mattress with his fist.
"Fine," Frank rolled his eyes, "no more tonight. Just know that if I drive you crazy, I'm not doing it out of spite, kiddo."
Joe still didn't answer. Frank sighed, then lay down beside his brother, turning to look at Joe's ceiling, listening to the air going into his brother's lungs, seeping out. A little faster than usual, Frank thought, then felt a touch of sadness at how well he knew everything about his younger brother, always had. Until now.
"They won't let me exercise."
Joe's remark was so soft Frank almost didn't hear it.
"How am I supposed to be better if I can't exercise?"
Frank turned, catching the tremor of his brother's voice, seeing his brother's eyelashes flutter and grow damp as he held in tears. Frank rolled on to his side, reached out his hand, and stroked his younger brother's hair.
"It's okay," he murmured. "You'll be all right, you'll see."
Joe shook his head slightly, then took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes, opened them and stared at his ceiling.
"I like this view," he said, trying to smile, "it's the one part of my room that's clean."
Frank laughed and turned onto his back again. "I don't know, looks like you could wipe it down some."
"How long is Aunt G. staying?"
"The rest of the week, maybe. Don't know."
"How'll she get to work?"
"She has her car."
"Isn't it farther from here?"
"An extra twenty-minutes, not bad."
"She's not helping."
Frank remembered their earlier conversation. "She tries."
Joe frowned, then reached down and ran a hand over his stomach, ribs, chest. Frank watched him, waiting, but his brother stayed silence.
"Something on your mind?" the elder Hardy asked after a minute or two of silence.
Joe started to say something and yawned instead.
"Fair enough," the elder Hardy grinned, ruffling his brother's hair. "Look, it's the weekend, and I don't have any plans. We'll talk some more, okay? We'll hang out or whatever. I'll help you."
The younger Hardy looked straight at his brother, nodded slowly.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Frank's journal entry that night was one of hope: Joe seems to be opening up a bit. Hopefully this is a sign of understanding, possibly recovery.
How could he know that, as he penned those last words, his brother pulled a bottle of water from under the bed and swallowed the last four Dexatrim in the bottle?