Chapter Twenty-Seven

flashback

"Ahh. Chris. You're home," Wyatt said coolly.

Brett's heart was in his throat, his voice raspy, rough, and it was all he could do not to hug the boy with such sad eyes right now.

"Chris..."

Chris only stared at him through glassy eyes, looking like his whole world was crashing down around him, and, regardless of how long they had known each other, Brett could only vaguely discern the feelings of pain, sorrow, and anger reflected in Chris eyes.

There was a long pause—the longest two seconds of all of their lives—and suddenly Chris was fumbling—stumbling—over his words and a stray stool as he backpedaled toward the swinging door.

"I...uh...I'll be in our—my room," Chris said, turning, voice coarse and rough, eyes not leaving Brett's shifting ones.

"Chris..." Brett forced out his throat as he moved to take a step forward, but suddenly Wyatt had an arm around his waist, crushing Brett along his body, and it took every last bit of patience Brett had not to tear Wyatt's arm out of its socket.

He saw Chris look at them again, look at them like that, and Brett was almost ready to just drop everything already and call it quits. Quit and just tell Wyatt to screw himself because he, Chris, and the others could totally take on all of the Underworld with or without Wyatt's help; that they'd be fine, and healthy and that they sure as hell didn't need him.

Almost.

"You go ahead and do that," Wyatt said coolly, nonchalantly, and Brett knew that, if this weren't the real thing, if this were just a practice, Wyatt would be smiling and laughing his ass off at the look on Chris' face right now.

That just made Brett feel sicker.

"Chris, I..." Brett began, but it was too late because, even as he was readying to spill everything out, he found himself straining his throat for empty space and vanishing orbs.

And for a moment there, Brett just stood stock still. The kitchen was still and the mood that should have shown itself like it does in almost any long pause—for some reason—didn't come, blanketing the room in cold silence; letting only the strains of party noises that were too loud to stay shut inside the silent spells on the other rooms echo in the emptiness.

"He always was a bit of a drama queen," Wyatt said behind him, and Brett didn't know he could be sick just by hearing someone's voice.

"Get out," Brett said, voice low, back still toward Wyatt, eyes not seemingly possible to leave the spot where all the things he cared about just faded into thin air and swirling lights.

Wyatt's eyebrows furrowed in bemusement and crossed his arms across his chest. "Aren't you happy? I mean, you just finished—"

"I said 'get out,'" Brett hissed, back still turned, and Wyatt really should have known better.

Wyatt scowled and took a step forward, "Why? I thought—"

Brett turned around in a flash, eyes glinting in a multitude of colors, yelling, "GET OUT!"

And, to both boys' surprise, Wyatt was airborne, being sent across the room and through the kitchen window, hands clutching his head in agony, before blacking out as his head hit the tree in the backyard, leaving an angry, panting, bitter, and shaken Brett in his wake.

Pressing his back to the refrigerator door, Brett slid down, hugging his knees as he cried.

"Chris, I—" Brett started as he hesitantly pushed open the door, pausing as he saw the figure on the bed shoot up into a sitting position and composing itself.

"Chris—"

"I didn't know who would get the stuff that belonged to both of us, so I thought you should have it," Chris said, keeping his eyes off the other boy. "I packed it with the rest of your other stuff."

Brett nearly stopped breathing. "Chris, I—"

"You're stuff's in Wyatt's room," Chris said as he kept his eyes on the expensive Persian rug. "I thought it'd be best if you moved out tonight."

Brett's eyes sting and he swallows the lump in his throat. "Chris, maybe we should—"

"You're sleeping with my brother," Chris said as he finally locked red, tired eyes with Brett's, saying it more as a fact than a betrayal, his voice only showing a small portion of the resentment Brett knew he was holding in, as controlled as ever.

Brett feels a surge of anger, frustration, and hatred rush through him and he winced at the cruelty of it all, the unfairness of it all, and it was all he could do not to break his hand with the wall behind him.

"Chris, I—"

"I don't care," Chris said, eyes deadlocked on Brett's own, challenging him to recede.

"But, you..." Brett tried as his voice cracked on the lump that formed again in his throat.

Chris just...looked at him like that and it caused Brett's chest to chill.

"I don't want to know," Chris said, and then his eyes were on the rug again, leaving Brett just standing there in the painful silence of a room that he would probably never be allowed into again.

For an eternity, Brett just stares at Chris, stupidly waiting for him to say something, he felt a whole spectrum of emotions pass through him: resentment, disbelief, and...vaguely—inside—something breaking.

Awkwardly, with one last glance at the other boy, he turned, slowly dragging his footsteps across one of the most expensive floors he'd ever seen.

He's at the door way now, hanging on to the railing as he steadies himself for that final crushing blow, that "goodbye" and he kind of does consciously pause at the door, pathetically waiting for something he sort of knows won't—or at least "shouldn't"—come.

He hears the bed sheets rustle, hears some of the floorboards creak, a sharp inhalation and he thinks...maybe...maybe—

"You know what? Actually...actually, yeah. Yeah, I think I do care," Chris' voice rises and Brett has to close before he embarrasses them both in front of the guests who, for some God forsaken, haven't taken his hints and gone home yet. "What...what was that?"

Brett can feel his eyes sting and he knows he only has one chance at this.

"Chris—"

"Because, if this is about last time," Chris speaks over him, voice getting colder by the minute, and the words on the tip of Brett's tongue are gone now, scattered in the wake of Chris' wind, leaving Brett vulnerable and alone. "If this is about getting even, I don't get it, because I thought we were past this."

Suddenly, Brett can feel the breath in his throat hitch, can feel the tension in his hands as they clench and unclench, can feel his eyes burn, and everything—all of it, it all means nothing because it's not like he can tell Chris what's on his mind.

"That's not fair," he says, terribly raspy and wet, and, if you listened close enough, maybe even a little bit shaky.

When Chris throws his head back, it's painful, and, not just for Chris, but for Brett also. "I know it's not fair, Brett, but this?" Chris nearly spits out, and Brett can hear the disgust, but mostly hurt, in his voice. "Sleeping with my brother?"

When Brett feels the water in his eyes he knows they're born of anger and he realizes he's never been this angry before. He's angry at everything and anything at all. He's angry at the Wyatt for being such a lying, manipulative fucktard, obviously, at the situation, at the way Chris just had to walk in, at the way he had to pick that specific time. He's mad at the way he just stood there watching, mad that Chris just stood there—hell, if he's honest, he's even mad at Chris—but, mostly...mostly Brett thinks he's angry at himself for not stopping all this sooner.

"This isn't about Wyatt," Brett means to say in a confident way, but when he speaks, his voice fails him and it comes out raspy and parched.

Chris eyes narrow and his lips thin, his arms flailing as he speaks in that way he gets when he's trying to prove a point, and Brett cringes because—if he doesn't catch the flaw in Chris' speech, doesn't use it against him...all of this—they're friendship, their trust, their link—all of it will just fade and if he has to do this, has to give Chris up, well...at least Brett can keep him as the one who still cared about him instead of the one he lost.

"That's exactly my point!" Chris yells. "This is between us, so, then, why...? Because...I'm trying real hard to understand everything and I just...I don't get it. What happened?"

All it takes is that one second. In that one glorious second, something flashed across Brett's brain; flushing, flooding, utterly just blinding, and he just...knew that he could never even begin to tell Chris. Chris, who, Chris, who, though had grown up, had become a name fearful and respected within the magical world, was still very much a little boy; who wouldn't understand real sacrifice until faced to do it himself; something—Brett hoped—he could prevent Chris from ever doing, ever having to do.

So...he sucked it up—all that swelling anger—and breathed as he prepared to bring more than just one person's wall crumbling.

"Because the problem started way before Wyatt, Chris," he hisses, and it's in that tone of voice that Brett knows Chris knows Brett uses when he's serious.

"Honestly? I didn't think I could do it anymore."

Chris sneered, "What? Date me?"

Brett locked his eyes with Chris and he had to remind himself why he was doing this. "Love you. Love you and not care."

Chris takes a fast, shallow breath. "What?"

"Things have been wrong for weeks now, Chris, and you haven't so much as picked up even one God damn clue to figure it out," Brett breathes.

Chris' face is one of disbelief and Brett crosses his fingers behind and prays. "What are you talking about?"

Brett surreptitiously sighs in relief and he forces the derisive laugh from the back of his throat up. "I resent you, Chris," he says, head shaking back in forth, voice growing abnormally high, smiling that hideous mock smile. "I resent the hell out of you. You're gone for weeks, and then...you're just back. You're back and then you change and it's like nothing ever happened, that it's back to the way it used to be, but...I'm not entirely sure that that could happen."

There are tears in Chris' eyes and when his meets Brett's he looks away and is biting and sarcastic, "So you're saying this is my fault?"

No. Brett blinks, but he knows he only has one chance at this, so he answers unflinchingly. "Yeah."

Chris just half-laughed, half-scoffed and Brett's still waiting to breathe.

Then, suddenly Chris is laughing hysterically and it pains Brett to see it.

"What?"

Chris turns those intense eyes on him. "I can't believe you're blaming this on me," he laughs. "I try to make things better and you blame me."

"What do you want me to say, Chris?"

"That you not blame me for a problem in our relationship so you could sleep with another guy who, oh, yeah, just happens to be my brother!"

"See? You don't even know me enough anymore to know that I wouldn't do that."

"You mean, you know, except that you kinda are."

"..."

"..."

"I never said I was perfect."

"No, you just implied it a lot."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Heh heh. What do you think it means? You're the one who goes around telling people what to do and training them as if they weren't half at your level, which, you know, they are."

"I was trying to help them."

"By making them feel inferior?"

"By trying to keep them alive!"

"..."

"Which, by the way, is more than I could say for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"I love this family."

"And you did such a great job in showing it by running out the door every chance you got!" Brett grits his teeth and he doesn't really know if he's acting anymore.

"I had reasons!"

"I do, too!"

Scoffs. "That doesn't even compare. I wanted justice, not another warm body!"

Brett laughs back, tears spilling. "No. You were just a coward who ran when things got too rough."

The words were out of his mouth, and suddenly, the room was quiet and neither of them spoke for the longest time.

"...Chris, I..." Brett breathes, but then stops and he knows that it's all over.

A second later Chris orbs out and Brett is left awkwardly standing alone.

He climbs on the bed, hugs his knees to his chest, and just lets himself cry.

When Wyatt comes barreling through the door a second later, he's furious and red.

"What the hell was that—"

"Shut up, Wyatt," Brett hisses, his voice is dark and commanding, eyes fiery, but cold.

Wyatt opens and closes his mouth a few times, but then just keeps it shut, seething.

Brett gets up off the bed, makes his way over to the taller boy, and doesn't even bother wiping the tears on his cheeks away.

"Let's just do this."

Shout outs: Daniel-lover, rin-loy, ravenuk01.

Thanks you guys.

I'm sorry I'm not posting as quickly, but I'm so busy at school.  Luckily, this weekend, I'm going up to Houston (on bus) and will have more than enough time to write a chapter or two, so you can expect when one Monday to Wednesday.

Thanks again to the readers.  Please encourage...review.

Devil's Archangel