Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing except a few half empty bottles of vodka.

Enjoy, R/R :)

There was a threat of pain in my chest. Far away and distant. It felt like rain beating down on my back, dripping of my face and my chest. In the distance I could hear the rumble of thunder, but I think that was just Chino.

I tried to spend as much time away from our house in Chino. My Father had only been in jail seven months, when my Mom brought home a new man. She figured both of us we're sleeping, as she traipsed in loudly, both of them drunk, on the way to her bedroom. I put my pillow over my head, but I could still hear them. I looked over at Ryan, dead asleep, cuddled on his side and I envied him. I envied him being that young.

Because these days I have felt nothing but old. I feel old at home, I feel like I should be taking the place of Ryan's father but I don't know how to be a father. I feel like I should be trying to nurture something in him, like the way my Dad never did. But I don't want that kind of responsibility. I feel old at school, when all the grade nine kids come to me to buy pot, looking up at me glassy eyed, with pimples and high octave voices. I feel old in my own heart, and I know of no way to solve that.

Coming home one afternoon from school, the house smelled stronger than it usually does. I quickly surmised that my mother must have been sacked again and came home for a mid afternoon bender, perhaps with the new boyfriend in tow. I nearly turned around, dodged for the sidewalk before anyone could see me. But I knew Ryan would be there, he had nowhere else to go and I knew he spent most afternoons within a block of the house, I couldn't leave him there alone.

There was none of that characteristic noise that my Mom made while on a bender, the loud music, her laugh, getting louder and more disturbing the more drunk she got. The lower voice of the boyfriend whispering sexual innuendos in her ear. It was dead silent. I walked over to the couch and there he was asleep. Still looking like a little boy, that cuddled up sleep I envied. Until I came closer, and noticed the open vodka bottle just beyond his hand. The smell of his breath coming in slow spurts, the flush in his cheeks that was so uncharacteristic of him. I shook him. He didn't move.

He was passed out drunk.

I curbed my instinct to reach out and shake him, to smack him across the face, to scream at him for doing all the things I had done, and didn't want him to do. For a moment I feared for his health, but soon that fear was replaced with fear for his safety, after Mom came home.

I picked him up, and carried him to our room. I knew he would be puking soon enough, so I sat on my bed and waited.

I was disappointed in him, I knew I was. But I suppose I shouldn't have been. I got drunk for the first time when I was just a little older than him. I smoked pot when I was just a little older than him. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had been holding out hope that he would be the good one. But I guess that was stupid to think that he could after all he had been through.

He stirred as twilight was beginning to set. Rolled over, moaned, and puked on the carpet. He was sweaty, disoriented, as he got up and stumbled around, at first not even noticing me.

"Hey Trey."

"Hey little brother."

"What are you doing here?" His voice was far away, a little slurred.

"I'm taking care of you."

He sat down on his bed, I could tell he had a bad case of the spins.

"But you're never here."

"Sure I am. I'm here right now."

"I know what you're doing out there." He slumped down a little further, pushing himself against the wall, trying to steady himself.

I shook my head, looking at him, unsure of whether I wanted to hit him, or tuck him back into bed. Is this what a father feels?

"You've got money, you shouldn't have money. You're stealing, and selling."

Why should I bother to deny it? I was. It wasn't like I had a future beyond nickel and dime criminal enterprise. It scared me, that at 15 this is what my life had turned into.

"Go to sleep Ryan."

I caught up with him the next night in the park, where we escaped for a quiet moment away from Mom, and a cigarette. He didn't look as bad as he had that morning, with dark rings under his eyes, and a look that wasn't quite focusing.

"What the hell is wrong with you Ryan?"

He shrugged. Ducking his head, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"Hasn't the way Mom acts taught you nothing?"

"Didn't the way Dad ended up, teach you anything?" He echoed.

I almost didn't have the heart for it anymore, to see him like this.

"Fine, you're drinking, and I'm stealing. By 11 and 15 we managed to become exactly like our parents. Are you happy?" He just looked at me with this judgemental gaze, not saying anything.

So, I got up and I hit him across the face.

It got rid of the look, but only exchanged it for another one. A look I wished I hadn't seen. The look of the little boy, I needed to protect and couldn't anymore. He turned away, didn't meet my eye, blew smoke out into the night sky, and walked into the darkness.