Rain
Summary: Charlie loved the rain. Angsty drabble, rated for language.
A/N: I actually wrote this for school, but switched the names around for the actual exam. Anyway, here's my weekly output of angst. Rated for very light language.
I don't own any of the following characters etc.
Rain
He was drenched. It wasn't even raining that hard. It certainly hadn't been raining when he left. Or perhaps it had, he just hadn't noticed. That was entirely possible.
"Donnie, wait for me," piped up a young eager voice, followed by the clumping of oddly heavy feet. He turned to see five year old Charlie, decked out in bright yellow gumboots and a matching raincoat; holding out a hand and smiling beseechingly.
"Charlie, you can't come with me buddy," he cautioned, pausing in his stride. "Mum would have my guts for garters if I took you out in the rain."
"Pleease, Don, I'm dressed proper," pleaded Charlie, grabbing his hand and squeezing tight, as if he would never let him go. "You can even wear my other raincoat if you want. It's got Snoopy on it!"
Charlie loved the rain. His whole life, he'd always loved it. As a kid he used to sit on the window seat in Don's room while his big brother did his homework; pressing his little nose up against the frosty window pane and writing little equations in the condensation. In another life he would have been a duck, Don was sure of it.
Don exhaled, watching his own little condensation cloud rise slowly before his eyes, and disband into nothing; whisked away by the evening breeze.
"Donnie…"
He raised his tired gaze slowly to focus on his young brother, standing uncertainly in his doorway, juggling about six text books and two different highlights in his hands. Don smirked at him, unable to help himself.
"Charlie, when I said I'd help you with your homework, I thought you had like… a findaword, or something."
Charlie rolled his eyes at him, coming closer and dropping the books unceremoniously at his feet.
"Unfortunately you did promise, Don, and you were the one who told me advanced history would be 'fun'."
Don rolled his eyes right back, before settling into an easy grin.
"It's just lucky for you it's too wet outside to play baseball today, or you'd be on your own."
His first reaction to the early morning call had been pure disbelief. What? No. Who the hell goes out for milk and gets shot? It happened in Don's world, every day, but those people weren't related to him in any sense of the word. They were… Well, after working his job so long, they couldn't be anything else than statistics. It didn't happen to 'real' people. Certainly not to his family. He remembered his father pleading with him, assuring him he was not joking around. Charlie had been admitted to hospital and was in the emergency room.
Practically dropping the phone he'd leapt out of bed, tangling himself in the blankets and falling flat on his face first, before diving into his wardrobe to pull at the first combination of clothes he found.
Muttering a steady mantra of 'shit, shit, shit' under his breath he'd hopped down the hall, in the process of squeezing into his boots, only to freeze as he passed the kitchen window, eyes wide and heart pounding.
It was raining again.
"Don?"
"Hey, how's it goin', little bro," greeted Don, leaning forward across his desk to pick up the receiver and switch off speakerphone.
"Oh my God, it's awesome here," enthused Charlie, sounding overwhelmed. "I get my own office, it's even bigger than yours! Well not really, but it's huge. Plus there's this great big window near my desk, so I can see the view of the campus gardens. Not much right now, I think the storm's set in for good. I love this weather."
He smiled, watching water cascade off the awning of the office's wide window, to no doubt flood the communal balcony.
"I know you do, buddy."
His father had met him in the waiting room; face ashen and helpless. He had been told nothing at that stage, and had been loitering in the lobby for almost an hour. He still had blood on his hands, from when he had collected Charlie's jacket from the ambulance. Don would never forget the image; shimmering crimson red splashed across his father's pale skin and contrasting starkly with his crisp white shirt. His knees had gone weak at the very sight, and they'd both dropped into hard, plastic chairs, feeling a million kinds of helpless.
The gunman had been killed during the robbery, Alan had informed him shakily. The security guard whipped out a gun and fired, too late. Nothing more they could do.
He kicked down at a stray pebble as he approached the hand railing, swallowing heavily. He stepped up besides the street light, illuminating the dimming sidewalk as soft thunder rumbled overhead, the the night rolled in. Peering over the rails he considered the slow moving, pale river; the one little yellow duck that floated past, cheeping mindlessly as it drifted away into the canals, to be lost in the shadows.
"Donnie?"
He sat bolt upright, so surprised to hear his brother's voice; raspy and weak as it was. Charlie was watching him through swollen, dark eyes, a terrible sad smile tugging at his gaunt face.
"Don, it's not your fault, you know?"
Don gripped the railing a little harder; the blood draining from his knuckles. He stared down at the gently ebbing river, watched raindrops patter down upon it invasively at times, barely noticable at others; the ripples fading to nothing.
Don shook his head, feeling tears spring to his eyes already. He wiped them away furiously.
"No, Charlie, I-"
"Don, please," he croaked, coughing wetly. "I know you. You'll beat yourself up. You have to know, you… you were a good brother. The best," he promised, weakly. Don couldn't stop the river of tears then, and bowed his head, sobbing into the bedsheets. He felt a hand tangle in his hair and he reached up to grasp it; squeezing so tight he didn't think he would ever let go again.
He reached up slowly, running fingers through his rain damp hair. He hadn't cried since that night. How could he? His father was a mess. His whole life his father had been a rock for both the boys, now it was Don's turn to step up to the plate.
His father had just lost his son. His baby boy. Not long after losing his wife. Don needed to be strong for him. He had been strong for him. Not one tear.
He didn't need to try and cope, he was good.
Don wasn't crying, but he'd just lost Charlie. His brother. His best friend.
"Donnie?"
Five year old Charlie snuggled up against his chest, peering up at him from beneath both the doona and his wild chocolate curls. He grinned.
"You're the best brother in the whole wide world," he promised, with all the sincerity and assuredness of a young child.
He shuddered, sinking to his knees upon the damp ground, bowing his head to his chest, and shaking with violent breaths.
He'd lost his brother.
He cried.