AN: Just one review. Meh. I don't mind. I wrote this for the boys, anyway. But reviews are still welcome ;)
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Little brother is here, in front of him, finally. He sees that he has grown, and he has not. There is a significant increase in his height, and his clothes somewhat spoke of splayed allegiance (that would have to be taken care of, later), and the roundness had ebbed away, polished into hardened planes. But more or less, he is the same; that determination laced with strength, and maybe some recklessness. Above all, there is hatred; congealed into every syllable of his splintered tone that proclaims, I will kill you, Nii-san.
He was well aware that upon wandering into the village, their paths would cross and a battle would follow. A short one, a pitiful one, if he was correct, but it was too early to hope for anything else. But he had always been predictable, if any.
And so, a dash of seconds away from that thought, they intertwined once more, and one of them is a far cry from what he was, the last time they stood like this. Sometimes, on those wintry and ageless nights, when he can allow it, he dwells on that image, saved so carefully into his memory. It makes the scars, seemingly healed, throb with each remembrance, but he could not change it, and it was the only one he's got.
It is this: there is the arched stance of that ashen frame, a wild cat scarcely knowing how to hunt but is intent on doing it anyway, the malicious sapphire flame flickering in one hand, and then the face that almost makes him abandon all semblances of familiarity.
Those perfect, androgynous features were, undeniably, older. In one sputtering instant they even contorted to the point of repulsion, and it is with vacant eyes that he greets that abhorrent glare.
This was what he created, and little slivers of regret seep through, acute punctures in his soul. This was the untainted past they never had, this was the wake of a future that spelled demise for both of them. One way or another.
It was that which he captured in his mind, for later. In the present he deftly evades the callous attacks, deafens himself to the aggravated cries that came with every kick and jab, and tries not to look too much at what happened to that angel child he had known.
Finally, he throws his first blow, and it does more damage to him than to that ribbed chest. Some of the punches hardly connect, but their impact brings tremors and blood and glimmers of youth that hasn't yet left.
Back to the wall, neck choked by a fist, is when he delivers the words, as scathing as ever, as cruel as possible, and the shivers beneath his fingertips loosen his grasp. You could destroy a soul with those words; just words, and a hero.
He wishes he can die, then, because it would be eons better than this, than whatever they have… but he has to wait.
He makes certain he is despised much more than before, when he leaves. It was the last thing he wanted, the first thing he did, but his desires never mattered in the first place.
He would have to break the two of them, if it meant saving his little brother.