Ages...well, they are pretty young. I guess Alan is about four or five years old, which makes Scott about nine or ten.

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Symphony for Growing Hearts
by kaeera

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FIRST MOVEMENT: GRIEF

+Unshed Tears+

He moved.

It was simple, really. He didn't want to think, didn't want to remember, to feel...no, not going there. He moved, because that was easier than the alternative, because then he could feel his muscles and his harsh breath, could feel that he was still alive, even when he didn't like the fact.

And it wasn't as if he could have stayed still. There was a lot going on, and he others needed him, because he was strong, because he was the oldest, because they were depending on him, and because that day had been they day he had grown up, suddenly, unexpectedly, and not at all voluntarily.

There was no time for being sad.

During the day, he moved, he talked, he helped – dried his brothers' tears, helped Grandma with her chores, went to school, did his homework...it was necessary. It was expected. And it was a distraction, because at least that way, he felt useful, even though he knew deep inside how useless he was. Pathetic. Because he hadn't been able to do anything. Because she was gone, and he was still here.

But then there were those silent times in the evenings when, despite being exhausted, the memories would creep up on him like a snake, leaking their poison into his mind. And then he lay in his bed, wide awake, and remembered, remembered her smile, her laughter, her gentle scolding, and the fact that she would never come back...

He didn't cry.

He didn't talk about it, either.

And with all the grief going on, nobody bothered to ask him. He was grateful about that, for he wouldn't have known how to reply.

'I'm fine'? That was a lie if ever he heard one.

'I feel as if I might never be able to laugh again'? No. Impossible. What would they think of him? Being weak and pathetic like that?

Things didn't change.

She was dead. And he missed her. But he wasn't the only one, and goddammit, his younger brothers were taking it much worse, because they were younger and not grown-up and there were days when they wouldn't stop crying, especially Alan.

Not him, though.

Scott didn't cry.

And when his father asked whether he was alright, he would nod and smile and say 'Sure Dad'.

And when John got all withdrawn and sad, he would make a point of dragging him out of his room and talk with him about stars, or books, or movies, anything that didn't involve their mother.

And when Virgil refused to play the piano because she had taught him how, he gently convinced him how sad she would be if she knew that her son had stopped playing simply because she wasn't there anymore.

And when Gordon climbed into Scott's bed at night, he would curl around the youngster, whisper calming nonsense into his ear and watch him fall asleep, even though he himself stayed awake for a long long time.

And when Alan fell into another screaming fit of rage, because that was the only way he could express his grief, he would hold his little brother until he calmed down and dissolved into a fit of sobs that were enough to shatter his heart all over again.

It became routine. It became his life. It was enough to distract him, because facing the pain was something he couldn't do, because he was a coward that way, because he hated to feel...

He moved. Didn't stay still. Staying still meant thinking, and thinking led to memories, and memories led to grief, and grief lead to that red-hot feeling behind his eyes, the feeling that told him that tears were only an inch away

He refused to let them fall.

Fin.