free air
It was simpler to be around Brooklyn.
Certainly more than being around Tyson, who clung possessively to his elbow—asking him what their future weekends together held, whether he could come along on those fictitious expeditions, whether he'd heard from dad recently. Asking him for memories of mom. Asking him whether Kai's and Rei's warnings about him were true after all.
Jesus Christ, Hiro usually wanted to say. Stop making me feel guilty.
Guilty about everything. About weekends together that wouldn't happen, because he was too often here instead. Guilty about inventing expeditions, so that he could be here instead. Guilty about not having talked to dad in two years. Guilty about having forgotten most of mom's face. Guilty about having given his little brother's friends such terrible first impressions. Guilty about not caring about any of that—when he was here instead.
Jesus Christ, Hiro wanted to sigh, when he found Brooklyn sitting on a pond-bank and stood close behind him. When Brooklyn leaned back against his legs, and there were no questions. No clinging.
There was no guilt.
With Brooklyn there were simply good days or bad days. And with Brooklyn, Hiro could pretend life was so simple.