Sorry about this update being late! As I say this, I'm doing some algebra homework right now. Figured I would update rather than not, ya know?
Anyways, enjoy!
of gunfire and bullet wounds
His life is worth everything to me.
I knew that the moment he came home. I knew I would do anything to protect him; to shelter him in ways our parents couldn't.
Watching him now, so closed off and reckless, I don't see the same boy anymore.
The boy who I used to call a brother––my brother––was replaced by a man so cold, so tortured, that I can barely call him anything anymore. I can't see him the same way anymore.
He's not a little boy anymore. He's a strong man; stronger than I'll ever be.
"Darry?"
I don't even need to open my eyes to know it's him. I can feel his gaze pouring into my back; the worry showers off of him like rain. I'm dazed, still half-asleep, but I turn and stare into his soft dark brown gaze, watching as they try and shadow the panic. "What is it, Soda?"
His voice is suddenly soft; barely audible, but the words manage to make sense in my still-drowsy brain. "Pone ain't sleepin' with me in there. I was wondering if I could stay here for the night?"
It's a question he hasn't asked since we were little, back when he'd have those silly nightmares all kids have. But now, the nightmares are much more than that; they haunt him in ways the kiddish ones didn't, have torn him to pieces where the kiddish ones only have him torn at the surface.
He's terrified, ripped at the seams, and is only hanging on by a thread.
And despite the sleep coming back to blur my vision, despite the warmth of my bed, I throw the covers off and stand before him. "Yeah, kid. I'll take the couch; you stay here."
His hand is suddenly pressed against my shirt, stopping me. I look at him, noting the growing panic, and his hand trembles as it rests on my chest as if the contact is scaring him. "I–I can't do that," he says, looking between me and the bed as if debating, "You were here first."
"Doesn't matter. You need sleep more than I do."
"Darry, I–"
"Soda," I say gently, lovingly, "It's fine. I really don't mind." I offer him a small smile, and as if that were the only thing he needed, his hand stops trembling. He studies me for a moment, clearly torn, but murmurs a thank you. The panic dissipates, replaced by gratitude, and if by some miracle––a bit of normalcy.
He practically throws himself on the bed and immediately settles in. The smile on my face grows as I watch him; he's comfortable, and that's all that matters.
From the darkness, I hear him murmur, "Love you, Dar."
I scoff, but move and brush the hair out of his eyes. It's in that moment that I see how clear his eyes are; the clearest they've been since he came home. Maybe this is a start, I think to myself, maybe this is the moment... maybe he's getting better.
Leaning down, I press a kiss to his forehead. "Love you too, little buddy."
But he's already asleep before a tear slips.