Alan was curled up, resting his head on Gordon's lap, face buried in the elder's stomach and fingers holding onto him. Gordon thought he had been crying because of Virgil, and in part that was true, but it wasn't the entire reason he had run out of tears.
He had now officially killed his brother. Yes, Virgil was still alive, but he had been dead technically for a few moments as far as he knew, and a few seconds was too long. Their Grandma had picked up the call, one of the doctors at the hospital informing them what had happened and the current situation. He didn't know the details—he had left before he could find out because he didn't need to know. It was his fault. This whole thing was his fault.
He had killed his brother.
He pulled at Gordon, burying his face in his borther's shirt. He was wrong, apparently: he could still cry. Gordon pulled his legs up, rolling Alan into him, sliding an arm under his head, resting the other on his own knee, making a tiny fort with his own body, shielding him from the world, waiting until the tears abated before asking him softly what was wrong.
Gordon was annoying, he had a way of prising things from him, no matter what it was and how little he wanted to say it. That this was no different—Alan refused, but Gordon sat and waited. It was that annoying silence and patience, it was the unspoken promise that Gordon would listen, he would listen and understand no matter what—that was what had Alan blurting out what he had done amid the tears and wails, burying his head in Gordon's shirt, fearful that this would be the one time Gordon didn't understand.
He had, after all, killed their brothers, literally and in spirit.