Chapter Text
Cairo was hot .
Geographically speaking, Enrico knew this would be the case from the very moment he boarded the plane bound for Egypt and even before he had assisted his parents in booking the ticket. Egypt had once been his extracurricular interest of choice, spending much of his free time in elementary school researching every facet about what history and mythology was available to him on the subject. He would spend hours running his fingers across the glossy, laminated pages of the book on Ancient Egypt as his eyes took in the sight of men and women with the heads of animals, the abundance of the Nile River and the greenery that had overrun every delta with the signs of sheer life that no picture seemed to illustrate in the modern era. His favorite thing to look at had been the figure of Ammit, the immortal crocodile being that had passed judgement onto the hearts of men when they stood trial after death. If their hearts were not pure and light, Ammit would punish them by devouring their souls and preventing them from reaching the afterlife. For some reason, even at this young age, Enrico was fascinated with the idea of this: he often sat wondering if God would eat his heart when he died. Perhaps He chose someone to pass His judgement onto others instead - Enrico imagined that hearts wouldn’t taste very good.
Aside from the unnerving descriptions of heart-devouring, the book also had educated him on the precursory geography of Egypt; even if the greenery wasn’t flourishing now like it had thousands of years prior with the desert acting as its own Ammit unto the nature around it, he understood the basics like climate and region to be relatively the same. To the west was nothing but a sprawling sandscape of desert and to the east and north lie impressively large bodies of water. Despite a majority of Egypt lacking any sort of rainfall and as a result being dry many months out of the year, cities along the Nile such as Cairo were trapped between the heat of the desert and the cool of the riverbeds and were subject to high humidity in the summer months. Therefore, it shouldn’t have been that surprising to him that the early July humidity combined with the average blistering heat would be absolutely oppressive for incoming travelers.
However, as soon as he and his brother step out of the Cairo airport and onto the busy street, Enrico can feel his shoulders slump under the weight of his bags as the first wall of pure heat hits him in the face. Perhaps with all his prior knowledge of the regional climate, he should have known to dress lightly, too, instead of wearing a black sweater and jeans. He tosses a look over at Wes, who glowers back at him with a deep frown on his face as Enrico offers a hesitant smile back. At least his brother had seemed to dress in a way more suited to their new environment in a white t-shirt and shorts, even though Enrico suspects that it had less to do with the anticipation of the hot weather than it did with Wes just throwing on whatever he saw first in his closet.
“This is such bullshit,” Wes grumbles just loud enough that Enrico is sure to hear it and he shoves past his brother with his shoulder, both hands gripping tightly onto his own carried luggage. Enrico huffs out a sigh and tightens his own grip on the bags in his hands, rolling his shoulder to readjust the backpack hanging off his shoulder. He feels a thin sheen of sweat begin to form at his temples and he marvels at how quickly the heat has gotten to him despite them being fresh off the plane. He’ll definitely need to wash his clothes upon getting to the hotel, he notes with a grimace.
“Try to watch the language while we’re here. I won’t be as strict as Mom or Dad, but we do need to make a good impression on our hosts,” Enrico catches up to Wes as they make their way through the dense crowds of people that are bustling along in the street, narrowly avoiding hitting the edge of a wooden cart with his knee as a stocky man pulls it along on the back of a bicycle. Enrico feels his heart rate pick up at the sheer amount of activity around him accompanied with the noise and the smells of a completely foreign place, and wonders how Wes can be so consistently pessimistic and aloof about being halfway across the world from home. Granted, Enrico has never been one for crowds in the first place. He bumps his shoulder into his brother’s playfully as he walks alongside him, but Wes makes no effort to acknowledge it. “We should head to the hotel before we get swept away in all this mess.”
Wes is quiet for a moment and once they’ve hit solid concrete sidewalk - out of the way of the dust-covered street and the people milling about - he halts in his movements, spinning on his heel and dropping one of his bags down to the ground by his feet. His icy blue irises lock onto Enrico’s own dark eyes and Enrico furrows his brows as Wes brings his free hand up and jabs an accusatory finger up into the center of Enrico’s chest. “ You are here to make a good impression. I am here because Dad would rather ship me off to the other side of the world than deal with his wayward son. This is the equivalent of exile in Dad’s eyes.”
Enrico’s face falls and Wes retreats his finger, gripping the strap of his bag once more and hauling it up over his shoulder. His older brother watches the jerky, irritated movement and rolls his shoulder again to keep his own bag in place. “Don’t say that. He was just concerned and thought this might be a good opportunity for you to clear your head. Travel is supposed to broaden the mind, after all.”
Wes grunts noncommittally and Enrico can quickly deduce that this conversation isn’t going to be continuing much further. The topic of their father still seemed to be a touchy subject for Wes at the moment and the last thing he wanted to do was to push his luck in trying to squeeze more information out of his brother, even if he had been trying for weeks now to figure out what was going on in his mind. It was as if Wes had put up some protective barrier around himself, but the problem Enrico faced was attempting to figure out just what Wes was protecting himself from. As much as their father - admittedly - could be callous and cold, Enrico knew that he just wanted the best for his children and would never intentionally harm either of them so it wasn’t like he was a threat. The only person Wes seemed marginally normal around was Perla and Enrico had to admit that, even though he loved their sister dearly, it hurt to see his own twin share his thoughts openly with her when he wasn’t around. It had bugged him enough that recently, he had begun acquiescing to using Wes’s preferred nickname in a vie to win himself some favor and maybe earn the opportunity for them to talk heart-to-heart. It hadn’t worked, yet, but Enrico had a feeling he was getting close by the way Wes was starting to relax around him again, even if he covered it up with an air of aloof annoyance.
In all honesty, Wes’s renouncement of faith had probably caught him off guard the most out of all of them, which was especially unfortunate when he had previously prided himself on keeping himself in the loop about both of his siblings’ lives. Looking back, maybe it was the fast and loose lifestyle, or perhaps the resulting persona of ‘Wes’ that his brother had created that should have been the biggest indicator that something was about to give. At the time, Enrico didn’t think much of it and reasoned that it was simply a phase that his brother would soon work through. But now, it was as if this ‘Wes’ was an entirely different person than the boy he grew up with, even if they shared the same face.
The two begin walking towards where Enrico had memorized their hotel’s location to be on a city map gifted to him by their father. It was hardly a far walk from the airport by design, a matter of a few blocks at the most, but Enrico used the time to take in the weathered, wary faces of the locals they passed and the worn buildings and shops that lined the side of the street. It was alarming how similar the city resembled its people: busy, energetic, but with an air of casual defiance and weathering that reminded him of an ancient but crumbled dynasty. Even the children that bounced along with their parents took a moment to gaze piercingly at the newcomers that shuffled their way along the street, as if trying to decipher why they were there of all places. In all honesty, it made Enrico himself wonder why he chose Cairo. Something about the city just called to him, he supposed, and he had learned a long time ago that intuition was not to be ignored.
“Enrico, hold on.” Wes calls out and Enrico shakes his head free of his first impressions of the city. He stops in his tracks and looks to the side where Wes had formerly been walking with him, finding the spot where his brother had been standing to be filled with a middle-aged man that gives him a pointed look before he resumes walking in time with the crowd around them. Enrico looks around for the source of his brother’s voice and eventually sees a white head poking above the rest of the crowd.
He can tell that Wes appears to be talking with one of the shop owners based on his somewhat animated arm movements and loud voice that fades into the hum of the crowd around him, standing in front of what is little more than a counter built into the front of a small square building. He narrows his eyes, wondering what business he could possibly have with anyone along this strip of road, but quickly makes his way over to Wes’s side. Enrico looks behind the counter and he can see various food-looking items in an open glass case, complete with a translation of each dish on a plain paper card below the tray. Flies circle around the elderly owner’s head and his hand reaches up to quickly swat them away when they get too close to his ears. He sees a particularly brave fly land on one of the dessert cakes in the case - right beside a few of its expired and supine brethren - and he spares a wary glance at the side of Wes’s face, nudging his arm to try and get his attention. The other boy is focused entirely on trying to communicate with the elderly man in an exchange of exaggerated half-sentences and broken English.
Eventually, right when Enrico is about to drag Wes away, the two of them seem to reach an agreeable understanding and Wes holds up two fingers as the old man rummages behind the counter for a few seconds before pulling out two kebab sticks and handing them over. Wes digs in his pocket for a moment before retrieving a freshly-minted Egyptian bill and trading it for the food. Enrico narrows his eyes as Wes turns to him and offers a kebab to him, his hand coming up to gently push what was apparently supposed to be his share away.
“No, thank you. Why did you waste money on street food of all things when we can get something at the hotel? I’m sure there’s less of a risk of catching something there, at least.”
Wes shrugs and takes a bite of the meat right off the stick. Enrico is pretty sure it’s not supposed to be gray inside, unless this was some sort of local specialty. “Food is food is food. I got a discount on these, anyway, I think. Live a little.”
Enrico wrinkles his nose but can’t deny that the kebabs do smell good at least, despite the strange color and having God-knows-what touching them behind the counter. The thought of potentially more than just curious flies sends a shiver of dread up his spine, but Wes seems to take little notice and steps past him. He watches Wes begin to disappear into the crowd again and just hopes that this wouldn’t be indicative of their entire trip: with Wes doing whatever he pleases and Enrico having to look after his every action rather than being able to focus on his studies. He really did love his brother, but if he had wanted to babysit, he would have stayed at home. Enrico tries to convince himself that he didn’t mind Wes being here in the first place and jogs to catch up with his brother once more as the sun sets over Cairo.
Upon first glance, the old arrow in Enrico’s possession didn’t appear to be anything particularly interesting. It was a dirty bronze-gold, caked in what he could only assume was centuries’ worth of grime and dust and age - God above, the arrow had to be older than any building or cemetery in New Orleans. Despite some wearing and pitting on the edges, which were still no less dull against the tips of his fingers when he had carefully run them against the notches indicating that the arrowhead had seen use, Enrico could see the glimmer of liquid metal underneath.
He had furiously tried to scrub away the layers of dirt upon first arriving at the hotel, to no avail. Much to his frustration, the arrow - which had to be no larger than two or three inches from point to neck - had torn every one of the soft hotel towels he had tried to clean it with without removing a single speck of dirt. Luckily for him, he had chosen to do this away from Wes’s view, huddled to himself on the cool tile floor of the bathroom while his brother slept the last slivers of evening away on the room’s couch. Enrico hid the torn towels sheepishly in the basket of items to be laundered with his sweat-soaked clothing, hoping the hotel staff wouldn’t be too irritated at the loss of the two towels. He wondered dryly afterwards if he should have said a prayer for the cloth scraps.
Even now, five days later, the arrowhead was still at the forefront of his mind. It was strange, he thought, that since their arrival in Egypt he had thought of little else aside from the arrow and the odd, captivatingly beautiful man who had given it to him. It was as if the arrow called to him as he tossed in his bed, unable to sleep and instead replaying the memory of the church - the encounter , as Dio had put it a month ago - on repeat for hours. In the midst of these nights, he would sometimes spare a sidelong glance at his personal bag where he stored the arrow between two pairs of clean underwear, purposefully well-hidden from his brother. He had briefly entertained the idea of telling Wes about Dio and the arrow and trying to gain his opinion on the subject, but he was honestly afraid at what Wes might say to him after.
Although Wes had little room to talk at the moment, the last thing Enrico wanted to hear was that he was crazy or perhaps even obsessed with the man - or at least the idea of him. Even to himself it was worrying how easily Dio had slipped past his defenses, with the man able to easily lower his guard enough to give him the artifact that lay conspicuously within the folds of his personal items. He had always been the more cautious of the two and to take something akin to a weapon from a complete stranger would be more than enough to raise Wes’s eyebrow. On top of that, if Wes had then told their mother or sister about the whole situation, Enrico was sure he’d be called back to the States before he could really dig his heels into his studies. Then again, it wasn’t as if he was getting much done in the first place - as ashamed as he was to admit it - with thoughts of Dio and the arrow plaguing his mind at every opportunity.
That was another thing: Enrico was genuinely starting to suspect his interest in Dio was more than a superficial, base curiosity that could be chalked up to a memorable and frankly bizarre encounter. The man had been beautiful, for one. The way that his golden hair had caught the light of the candles at the altar, the glint of the flame lighting his eyes up into something resembling burning yellow amber, the strange sharpness of his pupils that held such depth within them that Enrico had briefly wondered if he could cut himself just by staring too long - similar to a cat’s eyes. It left him wondering if Dio was the type to - much like a cat would - play with his food before he eats it, with the hope that he wasn’t the food in question.
Then there was the captivatingly smooth flex and pull of his muscled arms as he had extended his hand with the arrow for him to take, along with his long fingers and manicured nails. It was almost as if Enrico were not looking at a man at all, but something in between male and female, human and divine - alluring and sensual in movement like a woman, yet strong and charismatic in words like a man. Gracefully surpassing every set boundary and transcending to something beyond. Even the memory of him had kicked Enrico’s heart rate up into something quick and hard enough that he worried Wes might hear it during the night in the bed next to his own.
But it wasn’t just the man’s strangely beguiling appearance that set his heart racing frantically in his chest. He wasn’t much of a believer in the idea of reincarnation, but there was something about the way he talked that made Enrico truly believe that he had lived several lives before this one. Perhaps not in the physical sense that he was born again as someone else, but the spiritual sense: the man had not seemed ignorant of human nature, as he had been initially suspicious about Enrico’s intentions upon letting him stay, but then had quickly seemed to perceive something that Enrico himself couldn’t and had thus gifted him the arrow despite their brief interaction.
The way his words sounded on his tongue were practiced and astute, as if he had spoken to crowds of thousands or commanded some great army before he had sought refuge beneath a pew in New Orleans. It was the way an educated man spoke, a wise and learned man that belonged in a courtroom or at the front of a lecture hall, not a simple beggar seeing refuge as his sudden appearance that day would suggest. The philosophical and careful choosing of his words were almost challenging, as if he believed initially that Enrico would be unable to keep up with his questions. But then there was the effortless shift in his tone to something more sincere after Enrico showed him the smallest of kindnesses, something deeper and more intimate that he wasn’t sure at the time should even have been rightly directed at him. It made him wonder just how many people Dio trusted to not rat him out if he was won over so easily with the promise of shelter.
Regardless, it was fair to say that Enrico had never met another man like Dio, that much was for certain. It was also fair to say that no other man had occupied his thoughts so abundantly in such a short period of time. So, he supposed that most of all, he was afraid Wes would tell him that he loved the man, as two men are surely forbidden to. He wasn’t stupid or naïve: he knew that the quick beat of his heart, the cool clamminess of his hands, and the hardness in his trousers after two consecutive nights dreaming of Dio’s eyes and hands and the peculiar star on his shoulder were not things that came about after a simple chance encounter with a stranger, as indelible as it might be. It was frightening to him that he may be infatuated with not only a person that he’d known about the existence of for hardly a month, but the fact that said person was a man .
He’d never felt anything for men before and he tried to reason that perhaps the sensuality and graceful femininity of Dio’s movements had confused his brain into believing some kind of trick - but that wouldn’t explain how Enrico spent more time than he’d care to admit thinking about how those muscled arms would feel around him, long but thick fingers rubbing against the crown of his scalp soothingly as he felt a hardness that wasn’t his own press against his leg. Dio was undoubtedly a man, he knew that much, but he couldn’t help but feel as though God had brought them together in this way for a reason. God was making him feel like this - infuriated, confused, ashamed, wanting - for a reason. It could be a test of his faith or it could be this ‘gravity’ that Dio seemed enthralled with.
Whatever it was, Enrico tried not to think too hard on the bubbling feelings in his chest when he looked upon the arrow late at night or when Wes was out exploring the few blocks near the hotel. He would forcefully will away his erection in the morning before Wes even awoke, then spend fifteen minutes on his knees at his bedside with his hands clasped together in a desperate attempt to ease the turmoil he felt raking his mind over coals. Time spent trying to study his theology lessons had often turned into time he spent lost deep within his own thoughts as he turned the arrowhead over and over in his palm, sometimes even with Wes in dangerously close proximity. He would only be snapped out of his musings when Wes’s voice would break the silence to announce he was going out or offering to find them food for the night, quickly making a move to shove the arrow under his leg or into his lap to avoid being seen.
It was frustrating to have traveled across the world yet be utterly unable to resume his studies to their fullest capacity, feeling trapped in his own skin and ashamed of his thoughts. Enrico’s brain honestly felt like it was being pulled in seven different directions at all times and he could feel the strain it put on his mind even on the rare occasions where Wes would drag him outside the hotel room for fresh air. Even when he wasn’t thinking about the arrow and its strange aura, or how many nights he would have to play catch-up with his studies, his mind seemed to be stuck on the man that set each of his nerves alight with a dizzying rush of adrenaline with just a simple thought.
But he suspected that there was a deeper mystery to be solved within this arrow - within Dio - and perhaps if he stared long enough at the curious-looking beetle decoration adorning the body of the arrow, it would come to life and give him the answers he had been seeking all along.
Wes had been missing for nearly twenty-six hours.
For the first twelve hours or so, Enrico had thought little of it: in the past few days, Wes had been progressively going out more and more and leaving Enrico to his own devices, something for which he was initially grateful for. It was only when Wes had come back smelling strange, like some sort of perfume mixed with the bitter smell of alcohol, that he had become more concerned. There had been one day afterwards in which Wes was suspiciously glued to his side as if he had taken a hard look at himself and thus realized his folly, but then he had been gone the next morning and had been missing since. When the deep of night had rolled around, Enrico expected to see the hotel room’s door open and see Wes come sneaking in quietly, probably expecting his brother to be asleep. Enrico had even waited up for him until he passed out in the chair sitting by the complementary, polished wooden desk that came with the room and had woken up with a stiff back and no trace of his brother. It looked like the room had been untouched while he had been asleep and the door was still locked, meaning that Wes hadn’t come back at all that night.
It was concerning for several reasons: one, Enrico obviously was worried for his brother’s health - if Wes was hurt or had been taken somewhere against his will, he’d never be able to forgive himself for letting the boy go off on his own in the first place. Secondly, and perhaps the most pressing reason, was that if Wes was hurt or - God forbid - dead , it would be his ass on the line. The police would figure out who the foreign teenager was and who his parents were, call their mother or father, then Enrico would be the one to get chewed out for Wes’s carelessness despite being unaware and unable to keep him in check.
Perhaps it was selfish of him, but Enrico bitterly reasoned to himself that it shouldn’t be his fault at all if Wes had gone out and gotten himself hurt, abducted, or killed. Their parents had allowed him to venture off by himself to Cairo because he was responsible and methodical in his actions: he didn’t run off without telling someone where he was going, he didn’t drink or smoke, and he sure as hell didn’t stay out overnight in his own city, let alone a city in a country halfway across the world from home. It was unfair that he had to have his attention divided between his own schedule and looking after his brother, but he’d rather avoid venting his frustrations to his mother over the phone. A private talk upon their return home would suffice enough, he thought, so most days he finds himself swallowing down his irritation and trying to muscle through Wes’s increasing number of disappearing acts.
But this was taking it too far.
Enrico huffs out an irritated sigh through his nose as he checks his watch for the hundredth time in an hour. The previous night, he’d been afforded the opportunity by a local priest to get out of the hotel and tour a cathedral in the heart of Cairo and the man - probably similar in age to Father Jones and quite impressively fluent in English and French - had let him bring a few books from the church’s library home with him to study and practice interpreting, but he hadn’t so much as touched the books since Wes’s blatant failure to return after the 10 o’clock curfew Enrico had been forced to set for them both. He spares a glance at the books by where his arm rests tensely on the desk, contemplating if he’d rather confront Wes directly or indifferently with his nose in a book, but decides that Wes would need a firm hand if he were to stop sneaking off without informing his brother (and apparently now surrogate father, he thinks bitterly to himself) of where he was going.
Enrico tips his head back over the back of the chair and looks out the large window behind him. He can see an upside-down row of buildings that line the opposite side of the street with green-leafed palm trees dividing the center of the street and obscuring his view of the red clay-tiled roofs. Above the line of trees he can see a billboard advertising some brand of soda that he’s never had, but he traces the white back-lit “7UP” with his eyes, wondering if perhaps Wes was out on the street below. He rights his head back into an upward position and makes to stand, stretching his back that still aches from sleeping in the chair out straight and hearing a series of satisfying pops as a result.
He sighs again and makes his way to the window, glancing at the sign one more time before dragging his eyes downward towards the street, looking for any flashes of a head of white hair much like his own. Enrico crosses his arms across his chest and digs his fingers into the fabric of his sweater’s arms, watching the midday activity resume as normal on the sidewalks below. A man is smoking a cigarette across the street, his back pressed against the metal side of a streetlamp and a hat obscuring his face from view. A dog wanders up to him and Enrico watches the man shoo it away casually before resuming his smoke. Cars honk and blare their horns at each other and the noise - although dulled - grates on his already-frayed nerves. There’s entirely too many people outside for him to effectively try to pick his brother out of the crowd, if he’s even out there. He desperately wishes Wes would just reappear so he can scold him per usual and try to get on with his studies without having to call their parents and risk ending the trip early. There were so many things he could be doing, but instead he’s stuck in a hotel room waiting for his immature and selfish brother to return home from doing God-knows-what.
There’s a tingling sensation at the back of his neck and he reaches a hand up to brush his fingertips against the short, fine hairs there. It’s suddenly too uncomfortable in the room, as if he’s being watched from the direction of the doorway, but he turns around to the plain and empty room that he’s gotten accustomed to in the past week. He watches his unmoving reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall close to the entrance hallway, catching his own eyes and trying to ignore how tired he looks. He’d spent more time than he’d care to admit working on both his own studies and attempting to decipher the arrow that still remained hidden in his bag, often forgetting to eat or take a break until late at night when Wes wasn’t there to bother him. He didn’t mind so much, though. Enrico would much rather be studying, anyway - it’s what he was here to do. As long as he maintained a somewhat regular sleeping schedule and set alarms for small food breaks, he didn’t see the harm in reading or writing in his journal for extended periods of time.
Enrico pulls himself away from the window and walks across the room to where his bag is sitting in the corner of the room, right by the desk that he had claimed for himself, and rifles through the front pocket to pull out the arrowhead stored within. He takes the time to check for any signs of tampering, making sure that no one has been in his bags but him while he was asleep, but finds nothing out of the ordinary.
He sits back in the desk chair and lets his posture slump somewhat as he stares at the arrow in his hand, the object glittering faintly in the slivers of light coming in from the window behind him. Enrico flips the arrow into his other hand, the beetle pressing gently into his palm with the movement as he examines the back of it. There’s a long scratch along the back that travels almost the entire length of the body, carved deep by what he can only assume was a tool akin to a chisel based on the gauging pattern. Dio’s nails had been long and strangely sharp-looking despite appearing well-cared for, but human nails were nowhere near strong enough to cause a marking like this on pure metal.
There’s another chill that runs up his spine to rest at the nape of his neck and he whips his head around to the window, half-expecting someone to be standing in the window despite the hotel room being on the third floor. Not even Wes could climb that high as far as he knew and Enrico was well-aware that his brother was skilled at climbing based on what he had witnessed back in New Orleans, with the boy sneaking out of their room at night to smoke a joint or two on the roof of the house or come back from some secret meetup with his friends late in the night. There’s nothing there, of course, and Enrico suddenly feels a spike of irritation in his gut and he grips the arrow hard in his hand, almost hard enough for the beveled ears to lightly pierce the skin of his palm. He rises quickly, intent on figuring out why the hairs at the back of his neck are standing at full attention, but before he can make his way over to the window he hears the telltale sound of a key jiggling in the lock of the room’s door before it clicks softly and the door opens.
He sees a hand grip the edge of the door tightly from where he stands and his heart skips a beat, momentarily wondering if the hand belongs to someone who’s seen him standing in the window looking for Wes and intends to rob him. Wes’s white head pokes through, though, and Enrico can’t help but let out an audible sigh of relief as his body relaxes from its tight-strung and defensive position. Wes works his way through the threshold into the room and Enrico can make out the dirty, ruffled clothes he’s no doubt been wearing for the past two days that appear to be rather loose on his frame. There’s tears in the fabric seam of his jacket by the shoulder and Enrico furrows his eyebrows, relief overtaken by confusion and irritation at the realization that Wes has been completely off the grid for almost twenty-seven hours by now. The other boy stumbles forward and kicks the door shut at the last moment before he has to brace an arm against the wall to prevent himself from falling over, eyes squeezed shut and a thin sheen of sweat making his face appear glossy. He’s panting as if he’d run several miles to get to the hotel as fast as possible and Enrico can make out a peculiar bruising under his jaw.
“I’m home.” Wes calls out, voice shaking as if he could throw up at any moment, and Enrico watches him open-mouthed as Wes’s red-lined eyes meet his own and he sinks down the length of the wall.
“You’ve been drinking,” Enrico starts, carefully but firm, and feels his jaw clench tightly in bubbling anger. “Haven’t you?”
Wes groans in response, his eyes squeezing shut as he maneuvers himself into a sitting position down on the carpeted floor, Enrico making no moves to come closer or offer to help. In fact, he can feel his body become not unlike a wooden board the longer Wes refuses to answer him and it takes all his willpower to not fling the arrow hidden in his hand at the other boy’s head. All this time and Wes was out having some sort of drunken bender with a bunch of strangers in a city they’d been in for a period of less than two weeks? There was honestly no need for any further response to Enrico’s question: the boy reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and his head kept tilting downwards as if he were going to pass out at any minute. He couldn’t help but think that any sort of hangover he had was his own damn fault.
“Sorry I was gone so long,” Wes breathes out, his eyes refusing to meet Enrico’s again. “I meant to come back before ten. I know we made an agreement.”
“I waited for you.” Enrico bites out. “For three hours I waited for you to get back last night, and all of this morning. What were you doing? What were you thinking?”
“I was out, that’s all. I played some poker, met some guys I hung out with, then-” Wes pauses and Enrico’s eyes narrow. “I guess I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were dead. Or hurt, or got kidnapped.” Not entirely true, but Enrico hoped it would make his brother feel especially guilty. It seems to have its desired effect because Wes winces at the words combined with Enrico’s sharp tone and makes an effort to stand. Enrico’s eyes trail down to his brother’s leg, where he can see a small damp patch on the front of his pants overtop his shin that looks conspicuously red in color. “And now you come back after a day and a half looking like a mess and your explanation is ‘I lost track of time’. Are you bleeding?”
“I fell, is all. Nothing to worry about.” Wes lolls his head to the side and makes a concentrated effort to stand, noticeably putting less pressure on his injured leg as he stumbles over to the edge of the nearby bed. Enrico bristles.
“Nothing to worry about? I’ve spent the entire trip doing nothing but worrying about you and making sure you haven’t wound up dead in an alley somewhere, but you seem determined to continue running off without even telling me where you’re going.”
“No one asked you to.” Wes snaps back and Enrico can’t help but physically startle at the aggression in his tone, reeling back as if he had been hit. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I am the same age as you. I’m capable of taking care of myself without having you hold my hand because I’m not a braindead idiot, contrary to what everyone seems to think.”
“Then you need to start acting like it.” Enrico puts on his best impression of their father, clenching his fists at his sides. Wes’s eyes snap to his own but he holds his ground. “This entire trip you’ve done nothing but throw yourself headfirst into one impulsive action after another, damning the consequences and ignoring the fact that I am the one who will have to clean everything up in the end.”
“Bullshit!” Wes jumps up and Enrico takes a step back towards the desk as his brother takes three angry steps towards him before jabbing a finger into the center of his chest and baring his teeth. He sees something akin to angry white lightning flash through Wes’s stark blue irises before it disappears just as quickly. “The only thing you’ve done since we got here is sit at this damn desk and mope to yourself, burying your nose in a book or staring at that damn - that damn arrow piece of shit you’ve been hiding away.”
Enrico’s heart practically stops in his chest and a cold rush runs from the tips of his fingers down to his toes, as if someone had just submerged his body in ice water. His mouth feels as dry as the Sahara to the west as he stares wordlessly at his brother, who withdraws his finger from his chest and shakes his head angrily. He had known about the arrow? For how long? Did Enrico slip up at some point or did Wes go digging through his bag? He swallows hard around a lump in his throat and feels a bead of sweat form at his temple as prime numbers begin to rattle through the back of his racing mind. He just needed a moment to think .
“You act like such a paragon of virtue, like some pillar of wisdom that towers over everyone around you, but all you are is a stuffy hypocrite. You preach at me about being honest with each other and want to know about every facet of my life like it’s your great moral duty to save my soul, but then you pull shit like this.” Wes turns his face away, eyes glaring hard down at the carpet of the room. There’s a beat of silence between them and Enrico can hear blood rushing against his eardrums with every heartbeat.
“You want me to be honest?” Enrico stands up as tall as he can, back stock-straight, and feels his heart pound against his ribcage. After this there would be no going back, but there was a fire being fueled in his belly that clouded his brain with its smoke. “I don’t want you here. I haven’t ever wanted you to come with me on this trip because I knew you would find some way to mess it all up. The only reason I haven’t gotten you a plane ticket back to New Orleans is because our parents don’t even want you around after what you said. They thought I could fix whatever was wrong with you and maybe at one point I did too - I guess we were all wrong.”
There’s hardly a second to prepare himself before Wes is lunging at him with a snarl, planting his hands against Enrico’s shoulders and shoving him back hard. Enrico stumbles back, losing his balance with a shocked yelp and landing back-first against the desk behind him, throwing his hands back to catch himself on the edge of it. There’s a sharp stab of pain in his hand as if he’d cut it on something razor-sharp, but his wide eyes are locked onto the figure of Wes, who towers above him with his teeth bared and his eyes pits of blue fire. However, there’s something else there that’s being overshadowed by the anger - something akin to concern. It’s gone as soon as it appears, though, and Enrico is left with shallow breaths and a racing heart as he watches his brother’s movements carefully.
“You want me gone? Gladly. Sorry to have ruined your free trip to Egypt by trying to look after myself so you could spend more time with your dusty old storybooks.”
Enrico’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, trying desperately to think of something to say: insults, pleas to stay, apologies, anything that would ease the knot in his gut at the idea of Wes going out on his own again. As harsh as his words were in the moment, there’s an edge of regret already gnawing at the back of his mind telling him that he shouldn’t have even opened his mouth. There were so many other things he could have said, but those were the words that slipped out before he could stop them. He loved Wes, truly. He didn’t want him to go. His hand hurts .
He reaches out towards Wes’s retreating back, catching his shoulder before the boy is able to get fully out of his reach. Wes glares back at him but remains standing, rooted into place. Enrico swallows hard, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “If we don’t have trust, we don’t have anything. I-” I’m sorry , is what he wants to say, but the words don’t come.
Wes shrugs his shoulder out of Enrico’s grip and starts walking to the door, posture stiff and irritated. “No need to wait up for me tonight. Thanks for your wisdom , as always.”
With that, the door slams and Wes is gone again. Enrico’s hands clench into fists at his sides and there’s a feeling of anxiety turning and boiling in his gut, dizziness blurring his vision and making the world spin around him. He stumbles back to land gracelessly in the chair, his entire body numb except for a sharp radiating pain that seems to stem from his hand. He looks down, slowly unclenching his fist to see bright red pooled in his palm and leaking out from a large, jagged gash that spreads diagonally from his index finger almost to his wrist. His mind, like the world around him, is spinning at a nauseating rate and he takes the now-bloody arrow between the fingers of his other hand. His lower lip quivers and he digs his fingernails into the open wound on his hand, not caring about the pain that shoots up his arm. Tears finally begin to slide down his cheeks as he grips the arrow in his other palm and holds it close to his chest. His body curls in on itself protectively and blood from his hand drips onto his pant leg.
“I need to see you.” He speaks to the open, empty room. He chokes back a sob in his throat and before he squeezes his eyes closed, he sees a flutter of movement in the mirror by the door before it disappears and he’s alone once again.