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Gladstone’s and Donald’s bad days usually didn’t overlap. Gladstone tended to feel sadder during wintertime and Don’s emotions were more spontaneous. It wasn’t unheard of, however, for both of them to feel down on the same day.
And one chilly winter, school-free day, it happened.
When 15-year-old Gladstone woke up that morning, he knew something was off the moment he opened his eyes. There was a heavy weight inside his chest and his toes were numb. He felt tired and achy and was tempted to just go back to sleep.
He knew immediately he was having a bad day. One of the few things his luck couldn’t protect him from.
Luck never protected him from his self-loathing.
Gladstone rolled over and curled in on himself. There was no way he was getting up for breakfast, not with the way he was feeling. Not with that overwhelming sadness weighing his heart down like a brick.
He sighed into his pillow, waiting for the inevitable to come.
The thoughts.
Gladstone watched snowflakes drift from the grey sky outside his window. It’s not that he didn’t like winter. It’s just, for whatever reason, if often put him in a bad mood. Some days were worse than others. Some days he was okay. He liked it when the sun shined. Made the snow sparkle. It always managed to make the weight in his chest lighter.
But the sun was nowhere in sight. Just dark, dreary grey clouds, and bare trees, and snow that didn’t sparkle.
There was a knock on his door.
“Glad?” It was Della. “Can I come in? I brought you some breakfast.”
“Yeah, sure,” replied Gladstone. He didn’t really feel hungry, but it’d be nice to have a plate of food beside him when he did. Especially since moving out of bed felt like trying to lift all the planets with just his arms. Exhaustion wrapped around his body like a blanket.
Della opened the door and came in, a smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Gladstone said back quietly, watching her set his plate on his nightstand. She had another plate in her other hand for some reason.
“I know this is probably a stupid question, but how are you feeling?” Della asked, looking down at him, small and pathetic, curled in a ball under his covers.
Gladstone knew she hated seeing him in pain. It made her so sad. Gladstone hated making her sad. Guilt welled up in his lungs.
He tried to ignore it for Della’s sake, forcing a painful smile. “Not horrible.”
Grandma had talked to him about lying before, but Gladstone figured it was worth it when Della’s smile looked a little more real and he didn’t hate himself as much.
“Good. I hope you keep getting better,” she said, then kissed his forehead. “Now I’m gonna bring Donnie his breakfast. Call if you need.”
Gladstone blinked, as she made to leave. “Why? What’s wrong with Donnie?” he asked, sitting up a little.
Della turned back, her eyes sad again. “He’s having one of those days too,” she responded. When she left, she didn’t close the door all the way.
She didn’t like closed doors. Fethry didn’t either. Neither did Gladstone, honestly, when it came to Donald at least.
He hoped Don didn’t have his door closed
Gladstone was sleeping when he heard footsteps in the hallway. He blinked blearily, mind hazy, as he woke up.
He heard his door slowly creak open, an attempt to keep quiet. Couldn’t be Della. She couldn’t be quiet, no matter how hard she tried. Couldn’t be Fethry either. He was just as bad as Della when it came to being quiet.
That left only one person.
Gladstone turned over, locking eyes with 17-year-old Donald who stood hesitantly in the doorway.
Gladstone rubbed the last of the sleep out of his eyes. He still felt tired though. “You okay?” he asked.
Donald didn’t say anything. Just looked at Gladstone with gloomy eyes, familiar exhaustion and sadness swimming around in his irises.
Gladstone didn’t say anything either. Just scooted over and lifted up the blankets in a silent invitation. Donald took it, climbing into bed beside him and sighing.
Gladstone figured he should feel empathy. All he felt was numb though and it made guilt chew at his bones.
Neither of them said anything for awhile. Gladstone watched Donald until he fell asleep. Gladstone fell back asleep shortly after too.
When Gladstone woke up again, Donald was already awake, biting the inside of his cheek.
Gladstone nudged him. “Don’t do that,” he said, and he knew he was being a hypocrite. He had a habit of scratching his wrists with his fingernails until they were bright red and tender. But if he just let Donald continue, he might bite until blood ran down the side of his mouth. He’d done that once. It wasn’t pretty.
Donald hesitated for a moment, then stopped his jaw.
Gladstone sighed in relief and rested his forehead on Don’s shoulder. It wasn’t as cold as it had been before with Don here.
“What are you thinking?” Donald suddenly asked.
Because of course he had to ask. Of course, he could still love Gladstone, even when he didn’t love himself. Of course. He was Gladstone’s big cousin.
“I don’t feel like talking, Don,” Gladstone said quietly, closing his eyes against Donald’s shoulder. His head hurt. He should probably just go back to sleep. Sometimes, that’s all he had the energy to do. Maybe the more he slept, the quicker tomorrow would come and hopefully he’d feel better by then.
“I know,” Donald said, “But I just want to ask...”
Gladstone opened his eyes.
“...if you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Donald finished.
Gladstone sat up, ignoring the way his muscles stretched painfully. “What are you thinking?”
Donald was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. “Disappearing,” he said.
Gladstone felt like he’d just inhaled ice. He gulped. “Like, you mean... permanently?” he asked as quiet as possible.
Donald nodded.
Gladstone laid back down, hugging Don’s arm to his chest and staring pointedly at his feet. “No. But sometimes I do,” he whispered.
Donald’s fingers twisted into Gladstone’s sleeve and squeezed comfortingly. Gladstone clung a little tighter to Donald’s warmth, shivering, because he was cold.
“When I think about that, I try to distract myself,” he explained, “Fethry usually has the best distractions for me.”
Donald’s fingers rubbed Gladstone’s wrist gently through his sleeve.
“When I think about it,” he began, quietly and slowly, “I think of you guys. What kind of trouble y’all will get into the next day. And how worried I’d be if I wasn’t there to bail you out.”
Gladstone swallowed, his throat suddenly burning and the corners of his eyes stinging. He tightened his grasp on Donald’s arm.
The thought of Don... disappearing...
Gladstone was crying before he realized it, his tears falling on Don’s shoulder. Don felt them immediately.
“Gladdy, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting up.
Gladstone didn’t want him to see his face, so he buried himself in Donald’s chest. “I don’t want you to disappear. If you disappear, I don’t – I can’t –” He couldn’t word it, but he knew Don understood. He inhaled shakily and sniffled, clutching Don tighter. “I need you.”
Donald pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him and digging his fingers in the back of his shirt. He wasn’t crying, but Gladstone could tell by the way his hands trembled on his spine that he needed this just as much as Gladstone did.
“I need you too,” Don whispered with conviction.
And that made Gladstone sob even harder, but out of relief this time.
Later, after Gladstone was done crying, Della and Fethry joined them in bed. It was a squeeze, none of them as small as they used to be, but it worked. Della placed her chin atop Gladstone’s head and 13-year-old Fethry crawled in between him and Donald, draping himself half-across them both.
Don’s eyes looked a littler clearer and it made Gladstone’s chest feel lighter. He decided, then and there, that as long as Don was around, he’d be fine.