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Misha never had any brothers. No sisters, or a father, or even friends, really. Just him, and his mom, and the men who came and went.
He wasn’t quite sure what friends or brothers, or all those sorts of people were made of. And what that made Number Sixty-Nine.
As he sat next to him on the bed, Number Sixty-Nine leaning his head back against the wall, Misha wondered:
Were they friends? Were they brothers? Were they…what was that word again? Quaint-something? Were they merely two bodies to be broken and tampered in this lab? Were they just numbers after all, not just to the doctors, but to each other?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was made of. But he did know he was the only warmth after the cold tables and needles, the only quiet after the screaming, the only smiles after the tears. He knew Sixty-Nine was the sun and the stars to him, and that must make him at least somewhat special.
He was the first person who actually cared if he got hurt. Not just cared, tried to stop the hurt.
He didn’t know there were people like that. He was softer and warmer than the pillows he fell into when his mother hit him.
He wasn’t sure what mothers were supposed to do, but he never liked it when his mother hit him.
Did all mothers hit their children?
What that what mothers were made of?
Bumps and bruises, and shouts, and being cut and shaped into what she wanted you to be. That’s what his was made of, at least.
He never liked hiding under the bed.
He never liked hearing his mother moaning in the night. He never quite knew what the noises above the bed meant. She sounded like she might be in pain. But she told him never to get up when she had one of her men over.
She was in pain. Then afterwards, she gave that pain to him.
Only the vampire made her happy.
And he never liked having long hair. Though he didn’t like the doctors either, he did like that they offered him that small kindness. Though they may strap him to tables, and put strange things into his body, and make him hurt too, that small kindness always made his body feel a little more like his. Not some imitation of a girl. Not some imitation of what his mother wanted him to be.
His mother who hurt him.
No. Sixty-Nine. Who tried to stop the hurt.
He never liked having long hair, but taking strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair between his fingers, like dark water across his skin, he found he didn’t mind it on him—(whatever they were to each other).
Sixty-Nine noticed him staring, and raised an eyebrow at him.
Misha gave a little giggle. “Say, do you like having long hair?”
Sixty-Nine raised his eyebrow further at the question. “I’ve never really cared much.” He looked away. “I suppose I must…since I’ve kept it this way.”
“Well, I like it!” Misha threw up his hands. “I like it on you, at least.”
No. Sixty-Nine looked a little embarrassed at that, he moved his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Thanks I-I guess.”
“May I play with your hair?”
“Uhh…Sure I guess.” Then he murmured under his breath, “I guess you don’t have much else to play with.” And Misha knew he was talking about things he didn’t understand again.
Misha began taking the strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair and tossing them over and under each other, braiding them together. His mother often braided his hair, but it was something she’d made him learn too. He never liked doing it in the mirror. But it felt nice now.
“Say…what are we?” He asked after a pause.
“What are we?” He looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “We’re human. Why is that a question?”
“I know that, Silly! I mean what are we to each other?”
“Huh?”
“I’ve never had friends before—I don’t think. Are we friends?” He curled a strand around his finger. “Are we…what was that word? Quaint-aunts-es? Are we lovers?” And this last one caught in his throat a little: “Are we brothers?”
“We’re not lovers, I can tell you that much,” he snorted. “And it’s ‘acquaintances’. I—“ Sixty-Nine sighed.
He always seemed so tired. He either seemed so tired, or energy burst out of him. There was an anger to him, he knew. Though he didn’t know why, where
it came from. (Not that he ever knew. He didn’t really get angry much himself). An anger that was different from his mother’s. It wasn’t an aspect of him, a piece of clothing he wore that Misha wished he would take off, something that made him hurt others sometimes. It was like the anger was written in his very being. And he never hurt anyone.
“I don’t know. I guess we can be whatever you want us to be.”
“Well…what’s an acquaintance?” The braid wasn’t looking quite right, so he brushed it out and restarted.
He sighed. “An acquaintance is someone you know, but not well. Someone you know casually, or met once or twice. Like…a friend of a friend.”
“Well we must not be acquaintances! We’ve met much more than twice!”
He chuckled a little. “Fair enough.”
“What’s a friend?”
“A friend is someone you do know well. Someone who you enjoy being around, and want to be around and talk to often. Someone you’re close to.”
“That sounds like us!”
“What’s a lover?”
Sixty-Nine scoffed. “I don’t really know. I won’t say I’ve ever been one, but a lover is someone who you love more than a friend. Someone who you don’t just want to be close to, but you want to be close to constantly.” He stuck his tongue out in disgust.
“Oh, that sounds like us too! I want to be around you all the time!”
“You don’t love me,” there was an ice to his words, a bite to the cerulean gaze now directed at him. “Not like that.”
Misha ignored this. He was reaching the bottom of the braid. “Well anyway, what…” his voice grew quieter now, and he sat back on his knees. “What’s a brother?”
“A brother…a brother’s a little more complicated. A brother is generally someone who you’re related to. Someone who is also a child of your mother and father, but… isn’t you. There’s also half-brothers who share either your mother or your father but not both. It’s a bond closer than that of friendships, or even lovers, in a way. Your parents blood runs through their veins so, in a way, your blood does too. It’s like you’re…pieces of a whole. You’re family. You live together, you eat, and sleep, and cry, and laugh, together.
“But, at the same time…you can call someone your brother, even if you’re not related, if they’re as close to you as a brother would be. If you’re family. If you live together, eat, sleep, cry, and laugh together. Or perhaps better yet, if you go through something together that makes you closer than you are to your friends. Something that makes you… pieces of a whole.”
Misha finished the braid, but he had nothing to tie it off, so he simply admired it for a moment, then released his grip, and let the bottom fall loose.
“I think I get it now,” Misha grinned, meeting his gaze, “Brother.”