Chapter Text
I've got good news, the note starts, and it gets worse from there.
—I’m so lucky. The private bar is supposed to be beautiful, right by a beach, Porsche lies, his handwriting going illegible with haste—
—I love you, Ché.
Ché sets the note down, gently creasing it into a fold with his thumb. There's nothing written on the back of the page, so there's nothing for Ché to smudge as he unfolds and refolds the note.
It's just after six in the morning. He rises to set the table for breakfast.
Ché spends three nights in succession watching TV alone on the sofa.
On the fourth day, he leaves the TV on, and lets the background noise of a randomly chosen drama drown out the static of his empty house.
(Even when Ché didn’t see him for days, there were always obvious tells that Porsche had drifted through their home—stale cigarette butts in the ashtray, an empty coffee cup in the sink, half their dishes placed carefully in the drying rack.
Porshce always left him with takeout and a string of texts—reminding Ché to have dinner, to study well, to not wait up for Porsche to get home.)
A month goes by.
True to his word, there’s no message from Porsche.
(Ché used to pretend not to notice how their medical kit regularly dwindled in bandages or alcohol pads. He wouldn’t comment on the bruises crowning Porsche's knuckles, or the hollows under Porsche's eyes.
He kept his hands steady when he cleaned and dressed his brother’s wounds. If not pressing for answers was the only way to get Porsche to sit still for long enough that Ché could stitch up the gashes that frequently littered Porsche’s abdomen, then Ché would continue to bite his tongue.)
As always, Ché wakes early. He goes downstairs to make himself tea.
It’s a morning where the silence is especially muted—nothing but his own footsteps, punctuated by the clink of the kettle on the stove. He walks himself through the motions. He leans against the counter for a long moment, his back turned, until he realizes the kettle is whistling.
The sky beyond is still grey, just beginning to take on the tinges of dawn that brings with it the sunrise. A familiar ache builds, just below his sternum. It takes all his resolve not to let himself sink into it.
He turns sharply on his heel, catching himself in the glass window as he pours his cup.
His reflection watches him with an expression he doesn't quite recognize.
Money starts pooling in his bank account.
It takes weeks of careful scrutiny before Ché can convince himself that it's actual, tangible income.
His University has hit its mid-day bustle, pathways filled with chatter and students scurrying to their classes, but despite the hundreds of people that pass by, Ché can’t bring himself to join the crowd. He settles instead on the stone bench of a fountain, and the cold of the grain soaks into his palms.
In the midst of it all, Ché’s never felt lonelier.
He continues to call Porsche once a week, and lets the phone ring itself to Porsche's pre-recorded answering message.