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They don’t talk about it.
How Cowboy seems smaller than before, paler. How his shoulders would sag in a way that a little boy ain’t supposed to.
Maybe some might not even notice. There’s hardly a difference if you aren’t truly looking for it.
But Cowboy is near waxen underneath the moonlight, almost deathlike, though Floyd detests the word.
So Floyd notices. Because Floyd watches. He won’t let his little brother out of his sight ever again.
*
Since that night, Floyd would climb next to Cowboy on his twin-sized mattress, even though his Pa would scold him, telling him he’s far too grown for a shared bed.
Ma, bless her heart, was always quick to defend Floyd and his new bedtime habit. You’ve seen the size of the knot on the one’s head!, she’d say. Of course, Floyd’s shaken. Now, c’mon you, leave the boys to themselves. They’re not hurting no one, are they? Pa never did have anything to refute that.
So by the fourth night, his folks tucked the both of them now into Cowboy’s cot. And even if they hadn’t, Floyd would have just crawled right over anyway.
“Floyd,” Cowboy whispers, meek and mild, and the sound is so fleeting that Floyd almost doesn’t hear it.
“W-what’s up, buddy?” Floyd splutters as he whips around from his side of the bed to face Cowboy. “You – you feelin’ alright?”
“Floyd,” Cowboy says again, and there’s something intimate about it. Something gentle and precious in the way Floyd’s name rolls off his brother’s tongue.
“I hear ya, little brother.” Floyd tries to laugh, wondering why his stomach is lurching. “What’s the matter, huh? Are you hurtin’ somewhere?”
Cowboy doesn’t look at him. Still won’t look at him. It’s been that way since that night on the island.
“Hey buddy, you sure you’re alright?”
“...”
“Buddy?”
“...”
“Cowboy?”
And when there’s still no answer from him, Floyd feels his pulse pick up like a race horse.
“Should I – should I call Ma? D’you need the doctor?” Floyd starts to babble, breath coming short, as he shoots up from the bed to call for someone, anyone. “D-does it hurt? Does it hurt real bad? What should I – what do you need me to—”
Before the terror near completely overtakes him, Cowboy takes his trembling hand and tugs him back down into the mattress. His hand is small, so incredibly small inside Floyd’s. That shouldn’t break Floyd’s heart, but it cracks and splinters anyway.
“W-wha – I don’t—”
“Floyd,” Cowboy interrupts, not unkindly. “Floyd, wait. I’m fine.”
“But you – then why won’t you,” Floyd manages to choke out, feels his heartbeat on his tongue. “Why aren’t you answering me?”
Their eyes almost meet, but Cowboy looks away just before they can.
“I’m sorry,” Cowboy says, and he drops Floyd’s hand in favor of covering his face with his fingers. “I’m sorry, Floyd, you’re just, you’re confusing me.”
It’s like a slap to the face, those words. Even if Floyd doesn’t understand them.
“What do you mean?” Floyd asks, chest quivering. His palms itch to hold his brother’s hand again. To feel the unwavering beat of the boy’s pulse.
“You’re not supposed to—” Cowboy starts. His words are muffled against his hands. “Why are you like this? Why aren’t you afraid?”
Floyd’s entire body trembles. “Afraid of what?”
“Oh, don’t.”
“Afraid of what?” Floyd growls, though he immediately regrets it.
And then finally, finally, Cowboy looks Floyd straight in the eyes again. His eyes are massive and heartbreaking, young and yet aged at the same time.
Floyd forgets how to breathe.
“Afraid of…me,” Cowboy eventually sobs, and that’s all Floyd can take before he’s rushing forward and pulling his little brother flush against his chest, holding him close like he’s a babe again.
When Cowboy clings back, just as desperate, relief so strong it hurts courses through Floyd’s veins. He could do this. He could fix this. At least, Cowboy was looking at him again.
“Shh, shh, hey, you’re okay now. I got you, buddy. You’re okay,” Floyd shushes and soothes, lets his little brother wet the front of his pajamas with tears.
“No, no.” Cowboy shakes his head weakly. “You s-saw what happened that night. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not afraid of you, little brother,” Floyd says with such ferocity that his chest rumbles as he speaks. “There ain’t nothin’ that could make me afraid of you, understand?”
“But I - I –” Cowboy swallows wetly. His body does this full-body shudder thing that makes him look all too small. When he pulls back, only a little, their eyes meet once more.
“I…died, Floyd.”
It’s a word they don’t say. Not since that night. Not since Cowboy said so.
So maybe that’s why Floyd can barely swallow the punched-out grunt that was just knocked out of him. Why the world starts to swim around him, ears ringing and vision going white at the edges.
“What are you talkin’ about?” Floyd smiles deliriously, and he brushes a careful hand through Cowboy’s downy-soft hair. “You had a nasty fall, is all. Well I suppose, little boys like you can't help a wild imagination, isn’t that right?”
“...Floyd?”
“I said, isn’t that right, Cowboy?”
Floyd’s fist clenches around Cowboy’s dainty wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point. To send a message.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t. They don’t.
“R-right,” Cowboy finally breathes out, shivering. “Right, it was just a - a fall. Just a fall.”
As the words are spoken, Cowboy dazedly sways back into their warm embrace, almost as if he’s burrowing into Floyd’s stronger chest, fingers clinging onto the front of Floyd’s cotton shirt. Floyd’s heart just about sings with joy as he tucks the younger boy in, keeps his smallness right there in his arms.
“That’s right,” Floyd whispers sweetly into Cowboys’s hair. He sighs and surprising even himself, finds that he’s fighting down a giddy smile. “You’re alright, little brother. We’re alright.”
In the dead of the night, two brothers share a secret. One of an occurrence left forgotten and stubborn souls meant to rest.
If it's unspoken, it's unbroken. Simple as a nursery rhyme.
So they don't talk about it.
They don't.
Though they're supposed to.