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“C’mon! Get the fuck up.” A rough hand shakes his shoulder, effectively snapping him out of his sleep. He shoots out of bed, a forest green streak permeating the stale air of his room for a moment.
Butch blinks the haze out of his eyes, fists already raised. Brick just manages to hit him with an unimpressed stare. And, really, he should be looking to start a fight. With the way his brother’s red eyes are narrowed, he’s expecting one. He can’t actually bring himself to care all that much to start one, though. If he’s being honest, most of his energy is directed into landing in a semi-normal manner.
“Why are you here at—” he glances at his alarm. “Seven o’clock in the morning?”
The redhead doesn’t skip a beat. “You didn’t answer your phone last night. I called you eight times.”
“You did?” He stretches, picking up his phone from the nightstand. A quick glance confirms that he did. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
His brother narrows his eyes, pinning him in place.
“I haven’t heard from you in a week.”
And maybe he should read the room and just tell him.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You work at a stock yard and spend most of your time with us. What were you doing?”
A pang of irritation floods his veins. “What’s your fucking deal? I have a life outside of you!”
Brick doesn’t seem convinced with his raised eyebrow and forced patience. Butch forces himself to take a breath. He’s fine. Everything is fine.
“Look, I’m sorry that I yelled, but I don’t have to tell you everything.”
He opens his mouth then stops. For perhaps the first time in his life, his older brother just looks concerned. No underlying anger or sadness or something, just concerned. Maybe he should
“Butch.” And if the way he says his name doesn’t make him feel like a real asshole. “What’s going on?”
He could fight him. He could make a mess of his place and half the city. He could be a nuisance. He could ruin his budding friendship with the girls and force them to hold him down as he tries to feel something. He could do a lot of things.
Why are tears streaming down his cheeks?
“Fuck you!” he hisses, crumpling to the floor. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”
Arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into Brick’s neck. He can’t help sobbing louder. Why the hell is this happening to him? Why can’t he just feel normal? Why does this happen to him over and over again? How many times does this make it for Brick?
“Hey, it’s okay.”
“Fucking hell it is.”
He grips onto the back of his brother’s shirt, letting the snot and tears flow out of him like he’s some sniveling four-year-old.
“You’ll get through this. You have before.”
“Will I?”
And like that, the fight escapes him. How many times does this have to happen before it’s over for real? Can he keep doing this? He’s like a river run dry, one more farmer trying to use his resources and he’ll never recover. The only difference is that he’s both the farmer and the river. He has to continue to deal with himself after everyone else leaves.
Brick pulls him away from his neck. They both elect to ignore the tear tracks on the other’s face to stare.
His brother is starting to look secure. His eyes seem both sharper and softer, a combination that only Brick can get away with. He seems more settled in himself, confident in the way his shoulders are set. He knows who he is and where he’s going to go.
Butch feels like a worn tire next to him. All heavy bags under his eyes and too thin skin. He’s one sharp rock away from a burn out.
“You need to talk to someone,” he says at last.
“Brick, I—”
“No,” he cuts him off. “You need help. I’m not losing my brother.”
The weight of something settles over him. He’s unsure whether or not that’s good, but it still covers him like a weighted blanket might.
“Okay.”
His brother seems relieved. He can’t even bring himself to feel hope.