Work Text:
"Colt?" A small voice calls out from the other side of the room.
Colt, sprawled across the floor on his stomach as he works through his math homework, hums in response. Courtland picked up a shift at the diner he spent the summer working at, so he won't be home for a couple more hours. He made the twins promise to keep to their room and work on their homework until he gets back. Colt doesn't like doing his homework when Court's not around to ask for help, but he knows better than to risk running into their father in the living room without him here either. Besides, math comes easy to him. Numbers are simple, it's the words that get complicated.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Colt pauses, turning his attention to Ryland, who's sitting criss-cross on his bed, homework in his lap, and staring at Colt expectantly. Ryland does that a lot—curl up into himself, like a rollie-pollie that just got poked. He's always trying to make himself smaller. Colt feels something ugly and mean spark in his chest every time he notices it. At school, at home, it doesn't really matter. It makes him want to raise his fists and punch the lights out of whatever Ryland is so scared of.
Instead, he shrugs (as much as he can while propped up on his elbows). "I dunno. Why?"
Ryland huffs, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. "Come on, just think about it for a second. There has to be somethingyou want to do when we finally get out of here."
So he does. He thinks about how he loves being outdoors, and tumbling around, and teaching himself how to do cool tricks on his bike, and how he's going to ask Court about a skateboard for his eight birthday. He thinks about how he likes math but he doesn't like school all that much, except for P.E. and playing ball at lunch. He thinks about all those action movies—sci-fi if he wants Ryland to keep him company—he watches when their father isn't home and he can sneak a few hours in front of their old TV.
After a moment, he declares, "I wanna be in movies."
Ryland's face scrunches up in a mixture of confusion and surprise. "Like an actor?" He tilts his head a little. "I mean, you're a better liar than me so I guess I can see that."
Colt scoffs, "Everyone's a better liar than you, Ry."
His twin pouts at him, and Colt knows him well enough to see when it's real, and maybe Ryland is a bad liar, but he definitely knows how to play the baby-of-the-family card. Rolling his eyes, Colt just flicks his eraser at him, not even waiting for it to bounce harmlessly off Ryland's chest before clarifying: "Not an actor. The guys that do all the crazy stuff for them."
Ryland's frown deepens for only a second before it clears and he nods like he can picture Colt's future perfectly. "A stuntman." And it's a statement because Ryland is his twin and they know each other better than anyone in the world, even themselves.
"Yeah," Colt confirms with a grin. "What about you?"
"A scientist," Ryland answers immediately and Colt doesn't think he could imagine him doing anything else. "I really like all the stuff we're learning right now about the solar system, but I also love learning about animals, so…" He trails off, shrugging, but he's smiling, full of a joy Colt only really sees in glimmers. This house has taught Ryland to be quiet with his love and Colt hates that, more than anything, because sometimes he thinks his own might burn right through him it's so deep and overwhelming. Surely, it must be killing his twin to keep it inside in a way Colt has never been able to.
He pushes away the thought in favor of prodding more out of Ryland, anything to keep that brightness on his face. His brother could light up the whole world like a shining star if he ever found the courage to be open to it. Until then, Colt will be brave enough for the both of them. "Would you rather be an astronaut or a vet?"
Ryland's face scrunches up once more. "I mean, space is cool but I don't want to go there. It's so cold and dark and empty." He shudders like he's trying to shake off the feeling of it. "But I don't think I could be a vet. I don't want to see animals die, it's so sad!"
Colt hums in agreement, vaguely recalling the limp figure of a fox in their backyard, killed by a coyote. Dad took them hunting for the first time after that.
He doesn't like seeing animals die either.
"So what else is there if you're not an animal doctor? An animal collector?"
A giggle bursts from Ryland's mouth and Colt lets it warm him up from the inside out, burning away the darkness of bad memories.
What do I want to be when I grow up? Colt thinks, and the answer is easy this time. Somebody who still makes you laugh.
He lets Ryland explain all the other ways he could do science with animals, even if some of it doesn't make total sense to him. His twin deserves to love loudly and Colt will happily indulge him for as long as he can.
Birds twitter in the sky, riding the wind between trees and up into the clouds. A couple walks hand-in-hand down the street, clad in light jackets to shield against the crisp December air. A dog chases a tennis ball in the park across the road, over and over again without fail.
The engine of a car hums to life in the driveway, idling for a minute before fading as the white SUV drives away. There's a little girl in the backseat, five-years-old and bouncing with joy about her first foster family. The young ones always go first, they've been told, so the two of them shouldn't worry.
Colt isn't worried as he watches from the window. He doesn't feel much of anything right now, actually. Except for a vague sense of confusion about how the world seems to keep on turning when his own has completely stopped. Even his anger, that familiar red-hot rage that used to burn as bright and destructive as a forest fire has dwindled down to mere embers, like someone threw a blanket over it and snuffed out all the oxygen.
"Colt?"
He turns his attention to the right where his twin—his brother, really, because he doesn't need to make the distinction anymore, does he?—sits on the stiff bed he's claimed in their new room, bony arms curled tight around his shins, chin resting on his knees. His left eye is still black and swollen half-shut, but Colt can make out the sheen of tears in his right. Colt sometimes can't look at him for long without losing himself in the memories of a limp, bloodied body on the living room floor, just out of reach, or tucked beneath a white sheet, unresponsive with a machine breathing for him.
"I'm scared," Ryland whispers, gaze wide and watery and full of a fear different to any he's ever seen before in them.
Words never came easy to Colt, but that didn't stop him from being loud with them anyway. Ryland was always the quiet one, the smart one, the one that teachers liked more, but that never bothered Colt. All that mattered to him was making sure his brothers knew how much he loved them, and that there was no length he wouldn't go to for them. He should've known that Courtland would do the same. Always their protector. But that falls on Colt now, doesn't it? Twelve minutes older, an inch taller, and just that much braver.
For the first time in his life, everything feels quiet. The world, this room, his thoughts, the very breath inside his lungs. He's never been good with his words, not the way Ryland is, but Colt is nothing if not a person of action. Some things are easier expressed with touch and right now, when his mind can't even formulate any words, nevertheless string them into some semblance of a sentence, he comforts in the only way he knows how.
Colt pushes away from the windowsill, still a bit off-balance from the extra weight to his right arm, and surges toward the bed, climbing onto it one-handed. Immediately, he wraps his left arm around Ryland and tugs him as close as he can, ignoring the discomfort of his cast. Colt curls protectively around as much of Ryland as he can reach, like his own personal shield. If that is what his little brother needs, then that is what he will be.
Shuffling toward the kitchen for a glass of water, Colt rubs at his sleep-bleary eyes and halts when the light from Ryland's bedroom comes into focus. It's deep into the middle of the night and he'd left his brother to his studies hours ago to catch enough shut-eyep before his opening shift in the morning. Nothing special, just a coffee shop down the block near the university campus, so he can cover his portion of things. He works night shifts at a local bar, too, a couple times a week. San Francisco is a far more colorful city than Tallahassee and, frankly, Colt likes it here a hell of a lot more.
After graduating together from FSU—neither of them had wanted to go far at the time, and Colt only really made it in because of a football scholarship—Ryland got accepted into UCSF for a PhD in Molecular Biology. Colt had been terrified at the prospect of cross-country separation between the two of them, so when Ryland had asked him to move into his apartment with him, Colt couldn't help the immediate "Yes" that had sprung from his lips. Besides, there was nothing left for him in Florida. There hadn't been since they were fifteen-years-old and Courtland's death certificate arrived in the mail with a letter explaining he'd been caught in a riot. Colt didn't know he could lose the same brother twice until that moment.
"Ry?" He calls out, knocking softly on the door in case his brother just fell asleep with the lights on. The answering, "Yeah?" tells him otherwise. He nudges open the door, already dreading what he expects to find. This isn't the first time and he would bet his life on it not being the last. Ryland is the smartest person Colt has ever known and he never doubted that the scared, small boy he'd shared a room with all those years ago would one day grow into someone who would change the world. But these days, he isn't sure if the endgame is worth what it's doing to his brother now.
Ryland sits exactly where Colt left him, squinting at the blindlingly white laptop screen through his glasses, papers covered in his scrawling handwriting scattered all around him. Something almost fearful tightens his chest. These days, Colt thinks he could choke on the concern for his brother's well-being alone.
"Ry," he croaks cautiously, stepping around the notebooks and research papers littering the carpet toward the man. "Ry, you- it's late. You should go to bed."
Ryland just hums distractedly, mumbling a raspy, "Ina minute."
Colt inhales deeply, running a hand through his grown-out locks. It's the first time in their lives that they don't have the same cut. Ryland's hair, still a few shades lighter than his own, sticks up at every angle from where he clearly tugged at it. Swallowing thickly, he closes the distance between them fully and lays a hand on Ryland's shoulder.
"This isn't healthy. You need to sleep," he tries again.
"'m almost done, jus' a few more minutes."
Colt gnaws uncertainly on the inside of his cheek. Obviously, he wants his brother to succeed. He wants him to finish his thesis and earn his doctorate. He wants for all of his mental and physical exhaustion to account to something. But he can't just stand by and watch as Ryland burns himself out. He sets his shoulders and squeezes Ryland's firmly. "Ryland," he says and it's stern, an echo of how Courtland used to speak when he warned them away from the danger that called itself their father. "I'm being serious. You can't keep doing this. It's killing you."
This time, Ryland shrugs him off, clearly agitated. He's always been gentle. Colt's the aggressive one, rough around the edges. But right-now-Ryland? Well, he's acting like someone Colt doesn't know, hasn't known for every moment of his life starting twelve minutes after his birth. And that, more than anything, scares the hell out of Colt. How does he protect his brother from himself?
"Piss off," he grunts, turning vicious eyes at Colt. The blue in them has never seemed colder. "You don't know what you're talking about, Colt. I don't see you getting a PhD."
The words hurt more than Colt would like to admit. But that's no surprise. Nobody can hurt you the way siblings can. Colt knows that twiceover. Nobody can hurt you like those who know you best can either, and they have always known each other better than anyone. Colt never liked school, but he did find himself wishing the opposite, sometimes. Wishing that he could go on to do the kinds of things Ryland surely would. The kinds of things that would've made Courtland proud. Here he is, a leech in Ryland's life and nowhere closer to the dream he decided upon at seven-years-old after a conversation with his twin brother in their childhood bedroom.
Still, he brushes it off. Knows logically that Ryland can't be held accountable for the things he says in this state—bags under his eyes dark as the bruises their father used to give them, skin dull and sallow, lips chapped and bitten raw, jaw covered in patchy stubble. He shoves the pinch of hurt down, jaw clenched, and pulls Ryland's chair away from his desk. "Maybe not, but I still have eyes, and I can see what this program is doing to you. Now, turn this shit off and go the fuck to bed, Ry."
Ryland, perhaps sensing that he won't be able to get a rise out of Colt, huffs out an irritated breath, rolls his eyes, and does exactly that.
There's a knock at his door.
There's a knock at his door and Colt doesn't understand. He stares the wood down like it's taunting him, face screwed up in a frown, hair the longest (and most unkempt) it's ever been hanging limply from his head. He isn't expecting anyone. The only person who used to try to visit has long-since given up, and Colt still can't decide if he's relieved or bitter about it.
His phone has been a never-ending mess of missed calls and messages for so long that he doesn't even remember the last time he actually unlocked it. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
So nobody should be here. Colt doesn't want to see anybody, so they'll just have to find someone else to bother. Or just leave the food at the door, though he doesn't remember ordering dinner yet.
Knock knock knock.
Colt glares harder at the door. Don't they get the hint? Nobody's home, asshole, he shouts in his mind because shouting it out loud defeats the purpose. Go away.
"Colt?" A voice calls through the door. A familiar voice. A voice that Colt knows as well as his own, that he's only heard through a phone for so long he forgot how much fuller it sounds in real life. Ever gentle, ever kind, ever loving.
Ryland.
His breath hitches in his throat and he wants to scream, or maybe to cry. He does neither.
"Colt, it's Ryland," the voice tries again. "I don't know if you got my messages, but I'm here, so just- let me in, please?"
He tries, he tries so hard, but in the end, Colt drags himself to the door via walker to do just that. He should know by now that he'll never deny his brother anything if he can help it.
When the door swings open, it reveals a travel-weary Ryland, clad in an old UCSF sweatshirt with a small suitcase in tow. He looks older than Colt remembers him, but happier, too, somehow. That lights up an anger in him that's starting to feel like home. He's so angry all the time, now. At Jody for smothering him with her attempts at support, and then for leaving. At Ryland for living six hours away, and now for being here. And most of all, at himself. For taking the fall in the first place, and for still not being better.
"What are you doing here?" He grunts, voice raspy and gruff from disuse and flaring agitation.
Ryland raises an eyebrow at him, eyes flitting over his face and down his body, pausing an extra moment on the walker. The anger flares brighter at that. "Hello to you, too. Didn't you get my texts?"
Colt doesn't even know where his phone is at the moment, so no. He most definitely did not.
When he doesn't respond, Ryland huffs exasperatedly and gestures inside. "Are you going to let me in?"
Colt has the sudden urge to slam the door in Ryland's face, but he's almost one-hundred percent certain that wouldn't actually make the man go away, so instead, he just grits his teeth and shuffles toward the couch, letting Ryland follow him as he pleases.
"You haven't answered any of my calls in weeks." Colt pretends not to hear the hurt in his brother's voice, just behind the irritation. "I thought maybe you just croaked or something. Fell out of bed and couldn't get up."
When Colt shoots him an unamused look, he just shrugs.
"How am I supposed to know? You just disappeared on me, Colt. That's not- that's not fair. That's not-" He swallows thickly, eyes full of hurt and fear, and god, that really just makes Colt hate himself more than he already does. It's all just hate wrapped up in bitterness and rage. "You can't do that to me, Colt. Not you, too."
Colt has to look away from him at those words, the painful realization of Ryland's situation hitting him all at once and entirely too hard.
Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck is wrong with him?
The problem with self-hatred, though, is that the hate tends to pour out of a person, one way or another. And Colt is no different than any other miserable bastard out there.
"Well, maybe if you weren't still such a baby, you'd realize that not everything is about you."
He hears the comment hit before he sees it, a sharp inhale and the shifting of fabric. When he gazes back, eyes set in a hard glare, he already knows the pained face that will greet him, the shrunken down posture and arms gripping their own sleeves. Always curled into himself. In the end, Ryland never outgrew his fear. He just found new things to be fearful of.
For the first time in his life, Colt thinks that includes him.
Ryland breaks his gaze first, taking a moment to look around the apartment as he figures out what to say to that. Eventually, he decides on: "Nice place."
Colt glances at the takeout bags full of trash littering the floor, then the dirty dishes still in the sink, then the pile of clothes overflowing out of the laundry hamper. He rolls his eyes. "What are you doing here, Ryland?" It comes out just as harsh the second time, if not a little more.
Ryland finally looks at him again, gaze a little more guarded this time and scanning over him intently, like Colt is something broken and he's trying to figure out which pieces are faulty so he can fix them. Colt hates that.
"Stop looking at me like that. And answer the fucking question!"
Crossing his arms defiantly, Ryland says, "I'm here to take care of you, idiot." Like it's that simple.
"I don't need a babysitter. I'm not one of your fucking students."
That's clearly the wrong thing to say because Ryland gets visibly upset. Not the same as before when he looked like a wounded animal. No, this time he's angry. Defensive. Hackles raised.
"Say whatever you want about me, Colt, but don't talk about my kids like that."
Something in Colt jumps at the chance for a fight because there's still all of this anger inside of him and it's been festering for a long time. It needs somewhere to go and Ryland is an easy target.
"Or what? You'll use your teacher voice on me? Send me to time-out?"
"Colt," Ryland warns, eyes sparking and jaw set.
Colt ignores him. "You come here acting all high and mighty when you're really just a failure! What happened to being a scientist? Huh, Ry? You were going to do so many great things with your life, but what are you now? Just a middle school science teacher with a PhD that got him shunned by all the real scientists out there."
Ryland's eyes are blazing now, even through the slight sheen of tears gathering at his eyelids. "God," he huffs, followed by a wry chuckle. "Screw you, Colt. You've always been an attention-seeker, but now you're just being a self-centered douchebag. I never asked for your opinion on what I've done with my life. I didn't go through five years of hell to earn that degree so you could be the defining judgement on it. What about you? What ever happened to your degree, huh? What ever happened to your dreams? Oh, wait. That's what got you in this mess in the first place, isn't it?" He takes a harsh breath, clearly worked up.
Colt's still trying to process those words when he continues, slightly calmer, "I get it, okay? I really do. You were at the top of your game, one of the best from what I can tell, and then a freak accident knocked you off your feet. And it sucks. And I'm sorry. A broken back is no joke, Colt. I know that. God, when they called me, I was so scared. I was so freaking scared and I was so relieved you weren't dead. You could've died, Colt." And he's fully crying now, and Colt can do nothing but stare and listen to his brother pour his heart out instead of throwing more of Colt's hate back in his face. He inhales wetly, pulling his glasses off to wipe at his eyes. "I'm sorry this happened to you, truly I am. But don't use your own failures to throw mine at me. That's not fair. And… it's okay to need help to get back up, yeah?" He smiles, wobbly and wet and warm. Always so warm. "You taught me that. I will always be here to help you get back up. Brothers 'til the end."
It's the last line that does it, really. For the first time since his accident, Colt finally breaks down. Just crumples to the couch and cries, broken and wheezing and scraping at his throat. He gets it all out because he has to, unravels that knotted ball of despair and hatred, one hitched sob at a time.
Ryland holds him through it, arms tight around him but still so gentle, careful of his back, chin a solid weight against his shoulder. Colt cries until he can't anymore and slowly, with his twin's help, puts himself back together again.
It's nice, Colt thinks, to be the one taken care of.
It's even nicer that Ryland's the one to do it. For all they have lost, they will always have this. Each other. And maybe that's enough.