“shut the hell up,” dee grits, voice bordering between monotonous && hotly frustrated. it’s relief that’s flooding through his bones like a wave crashing across the shore. conrad has the wherewithal not only to speak, but to be his obnoxious, loud mouthed self, too. that was a good sign, even if dee couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was definitely concussed. he should really remember who had the upper hand here — for once. it didn’t matter if dee was shorter, meeker, or overall lacking in brawn ; he still had all of the blood in his body, && a total of zero cracked ribs. dee would give conrad silent credit for the barbaric neanderthal comment, to the point where he almost smiles. conrad couldn’t stop there, however, because of course he couldn’t. with a lopsided grin, voice ragged && low, he calls him partner. project partner, he means. history partner. that fact doesn’t keep the flush from flooding his cheeks all the way to his ears. maybe if conrad had been a girl, && if they were seeing each other with less bruising && in better lighting, it would have almost felt like a flirt. but conrad && dee were both boys, the only illumination coming from the moon && stars && distant streetlights, && there’s a thin stench of metal coating the air. also — he was definitely, absolutely, undoubtedly concussed.
luckily, he doesn’t have much more time to consider whatever unspoken thickness lay between them, because conrad was counting && dee needed to be prepared. he takes the brunt of conrad’s weight with considerable grace, given their differences in mass. it isn’t without a huff of effort pulled deep from the depths of his diaphragm, but sooner rather than later conrad is finally standing upright, though he’s wobbly && clearly racked with pain. an arm is tossed over dee’s shoulder && his knees nearly buckle, but he recovers quickly && holds conrad up as firmly as he can, while still being gentle enough to hopefully not jostle his injuries too severely.
at his ‘let’s get moving’ comment, dee rolls his eyes, already beginning to take small, though deliberate, steps forward. “don’t tell me what to do.” he can feel conrad’s eyes on him && consciously puts on a mask of annoyed indifference. his mouth opens after a short beat, but conrad’s MCR reference rips the words right from his throat, leaving nothing but a garbled sound in their wake. he coughs into the night in an attempt to recover. it was probably just a coincidence, after all. why would conrad michelson know anything about good music? he probably just listens to podcasts && bubblegum pop. dee’s lips work around a response, but little else leaves him aside from a strangled, “look — my house is — we’re going …” it doesn’t help that he’s so close. he’s close enough that dee can almost smell the remnants of sweat && cologne still clinging to his skin. why did that even fucking matter?
“if you did your research into alternative music song titles just to throw at me when we see each other next, then you’re an even bigger moron than i thought. are you that desperate for a freak to find you the least bit interesting?” there’s a touch of smugness there as he regains his composure, a near smirk pushing at the edges of his usual forced nonchalance. his house looms in the distant, so large && hulking && dark that for a moment, he can almost understand why the parents of heavy’s friends didn’t want their kids coming over — especially with the disappearances that have been happening lately. he was perceptive, && his quiet, aloof && off-putting nature allowed him to hear things. he’d heard the distant rumblings of fear && disdain towards his family ; the quick, suspicious glances he pretended not to catch when the cops started sniffing around the school. it didn’t really bother him, probably because he expected as such. heavy, in all of his boyish naivety && fierce loyalty to his family, hadn’t ever made the connection, nor did he understand why anyone would assume such a thing. so we actually have good taste in music && our mom is part of a biker gang, he had once complained to dee, pacing his room && trying desperately not to let the encroaching tears wet his words. that doesn’t make us weird. everyone’s a little weird! && now i can’t even have my friends over to hang out with me?
he’d felt bad, but looking back, he probably didn’t have the right words to comfort his younger brother. he’d never been good with empathy. with vulnerability. which made his finding conrad in such a sorry state, helping drag him to warmth && safety through short breaths, all the more cosmically ironic.
he’s pulled from his words by conrad speaking. blinking, he cranes his neck to capture his gaze, stumbling home all the while. for the first time that night, a genuine smile graces his features. “obviously you won’t tell anyone. what would you say? that weakling dee had to pick my ass off from the sidewalk so i wouldn’t be running across the field next weekend with frostbite? please.” a chuckle lines his chest, but doesn’t quite make it out. it’s a warm feeling all the same, which he would gladly take to fight against the chill clinging to his exposed flesh.
“point them out to me, sometime. heavy has an old pair of costume fangs. what’s one more rumor going around school, anyway.” he’s going to say more, but the wrought iron fence to his house stands before him && he’s suddenly desperate to get inside && warm himself up, conrad be damned. he did need immediate attention to those wounds, though, particularly the one still slowly oozing blood along his hairline. with his free hand, dee makes a shhh motion along his lips, && pushes through the gate. he settles his arm above conrad’s hips, dancing above his waist, just for purchase. just to help maneuver him inside. he curses having left through his window. they stand at his front door, arms wrapped around each other, both panting from the excursion.
dee’s voice is hushed as he explains, “you. don’t make a peep. i don’t care how badly going up those stairs hurt. i don’t care if your ribs crack && shatter && poke out through your shirt. you will be quiet. especially going through heavy’s room. he sleeps like a beast, but i’m not about to have to distract him because you couldn’t keep quiet. get ready.” he doesn’t give conrad any time to agree or argue before he’s unlocking && pushing open his front door, so quiet he isn’t even breathing. he closes the door with the softest click he can muster — only for the click of a lamp to drop his heart down to his stomach.
“dee! welcome home,” comes the chipper tone of a man who could be the spitting image of dee, had he aged thirty years, straightened his hair, && lost all of his freckles. the man sits ramrod straight with his hands clasped at his knees. the only sign that he notices conrad’s existence at all is a flick of blue eyes && a subtle tilt of his head.
