(as the emotional youngest child.. say thing nothing to me rn) (ALSO I did not proofread this AT ALL. Say NOTHING.)
Bo thinks crying is weak, itâs for babies and young children. Itâs only for them because they donât know better, they have no grip on reality. Itâs excusable but nevertheless he hates the shrill and piercing screams of babies. He hates to see them squirming, a reminder and image of his younger self.
But when he saw you cry for the first time, it was different. It was soft, almost nonexistent. The only sound being soft sniffles. The sight of salty tears rolling down your cheeks and your eyelashes clumping together made him feel a twinge in his heart.
He didnât know what to do. Every time he cried as child he was punished. As he thrashed and screamed, hot tears rolled down his cheeksâhe didnât notice. But his father noticed, and berated him for it.Â
You are different, you are his baby. His.Â
He was unsure of what to do. He didnât know if he should hold you or give you space. He only stood there in the doorway looming over you and casting a shadow.Â
The light from the hallway illuminated his back and made him look like a guardian Angel, or perhaps a fallen angel. He stared you down with his brow furrowed, thinking of every scenario that could have led here.
He thinks itâs his fault, because thatâs how he was raised. Everything is his fault, every broken window, every disaster, was his fault. But with you, it no longer was his fault, it was the worlds. It failed him and you here to teach him, shape him, mend him.Â
He canât stand the way you look. He wants his smiling baby back. The one that laughs uncontrollably at the tiniest joke, the one that snorts from laughing so hard when tickled.Â
After awhile you glance up at him, mistaking his gaze for one of anger rather than confusion and care.Â
His ears are met with a soft, âIâm sorry.â This causes his brow to furrow even more. In return, he gives you an equally uncharacteristically soft, âfor what?âÂ
The tears threatening to spill over well up in your eyes.
Bo kneels down, fixing his hand under your chin to inspect your face. He gingerly moves you head to see if you are injured , âAre you hurt?âÂ
He feels you shake your head no.
Those words tip you over the edge, spilling the tears you were holding in.Bo curses at him self, feeling like it was his fault. It makes him feel like a teenager again, when his parents would get mad at him for simply existing. It hurts. It all does. It hurts him to feel like this, it hurts him to see you feel like this.
Bo is now hunched over and mulling over what to do. Should he hug you? Leave you? Pick you up?Â
He stares at you before gingerly scooping you up in his arms and making his way to your shared bed. The bed dips from the weight as he sits down with you in his arms.Â
The sound of his boots meeting the ground break you away from your thoughts. The softness of Boâs undershirt calms you down. The mix of grease, sweat, and tobacco lingers on the shirt, but you donât mind, itâs home.Â
His hand is aimlessly rubbing small circles on your back trying to provide any sort of comfort, trying to give you all he can.Â
For a few minutes the two of you only sit there, your tears staining his shirt but he canât seem to care.Â
