His chest hurt at the cheeriness, so fake. Though perhaps he only noticed because he knew what she sounded like when she was actually cheery, like after a derby match she won, or after a test that went perfect. The emotion was lacking, and he could guess at why it was. He sometimes wished their mothers would actually annoy the both of them about this situation, he wished they would intervene and just… say all the right things that Chiba didn’t know. He sometimes wished he was still seventeen, and his little sister needed his help, and he didn’t have the vocabulary to explain himself. His mothers, or one of them, would stand in as translator, between two kids so many years apart, bridging the divide between an adolescent and a child. They would always say: ‘your brother means well, he just doesn’t know how to express himself’. And they had always been right. And he had grown to know how to express himself better, he knew the right things to say and when to say them.
But now he was seventeen again, and not knowing what to say was frustrating, that he kept his mouth shut.
He hadn’t even seen the bloody nose, but the sight of it filled him with some brotherly notion that he had to get some tissues out.
He hated how Chae was doing what he couldn’t, that she was offering a way forward, and he just stood gazing at her. He hated that the roles seemed to be reversed, but he had no idea how to turn them back. He was afraid he was going to destroy it if he pretended everything was like it had been. He had wanted a little kid, a girl, a boy, a child regardless of gender. He had wanted to be a parent, raise something that was his. His dream had seemed so easy, so silly almost, and he had been ready for it even before he had set up everything to take care of one. And then the world had spun and he had doubted everything he had ever wanted. His easy goals scattered. “Did you win the match?” He asked, swallowing. He took a deep breath, then held out a bruised knuckle. “Went down with one punch.” He didn’t tell her about the fight club he was a part of with Fletcher, even if he knew she would hold her own easily in there.
What would she have done, were they still little? Their large age difference had always been an ocean between them, but they always managed to bridge it somehow. If she was five and he was fourteen, then she could just start crying, and he’d ask her where it hurt and she could point to her heart. And he would know what it meant, because he always did. If she was twelve and he was twenty one, then she could awkwardly try to voice her childish feelings, and babble away until things were far forgotten and they were laughing about her rapid-fire thoughts.
If she was sixteen and he was twenty five, then she would have poured her heart out to him, even the ugly thoughts she’d had about blaming his ex-wife and about just wanting things to go back to normal, whatever the cost. She’d tell him about how she stopped drinking because he couldn’t stop it, but how she still sometimes bar-hopped in the hopes of finding him. She’d tell him about the nights she’d spend looking through the hole in her door to make sure he got home safe, because she was scared he wouldn’t someday. About the nights she cried, the ones when she didn’t sleep, the ones when she’d write the digits of his number on her phone and stare at it, finger just above the dial button, until her eyes hurt and she realized she was too much of a coward to face rejection. And she’d tell him because she knew he would know her heart more than she knew it, and that he would help her understand that sometimes you have ugly feelings because they run rampant, and most of all, he wouldn’t judge her. Just forgive her. Maybe they’d even fight about it, but at the end of the day, they would hug and it’d be fine, and she would be so sure of it that she’d find the bravery she needed.
How could she know everything at sixteen, but nothing at twenty five?
She smiled awkwardly. Her weak attempt at keeping him here had worked, for now. “Ye-yeah!” She tried to sound cheery again, even if she knew he wasn’t buying it. He never would. Try harder. “I don’t lose very often.” An awkward chuckle. Do better. “Y-you taught me well.” You’re the best fighter I’ve very met. You’re strong and brave in ways that I could never be. But I have to. I have to be braver now. “All those years back. I never go down without a fight.” You never go down without a fight, either. You stand up, you fight back, and bring everyone down with you. You’re the one who taught me that. And that’s why I won’t give up. Ever. “See? You never lose either.” Are you not fighting? Is that why you’re going away? Did I fuck up so bad that the friendship we had isn’t worth fighting for anymore? Are we just distant family members now, like the ones I used to tell you I thought were weird when I was ten, before I knew that was rude? “Was-was it a work thing? Or did you find a gym somewhere?” Is this our forever? When I’m thirty five, and you’re forty four, will we only talk at holidays? Will you show up at my wedding and go home early? When you finally achieve whatever you want in life now, and I know you will, because you’re a fighter, will you even tell me? “You should bandage that. Even if it’s small. Hand injuries can get bad very easily. Since we never really rest them.” Just fight for me. Please. If you can’t, then let me fight for both of us. Just let me grab your hand. It’s fine if you can’t be my big brother anymore, just let me be your big sister if I have to. Let me in. Fight. Do something. Please. She opened her bag, quickly picking up the pack of bandages she kept ready and handing it to him, but not brave enough to offer to do it for him. Never brave enough.
