He’s woken up by a scream– a startled cry that he has to remind himself comes from his own throat. It sounds strange and foreign to him, even more so now if a half-lucid, half-dreaming state. Dragging himself away from the nightmares into wakefulness and seeing figures moving in the dark.
She’s woken up by a scream and it takes her a few seconds to remember that that’s what her brother sounds like. She runs to investigate, grabbing a knife along the way and skids to a halt in his bedroom doorway to find him alone, sitting up in bed, looking around.
Of course. This is Joey; he wouldn’t scream for something as simple as an intruder. She’s seen him take hits from energy blasts and not even make a sound.
His eyes land on her. His sister. And the figures surrounding him suddenly look pale and ghostly next to her. She’s real, he knows that. Without even thinking, he knows she’s real. He focuses his eyes on Rose, staring at her instead of the hallucinations.
She sees his eyes dart around, looking at people who aren’t there. It pains her to see him like this, to see him trying to hold on to reality. But then his eyes land on her and even in the dark, she can see his bright green eyes growing clearer. As if her very existence could ground him.
And instead of feeling pressure to be the strong one, that gives her strength. Knowing that just by living, she’s helping someone.
Rose turns on the light, further banishing the shadows and making it easier for them to talk. She knows he prefers to sign and he knows she won’t force him to speak. “I dream of death,” he explains, making sure every word is clear. He has to focus more, but she’s still relatively new and he wants her to be able to understand.
Focusing on his hands and telling himself how to use his face provide another anchor to reality. “Sometimes I think I’ve seen too much of it.” And, really, he had. Not only is his family made up of mercenaries and soldiers, not only has he killed; he’s been in dying bodies, in dead bodies, and died himself. He can still feel the cold, dark of it touching his soul.
He doesn’t have to go into that many details for her to understand. The whole family is too well acquainted with death. She sits beside him on the bed and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Joe. I’m here. You’re here. No matter what’s happened, we’re still here.”
He nods and points to his guitar, leaning against the wall near the bed. She passes it over and shifts so he has room to play, while still keeping an arm around him, reminding him that she’s there. And he plays. And he sings. Not any particular song, not even any particular words. Just notes and music, his voice and the guitar blending together. And he knows it’s his voice when he sings because music will always be something he can count on. He lets the sound , the texture of the strings, the vibration in his chest and throat, his sister's hand on his shoulder comfort him.
Every sensation, every stimulation reminds him of where and who he is.
Privately, she’s always amazed by his voice. Beautiful, even if it sometimes comes out as hoarse from lack of use. She’s only mentioned this once or twice, when he was actually performing for her. But she knows how deeply personal his voice is to him, how much he prefers signing over speech, and has enough tact not to act like him not speaking is a terrible tragedy.
Rose keeps quiet, listening, comforting. She’s been living with Joey long enough to know that when he’s troubled, that’s what he prefers. He’ll tell her what he needs to tell her when he’s ready, until then, it’s best to let him do this. The words he sings right now sound like nonsense words to her and maybe they have no literal meaning at all, but it helps him sort his thoughts.
What many people don’t know about Joey is that the reason he seems so good at expressing himself is he practices, he carefully plans expressions, spends a long time alone just thinking before he presents anything to someone else. She’s learned that from living with him for a while, watching him take long walks at all hours, spend whole nights working on a painting, playing piano while the sun rises.
His head begins to clear, the nightmare drifting out of thought and memory, which is how he prefers it. He lets it flow away like the receding tide, leaving behind only traces and pieces carried from the abyss. He carefully sets the guitar down and turns to face her. “Oh, Rose...” He speaks, because he doesn’t want her to miss anything he’s about to relay, but he has to force himself to even say her name, so he switches back to signing.
“I wish we’d had the chance to grow up together,” he says, clearly and slowly, so she doesn’t have to struggle to keep up.
“I would have liked that, too, I think,” she says, though she’s not sure why he’s bringing that up.
“You would have known me before...” He gestures at his head. “I was different back then.”
She stares at him, gaze going between his face and his hands, keeping up with what he’s saying. “Hey, we know each other now, that’s--”
He holds up one finger. He’s not done.
“I could have been a great big brother for you. The kind of older brother I never had. Grant was a jerk--I’ve never hated him for that; he didn’t handle our parents separating well--but it’s true. But I could have...” His hands falter, he makes a couple of meaningless gestures before continuing, “I would have taught you to dance, to draw, to sing. Dozens of ways to express yourself however you want.”
Rose imagines the life he’s describing and, yeah, it sounds nice, but... Why think about that now?
He can see confusion in her eyes and decides to finally get to the point. “I would have taken care of you, it wouldn’t have to be the other way around. I wasn’t such a mess before. I didn’t have so many problems. I’d be able to take care of you without you having to worry about me.”
“Oh, Joey...” She shakes her head at him. “I don’t mind having to take care of you. Look-- we take care of each other. It doesn’t matter that you’re older or the ‘big brother’ or whatever. We support each other. It’s not just about one of us doing everything. That’s what families are for.”
She shifts, sitting next to him instead of facing him and holds out her right hand in the A handshape, thumb-side up. “We’re in this together now.”
It takes him a second to realize what she’s doing, but then he holds out his left hand, mirroring hers, their fingers touching, completing the sign.
Her eyes are red and puffy. It's clear that she'd been crying, though she would never admit to such a thing. Arms fold across her chest as she sheepishly hangs in the doorway. "Is it okay if I crash here for a few days? I don't care if you say I can't drink. I just... I can't stay in my apartment." She avoids eye contact, her blue eye focusing on anything but his gaze. Even if he's realized the pain she's in, she doesnt wan't him to ask. "Please," she adds quietly.
He blinks and steps aside to let her in. “You know where the food is,” he said softly. “Might order takeout tonight. Tvs all hooked up if ya wanna watch anything.” After a moment, he went to hug her, patting her back. “Rest up, kid.”
