He comes back to your makeshift home, sopping wet clothes drip drip dripping on the sopping wet floor (the ceiling has leaks). You pretend to be asleep. He makes his way past his own bed, his lumbering, misshapen shadow slowly shuffling to yours--and you feel him slip in bed, his chest facing you, above the sheets and teetering on the edge.
He doesn't want to wake you up. You pretend to be asleep.
The details of his face are shrouded in shadow, the back of his head lit up by the street lamp-light filtering through the cheap blinds, and you nearly break your cover--it makes you want to smile, the little makeshift halo around his head in your little makeshift home. His hand reaches out to run along your chin, cold and comforting. He wants you to wake up. You pretend to be asleep.
"Sammy," he murmurs, and you hear the crack in his voice. (After five thousand years, you still can't forget.) "Sammy." The light flickers, and you can see the swollen cuts and bruises scattered across his face, like someone tried to play chess on it. It obviously didn't work well. Your brother, the chess game, that is. "Sammy. Can you hear me?"
He needs you to wake up. You pretend to be asleep.
You've forgotten, by now, that you're the younger sibling. Because this--this is one of the few times, when he becomes the younger, when he lets the neediness slip into his voice, when he lets himself open up. Then again, this barely counts. He thinks you're asleep. He is shivering, his hand shaking as it runs along your jaw, brushing your hair out of your eyes. His fingers are cold, so cold, but the touch--it's not unfeeling, it's so heavy with emotions that you can't even begin to sift out, and you hate not knowing what's going on in his head."This is what I dream about at night. Your face gets so pale when you sleep--and you look so peaceful, it's like--"
He's like a child. Needing some confirmation that you're just asleep, and not dead. He's like a child.
"Fuck. Fuck." He turns away so that he's on his back, and you hear the creak of the bed; one leg is swinging off the bed, one arm splayed on the cheap nightstand in between the two beds. "What the fuck are you doing? Fuck." He walks away from the bed, holding his face in his hands. You hear the slam of the door.
He needed you to wake up. You're asleep, Sammy.
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