Chapter 1
They missed band practice. Tommy is well aware they missed practice- that’s why he lets the call from America go to voicemail, so he can pretend like he didn’t see it and maybe she won’t kill him tomorrow.
They missed practice. It was- is -for a good reason, a damn good reason, but it’s not like he can ever tell anyone it, wouldn’t ever because he’s not doing that to Billy, so when tomorrow comes he’ll take the blame and say it was his fault, and when Eli bemoans to him about schedules and dates- Tommy only hates him slightly for it, because he is their manager after all -maybe Billy will mouth “thank you” to him over Eli’s shoulder and that’ll make all the shit he’s gonna get from Kate and Cassie worth it.
His phone buzzes again, Kate this time, and Tommy doesn’t decline the call but he does consider it, letting his finger hover over the button before allowing it ring itself out instead.
“Food’s almost ready,” he offers over his shoulder, and his brother makes an incomprehensible attempt at worn and tear-soaked speech in response. “Billy?”
A pause. He glances back at him, watches the way Billy drags the sleeve of his hoodie down his face before he manages a muffled, “Okay.”
Tommy bounces on his heels, the tile cold beneath his bare feet, and nods. “Feel any better?”
Billy’s shoulders hunch as he disappears into his hoodie once more, pressing himself up against the threadbare arm of their ancient sofa silently. Tommy accepts the clear and quiet rejection with a tired sort of dignity- he’s grown used to it. It’s not really Billy’s fault, anyway, and even if it was Tommy knows he talks too much. His brother is more than allowed to drop out of conversing, even when he isn’t. In a state.
Tommy turns that over in his head as he extracts their shitty plastic bowls from the unorganized cabinets of their minuscule New York kitchen, freeing their now-warm noodles from the microwave with his other hand just before the timer ends.
“Auntie Anne’s crappy microwave mac ‘n cheese awaits you, oh dearest twin of mine,” he monotones, grabbing a somewhat clean looking spoon from the growing pile of dishes on their counter- Billy had been in charge of washing them this morning while Tommy did the laundry in their building’s laundry room, an agreement that had been established because Billy hated the awkward socialization of their communal laundry machines and Tommy was pretty sure their washing machine had it out for him specifically, but both of those activities had been waylaid. Obviously. As had everything else, including band practice. And therefore, he would simply have to make do with the slightly crusty spoon from when Teddy had brought them chili leftovers three days ago.
“Wanna sit at the table?” he offers, closing the microwave with his elbow as he balances the two bowls in his arms and an overflowing cup in one hand.
Billy’s response is hoarse, a quiet “no” that Tommy already knew but wanted to confirm. He nods as he nudges the pile of aptly named depression blankets out of his way on the couch with his knee, dropping the dishes on their beat-up coffee table from Billy’s parents with less care than he should’ve but without the energy to really give a shit either way.
“Sit up, ‘kay?”
Billy does, nearly swimming in his oversized hoodie that must be one of Teddy’s that he stole, or got given because Teddy is a fuckin’ sap. But they are dating, so maybe Tommy’s just being single and hypocritical. Probably both.
“Sorry.”
Billy’s voice startles him out of his racing thoughts, and he keeps his eyes trained on the mac ‘n cheese as he asks, “For what?”
Billy’s hands appear out the ends of the sleeves, his skin pale against the green-ish grey fabric as he makes a loose gesture to everything around them, then a second to himself. “Y’know.”
“I don’t, really,” he says evenly, or as evenly as he can manage. It’s not very even, or very convincing. But he’ll take what he can get. “Enlighten me?”
Billy worries his chapped lip between his teeth, his greasy curls blocking his eyes from Tommy’s view. He doesn’t respond, just shoves the sleeve of his hoodie up and takes a bowl, setting it on his lap as he falls back against the arm.
Tommy bounces his leg anxiously, a feeling he isn’t a fan of but can’t escape. “Did you take your meds?” he asks, mostly to break the silence. Kate jokes sometimes that the reason he runs his mouth is because he’s afraid of the quiet when he doesn’t, but it isn’t entirely untrue.
Silences never meant good things when he was a kid, anyway. The habit never got dropped.
Billy drags his spoon across the rim of the bowl, metal on plastic. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” he needles, and Billy pulls his knees up against his chest, nearly tipping his macaroni all across their gross old couch but managing to steady it, even if he can’t really steady himself. Not not-physically, at least.
“Yes.” Billy doesn’t look at him, exactly, but he looks past Tommy with a halfhearted scowl on his face, and Tommy almost counts that as a win. “I always take my meds. You’re the one who skips them more often than you don’t.”
“You really must be feeling better,” Tommy remarks dryly, shoveling a bite of bad mac ‘n cheese into his mouth, “what with you giving me shit and all.”
Wrong thing to say- Billy flinches, pulls one of the blankets over his shoulders and around himself like a cape. Tommy feels bad about it, sorta, of course he does, but talking with Billy when he’s in a state is like walking through a minefield blindfolded, and he doesn’t have the energy to spare for too much guilt.
Still. “Sorry,” he sighs, running a hand across the short-shorn hair of his undercut.
“Sorry,” Billy echos back, muffled by blanket and hoodie and the spoon in his mouth, but talking. Half a gold star.
Tommy drums his fingers on his thigh for a long moment before he sighs, sliding closer to his brother on the couch even though he can feel the uncomfortable press of the worn springs through the fabric beneath him. “Here. C’mere.”
Billy glances at him, the dark circles beneath his eyes the purple-green of bruises, before he looks away again, biting weakly at his ragged nails, the polish on them chipped and cracking. He shrugs. Tommy takes it as enough of an invitation- he wraps Billy’s blanket around them both, sliding an arm around Billy’s shoulders and tugging him to lean against him. He can feel his brother’s breathing beneath his fingertips, this way, the mostly steady rise and fall of his chest. It helps, he thinks.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly, into Billy’s curls. His brother fidgets, tugging at his hoodie strings halfheartedly.
“No.”
He’d figured.
He shifts, squirming slightly to try and find a way to sit where Billy’s bony shoulder isn’t digging quite so sharply into his side. “Ugh. You really should eat your shitty mac ‘n cheese, I think I can feel every one of your ribs.”
Billy elbows him, which he totally deserves. “Shut up.”
Tommy does the mature thing, which is to stick his tongue out at him. The effect is mostly lost, considering that Billy’s face is pressed against his chest so he’s just doing it to the back of his brother’s head, but it’s the principle of the matter.
“Besides,” Billy admits softly, “I am trying to eat better.” He fidgets, shrugging weakly. “Doctor said it’ll probably like, help. ‘R whatever.” He drags his spoon along the side of the bowl, making a noise in the back of his throat. “I hate existing,” he mumbles tiredly into Tommy’s shirt.
“In a way where I should go call your therapist and see if I can get your next session moved up? Or in a just complaining way?”
“Complaining.”
Tommy nods, balancing a leg on the edge of the coffee table. “Yeah. Me too. It sorta sucks, doesn’t it?”
Billy’s quiet for a second. “How pissed are the others?”
“That we skipped practice?” He shrugs, drumming his fingers across Billy’s shoulder. “Dunno. Haven’t talked to ‘em.”
Billy curls up more heavily against him, resting his bowl on his thigh. “Haven’t they called?”
“Oh, they’ve called,” Tommy assures him with a snort. “I just haven’t answered.”
Billy sighs, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Kate is gonna kill you.”
“Kate actually murders me regularly. It’s just that death has no effect on me and I keep coming back, obviously.”
“Dumbass,” Billy mutters, and Tommy grins.
“Duh. You just realizing?”
Billy doesn’t grace him with a response, staring into his macaroni with a melancholy air.
Geez, David would be so impressed with him. Look at him, using ridiculous vocabulary. He probably deserves some sort of award, or at least for Davy to laugh at him. He’d take either.
“I need a shower,” Billy mumbles suddenly. Tommy glances down at him, scanning the tenseness of his shoulders.
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he jokes, trying to fix how tightly Billy clings to his spoon, his knuckles white against the metal. “You like, totally stink. You should feel honored I even sat with you like this.”
“Shut up,” Billy sighs, leaning back against him. “You know what I mean. I just feel-“ He hesitates, tugging at one of his curls, face twisted with an overwhelming emptiness. Tommy wishes it was a less familiar sight. It’s not. He’s dealing. “…gross.”
“Okay,” he says softly. “I mean, I’m not stopping you. You can go shower if you want.”
“Not afraid to leave me alone?” Billy asks, an edge of bitterness in his voice.
He sighs, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He should really cut it again- and dye it again, too. You can see his roots. He looks like Billy. Bleh. “I didn’t stay home ‘cause I didn’t trust you on your own, Bills.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I stayed home,” he continues, ignoring his brother, “because I happen to love you.” He scrunches his nose up, adding, “some of the time. On occasion.”
Billy traces a nonsensical pattern across his knee, face hidden. “…oh.”
Tommy watches him, for a moment. “Do you want to go shower? It’ll probably make you feel better.”
Billy’s throat bobs, before he nods. Slightly. “Okay.” He glances back at Tommy, eyes dark and shiny, like the bits of obsidian and other weird rocks he keeps in all his pockets because he likes pretending witchcraft works. Given everything, Tommy’s not so confident in it. But y’know. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay,” Tommy agrees.
“You should call the others. While I do.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’d like to retract my “okay”, then.”
Billy’s eyes narrow. “Tommy.”
He groans, tossing his head back. “Fine. But if America murders me via phone call, that’s on you.”
“I’m willing to accept that blame,” Billy informs him dryly, setting his bowl on the coffee table. “Be back in a few.”
“I’ll be here waiting.”
Billy digs his teeth into his lip, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”