Present day

Ash' POV

Cold stalked through me like specter death, it tore right to my heart and seemed to turn my blood to icy sludge. My muscles ached and ground against my bones like the cogs in old machine.

My fingers brushed against soft fleeced fabric and the smell of burning coal pulled me into the present. My eyes snapped open to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, and the blood rushed to my head at the speed I sat up from the... sofa?

Where the fuck-

"Took you long enough to wake up."

My brain stuttered for a moment and my eyes took in more light than I expected as I found the source of the voice lounging in a window seat, silhouetted against the brightness. Every part of me went on pause while my thoughts battled to catch up. Where- what?

"You're a fucking idiot you know that?"

And in my dazed state I knew the voice before my vision had time to focus enough on the face.

"Rubin?"

I heard the clunk of his bare feet on wood floor as he removed himself from his seat, and walked towards the armchair facing me.

It was one of those catastrophically confusing moments where you literally haven't got the foggiest idea what is happening. I didn't know where the fuck I was. How the fuck I got there- although I can assume it was because of Rubin. But that fact alone was the most bewildering thing of it all.

He looked just about as shit as I felt. Sleep deprived. Unruly facial hair. Dishevelled locks. But it was the sadness in his eyes that gripped me. That clasped me by the fucking balls. And I instantly felt overwhelmingly guilty about our last interaction. About what I allowed myself to do. And I know I've taken worse from him, so much fucking worse, but the guilt lingered there, festering in my gut.

"Are you warming up?"

I blinked once. Twice. Trying to convince myself that the concern in his voice was something I'd fabricated.

But I answered, "Yes."

And he ran a hand across his jaw, the sound of the stubble scraping across his palm filling the room. He set his gaze back on me, and I kept as much guard around myself as the current icy pain coursing through my body would allow me to. Just incase.

And by the next words out of his mouth, I knew he could sense my apprehension. He sighed deep and loud.
"How are you feeling?"

How. Am. I. Feeling. How am I feeling? How am I fucking feeling?

It was probably the last sentence I'd expected out of his mouth, yet the one I'd wanted him to ask for seven long and painful years. Seven fucking years.

And maybe this was the start of a level playing field. Maybe it took a reaction to set an action of acceptance into motion. Because he didn't have to bring me here. He didn't have to pick me up from that heap in front of his brothers grave. He didn't have to lie me next to a fire with blankets to warm me up. No. He could have left me there to fucking freeze. He genuinely could have. And given my lack of coat, footwear, and bitter winter temperatures outside, it was an inevitable outcome.

But he didn't.

He. Didn't.

So, I answered,
"A better question Rubes... Are you okay?"

He shook his head once. Twice. And buried his face into his hands, self-conscious about the emotion he was allowing to slip through the cracks. He cried silently, the tears dripping between his fingers.

And he was a frozen image of the despair that had plagued both our lives.

"I'm not okay."

........

It was a solitude of comfortable silence by the time Rubin had cried himself past the point of tears. Because I guess, deep down, a part of us would never be okay. We both lost the most imperative piece of our world. And I know they fought like cat and dog. And I know they both said things they would never say outside of the heat of argument. But none of that diminishes just how much Rubin loved him. How much his death ultimately effected him.

I was a scapegoat. The easiest person to lay blame onto. Because in times of injustice sometimes we wouldn't be able to even function without completely convincing ourselves the blame falls anywhere but your own shoulders.

It was never about hating me. It was about hating who death took from him. It was hatred at the world for allowing it to happen. Hatred for the lack of power he had to stop it.

I think it may have taken until this moment for him to realise just how mutual that hatred was. How deep it ran in both of our veins.

And when he eventually spoke, his voice was both simultaneously weak, but so, so, sure.

"I'm sorry... for everything."

It felt like a bucket of ice water over the head. It was a monumental shock to the system. And I don't think any amalgamation of words could describe the relief that washed over me.

"You never have to apologise to me Rubin. Never."

"Neither of us deserved him, did we?"

"The world didn't deserve him."

.........

We live in novels that have been created just for us. Worlds woven by words that we circle as though we are the Earth and they, the sun. Stories we tell ourselves become who we are, and suddenly, we’re orbiting time and space like we’re following a script. Sometimes that script can lead us down the path of tragedy. The path of a tragic hero succumbing to his fate. And other times that script may be written with ink so thick and so black, that it spreads out over the rest of the page. It seeps through the beauty of the words that once resided there. It turns the direction to smile into a pooling of despair. But the thing about ink, is how it has the unavoidable ability to dry. It becomes one with the pages you were once lost in. But only when it dries can the page be turned. Only when the feel of touch is unscathed by the pigment. Only then will it never seep through onto the next clean page of your life.

But the thing about life is, it pushes you until you break, just to see if you can put yourself back together.

We'd comfortably resided in front of the fireplace, a generous glass of bourbon in hand for the best part of two hours. It was a warming comfort in my freezing bones. Exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"I miss him so much Ash."

And I looked at him, seemingly lost in the flicking rays of flames dancing in his eyes.

"I don't think there will ever come a point where that isn't the case Rubes."

"I see him every single time I look in the mirror."

"Good genetics that's why... Gary would be turning in his grave knowing you're wasting those dimples moping around here... Where is 'here', by the way?"

And he smirked at that, appreciating the light humour, "Here? I moved here about a year after Gary died- We're about a ten minute drive from the cemetery."

"It's...-" I glanced around at the rustic, warming interior, comparing the starch contrast between my own minimalist apartment. "- homely."

He smiled into his glass, taking a long satisfying swig. "It was in my price range."

"Where you working these days? You were in a suit the last time we... bumped into each other."

He cringed at the memory. And probably every other memory of our encounters before that. But answered with level eyes, "I'm a reporter."

It genuinely took a moment for that information to sink in. Because it was probably the last career path I'd ever imagine he'd venture down.
"Like the 'extra extra, read all about it' kind of reporter?"

He chuckled to himself, "I mostly do reviews... But I've occasionally been given a story or two of the 'extra' variety."

I stored the information safely away, "Any women peeked your fancy? Or are you still the lone wolf kind?"

I gave him a inquisitive, yet cheeky smirk, which he cheerfully shook his head at.
"With these dimples?... What do you think."

I laughed then. Because it was such a perfect answer. Such a Gary answer.
"Ah, so breaking hearts runs in the family then?"

He scowled at me, although there was no venom in it whatsoever.
"One to talk Ketchum."

"Oh believe me Rubes, those days are behind me."

"It's the greying hair isn't it? Lost your mojo."

I scoffed, "My hair is hardly greying... And my mojo was actually perfectly in tact until about a year ago, I'll have you know- you cheeky fucker."

"What happened a year ago?"

And I rubbed my hand across my chin, calculating my answer carefully.
"A certain blonde came along."

"Pretty?"

"Beautiful."

"What happened?"

"She wasn't who I thought she was."

"And who did you think she was?"

And I pondered the question. Who did I think she was? Really? I guess,
"Someone who saw past all of my monument fuck-ups. Someone who didn't judge me for any of it."

"And she judges you now?"

No, I guess she doesn't, does she?

I shook my head.

"Then what's the problem Ash?"

And I bit my tongue twice. A self inflicted pain whilst toying with the idea of telling him any of this.

But, as Gary would say, fuck it.

"She was using me to further her career."

"Did she intend to stay with you once her career was, as you put it, furthered?"

"Well-"

"It's a yes or no answer."

I answered truthfully, "I don't know."

He took another long sip of his drink,
"Sounds to me like you're self destructing again."

The absolute audacity was actually adorable.
"Excuse me?"

He shrugged, "Just go into it with a broken heart Ash... If she decides to kick you to the curb later on, at least you know you tried- and the failure rests on her shoulders. Not yours... And if not? Maybe you'll be proved wrong and win the pretty blonde."

It took the ticking of one full minute to actually process what he'd said to me. How he'd said it. And the implications behind it.

It was that kind of honest, soul crushing, reality checking advice, that no one ever wants to hear, but needs it anyway.

The kind that you'd gladly take a punch in the face over.

And it was so gravely fucking familiar, that I had to fight back the glassing over of my eyes.

"You're so much like him Rubes."

He smiled to himself. Because maybe it was something he needed to hear. Maybe no one had ever told him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd aspired to do so.

"Ash?"

"Yeah?"

"When you were 16, there was a particular week where you picked me up from school because Gary had detention."

"Sounds like Gary."

"Why did he have detention?"

And there, sitting across from me was that little kid with the hazel doe eyes, dimples, and the biggest dreams. The kid who looked up to his brother like a father. The one I'd hugged until he fell asleep while Gary was somewhere with his mother on the other end of the phone telling her just how abhorrent she was. The one whose tears I'd wiped when he woke up from a nightmare and felt too prideful to ask Gary for comfort.

That same damn little kid.

And my heart lurched in my chest.

"I told you I'd tell you in ten years didn't I?"
Hoping this was the particular memory he was talking about.

"You did."

I laughed to myself, readjusting my seated position to face him. I felt like I was in school again, divulging in the latest gossip flying around the school halls. And it was truly freeing.

"So. There was this one girl, whose name I can't for the life of me remember- She was a brunette though, if I recall."

"Okay."

"On this particular day, your hormone-driven brother had been complaining since the moment he walked through the main entrance that he was aching for a shag."

"Always classy."

I snorted, reminiscing in the feeling of locker room talk, "You have no idea Rubes... So, by dinner he'd been shot down an unholy amount of times."

"Gary got shot down?"

"Of course he did... He had quite the promiscuous reputation by this point."

"What happened?"

I smiled to myself, almost picturing the conversation in my head, "He said something along the lines of 'fuck this, I'm taking care of this with the one girl who never turns me down'."

"Who was the girl?"

I smirked, "His right hand."

And he laughed then, outright. "He got detention for wanking?"

"Oh no, that's not the end of the story... So, he went to the locker room to take a shower at dinner... He was adamant this next part was by mistake, but Gary never did anything by mistake, as you know."

"I do."

"He ended up showering in the girls locker room."

"Was that the reason for his detention?"

I smirked, "No- That had more to do with the freshman he banged up against the tiles."

"What- How did that even happen?"

"He claimed, 'right place, right time'... which he seemed to find himself in more often than not... But the girl in question had been fawning over him for weeks- My guess is that he saw she had gym before dinner and took his chance."

Rubin laughed then, and it was such a welcoming sound that I instantly reciprocated it.
"Who caught them?"

"Two people actually... One being the girls boyfriend... And two, when said boyfriend brought the vice principle to the scene."

"Fuck, he was a horrible bastard wasn't he?"

I smiled fondly, "To the people he didn't care about? He could be fucking brutal. He honestly didn't give a single fuck."

"What happened after that?"

"He was dragged out the showers by the scruff of his neck and lead straight to the principles office."

"Bollocks still out?"

"Oh, they were swinging... He didn't even try to hide anything either... I remember getting something from my locker, him walking past with a wicked smile on his face, with a furious member of staff making sure he walked where he was supposed to, telling him to cover himself up."

"What was his response?"

"He told the vice principle to 'stop staring at his cock', winked at the attractive Maths teacher who was cherry red hiding in her pile of paperwork, and told me to pick you up."

Laughter filled the room once more, and Rubin wiped the tears from his eyes.

When someone has lost a person they love, people tend to skirt around the topic of bringing up their name in conversation. They profusely worry about saying something to upset you. As if the sheer mention of their name will only serve as a reminder of them not being here anymore.

And it's a trap I've fallen into for seven years.

But, really, they aren't reminding you that they're gone. They're reminding you to remember how they lived. And, fuck, did he live.

A man with outward courage dares to die. A man with inward courage dares to live.

And Gary was courage personified.

"What other stories do you have?"

I downed the remainder of my glass.
"How much time you got?"

He lifted up a fresh bottle of bourbon, unsealing the cap. "All the time in the world- But right now, until this bottle is gone."

And despite, the ache in my heart, I said,
"Did I ever tell you how we met?"

"No."

"Lets start there."

Because Rubin never knew Gary the way I did. Was never given that opportunity. And I think, to some reluctant degree, that blame rested on my shoulders. Rested on both of our stupid, life-ruining mistakes. Rested on the power a substance can hold over someone's life.

And maybe, this was the best thing I could offer. Divulging in these forbidden stories of growing up with Gary at my side. And loving him through all of it. Tell him of the man his brother really was, and not the junkie ideal others would perceive. How his loyalty was only outshined by the intentions of his heart. And above all, just how fucking much he loved his baby brother.

Because I knew Gary better than anyone. Better than he knew himself.

And Rubin deserves to know the man I knew.

Because his nephew is going to have a lot of questions.