Of Dragons and Poets

Father

No smoke
No bullets
No kick from the trigger when you
Pull it
No pain, no damage done
I wish words were like little toy guns.

You think it was better when your dad, Sik'is Vantas, would play gospel on holidays and Kankri never shut up and you would get berated every five seconds for swearing loudly. It's so different, now; your father avoids both of you when he's sober because he knows you're both disappointed in him and beats you both when he's drunk. Kankri doesn't talk much to anyone but you and his best friend and your cousin, and only very openly to you. You don't even try to swear anymore, because it isn't worth the hollow reminder that nobody cares.

You do swear, however, when the front door swings open and your entire hand takes a dip into boiling water as you jump in surprise. You swear profusely as Kankri turns off the stove. You dial it down as Kankri guides you towards the stairs, and stop completely as the two of you make it into your room and he locks the door.
"Let me see it," Kankri holds his hand out for your own, and you show him. It's a little tender, but otherwise fine, and he deems you okay enough not to sneak across the hall to the bathroom. You always have sneak around when your father's home, not more so now because you're not certain of his sobriety level. He usually stays downstairs anyways; the upstairs belongs to your brother and yourself.

Your heart stops as you hear footsteps on the stairs.

Kankri very quickly ducks behind your bed, rolling under it just as a knock sounds on the door. Your father doesn't knock. Ever. That can't be him. It's just one sharp noise, a few seconds of silence, and then another. You call out, as though Kankri isn't in your room like he's not supposed to be. "Kankri? Is that you?"
To your surprise, your father's voice fills the empty air; "Open the door." You hesitate before going over and unlocking it, pulling it open slowly, and going to sit down on the bed; Kankri's sweater is pretty obvious but, with your legs and the jacket you sit on, you quite literally have him covered. "Did I do something?"
"No."
The first thing you notice is that he wears all black, except for that little white square. It hits you, sends you into a fit of rage. He doesn't have the right to wear that stupid black suit, not after what he's done to both of you. You want to yell that he looks stupid, that he's going to hell, you want to shove him out the door and never look at him again. What would give him the impression that he was remotely worthy of that little white square?
You can't help your next question. "Is Kankri in trouble?" You feel your brother slip two fingers up your pant leg to rest on the back of your shin - you're always protective when it comes to your older brother. Your father looks guilty. "No." Your eyes widen. "Are you in trouble?" He shakes his head again. "No, Karkat. No one'a in troub-" you cut him off swiftly. "Then why is Kankri not supposed to be in my room anymore?"
This catches him by surprise. He doesn't seem to have an answer. "Because ... Well, because, um .." You smirk. Ha. Suck on that. "If there isn't a reason, I say he's allowed. It's my room anyways." Kankri very gently digs his nails into your leg - that's enough. You note your father's moment of bewilderment before he continues to speak. "I'm going to have the same conversation with your brother when I'm done here -"
"I want to be present."
"Pardon?"
"I don't trust you with him."
"You don't - Kankri is my son, and -"
"Dads don't hit their boys."
This seems to strike a nerve, as he sighs. "I have to leave the room for a moment." He steps out and shuts the door behind him, and you lean down to look at Kankri, who seems frightened. "Come out. He can't hurt you."
"Karkat, he can and he might."
"Kankri, he won't touch you, I promise."
You watch as his head slides out, then his shoulders, his stomach, his hips, until he lays on his back on the floor in front of you. You hold your hand out to pull him up and smile when he takes it, going to sit beside you. "I've got you, Kanny." He smiles back.
It's at this point that your father comes back, and Kankri moves behind you. He starts to question it, but the face you make silences him. Instead, he stares Kankri down until you put yourself directly between them, snapping your fingers to bring your father's attention back to yourself. "You were saying?"
Your father thinks for a minute before sitting in your desk chair and starting to speak. "I have a problem," No kidding. "I'm trying to kill this, but I need you two to help me. I know I'm the last person you want to spend any time with, but I want to fix this, and I need you in order to do it."
"Why now?"
Even you're surprised by Kankri's tone. 'Why now?' You know what he means. He's asking why it took three years for this to happen. Why that man brought all this pain only to ask for help. He wants to know what's so important all of the sudden, why him being hospitalized twice wasn't enough.
Your father moves forwards and you stand, a barricade between them. Kankri clings to the back of your shirt, your father looks angrily hurt, and you imagine you're somewhere between a snarl and a bitchface, although it could be either or. "Karkat, I'm not going to hurt him."
"I'm not going to give you the chance." You hold your ground and stare like you're going to hit him if he so much as moves towards your older brother. "Just answer him."
"I read the essay."
"Which one," Kankri asks in a whisper, "I've written many." Your father looks past you to him. "The 'If I Were A Movie Genre' essay."
You look at Kankri, who pales and moves closer to you. His eyes widen as your father recites what you're guessing is the first paragraph.
"If I were a movie genre, I would be Inspirational. Why? Because my brother and I have risen above everything we ever thought we'd be. The story I will tell is in no way fabricated, and relates the whole truth. It is a story of incredible strength, brotherhood, and the downfall of Sik'is Vantas."
It is at this point that you realize he's reading from his phone. He's reading from his phone as Kankri hides his face in your neck and you tangle one hand into his hair, and you can feel his breath on your skin, irregular and hot, and you want to shout for your father to stop but your lips and your voice can't form the words no matter how hard you try so he just keeps going.
" ... And I could do nothing but scream and sob and watch painfully helplessly as he slammed my brother against the wall a fourth time, a fifth, until he was no longer moving. And I couldn't understand. I couldn't understand why my father would do such a thing, why he would take his son of only 11 years and slam him against the wall until his tears and his blood ran together, his eyes would not see although they were open, until he lost consciousness altogether. I did not understand until it happened to me."
And suddenly, you're angry. You're not sure if it's because Kankri is crying now, his tears dampening your skin, or because you're father's purposely doing this anyway, but it makes you stand and shove his shoulders so that he stumbles back a few feet. He looks up at you, and the look on his face tells you that the look on your face would scare the devil right out of a possession victim, but right now, you just use it to scare the hell out of your father.
"Apologize to him," you growl, motioning to Kankri, who has a hold of your other hand. Your father apologizes, then leaves with the quiet close of a door. You go to open it and call towards his back, "And don't go drinking, we're not finished!" He nods before turning at the foot of the stairs, and you go back to Kankri, voice and features softening. "It isn't your fault," you whisper, straddling his lap. He holds onto you, and you wipe his tears away, pressing gentle kisses to his cheeks and forehead and trying to comfort him. "Kankri, pease. Look at me."
He looks up at you, and you smile and pull him into a tight hug. He mutters bitterly, "I didn't stop him. He was hurting you, and I didn't stop him." You sigh, eyes slipping shut. His breath is on your neck again, but it's calmer, softer - he's settling some. "If you'd tried, he would've hurt you, and -"
"You tried."
You can't say anything. you really can't, because he's right and he knows it. You did try. You couldn't count on one hand how many times your father had jammed his elbow into your nose, let alone two. It pains you, you want to say he made it better by patching you up afterwards, but you know it won' make a difference because he froze and you didn't.
'You tried.'