Grave Consequences

Enraged, Blair Adamson slammed his car door shut, shattering the comfortable silence of the countryside.

"Tony, what in the flying fuck is this all about!?" He marched over towards his brother who sat slumped against their father's old 1968 Jaguar E-type. Though the years had not been kind to its owner, the car was kept in pristine condition.

"Tony!" Blair shook him by his trembling arm. "Hey, hey, look at me." Slowly, Tony met Blair's eyeline.

"Whatever's going on, it's going to be alright, ok?" He had hoped for a verbal agreement, or at least a nod of acknowledgement, but all Tony could do was sob. Blair hadn't seen him like this since the night his ex-wife left him. "But you have to tell me what's happened."

Despite his panicked and blubbering exterior, Tony was generally considered decent looking for a middle-aged man, if a bit rough around the edges. He was stronger than he appeared, even if he barely scraped five foot ten, and his jawline was now somewhat masked by patchy stubble. Blair, however, was a certified ten with his expensive suits, luxuriant black hair, and designer everything making him look younger than his brother, despite being five years older. Underneath the labels and macho exaggeration of wealth was a slender frame but one in good shape, largely due to regular sponsored runs that Tony had grown sick of hearing about after the first. He was also convincingly over six foot.

"Thank you for coming," Tony said, calmer now the crying had stopped.

"No need wee man. I see you're still driving father's old Jag."

"I can't argue about that right now." He stood up, looking around frantically, grabbing Blair's wrist. "I need your help."

"Yeah, I got that from your text, but why here and now?"

Tony was nervously hopping from one foot to the other. "I've done a bad thing," he whimpered.

"What, you say the wrong pronouns or something?" Blair could tell Tony wasn't interested in laughing.

"I swear, it was an accident." Blair's face fell as Tony gestured to the boot. The silence returned though far less comfortable in its nature, broken this time by the sound of vomiting.

"That fucking reeks!" With his nose tucked under his fully-padded Northface jacket, he joined Tony by the rear of the car, staring at blood-stained sheets.

"Holy shit! Who the hell is that, Tony?"

Tony didn't move a muscle.

"Is... are they... dead?"

"I think so, I'm not really sure."

"Jesus Christ Jesus Christ, what the fuck have you done!? Do you know how serious this is!?"

Tony scowled at his brother. "Of course, I do! It's serious enough that I had to call you!"

Blair began pacing around, too flustered to keep his flailing arms under control. Tony brandished a pack of cigarettes, tilting his head to offer one.

"Yes, yes," he said, happily obliging, fumbling around for the lighter he always carried with him, a gift from their father, as both a means of distraction and being an "overly sentimental knobhead" as Tony had once described him.

"I see you still haven't quit," Blair observed.

"I need your help, not witty remarks." He reached into the boot of the car and pulled out two shovels, thrusting one into Blair's hands.

"No."

"Yes."

"I can't."

"We have to."