Fly High, Butterfly

Chapter Twenty Seven

One step. Two steps. Three s- no, no, no, no; it's wrong. Back to the beginning, holding his breath as he stumbles to the doorway again, pressing his spine flush with the solid wood for some semblance of support. He feels numb and sick with exhaustion, but he just can't fucking get it right and cross the room to his bed. He's grateful that at least there are fewer stairs in the newly rebuilt Casita, and no sand at all. Small mercies.

Bruno holds back a nervous hum, scratching at his throat as if that might get rid of the tension welling up inside of him, begging him to just do one more loop and make things okay again. One step. That's all, before Bruno stumbles with fatigue-heavy limbs, stepping right onto the line where the floorboards meet.

The fear is instantaneous. He doesn't even have time to shout before the enternal, writhing unease in his stomach sharpens into terror and sets every nerve alight, choking him with an almost physical force. Shaky hands rummage through his pockets as quickly as he can manage, salt and sugar thrown over his shoulder as he trembles with the anticipation of blessed relief.

And then, nothing happens.

There's no release from the barrage of emotion, not even a momentary reprieve. It does nothing. And in an instant, whatever fear he'd felt before then is incinerated by the burning, agonising helplessness that follows that realisation. Bruno throws himself back against the door, gripping the handle like a lifeline as he knocks hard enough to break the already scarred skin of his knuckles. Knock, knock, knock, knock. A second wasted on gathering his nerve, before he slams his fist into his forehead. The pain only serves to amplify the migraine already beginning to build, but it comes with a pause in the fear that would make him sob with relief if he wasn't already crying.

He slumps to the floor. It's pathetic and it's childish, but the world feels a little steadier while hugging his knees to his chest, face buried in the fabric of his ruana. Distantly, he hopes Dolores is sleeping deeply enough that the noise won't disturb her again.

There's a part of him that's always going to be looking at his family through the cracks in the walls, watching and dreaming of what his life could be if he wasn't bad luck Bruno. Sometimes, he thinks it was easier hiding. Now, his family can see him ruin their lives, see how hard he tries to keep them safe and how often he fails. He isn't stupid; he knows they're concerned about how he acts, but he can't explain why he needs to do it or it'll all be for nothing. He's still trapped.

It's almost funny, how much time he spent wishing he could be with them again, only to find himself incapable of bridging that gap when given the chance. His sense of humour might be a little warped though, Bruno thinks, from a decade of rats as his only source of entertainment. Eh, it's not like he fit in much better before he left.

The sound of squeaking draws him out of that particular train of thought, distracted by tiny paws scrabbling up his leg. A miniscule amount of salt deposited in his lap before the rat vanishes back into the walls, a gift from his dearest (only, comes the unkind though) companions, the ones who have never shied away from his... habits. Never looked at him with fear or contempt, never tried to change him, never been anything less than true friends. He isn't sure he'd cared much for rats before he started living with them, but ten years changes a person.

It's tempting to give into his exhaustion and fall asleep on the floor, it certainly wouldn't be the first time. But stronger than any fear or fatigue could be, is that bone-deep truth that he is so very tired of running away. He knows it's never going to get easier. But when all that's on the line is him, what else does he have to lose?

So Bruno stands, casts the salt backwards, and tries again.