A Brother's Call pt.2

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Rescue me - OneRepublic

Another heads up for a... graphic(?) way of describing grief. Haha, I used my own experience with grief to write this!

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He tries to work up the courage to swallow with a lump of fresh grief already stuck in his throat. He knows he needs to eat. He needs to continue. He needs the strength to be there for his brothers. His brothers. Focus on them. Focus on his brothers. Find them, find them, save them. Protect them, guide them, shelter them. He needs them back in his nest. They are still too young in his eyes. They need to be back in the nest. The young die quickly when they leave the nest too early. The young cannot live in the horrors of the world without their wings. His chicks are still too young. They are in danger and he can't guide them home if he can't even fly. He can't protect them if he spends all his strength on crying. He can't shelter them if he doesn't use this food to replenish his magic. To heal his wings. To regain his strength. To build his hope.

He sniffles as he swallows, nearly choking on it as he tries to breathe. It's just a muffin. It has nothing bad in it, it's his favorite. It's his favorite made by Geno. He loves Geno. He loves his mate. His darling. But it still isn't the same. Ink didn't make this muffin. It's isn't Ink's. Not the lack of measurements, not the smiles as he adds what he thinks is the right amount. No fighting Reaper off as he tries to snack on the ingredients. It's too thought out, too measured. It isn't the same as trying to steal it right out of the tin as it comes from the oven. There are no squawks of regret and pain as the burning muffin is spat back out for burning a tongue. There is no dancing around those tiny kicks, the small slaps that would never go past his waist. There is no laughter, no whining from Cross about how some are for him. There are no grunts from wrestling with his youngest chick for food. There are no cries of victory as he lets Cross think he won the fight over the muffin only for Ink to pull out more from the oven. No turning around to stick his tongue out at Cross as he eats his spoils. No smell of coffee, no shouts for chocolate milk. There is no clink of mugs as they wait for the other treats to come out of the oven. No teasing happens.

It's warm.

And the thought brings more tears. It's warm and not hot. It had cooled down. It wasn't pulled out of the oven a second before Geno gave it to him. There are no smiles. It's warm and it doesn't burn him. Not like the oven as he and his youngest brothers dance waiting for them to be done. There are no glances at it as if time would go faster to cook those treats. It's warm yet so cold. The kitchen is no longer a home. There are no sneaking footsteps to be the first one there to eat a freshly baked treat. It's not a home he can stay in without crying. He mourns as if they're dead. He knows they aren't, he would've held their souls as they went with him somewhere he couldn't stay. He mourns anyway. For they are somewhere he can't find-can't follow-can't be. He mourns the heat that the muffin once had. Not this one, but the ones it represents.

He grieves as if he never has before.

It tears open his rib cage. It cracks his ribs and tears them off his sternum. It empties the marrow flowing in his bones. Chilling his body as his soul burns with no heat. It burns with a pain that he's never felt before. Pain that weighs his soul down to the floor below him. Isn't that strange? It squeezes like it is trying to hold onto every memory of his brothers tightly as if his soul is scared to lose any memory he has of his brothers. Trying to burn those touches into his bones. To scream in his mind those voices, sometimes as soft as a whisper, so he won't ever forget them. When was the last time that he heard their voices? Can he even remember them right? What were their accents? What about the tones? What was the last thing they said to him? Why didn't he tell them how much he loved them? How could he be so stupid as to forget to say how much he cares for them? He wants to scream. He wants to beg for something more to burn into his body.

It feels as if he already lost everything. It stuffs him with snot. It tears at his sockets until they burn. The bone around his sockets is on fire as his cold tears slide down them. It doesn't hurt as much as it should. It isn't enough to bring them back. His grief makes his vision blur till he can only see the lumps of color that make up the room. Would he ever see his brothers again? Would they be disappointed in what he must look like right now? The muffin blurs into a circle of yellow. The yellow that is Ink's tongue as he sticks it back out at him. The yellow of Ink's eye pips as Cross shows something he made.

A yellow he's learned to associate with happiness. The happiness that will never come back. That yellow will fade into nothing on his color palette. The yellow he treasures will turn into grey. Everything will return to shades of grey. He feels horrible. Would he grieve for Geno like this? Should he be ashamed for grieving this hard for his brothers? All the colors that he loves, all the colors that his brothers were will fade to grey. The colors will dry up and become a stone for him to carry. Those colors will burn his soul, taking away chunks of it until there is barely anything left of his soul.

His ribs ache and he wonders if his brothers can feel what he feels. His spine aches from the way he sits. Do they feel this same grief he is? Are they in pain like this? Are they hurting like he is right now? His chest stutters with his choked attempts at trying to breathe. His shoulders hurt. His neck feels like someone has shredded it, yet he has made no noise. Tears fall and he can't seem to make them stop. Why can't he stop? He tries to stop them and hold them back with his will.

It doesn't work.

He fruitlessly tries to dry his face, but the tears keep coming. They keep coming and he can't seem to get them to stop. He thought he'd run out of them already. He stopped crying the day that they went missing. He cried for hours that day and then shut down. He stopped crying after that day, yet he remembers nothing after that day up to today. He doesn't remember if he cried; yet he knows he hasn't cried enough. Crying for one day is not enough. It isn't enough to show just how much he loves his brothers. It isn't enough to show how much this damaged him. It isn't enough to show the pain he feels in losing them. It isn't enough for anyone. He needs to be alright for everyone else. He does no good if he can't stop crying to help. He only wants to help them find his brothers. He can't do this alone. He doesn't want to be alone.

It's so lonely.

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