The sun has just begun to rise when Jonathan falls into his bed, weary deep in his bones so far down that all he can do for the longest time is lay there, and breathe.
His ears buzz with the unnatural silence of his mother's house. And though he knows it is a futile attempt, still he listens for her footsteps. The soft slide of her hand running against the wall as she passes his room.
Laughter in the kitchen as she makes breakfast. The smell of sausages frying in pans.
Trying so hard to make it real, the static fills his head. He turns his head and presses it into the pillow, frowning.
The door across from him doesn't slam shut, and his sister doesn't run down the hallway, her voice echoing against the old wood walls.
He is alone, and the thought is terrifying. It consumes him from beneath.
The morning sun warms his back, and it almost feels like a hand is pressing there against him.
But still the house is quiet and empty.
He grumbles, wordless noises rolling through his throat as his feet kick out, push the blankets off the bed. He turns and turns again, tossing through the remaining sheets. His legs get tangled and he stops, frustrated.
His is on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The white stucco is dusty already, cobwebs from days ago growing in the corners. He meant to clean it yesterday.
Tomorrow.
Maybe then. Even though deep in his heart where things he doesn't want to lay voice too, a different answer surfaces.
The ceiling fan is still, and Jon stares at it until the image of white motionless blades is embedded against the back of his skull when his eyes involuntarily shut. Dry and twitching from being open so long.
He lifts his arm to rub against them with the tips of his fingers.
And falls asleep, just like that, the daylight shadowed by his hands resting against his face.
His chest moves as he burrows deeper into sleep.
-
Half-aware of what's around him in the way surface dreams leave you, Jonathan can hear the doorbell ring.
He frowns, and refuses to get up.
Someone else will answer the door after all.
He shifts, and his hand falls off his face, numb from the awkward angle. It rests heavy against his chin and his breaths are just beginning to even out again.
Without the comforting darkness of his hand blocking it out, the sharp light of early afternoon burns through his eyelids and into his skull.
Jon squints his eyes tighter shut, trying to force it out.
When like a bulb breaking inside his head, he remembers where he is, and sits up. Shoving the emptiness to the back of his heart like it was a thing that could just be brushed aside.
It's probably Luke.
Jonathan throws the covers off him, ripping his legs out so fast that he trips and falls off the bed, landing on his face.
He rolls across the floor to the background sound of a fist hitting the front door. The person on the other side of the door is getting frustrated and knocks once more before stopping.
He throws open the door to his room, running down the hallway, thick thuds of his bare feet hitting the floor echoing up and down the house.
Instead of walking around it, he jumps over the couch, one hand pressing the fabric down as he swings his body over in a smooth leap.
And he is still running when he reaches the door, moving so fast that he slams into it, unable to stop. His chest sore from the sudden impact, Jonathan rubs his heart and backs away from the front door enough to grab the knob, and turns it.
And he is standing on his mother's front porch, shirtless in the early autumn air, dressed in just a pair of blue boxers when the lack of Luke finally processes itself through his brain.
Oh. Right. It's only been a day. Luke is still on the other side of the country.
And rubs his chest again, his heart hurting in more ways than one as he looks down, still holding onto the door, moving to turn back inside when he sees it.
A small yellow manila envelope is tucked into one corner of the welcome mat.
Jonathan bends down to pick it up, stretching to reach as one hand clings still to the door knob.
Squatting, his knees almost touching the ground, he reads the writing on the front. It's addressed to a "Madam Smith". His mother.
Delirious doesn't know what to do.
His fingers play with the door lock as he holds the envelope. Rocks forward, rocks back. Then stands.
He steps back into the entrance of the house as he slips a finger under the clasp and begins trying to break the package. Delirious is leaning on the doorframe as his movements get more hurried, frantic for something words can't yet describe.
The seal rips open, and with it the top of a few pages.
His hands tremble as he reaches inside, sweaty fingers sticking to the paper as he pulls out what's within.
Heavy documents. Tiny font, so small he has to squint against the afternoon light to see clearly. And numbers.
A bill.
But a bill so large that it comes with a court summons attached to it.
Jonathan just stares at the rolling numbers and whimpers. First mortgage, second mortgage, third mortgage, late payments, debt. Overdue.
The words edge along his throat as he leans into the door and struggles just to breathe, overwhelmed so hard he can barely think straight all he sees is black and white, numbers and names.
"I don't make that much money." He doesn't have that kind of money, how could it come to this? Why didn't his mom say something before?
He slides down the doorframe, and sits there, on his ass in his underwear in the middle of the day where the lord and all the world can see him, and cries.
