pencil shavings

twenty-seven: matt

There's blood on my jaw and swelling in my cheek as I run. My firsts are raw and throbbing with the wind while people swerve away, and the asphalt teeters in front of me.

I usually win fights. My father would disown me if I were in bad shape. But I lost to Dan.

It wasn't fair, how I could say something so right, and then have my ass handed to me by an arrogant, broken idiot.

"Not worth it," I spit onto the grass between pants. Blood sprays out. I duck my head and keep sprinting for the residential road that will get me to the back of my house.

And then, like flies, the sirens swarm from the edge of my hearing. My heart lurches into my throat. I fly forward in a swell of panic - until they begin to recede. Not for me, then. Someone else; some other idiot like Dan or maybe Peter or someone else who doesn't need any help. Not from me at least. Not anymore. I keep pretending to run, even as my legs slow. Not any more... but a little voice prods my conscience with a stick made of guilt. What if, what if, what if, it chants with my footfalls. A gnat that hasn't left me alone since two jerks shattered my conventionally-perfect world.

Damn it.

I spin and ignore my roaring cramp in a frantic hurdle toward the sirens. What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatif...

When did I get so soft? Why the hell does it matter what happens to Peter - to any of them? I have enough problems. When did a soft smile ever get me anything?

I throw my sweat-soaked chest down the next street, a rope of fear coiling and knitting in my core like tangled earbuds. Thoughts growled in my father's voice tell me that my world isn't here, that I'm not responsible, that the what ifs of my life lie elsewhere. Still I run. My world becomes off kilter heartbeats and burning feet and wet hair cooling my forehead in the wind. Becomes sunlight of silver and gold, becomes blood of aged-wine maroon, becomes haunting blue sky.

"MATT!"

My ankle screams as I crash to a stop, spinning frantically for the voice. Sam. That part of me I don't recognize let's out a whimper.

Blond hair sweeps in close as she barrels into me and embraces me, pulling back almost instantly to scan me like a mom would.

"You're okay!" She offers a sloping grin.

I nod tersely and run my hand through my hair. God. I hadn't realized how much I missed her and wanted - needed - her to be okay. Peter too. This has got to be an alternate universe.

Peter nods his chin at me, those green eyes tinged with hollow depth, and I give him a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

Sam looks between us, and her smile flickers.

Then Peter lifts his eyes to the road, where the police car pulls over and where a small crowd has gathered around the smashed remnants of a motorcycle beside an exploded fire hydrant. The water dances in the sun in a mockery of childhood wishing fountains. An ambulance squeals toward the site, and that's when I see it. Him.

We all catch our breaths when we see the faded jeans and black tee shirt and mop of Peter-hair sprawled beside the road, slowly pulling his hands under him to rise to his forearms.

And despite the blasted hydrant and the glinting metal scraps, despite the blood and gashes and dripping hair, Peter looks relieved. Sam and I watch him bit his lip, shake his head, then walk slowly toward his brother. I move to follow, but Sam grabs my wrist. She keeps watching Peter's quiet walk, but shakes her head.

"It's okay," she murmurs. Her eyes swirl with a dark amber, her smile heavy as grief. "He's okay."

I think she is talking about both of them.

It was like watching a silent movie - Peter pushing through the small crowd, a speck of maroon in the grey of strangers. Dan fighting the flood of the fire hydrant and smattering of debris while he gets to his knees. The paramedics rushing like storm of concern. Peter's hand extending into the sunlit space above the fire hydrant. Dan's eyes, Dan's wide eyes that lose their weariness for one fragmented second, when they see Peter. When Peter sinks to his knees in the fading light, gold weaving in his now-wet hair. The paramedics rushing to pull Dan up from that flood of metal scraps and blood and honey-soaked water. And Peter, Peter sitting in Dan's place when the crowds disperse, keeping vigil of the wreckage as the sun caresses the shop windows and licks his hair a final time, before closing its golden eye to the empty street.

The sirens buzz like a closing song in an opera, fading off while Sam and I sit on the curb with our knees touching.

I usually win fights. I'm usually walking out of the locker room with Rogers giving me a wicked grin and pounding my shoulder. It feels good, I mean, with ten football guys slapping your back and with all the mad respect, sure it does. I've never had a reason to think that there was anything other than that kind of winning.

But in this muddy dusk moment... Shit, I feel the same way. Like this was another win. Like scooting over to let Peter crash between us, then clasping his shoulder for a moment, then watching Sam lean her head against him; this was a little locker-room fight victory.

I don't know. That sounds stupid.

Although now, lying in bed after we all parted and went "home," I can't stop thinking about it.

About our "little cry of hope," as Sam called it, when she reached out to clutch our hands in hers. Peter called it our cinematic cheese platter. I called it too much Ms. Henderson.

I suppose we were all right.

We all came out triumphant tonight.