Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 45

    Countless colorful stores and restaurants flashed past as the blue van weaved through the Missouri highways, finally undertaking the long journey home. Looking through the window, Ronnie mused silently on the uncertainty of the future of The Killers; he had been through this area many times with the band, but...perhaps never again, now. Maybe the band really is over. Who knows how much Brandon will recover? How long it might take?

    Guilt roiled unpleasantly in his stomach at the dark, unwelcome thoughts. God, Bran, what have I done to you? He had been dwelling on that unanswerable question every waking moment since the night Brandon had stumbled back to him, bloody and broken...seemingly beyond repair. But he'll get better. He has to.

    Ronnie squeezed Brandon's hand gently, his fingers closed around the smaller, more elegant hand within. The drummer turned to look at his best friend, who sat nearly motionless beside him, his shoulder grazing his own, encased inside its ever-present navy sling. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he fiddled one-handed with a Rubik's cube, trying to exercise the fingers of his injured arm.

    He needed to see him, reassure himself that he was still there. He's not dead. He's not dead. He has to get better. No matter how much he wished it, though, there was no magic cure. Just thousands of hours of pain and confusion and hard, miserable work that awaited his friend, without even the promise of a pot of gold at the end.

     Ronnie sighed, squeezing Brandon's hand slightly more firmly, and watched as his lips twitched upwards in response, the barest hint of a smile. A few heartbeats later, he squeezed Ronnie's own hand in return and looked up from his puzzle. His eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses, a parting gift from his physical therapist to protect his eyes from bright light.

    "I'm tired," Brandon whispered, leaning his head on Ronnie's shoulder. His voice was so quiet that it was nearly entirely erased by the constant rush of air conditioning from the van's vents.

    "You can sleep, B, it's okay - just not like that, you're gonna hurt your neck. Here - " Ronnie let go of his hand and reached across his friend's slim body with a grunt, fumbling for his seatbelt and unbuckling it. "You're gonna have to turn around and lay down facing me, though, so you don't lay on top of your arm and hurt it," he added, nodding at the sling supporting Brandon's broken left shoulder blade.

    Brandon frowned, huffing quietly in consternation as he struggled to orient himself and follow the instructions. Ronnie waited a few seconds, then touched his arm gently. "Here, turn so your knees are facing the back of our seat - yeah, like that. Just like that, B. Go on, lay down - you can use me as your pillow," he said softly, patting his thighs and laying his own sweatshirt across his legs.

    Brandon carefully stretched his body out across the length of the seat and rested his head in Ronnie's lap. "Thanks, R-Ron," he mumbled, sighing in relief as he removed his sunglasses - three tries, Ronnie noted absently, watching the shaky movement of his hand - and dropped them onto the seat beside him.

    "No problem, little brother. Go to sleep," Ronnie whispered, caressing Brandon's soft, dark hair and shuddering as he touched the smooth skin of his scar, his fingertips tracing the line of his fractured skull beneath the skin.

    Way too close to that godforsaken mountain, he thought, swallowing the sour bile that rose in his throat. He fought to control his breathing as a horrible sense of déjà vu encroached on his moment with his friend and filled his heart with echoes of the lonely, terrifying night on the rainy mountain, forcing his broken friend to stay awake beyond his limits.

    In his lap, Brandon tensed and rolled slightly backwards, trying to look up at him, blinking in discomfort at the bright light of the afternoon sun. "Ron...you o-okay?" he asked quietly.