Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 59

    "Brandon...hey, Brandon, wake up, buddy."

    A soft, nameless voice and a gentle pressure on his shoulder rudely brought Brandon out of the darkness of sleep.

    "G'way," he groaned, fumbling blindly for the hand on his shoulder and pushing it away. This only made the voice laugh, and it whispered his name again, alive now with humor.

    "Bran, come on. Wake up. We're almost home," it whispered, and Brandon realized suddenly through the dense fog that consumed his brain that it was Ronnie's voice, but the warm feeling blooming in his stomach was snuffed out as the last word registered.

    Home. The word had lost its luster at some point; home didn't sound like a wonderful place anymore. Not like it should've been...it should've been the most glorious place in the world. Instead, a leaden weight settled in his gut at the thought of going home, bringing stirrings of nausea with it.

    "Don'wanna...don'wanna g-g'home, R-Ron," he mumbled. He curled into a smaller ball on Ronnie's lap, trying to compress himself down to nothing. "No. Don...d-don'wanna."

    Far from causing Ronnie to leave him alone, this drowsy admission only triggered another quiet chuckle, and then a gentle but insistent shaking of his shoulder.

    "We're almost home, sleepy head. Wake up, Bran."

     "S'd...said no, Ron," he snapped, covering his ear with his forearm, trying to shut out his unwelcome intrusions.

    "Brandon, come on, you get to go home! It's exciting! You haven't been home in ages! You've got to wake up!"

    An abrupt wave of irritation overcame his semi-conscious brain at Ronnie's persistent enthusiasm, and he slapped for the hand on his shoulder.

    A long hiss of pain caught his attention, cutting through the dark fog inside his head. Brandon forced his eyes open at last to see Ronnie pressing the back of his hand hard into his sweatshirt, his lips pursed, disappearing into his dark beard.

    Brandon stared, not comprehending what had happened for a moment, and then it hit him.

    "I...I hurt you," he whispered, wide eyes fixed on Ronnie's hand and the single scarlet drop of blood visible against the grey fabric of his sweatshirt. "Sorry. I'm s-s-sorry. I'm - I'm sorry."

    The drummer looked up from his hand in surprise, his eyes soft. "Brandon, come on, don't...you didn't mean to, it's alright. It's only your fingernail, you just got me a little bit. It's only a little scratch, not even as bad as a cat scratch - it's really okay, B."

    Brandon shook his head, returning his gaze to Ronnie's hand, wrapped neatly in the sweatshirt. The drop of red blood on the downy grey fabric bored into him, taunting him. A sick bubble of guilt built in his stomach at the sight.

    "No, n-no...it's - it's not o-okay, Ron. I...look, I hurt you.

    Ronnie chuckled and removed his hand from the cocoon, showing Brandon the damage - an angry red scratch, maybe an inch long, across the top of his hand near his thumb.

    "See, B? It's nothing. It's tiny. You've seen my hands after shows, you know I can handle way worse than this, right? I'll be fine. I promise. And I'm not mad at you, so you're not allowed to be mad at yourself. Okay?"

    Brandon reached out to touch Ronnie's hand, feeling the delicate, papery skin near the cut. But I hurt him. I did that. He sighed, pulling his own hand away and closing his eyes, pressing his palm hard into his eyelids for a moment.