Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 68

    "Okay, ready?"

    Ronnie came to a stop outside an open door and turned, looking inquiringly down at Brandon. For his part, Brandon was arrested by the massive array of black and white keys within the room behind his friend; staring, he silently counted the erratic, fearful heartbeats thundering in his chest.

    A light touch on his bare foot startled him, and he looked down to see the grey rubber foot of Ronnie's crutch just leaving his skin, then looked up at his friend's face and watched the curious mixture of concern and mischief playing across the drummer's features.

    "Brandon. Do you wanna go in? We don't have to do this now, you know. If you wanna wait, we - "

    Brandon bit his lip and leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly unsteady, and the end of Ronnie's sentence fell away with him at once, leaving a soft, companionable silence in its place. He closed his eyes, tracing patterns into the wallpaper at his back with an idle finger, and let out his breath in a long, low exhale.

    "It's not...it's n-not that I don't w-want to. It's - It's...oh, I d-don't know," Brandon sighed, hearing his fingertips tapping his frustration into the walls as though someone else controlled his own hand, relaying a bizarre sort of Morse code.

    Ronnie was quiet, perhaps waiting to see if he would say anything more - but there was nothing left to say, only an empty, foggy space in his brain where the rest of his sentence should have been. Finally, Brandon felt a soft thump reverberate through his body as his friend dropped his weight against the wall beside him.

    "You already know you can play. Right? Isn't that half the battle - remembering the chords and shit? Now you've just gotta practice. You can do that."

    Brandon hummed, noncommittal. In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, strange and colorful, twisting shapes had begun to appear, and he begrudgingly opened his eyes and watched them fade away with a faint sense of relief.

    "Maybe."

    "Ah, sure you can, B! Hell, I wish I had progress pictures of your face that I could show you, because you're at least three times as good at shaving as you were a couple weeks ago. You're doing fucking awesome."

    Ducking his head, Brandon reached up and brushed the slashing scab on his cheekbone, below his left eye. "O-Only one - one..."

    Damn it. He curled his fingers into a fist and let his hand drop again, heard the dull thud of his skin against the wall, and sighed. The word was gone.

    "One side?"

    Brandon snorted mirthlessly, peering sideways up at Ronnie. "I...I know that w-word, Ron. I kn-know. So why...w-why can't I - "

     Again. He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the world tilt alarmingly around him as his legs abandoned their purpose and he slid down the wall at his back to sit, unwillingly, upon the floor.

    "I know, I just...d-don't know," he whispered to the glossy floorboards, the absurdity of the sentence triggering an irritating pounding within his skull. "S-Stupid."

    "Brandon, new rule - don't call yourself stupid, please."

    Soft, metallic sounds announced Ronnie's attempts to join him on the floor, but Brandon couldn't bring himself to look up at his face as he sank down before him.

    Instead, he blinked vacantly at Ronnie's crossed feet - one bright red sneaker, and one plaster cast covered in dozens of faded, colorful missives and drawings from his own children.