early april, late march ; duke&av blitz
Apr 6, 2024 21:55:34 GMT -5
Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Apr 6, 2024 21:55:34 GMT -5
Avriel wants to be good for Duke.
He wants to be the big brother that he deserves, but it's taken so long for him to even get to a place where he's able to see himself as deserving too. Maybe it'll never happen. Maybe the best he can hope for is pleasant conversations over the phone every now and then.
It's so strange. Everything they grew up was brought over to Victor's Village the moment Avriel won. Their mom's old record player is still in the living room and the grandfather clock in the hall was their grandfather's. Sometimes it's like he lives in a museum. All these memories are tied to them, they sit at the back of Avriel's mouth, waiting.
"I-" he falters in trying to answer Duke's non-question.
He carries a lot of regret for such a short-lived life. There's a lot to be sorry for. Av squeezes his eyes shut, sorting it all into different categories, all of the things he wish he'd done better for Duke. When he thinks back on it, he knows intellectually that he was just a kid too but it doesn't make it any better. His brother had to grow up without their parents, then without him and Billie and nothing he says or does will ever fix that.
"Yeah I remember them," he says quietly, "Had to go when one tore Dad's best shirt to shreds."
There's a prickling behind his eyes, an overwhelming wave of warmth and ever aching fear that even with this phone call, his brother is only getting further and further out of reach. That old heavy feeling crawls onto his chest, slips its claws into his skin, it's a sharp pain, It makes it hard to speak.
He laughs a little when Duke quotes his friends but it's a little strained. He can still smell the cherry pie and the iron scent of blood. It blends together, the pine trees in the arena, the dirt, the scent of rot and torn flesh and dying breaths, it all becomes one big thing. Av doesn't know how to explain all of it to anyone, not even Eden who knows so much, it's all so big.
"I don't," he argues, voice higher in his protest, "Duke, you're my little brother, I know what kind of person you are, I bet you still save snails off the sidewalk."
He pauses, hand opening and closing, teeth pressing together, there are too many things in his pockets, he has to reach down and pull keys, a pen, a lighter, a pocket tool out, he has to sit up to do it. They clatter onto the roof and slide down into the gutter.
"I buy your school photos every year. Didn't know if that was okay but I had to. Had to watch you grow up."
He puts his face in his free hand and squeezes gently until he feels his cheekbone beneath his thumb.
"I love you, you know? I love you."