(no subject)
Title: It'll Be Okay
Pairing: Angus Young/Malcolm Young
Author: heartless_day
Warning/s: slash, incestuous content
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Never happened for all we know, no profit is being made, and is pure fiction.
A/N: I'm not going to lie. This has been in my head for a while. >___________> I love you all, don't kill me. <3
I found the box beneath the bed and I'd forgotten I'd ever put it there; it must've been years ago, when I was still a kid, still young.
I'm not anymore. If we really only have a hundred years to live, I've already well passed the halfway mark.
I'd been passing through the old town, reminiscing slightly as I remembered Margaret had called earlier and said they were selling the old place. Well, not really selling as they were turning the building into some kind of museum or memorial where people could come and visit and see where we grew up. They just needed my consent. They would've needed our consent had it been a few years earlier, but that time had passed...
(He was smoking when the doctors showed him the x-rays, his lungs darkened over in what looked like some sort of black paste that had, only a few months before, been a dark spot. It'd grown, flourishing and the look on his face was rather blank, as if he didn't understand what he was seeing, as if he didn't want to. I still remember when they'd told him there was nothing left that they could do, that it'd progressed too far, how the cigarette had fallen from his lips and to the floor and the nurse had picked it up, pushed it out with her thumb and tossed it aside.
They'd apologized and I wasn't sure if he'd heard it or not, just kept staring at the x-rays for a long while before he suddenly dug into his pocket and pulled out another smoke, lit it up and walked out without another word. I ran out after him, apologizing to the doctor and only caught up to him by the time he'd already gotten himself belted in the car.
He was quiet for a long while and all of a sudden he reached over and dragged the steering wheel toward him, pulling us off the road and I jammed my foot on the brake, putting it in park and as soon as we were still, he burst into tears.)
“You touch anythin' yet?” I asked and the contractor, an overweight, rather burly looking man in a yellow cap with and over bright orange vest, shakes his head, spitting tobacco at my feet. Charming.
“Nee-ope.” He says, chewing loudly and opens the door for me and I step inside. It was like walking into a memory and a new world at the same time. The last time I'd been here was over fives years ago; mum had insisted on a peaceful last few days in the house and all of us, all nine, had come home to wait out her passing. Nothing seemed to have been touched, the furniture in all the right places, nothing moved. It was like time had stopped and I was stuck inside of it.
It took me a while to get past the front threshold of the porch, looking about quietly; things felt strangely familiar and yet so foreign. I sat down on the old couch in the corner for a long while, chin in my hand as I just surveyed the room. In my mind's eye, I could see my father beside me, George chasing Alex around the house for whatever he'd stolen that day and from where I sat, I could see through the kitchen doorway and from there, I could see Margaret on her tiptoes as she tried to help our mother cook dinner. I could see Malcolm (Oh god I miss you...) coming down the stairs, or coming through the door, a soccer ball under his arm, or a girl in his hand.
It almost hurt to look at.
(“You should try something, anything.” I remember O'Linda saying and he'd shaken his head. He'd made well clear he wasn't going to do anything because already, at this point, there was nothing left to be done. She was angry, she was upset and sad and she'd cried, yanking at her hair and screaming at him before breaking down and sobbing against him. I'd sat aside, trying not to watch but could see it whether or not I'd looked away or closed my eyes and it really became too vivid when their kids were brought into the picture, both with wide eyes and horrified expressions when they learned of the fate their father was choosing.
Father's aren't supposed to die. They're not supposed to go. They're supposed to stay, to protect you, to be the shoulder you needed to cry on, be the one to count on, to listen to, to love you forever.
I don't think I'd ever seen a sadder scene until that moment and I shifted uncomfortable, my throat already thick with tears I refused to let spill over. I was strong, I could handle this and I'd be there for him, like a good brother should always be...
I'd left later that night, or, at least, I'd tried to. I'd said my goodbyes when the others had retired and when I got into my car, my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't get the key in the ignition. And at that point I was mentally tearing myself apart (You can't cry, not yet, go home, get into bed, you can cry then). But I couldn't hold it in and I gripped the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles turned white, my forehead pressed to the ridge of it as I cried, trying to muffle the noises, gagging on them as I tried to prevent them.
It wasn't until I felt the car shift slightly, the passenger side door slamming, did I look up and he was suddenly in the seat beside me, looking at me, dark eyes sad. I think he wanted to apologize but what was there to apologize for? And what words were there? What could you say to someone, what could you say back, when they were slipping through your fingers?
We found there was nothing to say, especially when we leaned across the seats, our lips connecting in a feverish kiss. I tangled my hands in his hair, feeling through it, the very scent of him suddenly so much stronger than I noticed over the years and as our tongues delved in against each other, I wanted to curl around him, wrap up tight, to sink beneath his skin, get as close as I possibly could and he held me, chin on my shoulder as I buried my face into his chest and cried when I couldn't...)
It was a slow walk through the hallway to the stairs and I stopped at the bottom, bending down and fingering the indent on the bottom one, the scratches and scuff still plainly visible even after the thirty, forty or so years since there had been children of all ages running up and down them. I stood, taking my first step and the stair creaked beneath my weight, the other following in suite, as well as the floor when I came to the top, pausing as another hallway stretched out before me.
I put a hand to the wall, fingers tracing over it as I stepped further, looking to the floor and following the jagged cuts into the wood before my hand met air and I slipped, trying to catch my balance on the frame of the open door, only to tumble to the floor---and that's when I saw it. Groaning, I'd rolled onto my stomach, noticing the dark figure beneath the bed and I'd crawled forward, snatching it out and looking around before I opened it. This had been my room, his room, our room.
I shifted the box a few times in my hands. An old sneaker box, something sporting a logo I hadn't seen in ages and I'm pretty sure had once held Malcolm's (It still hurts to think about you...) cleats for the many years of soccer he participated in. He shook it, pressing a side to my ear and listening. Things clattered about inside and I set it down in front of me, hesitant when I reached out and popped up the lid...
(The last time we made love was exactly five weeks from the day he would collapse in his kitchen and never wake up again.
We'd taken a drive out to the southern beaches of Perth, losing ourselves to the night sky and dimming horizon when he'd told me to pull over and I had and he pushed, with obvious effort in his face, from the car and came to my side, helping me out. You could see it ravaging him already. He'd grown thinner, his face impossibly pale most of the time and his hands shook continuously now...
He'd taken his hand in mine as we climbed the guardrail over to the slope of sand that gave way beneath out feet as we climbed down before meeting more solid ground, the ocean washing up over our feet as it climbed higher with each passing moment.
“Do you still love me?” He asked that a lot lately and when I asked why when he'd asked me the first time, when everything had first started to take effect, he asked if I always would.
“Of course I do.” When he'd asked the second time, I'd asked why again and he just smiled when he repeated it and I said yes. When he asked the third time, I didn't respond until he told me and by the time I did respond, he seemed almost frantic to hear me.
“Do you still love me?”
“I always have.”
“You can love someone who looks like me?” That's what it had been. He was more scared about turning into a monster, some kind of beast I wouldn't recognize, and I would stop loving him than he was of actually dying.
“I'll love you no matter what.”
“I don't want to leave you alone.” I think that hurt the most because to know he feared more for me than he did myself made my own heart tug.
“And I don't want to be left alone.”
“I'm sorry...”
“Me too,” I said quietly and I could see the pain in his face; I took our interlocked fingers, kissing each one, “That we don't have more time.” Something broke in his eyes when I looked into them but I only saw the shatter before the lids fluttered shut and he kissed me, pressing me into the sand and the rest was history left only to be witnessed by the stars, the moon and the rising tide...)
Pictures. That's what was inside. Pictures. Hundreds of them. Small. Large. Close ups. Far away. Blurry. Intense. Funny. Sweet. Absent. Dull. Bright. So many pictures, so many. Some were banded together in stacks, held together by elastic ties. Others flowed freely about the bottom in a messy compilation and I started there, dragging out a few in a handful and putting them together, flipping through them like a stack of cards.
(“Here, we'll put them in this box and save 'em.” “We gotta hide 'em?” “We can't let anyone see these Ang.” “Why not? I think we look cute.” “People'll think we're freaks.” “Well, people already think I'm a freak, so what's the biggie?” “Ang...just put 'em in the box and hide 'em there, okay?” “...Okay...”)
I paused on one. It was the both of us. I'm not sure who took it but it was dated 'Christmas Eve '65' and it was the two of us asleep. I may not know who took the picture, but I remember that Christmas well; George had taken the other bed seeing as Stevie who normally slept on the couch downstairs, needed a place to be for the night and was given George's room while he shared with us. Him and I had been cramped onto the bed and obviously, I'm going to guess it was our mother, snatched the photo opportunity, catching the two of us practically entangled limb for limb with each other.
I remember waking up the morning after being shoved off the bed, the big brotherly sigh of “Dude, what the fuck?” in my ear as I went down.
I shuffled through again, taking the elastic away from one stack and they fell out into my lap. I splayed them out, a smile dancing across my face as I flipped through them, one right after the other---and I stopped once more. It was us again and I felt a twinge in my heart, my hands shaking slightly as I looked over the picture, the smile still pasted across my face suddenly becoming painful...
(I remember hoping he'd wake up or that I would and this would all be a bad dream but as time chugged along steadily, the heartbeat I remember listening to in beds scattered about the world growing weaker, I knew it wasn't. I remember sitting there, and I remember my head hurting because I was trying to remember the last thing I said to him and I wouldn't know until after he was gone (“Birthday's in a few weeks.” “God, don't remind me. Just means I'm not getting any younger.” “You want anything?” “Nah, not really. I think I'll spend it in bed napping. Haven't done that in years.” “You never had a reason to...” “...yeah, I know.” “...You want anything?” “You.” “Mal...” “Just trying to lighten the mood. Don't kill it.” “Ah god, I love you.” “Ha, I love you too.”).
O'Linda tried to send me home.
“Go home. Get some rest. I'll let you know about any progress.”
“No. I'll stay.” She seemed angry almost, as if she thought herself to be the only one deserving enough to be in that room, when in reality, she might as well have been the least.
I got to hold his hand in the last few moments.
There was that slow, monotonous beeping, the EKG machine pattering on a slow pace that just seemed to get slower, each rise of the pulsing line arching less higher. Each breath he took was shallow, almost painful as I could hear it scratching against his throat, his lungs rattling with it. He was in pain, awake or not, I could see it etched in the fine lines of his face, in the crease in his forehead and part of me wondered if he knew where he was, what was happening to him...if I was there beside him.
“It's okay.” I said. I wanted him to know it was okay because, even if I wasn't okay, I wanted him to know he was. I reached out, his hand thing, fragile, scarily pale in my own; I could see knobs of his knuckles in each finger and that's when the tears burned at my eyes, when his features grew blurry. I bent in and, like on that last night I was able to hold him bare flesh to my own, I kissed each finger, giving his hand a squeeze and again, part of me wondered if he could feel it.
“It's okay to let go Mal, I'll be fine,” My voice cracked on the last bit, my throat constricting tightly as I tried to force more words out, “Everything'll be okay. The kids'll be okay. I promise O'Linda will be alright.” I think I was half trying to soothe myself, force myself to let go, just as much as I was trying to let him drift off in return.
“We'll all be okay. You can go Mal, you can go...”
I'll never know, but seconds before the machine gave way, the beeping slowly flattening to a dull hum, I think I felt his hand tighten around mine...)
We had a strange tradition, when the storms got too loud, when our parents argued too much, Malcolm (It's okay to let go...) and I would hide away in the closet, the door locked tight behind us and we'd sit beneath the rack of clothes and we'd talk about anything. Anything at all, anything that came to mind, it didn't matter...
He'd been the one who found the camera buried in the back. Alex had gotten into photography a few years back and he'd given up after a failed semester in college on it, leaving the expensive items that had cost their parents miniature fortunes to buy. (“Hey Ang, look at this.” “What is it?” “It's Al's old cam.” “Why's it in here?” “I dunno. Probably no where to stash shit anywhere else.” “Does it still work?” “Hmmm, let's find out. C'mere.”)
The picture was held up at an angle above the two of them and off to the side, you could see the rising slope of Malcolm's (Everyone will be fine...) arm as he held it up. My own face; I laugh as I look at it. Tongue out, winking, fingers curled into horns above my head. Malcolm's (I promise, it's okay...) got his lips pressed to my cheek, eyes on the camera. It's slightly blurred although whether from jerking movement or a bad concentration on the objects in front of it, I'm not sure.
I stare at it for a long time and the smile, the twinge, slowly becomes less painful until it's almost a warm glow. My cheek tingles and I let my fingers graze over it before I pocket the picture in the back of my jeans. I pick up the box, hugging it close to my chest as I take one last gander inside before closing the lid and propping it beneath my arm and retracing my steps back out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs and back through the living room, pausing only a few seconds more as if to capture the last of the memories I'd left behind there.
The burly construction man is still at the door, talking with a few others as I step through it, nodding at them. He notices the box.
“You takin' that with ya?”
“Do I need a permit?”
“Nah, I don't care.”
“Alright then, you take care.”
“Hey, uh, my son's a big fan, will ya sign...uh...” He fumbled a moment before taking off his hat, pulling out the marker from his breast pocket and holds it out, “My hat?” I can't help but laugh as I nod and do so before he thanks me, turning back to his work and I head back to the car. I push the box into the passenger seat, leaning back as I light up a smoke, watching the house for a moment before I start up the car, letting it warm as I fish through my back pocket and pull out the picture. I attach it to my overhead mirror, smiling slightly as I trace my thumb over our faces...
(It's okay to let go. Everything'll be okay, I promise...)
Because even if I'm not okay, I made a promise, and I will be.
Pairing: Angus Young/Malcolm Young
Author: heartless_day
Warning/s: slash, incestuous content
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Never happened for all we know, no profit is being made, and is pure fiction.
A/N: I'm not going to lie. This has been in my head for a while. >___________> I love you all, don't kill me. <3
I found the box beneath the bed and I'd forgotten I'd ever put it there; it must've been years ago, when I was still a kid, still young.
I'm not anymore. If we really only have a hundred years to live, I've already well passed the halfway mark.
I'd been passing through the old town, reminiscing slightly as I remembered Margaret had called earlier and said they were selling the old place. Well, not really selling as they were turning the building into some kind of museum or memorial where people could come and visit and see where we grew up. They just needed my consent. They would've needed our consent had it been a few years earlier, but that time had passed...
(He was smoking when the doctors showed him the x-rays, his lungs darkened over in what looked like some sort of black paste that had, only a few months before, been a dark spot. It'd grown, flourishing and the look on his face was rather blank, as if he didn't understand what he was seeing, as if he didn't want to. I still remember when they'd told him there was nothing left that they could do, that it'd progressed too far, how the cigarette had fallen from his lips and to the floor and the nurse had picked it up, pushed it out with her thumb and tossed it aside.
They'd apologized and I wasn't sure if he'd heard it or not, just kept staring at the x-rays for a long while before he suddenly dug into his pocket and pulled out another smoke, lit it up and walked out without another word. I ran out after him, apologizing to the doctor and only caught up to him by the time he'd already gotten himself belted in the car.
He was quiet for a long while and all of a sudden he reached over and dragged the steering wheel toward him, pulling us off the road and I jammed my foot on the brake, putting it in park and as soon as we were still, he burst into tears.)
“You touch anythin' yet?” I asked and the contractor, an overweight, rather burly looking man in a yellow cap with and over bright orange vest, shakes his head, spitting tobacco at my feet. Charming.
“Nee-ope.” He says, chewing loudly and opens the door for me and I step inside. It was like walking into a memory and a new world at the same time. The last time I'd been here was over fives years ago; mum had insisted on a peaceful last few days in the house and all of us, all nine, had come home to wait out her passing. Nothing seemed to have been touched, the furniture in all the right places, nothing moved. It was like time had stopped and I was stuck inside of it.
It took me a while to get past the front threshold of the porch, looking about quietly; things felt strangely familiar and yet so foreign. I sat down on the old couch in the corner for a long while, chin in my hand as I just surveyed the room. In my mind's eye, I could see my father beside me, George chasing Alex around the house for whatever he'd stolen that day and from where I sat, I could see through the kitchen doorway and from there, I could see Margaret on her tiptoes as she tried to help our mother cook dinner. I could see Malcolm (Oh god I miss you...) coming down the stairs, or coming through the door, a soccer ball under his arm, or a girl in his hand.
It almost hurt to look at.
(“You should try something, anything.” I remember O'Linda saying and he'd shaken his head. He'd made well clear he wasn't going to do anything because already, at this point, there was nothing left to be done. She was angry, she was upset and sad and she'd cried, yanking at her hair and screaming at him before breaking down and sobbing against him. I'd sat aside, trying not to watch but could see it whether or not I'd looked away or closed my eyes and it really became too vivid when their kids were brought into the picture, both with wide eyes and horrified expressions when they learned of the fate their father was choosing.
Father's aren't supposed to die. They're not supposed to go. They're supposed to stay, to protect you, to be the shoulder you needed to cry on, be the one to count on, to listen to, to love you forever.
I don't think I'd ever seen a sadder scene until that moment and I shifted uncomfortable, my throat already thick with tears I refused to let spill over. I was strong, I could handle this and I'd be there for him, like a good brother should always be...
I'd left later that night, or, at least, I'd tried to. I'd said my goodbyes when the others had retired and when I got into my car, my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't get the key in the ignition. And at that point I was mentally tearing myself apart (You can't cry, not yet, go home, get into bed, you can cry then). But I couldn't hold it in and I gripped the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles turned white, my forehead pressed to the ridge of it as I cried, trying to muffle the noises, gagging on them as I tried to prevent them.
It wasn't until I felt the car shift slightly, the passenger side door slamming, did I look up and he was suddenly in the seat beside me, looking at me, dark eyes sad. I think he wanted to apologize but what was there to apologize for? And what words were there? What could you say to someone, what could you say back, when they were slipping through your fingers?
We found there was nothing to say, especially when we leaned across the seats, our lips connecting in a feverish kiss. I tangled my hands in his hair, feeling through it, the very scent of him suddenly so much stronger than I noticed over the years and as our tongues delved in against each other, I wanted to curl around him, wrap up tight, to sink beneath his skin, get as close as I possibly could and he held me, chin on my shoulder as I buried my face into his chest and cried when I couldn't...)
It was a slow walk through the hallway to the stairs and I stopped at the bottom, bending down and fingering the indent on the bottom one, the scratches and scuff still plainly visible even after the thirty, forty or so years since there had been children of all ages running up and down them. I stood, taking my first step and the stair creaked beneath my weight, the other following in suite, as well as the floor when I came to the top, pausing as another hallway stretched out before me.
I put a hand to the wall, fingers tracing over it as I stepped further, looking to the floor and following the jagged cuts into the wood before my hand met air and I slipped, trying to catch my balance on the frame of the open door, only to tumble to the floor---and that's when I saw it. Groaning, I'd rolled onto my stomach, noticing the dark figure beneath the bed and I'd crawled forward, snatching it out and looking around before I opened it. This had been my room, his room, our room.
I shifted the box a few times in my hands. An old sneaker box, something sporting a logo I hadn't seen in ages and I'm pretty sure had once held Malcolm's (It still hurts to think about you...) cleats for the many years of soccer he participated in. He shook it, pressing a side to my ear and listening. Things clattered about inside and I set it down in front of me, hesitant when I reached out and popped up the lid...
(The last time we made love was exactly five weeks from the day he would collapse in his kitchen and never wake up again.
We'd taken a drive out to the southern beaches of Perth, losing ourselves to the night sky and dimming horizon when he'd told me to pull over and I had and he pushed, with obvious effort in his face, from the car and came to my side, helping me out. You could see it ravaging him already. He'd grown thinner, his face impossibly pale most of the time and his hands shook continuously now...
He'd taken his hand in mine as we climbed the guardrail over to the slope of sand that gave way beneath out feet as we climbed down before meeting more solid ground, the ocean washing up over our feet as it climbed higher with each passing moment.
“Do you still love me?” He asked that a lot lately and when I asked why when he'd asked me the first time, when everything had first started to take effect, he asked if I always would.
“Of course I do.” When he'd asked the second time, I'd asked why again and he just smiled when he repeated it and I said yes. When he asked the third time, I didn't respond until he told me and by the time I did respond, he seemed almost frantic to hear me.
“Do you still love me?”
“I always have.”
“You can love someone who looks like me?” That's what it had been. He was more scared about turning into a monster, some kind of beast I wouldn't recognize, and I would stop loving him than he was of actually dying.
“I'll love you no matter what.”
“I don't want to leave you alone.” I think that hurt the most because to know he feared more for me than he did myself made my own heart tug.
“And I don't want to be left alone.”
“I'm sorry...”
“Me too,” I said quietly and I could see the pain in his face; I took our interlocked fingers, kissing each one, “That we don't have more time.” Something broke in his eyes when I looked into them but I only saw the shatter before the lids fluttered shut and he kissed me, pressing me into the sand and the rest was history left only to be witnessed by the stars, the moon and the rising tide...)
Pictures. That's what was inside. Pictures. Hundreds of them. Small. Large. Close ups. Far away. Blurry. Intense. Funny. Sweet. Absent. Dull. Bright. So many pictures, so many. Some were banded together in stacks, held together by elastic ties. Others flowed freely about the bottom in a messy compilation and I started there, dragging out a few in a handful and putting them together, flipping through them like a stack of cards.
(“Here, we'll put them in this box and save 'em.” “We gotta hide 'em?” “We can't let anyone see these Ang.” “Why not? I think we look cute.” “People'll think we're freaks.” “Well, people already think I'm a freak, so what's the biggie?” “Ang...just put 'em in the box and hide 'em there, okay?” “...Okay...”)
I paused on one. It was the both of us. I'm not sure who took it but it was dated 'Christmas Eve '65' and it was the two of us asleep. I may not know who took the picture, but I remember that Christmas well; George had taken the other bed seeing as Stevie who normally slept on the couch downstairs, needed a place to be for the night and was given George's room while he shared with us. Him and I had been cramped onto the bed and obviously, I'm going to guess it was our mother, snatched the photo opportunity, catching the two of us practically entangled limb for limb with each other.
I remember waking up the morning after being shoved off the bed, the big brotherly sigh of “Dude, what the fuck?” in my ear as I went down.
I shuffled through again, taking the elastic away from one stack and they fell out into my lap. I splayed them out, a smile dancing across my face as I flipped through them, one right after the other---and I stopped once more. It was us again and I felt a twinge in my heart, my hands shaking slightly as I looked over the picture, the smile still pasted across my face suddenly becoming painful...
(I remember hoping he'd wake up or that I would and this would all be a bad dream but as time chugged along steadily, the heartbeat I remember listening to in beds scattered about the world growing weaker, I knew it wasn't. I remember sitting there, and I remember my head hurting because I was trying to remember the last thing I said to him and I wouldn't know until after he was gone (“Birthday's in a few weeks.” “God, don't remind me. Just means I'm not getting any younger.” “You want anything?” “Nah, not really. I think I'll spend it in bed napping. Haven't done that in years.” “You never had a reason to...” “...yeah, I know.” “...You want anything?” “You.” “Mal...” “Just trying to lighten the mood. Don't kill it.” “Ah god, I love you.” “Ha, I love you too.”).
O'Linda tried to send me home.
“Go home. Get some rest. I'll let you know about any progress.”
“No. I'll stay.” She seemed angry almost, as if she thought herself to be the only one deserving enough to be in that room, when in reality, she might as well have been the least.
I got to hold his hand in the last few moments.
There was that slow, monotonous beeping, the EKG machine pattering on a slow pace that just seemed to get slower, each rise of the pulsing line arching less higher. Each breath he took was shallow, almost painful as I could hear it scratching against his throat, his lungs rattling with it. He was in pain, awake or not, I could see it etched in the fine lines of his face, in the crease in his forehead and part of me wondered if he knew where he was, what was happening to him...if I was there beside him.
“It's okay.” I said. I wanted him to know it was okay because, even if I wasn't okay, I wanted him to know he was. I reached out, his hand thing, fragile, scarily pale in my own; I could see knobs of his knuckles in each finger and that's when the tears burned at my eyes, when his features grew blurry. I bent in and, like on that last night I was able to hold him bare flesh to my own, I kissed each finger, giving his hand a squeeze and again, part of me wondered if he could feel it.
“It's okay to let go Mal, I'll be fine,” My voice cracked on the last bit, my throat constricting tightly as I tried to force more words out, “Everything'll be okay. The kids'll be okay. I promise O'Linda will be alright.” I think I was half trying to soothe myself, force myself to let go, just as much as I was trying to let him drift off in return.
“We'll all be okay. You can go Mal, you can go...”
I'll never know, but seconds before the machine gave way, the beeping slowly flattening to a dull hum, I think I felt his hand tighten around mine...)
We had a strange tradition, when the storms got too loud, when our parents argued too much, Malcolm (It's okay to let go...) and I would hide away in the closet, the door locked tight behind us and we'd sit beneath the rack of clothes and we'd talk about anything. Anything at all, anything that came to mind, it didn't matter...
He'd been the one who found the camera buried in the back. Alex had gotten into photography a few years back and he'd given up after a failed semester in college on it, leaving the expensive items that had cost their parents miniature fortunes to buy. (“Hey Ang, look at this.” “What is it?” “It's Al's old cam.” “Why's it in here?” “I dunno. Probably no where to stash shit anywhere else.” “Does it still work?” “Hmmm, let's find out. C'mere.”)
The picture was held up at an angle above the two of them and off to the side, you could see the rising slope of Malcolm's (Everyone will be fine...) arm as he held it up. My own face; I laugh as I look at it. Tongue out, winking, fingers curled into horns above my head. Malcolm's (I promise, it's okay...) got his lips pressed to my cheek, eyes on the camera. It's slightly blurred although whether from jerking movement or a bad concentration on the objects in front of it, I'm not sure.
I stare at it for a long time and the smile, the twinge, slowly becomes less painful until it's almost a warm glow. My cheek tingles and I let my fingers graze over it before I pocket the picture in the back of my jeans. I pick up the box, hugging it close to my chest as I take one last gander inside before closing the lid and propping it beneath my arm and retracing my steps back out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs and back through the living room, pausing only a few seconds more as if to capture the last of the memories I'd left behind there.
The burly construction man is still at the door, talking with a few others as I step through it, nodding at them. He notices the box.
“You takin' that with ya?”
“Do I need a permit?”
“Nah, I don't care.”
“Alright then, you take care.”
“Hey, uh, my son's a big fan, will ya sign...uh...” He fumbled a moment before taking off his hat, pulling out the marker from his breast pocket and holds it out, “My hat?” I can't help but laugh as I nod and do so before he thanks me, turning back to his work and I head back to the car. I push the box into the passenger seat, leaning back as I light up a smoke, watching the house for a moment before I start up the car, letting it warm as I fish through my back pocket and pull out the picture. I attach it to my overhead mirror, smiling slightly as I trace my thumb over our faces...
(It's okay to let go. Everything'll be okay, I promise...)
Because even if I'm not okay, I made a promise, and I will be.