Four Brothers: a Bang and a Clatter.
Title: A Bang and a Clatter
Author: pax_morgana
Rating: PG-13 for (really vulgar) language and drug use
Fandom: Four Brothers
Pairing: None
Wordcount: 548
Notes: Title and lyrics are from "Stay (faraway, so close)" originally by U2, though the only version I know is Flyleaf's cover. Pre-film speculationfic inspired by the prompt/parameters of "write for 10 minutes; male character; back-alley deal". I wrote for much longer than 10 minutes (closer to an hour) and it's not really any good, but it's my first Four Brothers fic. Be gentle.
"You got it?" It's dark, the middle of the night. You speak in hushed voices, bodies pressed close. Looking over your shoulder for anyone else, you breath into your cupped hands; it's freezing outside.
"Yeah, I got it. You got money?" The other voice is hoarse: a smoker, a drinker. You reach into your pocket, pull out a wad of stolen bills. A nod of approval, and an exchange is made: a tiny plastic baggie for your cash. It isn't nearly the amount you paid for, but you don't care. You need a fix, and you need it now. You feel the sweat rising on your neck, the trembles wracking your frame. He's gone in minutes, back to the shadows from whence he'd come (you never know how he finds you, but you never ask).
You run back to your house, where everything is dark except the TV, but that doesn't worry you. Your foster-brothers always leave it on, even though their mother constantly scolds them about it. As quietly as you can, you open the door - Evelyn doesn't believe in locking it; she trusts everyone - and slip up the stairs. You don't see your oldest brother on the sofa, watching you go, so when he calls your name, you nearly fall.
"Jack! Where the fuck you been, you little fairy?" You turn around, try to slip the stash into your back pocket, but he sees. You watch as his eyes darken, and he stands up.
"B-Bobby, I -" you stammer, but you're too nervous and not quick enough. He's there, and his knuckles have imprinted themselves in your jaw.
"You got drugs, you little faggot? You bringin' drugs into my mama's house?!" He hits you again, and again, and one more time before you start to cry.
"Please, Bobby, I didn't -"
"Shut the fuck up! Did I ask you to speak?" You whimper, and he hits you again. Blood fills your mouth and you nearly swallow one of your own teeth. Then, the sound of footsteps hammering down the stairs.
"Bobby, what the hell you doin', man? You crazy?" You recognize the voice as Jeremiah, the second of your three older foster-brothers. Bobby manages to get one more punch in before Jerry pulls him off of you. You cower at the sight of Bobby's furious expression as he spits at you.
"Little cunt's got drugs. Drugs, Jerry," he snarls, wresting himself from Jerry's grip. "Even I ain't that bad. Mama don't need no addicts under her roof." When Jeremiah coaxes Bobby down the stairs and away into the kitchen, you take the opportunity to scramble up to your room. You lock the door behind you and grab the nearest dirty t-shirt to mop up the blood on your face before you get out your things. With shaky hands, you cut a line; it hurts to draw up the coke into your nostril, but you need it, need it so bad it's worth the sting. At least Bobby didn't break your nose. The ensuing high is almost good enough to make you forget about the pain, so you curl up on your bed and sleep. You stay dressed - that way, it'll be easier in the morning when they kick you out.