A thick dark wood, just off the edge of civilization, the dark shape in the peripheral of society, flitting just beside it, invisible unless looked at directly. A path only known to the ones who traverse it wound through the blanket of dead leaves and moss, the thick underbrush gnarled with barbs, heavy with shadow that thrived in the forest, creeping. It pulsed like the heart of the trees themselves, soaking everything in life within itself, absorbing the rays of light through the canopy of the trees above until it filtered down to the earth where it laid like an old forgotten dream, a childhood memory lingering on the edge of oblivion, still warm, still vital.
Off the side of this trail, untraversable by the common lost hiker, sat an overgrown shack, decrepit and warped, with missing planks. Despite this, there was something orderly about it, the untamed nature around it only seemed to regard it in idle appreciation, unwilling to encroach into its territory.
The air was still as though even the wind was too afraid to disturb the small cabin in its wild garden. From the window a light buzzed from electric lamps, illuminating the small table within, a set of cutlery tinkering lightly against the cheap, battered tin cups and plates, the sounds soft and nearly lost in the silence, the rustle of a pages turning being the only other audible sound save for the deep, occasional sigh of someone not quite perturbed.
Two young men sat at the table, one decently sized, easily at six foot, and dark, scraggly cropped hair matched style with the scars marring his face and bare arms, his presence giving off an air of controlled chaos. The figure across from him radiated nothing but the black sludge ooze of depression, unwashed and untrimmed curls tangled in front of deep set eyes, face sallow and thin with lips twisted in a grim line, not like they even had the energy to scowl at this point.
The taller of the two nudged a plate forward at the figure to break him out of his stupor.
"Get some food and get your head out of your ass. Just 'cuz you feel like shit don't give you an excuse to lay around like this." He mumbled. The words didn't seem harsh or demeaning; if anything there was a certain tone of care behind them but they still sounded foreign coming out of a mouth that was clearly more used to slinging threats and bawdy orders.
A skinny, slightly crooked finger twitched forward over the smooth wood to flip a page in the newspaper.
"Not hungry." Raphael's voice came out sounding cracked and hoarse, the disuse and lump in his throat nearly impossible to swallow.
"Suit yourself." Michael shrugged, not hesitating to gather a large portion on his plate for himself, showing his teeth when the other peered over the top of the paper to gaze at his food instead of reading whatever trash he had in his grasp. He only read it to practice, anyway, he rarely absorbed the content unless a headline interested him.
Slumping back and folding the corner of the pages down to half, he sat it down, a hollow look in his gaze. "She called me twenty times this week. Landline was bad idea. My ears are wilting."
"So quit pickin' up. You don't gotta entertain that broad." Michael replied through a full mouth, not looking away from his plate.
"Broad?"
"Uh, woman."
"Huh."
They sat quietly for a while, only punctured by the scrape of a fork on the cheap tin surface. After so long hiding in this dilapidated cabin, the silence had the quality of family dog lounging comfortably in the dark dusk of an autumn day, the crickets only just starting to flitter back to life after the oppressive heat of mid day. The cabin had a certain stale must to it, the kind where the corners are dark and thick from sitting closed up and unmoving, the air swirling like syrup through the open door from a figure carrying a basket of laundered sheets that were hung outside. He dropped the basket on the upturned wooden crate that did duty as a coffee table in the center of the room and shook himself out, like he had just escaped the icy clutches of death itself.
"Ugh. I gotta start going to the laundromat again." He mumbled mostly to himself. His brothers weren't always the most talkative, mainly because one of them wasn't too keen to talk to anyone, generally, or even attempt human interaction unless forced. The other wasn't what he would call a socialite but that may have been because he wasn't accustomed to social niceties in the first place.
"You ain't going out there just to wash them damn clothes, Azrael," Michael called out, setting his plate down with a clatter. A familiar tension between the two every time they shared the same space. "Just stop being a bum and wash 'em yourself."
Azrael sat down heavily in the rickety folding chair adjacent to him, a hand pushing his mass of dark curls back off of his sweat-slicked forehead. "Oh, fuck off, Mike, I already run errands all the time."
"Yeah and it's gonna be your own damn fault when you get us all skinned alive because you start going into town all the time for no damn reason," the eldest snapped in response. "Even goin' down the the store would draw the wrong eyes, but I'mma let you make that choice. Personally, I wanna keep my hide, ya know."
Azrael just rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers idly along the slick tabletop. In the calm quiet of the cabin, a mosquito began to drone lazily, bumping itself on the glass of the lantern and rolling lazily about.
"You and Chamuel have been able to go into town to get supplies. I ain't been back to the city in weeks."
"We aren't as noticeable. People notice you."
Michael's face darkened subtly under the marring on it, but they let the subject rest with a simmer of resentment on both ends. It was petty and stupid and ridiculous but they could never settle the resentment one had for the other.
Raphael had long taken to trying to drown out the two of them as they began their usual spats. Now that it was evening, they would probably start in on squabbling over the sleeping arrangements and with a groan, the one resting at the table lifted himself stiffly, a pallor gripping him as he drew himself up to go to the back of the house, shoulders bunching and clenching at the sound of the other two raising their voices to each other.
Stepping inside the tiny kitchenette that only served to showcase the filth of the rest of the house, he began the arduous process of scrounging about, searching for his usual and much-needed breakfast, for anything to rid his mind of clarity. He shuffled back and forth in the dimly lit abyss of the cupboards, digging uselessly through the dry goods with bare hands like the frantic movements could somehow magically change the mundane nature of what was readily available.
He tugged his hair with frustration and thumped his head heavily against the ancient wooden surface as his fingers encountered something cold, hard and round, quickly recognizing the familiar shape of a bottle, quickly pulling it out like a desert wanderer stumbled upon a pot of gold.
Raphael turned the glass over in his hand as he regarded the dirty and faded label in the diffuse lamp light that washed in from the adjoined room. He licked his lips slowly in thought, unsure whether his desperation and boredom had outweighed his nausea. He hadn't even heard the front door close as he began to methodically twist the cap off the glass, body tensed as though the alcohol was going to start spitting like a cobra and bite him as he opened it. Once exposed, it was quick to make contact with his lips, swallowing its burning liquid contents down greedily as Michael's sudden looming figure swam hazily back into his eyesight.
"Thought I hid that from you."
He didn't answer him but smacked his lips, the liquor souring and settling thickly in his stomach, a warmth already spreading through him from the immediate empty pit that beckoned. The feeling was pleasantly comforting as a full stomach might be.
The kitchen went stiflingly silent and it seemed to drag out for far longer than it should have. Raphael set the glass bottle on the counter heavily and rubbed his sweaty forehead with the side of his shaking hand. It wasn't until Michael spoke again that Raphael twitched as if surprised by his presence, forgetting he wasn't alone.
"There's some girlie," he said suddenly and forcefully, cutting an imposing silhouette in the low light. It was clear he had to make an effort to keep his tone from becoming a snarl.
"What?"
"Azrael and me went out scouting earlier, a'ight? Some girlie came in last night. Two times in a row. Ain't unfamiliar, neither."
Raphael reached for the bottle again, throat bobbing as he drank, eager to ease the buzz in his head. The taste wasn't pleasant and yet he hated the taste of almost everything he ate, but no one in the family tended to go out of their way to cook. He supposed the sourness fit him well. "You have to be more specific than that."
Michael gritted his teeth and his thin pupils swam, following the bottle hungrily, but he made no move to snatch it from his twitching grasp, knowing it would only sour his mood further. They were a united front in that much. "Short hair, white-blonde. Pale. Skinny thing."
Raphael closed his eyes, allowing the descriptions to filter past. He frowned with momentary suspicion, and pressed the glass rim to his bottom lip. "Blonde..."
"Now that I'm thinking 'bout it, it mighta been a guy," Michael offered vaguely.
Raphael just rolled his head to the side. The whiskey burned on its way down. "I got it."
"Well, you gonna 'fess up? Who is it?"
Raphael wiped his mouth with his sleeve, eyes sliding toward the newspaper that laid spread out across the table. He reached out for it clumsily, before smoothing the crinkled pages flat. He held the paper in front of his brother's face, the photograph of some pop star celebrity under a big blurry headline.
"Huh?"
"Him? Is you saw?"
Michael squinted and leaned forward. He barely lived in the real world, constantly running underground work, this sort of trash was beyond him. He wasn't sure how Raphael managed, always stuck reading. He turned to look at his brother, then back at the paper. "Holy shit, I think it is."
Without a word, Raphael took another drink, grimacing. "Uh-huh."
Michael plucked the paper from his hands to study it more intently. "Who is this fag? Is he famous?"
Raphael shot him an odd look. "Is Pope still Catholic, Michael? He's in newspaper. He's famous."
"Pssh. What, he only in there 'cuz he gave some folks blowjobs in bathroom at fuckin' Burger King? Why's he your buddy? He snitch on you or somethin'? Blackmail?" He shook the paper like a dead dog. Raphael said nothing in response and as usual, Michael needed no direction to carry on the conversation. He placed his free hand in his pocket, crinkling up his nose to show off yellow canine teeth. "You roll the sissy up to give 'em a taste of the family?"
"No," he grumbled, shoving a shaking, pale finger at the image of the man, voice beginning to slur the more he drank. "Look at that, Michael. What do you see?"
"Ugh. You don't wanna ask me that."
"Beyond that, goddamnit."
Michael stared blankly. "Fake smile or sum'n? I don't care. The hell's your point?"
Raphael sighed and took another swig before the bottle was quickly snatched away.
"I'm askin' you a question," Michael reminded him.
Raphael hesitated, eying the other warily, the air tense as the room seemed to start slowly spinning. "This newspaper," he rasped. "Is from 1989. This photo," he pointed emphatically to it, "He is sixteen. Years."
The air went silent and dull save for the sudden and distant call of cicadas that were just waking up from the lull of day, giving rise to the cooler evening air. After a tense pause, Michael snorted.
"Yeah," he muttered before looking back up again. "Well?"
The thin figure wavered slightly, steadying himself on the counter. "That's when I met him. He...helped me out, fed me and treated my wounds. Let me hide out until you found me."
"That is absolutely beautiful, Raphael," Michael said sarcastically. "So, this little faglet's been blowing in town for how long now, exactly?"
"Michael," he said shortly, slapping his hand away to retrieve his beverage, "I dunno, he didn't say. Probably before we arrived. Quit your bitching and let me drink."
He grunted but otherwise did not physically protest, tossing the paper carelessly aside. "Fine. So why's he still hangin' around, then? Don't need him and we don't need any high society snoopin' around in our fucking business. He better not be talking about us or I'll fuckin' kill him. Pretty boy ass like that can afford a nice, warm burial."
Raphael scowled but bit his tongue, choosing to reply instead with a long pull on his whiskey. He swilled it in his cheeks with contempt before answering with a defiant burp, wiping his wet mouth with his jacket. "Stick it up your ass. He's not snitch. He's harmless."
Michael ground his teeth together and grabbed his collar and shook him, squeezing his violently, feeling the fabric tighen around the other's neck. "Raphael," his gravelly voice dipped into a warning growl. "Fuck, I'm done running, that's why we're in the fucking sticks! D'you get that? I'm not risking this shit!"
"Michael—" Raphael wheezed, pulling against his iron grip, but Michael wouldn't relent.
"Do you get what they will do if they catch wind of us? Come on, quit playin' dumb!"
Raphael grasped his shoulders and after a moment of struggling, managed to shove him off, his throat pulsing angrily, heartbeat quickening as the beginnings of rage grew inside him. "You're supposed to be big man," he spat sarcastically. "Don't go blubbering about being captured."
"Listen, asshole," Michael snapped, pointing. "You go and become bounty hunting sport and shit, that's your deal. Don't drag the rest of us in your fucked up shit. We get tagged? Then we're cooked and we're all gonna go. So, no, I don't need you bringing crazy bitch ass boyfriends into this goddamn mess."
Raphael froze and blinked stupidly before letting out a low, humorless cackle. He rubbed his forehead as if he suddenly had the headache of a lifetime and gestured casually with his hand. "Okay, okay, okay. You talk stupid fucking bullshit. Talking of friend as fuck. You know how good he has been friend?"
Michael ground his teeth silently, hands in fists at his sides.
"He is my friend since fifteen. We have not run this entire time. You think if he was going telling somebody, he would have done by now?" he snapped. "Quit babbling shit. You don't trust me? I don't trust you. Leave me alone."
With that, he staggered out of the kitchen to the safety of his room, Michael glaring daggers at his back, waiting until the door slammed before letting his fist slam into the counter, his breathing heavy. It was always the same shit every single time.
"Goddammit."
Azrael crept over curiously, half timid and half bold.
"Are you on it now, Mike?"
Michael ran his tongue over his back teeth, shaking, a fire still coursing through his veins. This whole mess had started with the little psycho whore and it seemed it would never end.
"Oh, yeah. It's on."