The stale breath of summer sighed out into the early morning air, stirring the leaves that lay upon the dirt road. That was the thing about these parts; the quiet. It was such a stark contrast to the city where the noise and stink was constant and crushing. When there were no sounds but the soft, gentle wash of dirt-dusted wind, it was easy to find comfort, to soothe one's jangled nerves and frazzled mind, giving a moment of peace away from the violence and harshness that came hand in hand with life.
Well, maybe once every few weeks. For the last month, Raphael was lucky to even get a few hours of sleep. Living with Michael was bad enough; living under the same roof, breathing the same air, yet never seeing one another was even worse. Sometimes it was a blessing to hear his angry footsteps outside the cabin, grinding the gravel underfoot, or to see him on the couch. It was rare when he was even home at all, after his long excursions and runs, his hunting in the dark. The whole of the week, his brother was quiet and sullen, lacing up his grimy boots and vanishing into the foliage. What he did with his time, Raphael didn't know nor need to know—but he would be lying to say he didn't care.
Sometimes, his curiosity got the better of him and he'd force himself up from his place on the tattered loveseat, hobbling to peer through the window at the retreating figure, quickly vanishing into the shadow of the trees, leaving Raphael to his guilt.
The room felt claustrophobic, stuffy, and dark. His hands automatically went for the bottle again, but with nothing to drink, he knocked a few faded prescription pill bottles to the floor, scattering a stream of pills like breadcrumbs. They rattled noisily on the old, splintering wood.
"Raph?" Azrael's gentle voice came from the hallway, using that nickname Raphael strongly disliked. The young man rapped lightly on the door frame.
"Ugh..."
"Can I come in?"
"Mhm."
Azrael opened the door slowly, as if he was afraid the wood would snap under the mildest of pressures. Raphael sat bare on his mattress, legs drawn tight to his chest, arms wrapped around his dirty knees. At the sight of his brother, the young man's lips quirked, wrinkling the white knick-knack of a scar on the left side of his bottom lip. "Hey. You good? You're being kinda broody."
Raphael hunched in on himself, as though trying to shrink within the depths of his oversized flannel, the heat already bubbling unpleasantly inside him. "Yeah. Fine."
Azrael nodded without further protest. He dropped himself onto the warped springs and winced, the bed squeaking noisily in the dusty dank. "I wanted to speak with you earlier but Michael kept running his goddamned trap. I'm sorry about that. Just made a complete idiot of himself, as usual."
His gaze was very steadily fixed in Raphael's direction, but the latter seemed to curl in further as they spoke, disheveled curls almost falling into his dark-ringed eyes. His skin was sallow and colorless, his hands thin and bony, hair a greasy mess that swept against his wrinkled shirt collar. He had a few more good years of youth left in him but the alcohol was wearing away at his body, a weight loss that couldn't have been explained by starvation or abuse alone.
"Eh," he rasped. "Whatever."
There was a taut silence, or as taut as it could be in the stuffy abyss, thick with the sweat and alcohol, laced with the occasional whiff of something other than simply unwashed body. Azrael finally shifted to give the other his attention.
"You know he's just worried about you. Even if he has a shitty way of showing it. Hah...Well," he frowned with uncertainty. "I was thinking, you should come take a walk. With me, I mean. We've got no commitments so..."
Azrael trailed off, waiting for Raphael to speak but the older man was slumped on his side, face buried into his forearms.
"We could go now," Azrael offered, his optimism as painful as it was well-meaning.
Raphael sighed and prodded at a new hole in the boxspring mattress with a claw-like index finger. "I'm good," he murmured into his elbow. "Not feeling too great."
A little silence lapsed after this, the other shifting his long legs in an awkward gesture of restlessness. Eventually, his expression softened into something resigned and sympathetic, though Raphael was not there to see it.
"Well, then let's get you into the shower."
"I'm good," Raphael muttered again.
"Yeah," the other responded rather stiffly. "You said that. C'mon, up. It'll do you good."
Azrael stood up and grabbed Raphael by the arm, tugging lightly, pausing only when his brother wordlessly went along with him, a stumble and a step or two out of the darkness of the bedroom, enough for the rising dawn light to seep through the cracked window. The older man swayed heavily, sagged a little like old laundry hung up to dry. Azrael looped an arm around his waist and walked him slowly down the cramped and peeling hall.
"Jus' go. On your own," the other argued dully.
"Hush up, you're fine."
Azrael looked him up and down a moment and opened the bathroom door with his hip, both spilling ungainly into the tiny room and narrowly missing knocking a bar of soap onto the yellowed tiles. Raphael sat like a child upon the edge of the tub, making no complaint or move to get away, listless eyes trained on the floor. Azrael knelt down and started running the water, letting it warm up.
"I'm really glad you could finally take those bandages off," Azrael said conversationally, not expecting nor gaining a response, but trying for normalcy anyway. "Your arms look much better."
Raphael muttered something indistinct, his long, frizzy curls covered his downcast eyes. "Yeah."
He watched as Azrael gathered the soap, shampoo and towels and a spare change of clothes he'd had to have scrounged for, avoiding eye contact. "Clean as a whistle, a'ight? Don't you go disappearing."
"Mhm."
"Want me to help wash your hair?"
"Mhm."
Raphael had started shedding his clothes mechanically, layer by layer, the only thing standing in the way being his boxers. He climbed into the tub obediently, sinking instantly into the warmth of the water, the steam filling his lungs and providing a comfortable buffer against the summertime sweat. He gave a soft huff as the water sloshed over his head. The wet curls clung to his gaunt face, and he sat there silently, closing his eyes as Azrael began working some lather into his disheveled mess, nails lightly dragging over his skin.
"Raph."
Raphael grunted in recognition.
"I wanted to ask you something."
Azrael didn't dare try and make eye contact with him, using the excuse of his task at hand as a decent enough buffer, though Raphael seemed to melt under his touch, his shakiness soothed and stilled.
"Mm. What?"
Azrael tugged gently, working the knots and tangles loose with bitten fingertips. "That guy, Paul. Paul LaBelle, right? That's the name of the guy Michael was bitching about the other night?"
Raphael flicked his glance back over his shoulder with an instinctive curiosity. "Yeah."
"I was up, reading," Azrael began. "And I mean, his name keeps popping up. Saw the stupid photo. Kept thinking I've heard of this guy."
"So?" Raphael responded with a low mumble. "He's famous. As you keep talking about."
"He's a celebrity, yeah," Azrael agreed, "But I guess what's a celebrity doing out in our parts?"
Raphael hummed and slowly slid lower into the tepid water, not thinking clearly enough to realize his brother wouldn't be able to keep washing his hair, Azrael pushing him back up, keeping an arm hooked around him. The other man relaxed into the contact regardless of his earlier hesitancy.
"We...we bonded, when teenagers. Is that right word?" he tried slowly, slurring and mumbling in the way the English language would never allow him, even after all these years. "It was long ago. He's fond of me, I suppose. Maybe wants company. I'm, ehm, I'm his good listener."
"You're the best of listeners," the other smiled, smoothing his dark, muddy curls back from his face.
"But I don't talk. Swear on my mother, I tell him nothing," Raphael began babbling uncertainly, the words sticking to his molars, slurring in his drunken stupor. "I'm quiet guy. M-mm. So he returns here. Says it helps him think."
"Maybe we could get him to help us out," Azrael offered with uncertainty. "A guy like him could really fund us up good, know what I'm saying?"
Raphael waved his hand dismissively. "Leave alone. He has his friends and money. He doesn't need us in problems."
"Dude, come on," the other coaxed. "He's got a nice place. Probably drinks martinis every night, dines on expensive steaks and shit. Have you seen our pantry? Dust. It's all dust."
The water sloshed heavily in the tub, several droplets spilling over the pale, soaked flesh as Raphael's fingers fidgeted and tapped against the damp porcelain. Azrael gently cupped his hands, wetting his hair, soothing the frizz and the grime of the dried dirt, petting his scalp absently. "He offers many times before," he rasped. "Always fucking money. Always wanting to give me presents and favors and nothing real. I can't...I can't accept, because...because...that's like money is only thing that's important to him, to me, and that's...is that all that he is?"
His nerves frayed momentarily, the young man hissing, sinking forward with a heavy exhale. The more he spoke of it, the less sure he felt, like his emotions had begun wriggling on their own accord, free-falling all over the place with no means of control. It sounded stupid. Trivial.
"He spoke to me before of his issues," he continued slowly, stiffly, fighting off another hiss, his head swimming. "I don't—I am not trying to be some person...who he thinks I am. But...he...he gave the money for cigarettes."
Azrael hummed, tugging lightly at his hair, teasing the silvery gray roots. "Maybe he just wants to be a friend to you. I mean, you are really special, y'know. It wouldn't surprise me," he smiled, ducking his head. "Look, if he has done good things for you, then I won't judge. I wouldn't mind meeting him."
Raphael grimaced, his brain reeling, unable to form proper thoughts as he simply sat back and allowed his brother's gentle massaging. It made him so relaxed, he could have fallen asleep. He started sinking beneath the rippled surface again, allowing the soft pressure against his closed eyelids.
Azrael tugged at him again. "Hey, sit up, Raphie, don't drown."
"Mmm," Raphael shuddered as he was coaxed back upright. "I wouldn't mind," he repeated, with a deep frown and slight titter.
"Why not have him over tonight? I mean...if Michael's gonna keep up his stupidity, what's the worst he could do?"
"And what are you suggesting we even feed him?" Raphael rasped and then cackled darkly. "Half expired bean cans? Beans, beans, beans, lots of fucking beans!" he snorted and coughed.
Azrael waited until he calmed down, a placid smile on his face. "Alright. I'm suggesting," he began smoothly, "for now, that you come to my bedroom after your shower and get dressed, since you haven't been sleeping."
Raphael leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, allowing Azrael to drain out the now cool water, listening to the unceasing hum of the pipes beneath the home. He was lost in the sounds, his senses in a soft blur. "Then I sleep?"
"Yeah. It's gonna be okay."
"Alright."