Chapter Text
Colt is mostly asleep, bundled in two blankets and cradled by pillows, when the front door unlocks. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to roll over to face the couch, but the sudden movement stings. He hisses through clenched teeth. Breathing through the pain is normal, but what’s not normal is the atrocious lack of sleep he’s been getting lately. He had just managed to drift off, listening to the wind howl through the cracked screen to the balcony. The door jiggles open. Colt braces himself for excited jabbering, tightening his core through the ache in his back, and is met with silence instead. He breathes out a sigh of relief until he sees it.
His brother is wearing his headphones. The signature silver ones that go over his ears that Colt bought him years ago for Christmas. Ryland does not tolerate headphones where the bud has to be inserted. They always fall out or end up hurting his skin. Besides, he likes pressure from the over ear ones. Colt doesn’t have to be a genius to know there’s no music playing. More than likely, nothing is playing at all. It’s just makeshift peace and quiet from the noise cancellation qualities. He can tell by the scrunched look on Ryland’s face, with his flushed cheeks and clenched jaw, where he’s actively chewing the skin on the inside of his cheek.
Colt observes as Ryland grabs his Star Wars cup and the two liter of Coca-Cola with dangerously shaky hands. He scoops ice from the freezer, pours the soda over it, and watches the carbonated bubbles pop. It’s the same thing every single day. Ryland gets home from work, grabs his favorite caffeinated beverage, and sits outside on the balcony. More often than not, especially since he’s mobile now, Colt joins him, and they bicker or banter about stupid things. Ryland will flip the hood of his yellow rainjacket over his head to block out any extra noise and wind, and Colt will steal sips of soda so his brother isn’t consuming so much caffeine. And Ryland already consumes a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like enough that Colt begged him to switch to caffeine free Coke, but Ryland couldn’t stand the change in taste, however small, and whined to the point that Colt re-stocked the fridge with the good, old fashioned stuff.
Today, Ryland goes outside without a word. He doesn’t even look in Colt’s direction. Colt gets it, and he’s not going to interfere. It's quiet time, and that's okay. With his luck, Colt will utter one singular word, and Ryland will shatter into a thousand tiny, unrecognizable pieces, and he’ll have to spend hours putting him back together again. The world is too loud for Ryland. But Ryland always tries his best and holds himself well, for the most part. Sure, there are moments of absolute chaos, such as the ‘staggering waste of carbon’ meltdown that cost him his flourishing science career, but Colt learned a long time ago that, usually, all Ryland needs is space and time.
Colt’s not really in the mood to deal with anything anyway. He hasn’t been sleeping well, plagued with nerve pain so severe that even doubling the dose of gabapentin isn’t working. His legs tingle, with his right leg numb probably more often than it should be. It doesn’t help that he keeps missing his medication doses, too busy staring out into the void to remember to be a human being and look at the clock, you idiot. He already missed his last dosages at two PM, so now he’s in it for the long haul until eight. Righteous. Groovy.
Gotta love the post breaking your back life.
Sighing, he pushes his hair back from his forehead and grabs the remote, sinking further into his homemade nest. He flips through Hulu until he settles on re-watching Bob’s Burgers from the beginning for the twelfth time. It doesn’t take long before the overlapping voices from the Belcher family lull him into a stupor, a trance of some kind. A trance where he can forget that he’ll likely never be a stuntman again. He can forget all the fights he’s had with Jody and Ryland. He can forget that he keeps pushing them away more often than reaching out when, in reality, all he wants to do is cling on.
Sometimes, he aches for Jody’s touch so bad that he’d gladly rip off his own arms to feel her arms wrapped around him. He loves it when she whispers in his ear, carding his fingers through his hair as she chatters about her day.
And sometimes, embarrassingly, he calls out for Ryland in the middle of the night, begging his twin brother to sleep in the same bed as him like they’re five again. But Ryland is a fucking space heater in the night, while Colt is the exact opposite.
But clinging on wouldn’t be very becoming of him, would it?
Colt’s eyes flutter open and shut. He curls into the blanket with a wince.
He whines when he feels something poke his shoulder. “Mmmpfh.”
Another poke.
He blinks and sees his blurry blob of a brother standing there. He’s doing something with his hands.
It takes a few more seconds to register.
Signing. Ryland’s signing.
Oh shit.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Nonverbal Ryland is his least favorite Ryland. It’s why he learned ASL too in the first place after they were placed in foster care.
“Not wearing my contacts, bud. You’re gonna have to scoot closer.” He makes sure to keep his voice low, forgetting to sign instead like the idiot he is. But he can’t see, and he’s sleepy, so he’ll give himself a pass.
Ryland sits on the coffee table instead, right where he knows Colt’s horrible vision can make out images. He’s hunched up like a shrimp, like he’d give anything in the world to disappear. But he repeats himself anyway, pointing at the door and then holding his hands flat, palms down, moving them back and forth like feet taking steps.
“Are you ready to go on your walk?” is what Ryland’s asking.
Colt looks at him with wide eyes. He shakes his head and points at Ryland before extending both of his index fingers toward each other and jabbing them forward and backward twice.
“You’re hurt,” Colt signs.
Ryland shakes his head. “I’m fine. You need to walk. It’s good for your back.”
“I’ll be fine without a walk for one night,” he says. He watches Ryland’s face fall. Colt sighs and signs in his brother’s sign name, before adding, “You can’t talk. You don’t feel well. We can stay home. Or I’ll go for a walk alone later.”
He knows he butchered some of that, but Ryland doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, Ryland immediately vetoes the idea of Colt going on a walk alone by making a big gesture and crossing his arms over his chest.
“You need it,” Ryland says.
Colt rolls his eyes. “Ry, I’m being serious. It’s fine. Missing one walk is not going to derail my entire recovery.”
Ryland puts his palm flat against his chest and moves it in a smooth, circular motion. “Please.”
This earns a huff from Colt, who stares at his baby brother of 22 minutes even harder now. His cheeks are really flushed. Briefly, Colt wonders if Ryland’s running a fever, and that’s why he’s overwhelmed. He looks a little feverish. His hair is almost comically messy, strands every which way. Ryland squeezes his hands together over and over again, pulsing them, as the heel of his shoe furiously taps the hardwood below.
But arguing with Ryland about walking is not something he has the energy for.
“Fine,” he signs. “A quick one. I have to change.”
Ryland doesn’t nod. Doesn’t acknowledge him. Doesn’t move beyond squeezing his hands and tapping his heel.
This is a bad idea. A bad bad bad idea. Ryland is clearly overstimulated. He should be tucked in bed in the dark, listening to his white noise machine with Colt close by just in case. But that’s easier said than done when it comes to routine. Colt and Ryland have a routine now, one that involves Ryland getting home from work, drinking a Coke on the balcony in his Star Wars cup, and then going for Colt’s daily walk as prescribed by his physical therapist. Ryland doesn’t do well with breaking routines, nor does he do well with ‘disobeying rules.’ The daily walk is, now, a rule. It has to be taken or else something bad will happen to Colt.
Colt puts his contacts in and throws on sweats over his boxers and his Miami Vice jacket over his sweatshirt. His back is somehow tight and aching at the same time, and he’s already favoring his left leg before he’s even got his socks and shoes on. It happens. It especially happens when he’s barely slept and missing his meds and watching his brother pace back and forth like a maniac.
“We don’t have to do this,” he signs. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Ryland shakes his head so hard his headphones slide off a little. “We have to go.”
“We don’t have to do anything, Ry.”
Normally, Ryland is fine. Usually Ryland is a perfectly normal brother who can talk using his words and doesn’t look like he’s about to explode with pure terror and anxiety mixed together. Colt tells himself this to keep from snapping.
Ryland bites the skin around his thumbnail and motions toward the door.
Colt lets out a big sigh. It hurts his back. Fuck. “Fine.”
They take the elevator down to the first floor, Colt’s hands shoved in his hoodie pouch, hiding his clenched fists, and Ryland’s hands tapping foreign rhythms against his jeans, breathing through the motion sickness. He’s better at handling the nausea now that he has to take the elevator all the time with Colt, too afraid to let him do anything by himself. Colt shivers in the San Francisco December as they both step outside. Wind bites against his cheeks, and he crosses his arms over his chest as he drags his broken body down the sidewalk.
Ryland sticks next to him like glue, headphones on and biting his bottom lip. Colt knows this doesn’t feel any better for Ryland than it does for himself. Two different types of pain, one physical and one sensory.
They’re maybe ten minutes away from the apartment when Colt trips - hard - over a raised piece of sidewalk. He crashes to the ground before Ryland has a chance to react, shredding his palms on the concrete. He barely registers the stinging sensation over his lower back yowling at him in absolute agony. Colt closes his eyes as tight as possible and breathes shallowly, still on his knees, trying everything in his power not to fucking scream as loud as he can.
Ryland’s hands are on him in an instant. Colt pulls away. The movement jars his back, and he lets out a warbled cry. Fuck. Fuck this fucking shit. But he doesn’t say anything because saying something will unleash a burning anger deep inside of him, clawing its way up his throat. Ryland is in front of him now, gently maneuvering him until he’s on his ass. It takes some of the strain off his back, but there’s still so much twisted pressure at the base. He watches as Ryland takes something red out of his raincoat pocket.
It’s a mini first aid kit.
What the actual fuck. His brother... His brother walks around with a fucking first aid kit now? For him?
“Why do you have that?” he asks out loud, his voice shaking. He tries to keep his tone even, but something inside him is breaking.
Ryland says nothing. He just keeps trying to unlatch the thing with trembling fingers.
“Why the fuck do you have that thing, Ryland?” he asks again. “You… You…” Colt’s bloody hands pull at his hair, venom poisoning his thoughts. “You can’t even fucking take care of yourself. Why the fuck are you so hellbent on taking care of me?”
Ryland fumbles with an alcohol wipe. Colt reaches out and shakes Ryland’s shoulder.
Ryland jumps with a barely audible squeal. Colt doesn’t pull away.
“I don’t need this. I’ve never needed any of this… This babying. You treat me like a fucking baby, Ryland. You cut up my carrots for me, for fuck’s sake. You won’t let me fold my own clothes. You won’t let me use the shitter with the light off… Y-You tiptoe around me like I’m going to break, and, guess what? I don’t need you. I’ve never needed you.” Hot, frustrated tears swell in the corners of his eyes, but he’ll be damned if he lets them fall. “All I’m trying to do is live my life, and you keep getting in the way! I don’t even know why I’m still here in the first place. I-I… I can go home. I want to go home. I’ll be independent. I can do everything without you r-ruining it and fucking it all up.”
Ryland wipes his palms with unexpected gentleness. Colt flinches.
Ryland puts a Band-Aid on his right palm, still sluggishly bleeding. Colt breathes.
Ryland places another Band-Aid on his left palm, scraped below his thumb. Colt’s teeth chatter.
His back fucking hurts.
Wordlessly, Ryland wraps one arm around his shoulders and the other at the base of his back. He hauls Colt back to his feet, and Colt whimpers, stumbling and trying to catch his footing. Ryland steadies him, and Colt has no choice but to lean heavily against his brother. His right leg is almost entirely numb, with the exception of a familiar twinge in his knee.
Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck him right in the ass.
Why… Why?
Fury courses through his veins.
No. Fuck Ryland. Fuck this.
Colt pushes away. More like shoves. So what if he shoves Ryland a little bit? Ryland catches himself, and he’s fine. He starts the grueling process of making his legs move, one foot in front of the other. He limps back in the direction of his brother’s apartment, where he’s being held hostage, against his will, against everything that he knows, and tries not to faceplant. He almost does faceplant, several times. He can’t feel his right leg. His left is burning and must be engulfed in flames by now. His back screams at every single movement and breath.
He can feel Ryland trailing behind him. Colt clenches his fists.
“Stop following me!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “I can do it by myself!”
Ryland doesn’t stop walking, but he does slow down. He gives Colt space.
By the time Colt makes it back to the building, he’s out of energy. He takes the elevator. Alone. He slumps against the wall, hand gripping onto his lower back for dear life. Sweat drips down his cheeks and soaks into the hoodie. His breath hitches. He swallows his tears as he furiously pounds on the front door until his fists ache.
Ryland has the key.
Ryland has the key.
Of course he fucking does.
Through rapid breathing, Colt hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn around.
Ryland unlocks the door. Colt does not pay attention to how hard his brother is shaking.
Colt beelines it straight to the bedroom and collapses onto the mattress, also Ryland’s. He smashes his face into Ryland’s pillow.
He hiccups.
Tears soak through the fabric in seconds.
He sobs until he can’t breathe.
Colt blinks awake, eyes crusty and lips chapped.
The clock on the nightstand reads 2:13 AM.
He scrubs a hand down his stubbly cheek and hisses.
Fell. Palms. Bloody. Hurt. Right.
He lies there for a while, gathering the courage to move. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t taken his meds in almost 24 hours. Didn’t even kick his shoes off before crashing completely.
But there’s bliss that comes with stillness. He doesn’t have to worry about his back hurting because it doesn’t. He doesn’t have to worry about his leg being numb because it isn’t. He doesn’t have to worry about the muscle spasms and physical therapy and follow ups and being dependent on a walker up until three weeks ago and screaming at his brother who just wants to help because nothing’s registered yet. He feels nothing, therefore he is nothing.
That’s so fucking stupid. What's wrong with him?
Colt lets out a cry as he rolls over onto his side. Bites his tongue against a scream as he sits up. The comforter falls from his shoulders to his waist, and he shivers.
The glow from the rocketship nightlight reveals more than he expects.
His tennis shoes are by the door. He wiggles his socked toes with furrowed eyebrows.
There’s a wrapped sandwich, a protein bar, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on a plate on the opposite nightstand, along with a bottle of water and four orange pill bottles.
His heating pad is plugged into the wall at the end of the mattress.
Colt doesn’t think. He mindlessly digs into the sandwich - crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam - and devours the chips. The protein bar is mint chocolate chip, his favorite. He eagerly uncaps each individual pill bottle and throws back his gabapentin, painkiller, anti-inflammatory, and anti-nausea meds with a swig of water. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve before grabbing the heating pad and turning it to max. He places it behind him and lies down, shuddering and moaning.
He keeps not thinking until night bleeds into morning. Not thinking means not remembering and not remembering means he didn’t rip his brother a new one last night. Not remembering means Ryland’s okay, not overstimulated or overwhelmed at all. Not remembering means that Ryland didn’t spend the night awake, alternating between crying jags and bouts of numbness.
Colt’s eyes slip closed. He doesn’t think.