"Okay, ready?"
Ronnie came to a stop outside an open door and turned, looking inquiringly down at Brandon. For his part, Brandon was arrested by the massive array of black and white keys within the room behind his friend; staring, he silently counted the erratic, fearful heartbeats thundering in his chest.
A light touch on his bare foot startled him, and he looked down to see the grey rubber foot of Ronnie's crutch just leaving his skin, then looked up at his friend's face and watched the curious mixture of concern and mischief playing across the drummer's features.
"Brandon. Do you wanna go in? We don't have to do this now, you know. If you wanna wait, we - "
Brandon bit his lip and leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly unsteady, and the end of Ronnie's sentence fell away with him at once, leaving a soft, companionable silence in its place. He closed his eyes, tracing patterns into the wallpaper at his back with an idle finger, and let out his breath in a long, low exhale.
"It's not...it's n-not that I don't w-want to. It's - It's...oh, I d-don't know," Brandon sighed, hearing his fingertips tapping his frustration into the walls as though someone else controlled his own hand, relaying a bizarre sort of Morse code.
Ronnie was quiet, perhaps waiting to see if he would say anything more - but there was nothing left to say, only an empty, foggy space in his brain where the rest of his sentence should have been. Finally, Brandon felt a soft thump reverberate through his body as his friend dropped his weight against the wall beside him.
"You already know you can play. Right? Isn't that half the battle - remembering the chords and shit? Now you've just gotta practice. You can do that."
Brandon hummed, noncommittal. In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, strange and colorful, twisting shapes had begun to appear, and he begrudgingly opened his eyes and watched them fade away with a faint sense of relief.
"Maybe."
"Ah, sure you can, B! Hell, I wish I had progress pictures of your face that I could show you, because you're at least three times as good at shaving as you were a couple weeks ago. You're doing fucking awesome."
Ducking his head, Brandon reached up and brushed the slashing scab on his cheekbone, below his left eye. "O-Only one - one..."
Damn it. He curled his fingers into a fist and let his hand drop again, heard the dull thud of his skin against the wall, and sighed. The word was gone.
"One side?"
Brandon snorted mirthlessly, peering sideways up at Ronnie. "I...I know that w-word, Ron. I kn-know. So why...w-why can't I - "
Again. He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the world tilt alarmingly around him as his legs abandoned their purpose and he slid down the wall at his back to sit, unwillingly, upon the floor.
"I know, I just...d-don't know," he whispered to the glossy floorboards, the absurdity of the sentence triggering an irritating pounding within his skull. "S-Stupid."
"Brandon, new rule - don't call yourself stupid, please."
Soft, metallic sounds announced Ronnie's attempts to join him on the floor, but Brandon couldn't bring himself to look up at his face as he sank down before him.
Instead, he blinked vacantly at Ronnie's crossed feet - one bright red sneaker, and one plaster cast covered in dozens of faded, colorful missives and drawings from his own children.
He lifted his hand and traced a figure with his fingertips, staring at the green lightsaber one of his sons had given their bearded hero, just beside a bold declaration of their thanks...for saving me. He tilted his head, examining the other miniature Vannuccis across its textured surface for a moment, then closed his eyes again, feeling ill.
"Aww, don't mind the fucking cast, Bran," Ronnie whispered, sympathy plain in his voice. "Your boys...they didn't know what happened up there. They didn't know it's really the other way around, and you saved me. They know it now. They were just...really, really glad they still had you, that's all."
Brandon sucked in a shaky breath, struggling for air past the weight that had suddenly settled on his chest, and withdrew his hand.
"But - b-but they don't...do they? Not...not really."
"What do you mean, B?"
He huffed, exasperated, and fixed his gaze on the endless swirls of wood grain. "I - I don't know. N-Never mind."
A soft rustling of denim was heard as Ronnie attempted to move closer, and he watched his friend's hand touch his own.
"Nah, you're not allowed to do that with me, Brandon. Come on. What do you mean? 'They don't'...what?"
Brandon rubbed his heavy eyelids, leaning his head back against the wall, and tried to organize his chaotic thoughts.
"I...They don't s-still have me...d-do they? Not - not really. I'm not...I'm n-not their dad. I'm not...not the s-same. Not what they...what they w-want. What they need."
Ronnie hissed softly, then was quiet for a minute. Brandon sat with his eyes shut, pondering his own confession in the heavy silence.
"Thank you for sharing, B," Ronnie began haltingly, then paused for a moment and forged ahead, words spilling out: "But I - Brandon, those boys adore you. They're falling all over themselves trying to help you, trying to do their best to make life easier. You don't see that?"
I do. They want their real dad back. Brandon shrank into the floorboards, hiding his face in his hand, and heard a faint intake of breath from his friend.
"Bran, did I say something wrong? I'm sorry, I don't - what's wrong?"
"That's - that's th-the...th-that's - "
Again, the proper word eluded him and he gripped a lock of his hair, trying to force the word to the surface of his brain, twisting and tugging anxiously. Ronnie's eyes followed his hand's path and he reached up, gently disentangling his fingers from his hair and bringing both of their hands back to earth.
"Don't do that, please," the drummer whispered, holding his hand firmly against the hardwood floor, intertwining his own fingers with his instead. His breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, Brandon pulled his hand away, fighting a rising feeling of panic.
"No! No, why d-don't - don't you see? I'm hurting them, R-Ron. I am...you said...they're trying to h-help. But I...they're not supposed to do that. It's n-not right. They're my - I'm supposed to - to help them. But I c-can't."
Ronnie's hand approached his face and Brandon slapped it away roughly, burying his face in his knees.
"Don't - don't touch me," he gasped, his fingers returning to his hair, twisting in agitation.
"I j-just - I'm not their dad. I'm n-not. I'm - not now, not - n-not anymore. It's not right. We're just - w-we're just p-pretending, Ron. No one else sees, but that's...we're pretending it's o-okay, and - and it's not!"
For a few seconds, the only sound in his ears was his own fractured breath, and then something touched his hand, sending a burning jolt through his skin. He was suddenly consumed by rage and shrank away from the invading touch, slapping hard at the source.
"I said don't!" Brandon spat furiously, hugging his knees as Ronnie hissed in pain.
"Don't," he repeated, hearing his voice turn to a pathetic whine in his ears, melding with the high-pitched ringing inside his head, every heartbeat sending a dull wave of pain through his body.
He moaned and wrapped his arm around the back of his skull and dropped his forehead to his knees, breathing deeply. Ronnie was silent and motionless for a long while. When the ringing eventually ceased, Brandon raised his head to find his friend drawing circles into his jeans with his thumb, his eyes sad.
He watched for a moment, his own eyes glued to a crimson smudge on Ronnie's skin, a spasm of guilt wringing his heart. Across the back of the drummer's hand, a fresh scratch could be seen - a companion to a slightly older one that he was certain he had caused as well.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering the side of his head to his knees and blinking dolefully at Ronnie's blurry shape through a haze of tears. "I...I hurt you."
Ronnie's answering sigh probably could have been heard through the entire house, and Brandon closed his eyes.
"Bran...it's not - I don't - you..."
His voice wobbled and faded away, frustration clearly bubbling beneath its surface.
Great. He's so mad at me he can't even talk. Brandon swallowed thickly, unable to bear it any longer.
"C-Could you - please, Ron...please, could you l-leave? Only want - I just w-wanna...I j-just wanna be alone."
"I don't know if that's a good - "
"Please. It's...it's all I want. I j-just...I n-need to be alone. P-Please."
Ronnie was silent for a long while, then finally he sighed and clambered unsteadily to his feet, clicking his crutches together in one hand as he rose, bracing himself against the wall. He took a couple steps away, then stopped.
"Bran, I...Tana thought it would be best, but...honestly, do you want to be here? Home?"
Brandon shook his head violently against his knees, and Ronnie spoke again, his voice soft.
"Thought so. Have you told Tana?"
Fuck no. He snorted weakly, shaking his head again, and his friend sighed once more.
"I'm just asking because...if you don't want to be here, if it's too...if it's too much for you right now, you've got to tell Tana, Brandon. She thought this would be better than going to live at a rehab place. I've tried talking to her, but...if that's how you feel, too...you've got to try talking to her. I think she'll listen, if you do."
I can't do that to her - can't tell her she's wrong. She's only trying her best...without a fucking husband. Brandon shook his head again, feeling his tears soaking his sweatpants, and Ronnie sighed in defeat.
"Just...think about it, please? I'll just be around the corner over here, so you can holler if you need me - and I'll be back in a couple minutes, okay?"
"Okay," he mumbled, opening his eyes to watch his friend walk away, his shoulders slumped wearily over the tops of his crutches.
Returning his gaze to the floor, he stared at the tiny scarlet blot of blood left in Ronnie's place, a single drop sullying the shining boards before him, as chaos reigned inside his head.