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A/N: And here’s a….thing. What’s going on? Why do I like numbers in my titles?
Title: Deep Six
Author: Alyn Drasil
Rating: PG-13? (one swear word omg)
Disclaimer: Minekthnkx
Warnings: uh….death?
A small hill slopes away from the group, a small ridge where a single figure stands half-hidden behind an oak, hesitant. And late. He presses his hand against the rough bark and does not notice when a second figure approaches from behind, or even when his name is spoken quietly. He reacts only when a hand touches his shoulder—he starts and whirls and sees the face, and reacts with the expected anger.
“What are you doing here? No one wants you here.”
The second man lets his hand drop. A plastic splint covers the palm of that hand and disappears into his sleeve. “I have a right to be here. As much as anyone else. And I don’t care what any of you think.”
“You should care. You should care because it’s your fault that Mi—“ His voice chokes and breaks and he can’t say the name. “Your fault,” he finally hisses. “That funeral down there is your fault.”
He’s staring at the man but can’t remember his name—he’s probably consciously blocked it. Dark eyes, sandy blond hair….he focuses on the soft gold, the only thing that seems to have color in this world besides the grass.
The blond is staring back, hands jammed into the pockets of an obviously rented suit. “Sure. Blame me. Blame everyone else except the person who really is responsible. Because he’s blameless, right? He’s blameless because he was your brother, and now he’s your dead brother.”
“Don’t say that! Don’t say th—“
“Don’t say what? The truth? And keep your goddamn voice down—there’s a funeral going on over there.”
The brother stares in shock. “You really don’t care, do you?” His voice rises again. “You never gave a sh—“
“I had the impression that you were against me caring. That’s the real problem here, right? That I did care?”
“No, it’s—“
“Yes, it is. I’m not an idiot. Michael wasn’t either. We knew. Why do you think I’m standing up here?”
“Because you’re a coward, that’s why. What’s even the point of being here if you’re not going to be there?”
“I thought no one wanted me there.”
A pause, and then, “shut up.”
The voice of the priest carries through the mist to them, the brother and the Blond alone on the hill. A woman from the might notice them—she lifts her veiled head, and maybe she sees them through the black lace.
The brother presses his knuckles harder against the tree and doesn’t flinch when it starts to hurt.
“You should go down there,” the blond says.
“What—I…no. I can’t interrupt like that. It’s…fine from here.”
“So you’re going to miss this on account of rudeness?”
“And you’ll miss it on account of cowardice?”
The blond snorts. “Maybe you should pick an opinion and stay with it. Do you want me here or not?”
“I really don’t. But you were….important. To him. He would want you here.”
“I am here.”
“I meant…closer.”
“How close do I have to be for it to count?”
“Do you have to answer everything with a question?”
“Do you?”
The brother glowers and returns to silent anger. He stares down the hill and feels a sort of hotness pricking behind his eyes. He can’t hear the priest now, and every black-clad head is bowed. The fog rushes between gravestones, and it’s a long moment before the brother speaks again.
“I know it wasn’t really your fault.”
The blond nods slowly. “I know you know.”
“You can’t know everything. You didn’t know what I thought.” The brother scowls down at his shoes. The left one already has a scuff on it across the toe. He just shined them this morning.
“You’re right. But it was a car accident. I never knew Michael shouldn’t have driven without glasses. Maybe I would have driven, if I had known. Maybe we’d have gotten in the same accident. And maybe it’d be me down there instead, and him standing here on this hill with just a scar and a broken wrist. And you’d be having the same conversation with him as we’re having now.”
“What? No, I wouldn’t.”
“You would. I’m not up here because everyone thinks it’s my fault he’s gone.”
Silence again. Down the hill the priest is speaking again. The woman with the veiled hat now has one black-gloved hand pressed to her face. Her shoulders are hunched.
The brother speaks again, hesitantly. “You were the last person with him. Was he….you know…happy?”
“I think he was. He’d just gotten engaged, after all.”
The brother swallows. “Right. Yeah.”
The blond glances at him. “He was happy.”
“I…good. Good. I’m glad.”
Below them, the funeral is over. Black figures wander away from the scene alone, in pairs, fading into the mist.
