Work Text:
People often say that because you're older, you're supposed to look after the younger ones. Well, let me make this clear: I do all of this simply because I want to, not because of some moral coercion.
When I got up this morning, I unexpectedly received two messages. The latest one was from Egg, who told me without holding back everything that had happened last night. About someone's binge drinking, about someone's broken bass, about someone's unexpected tears. I was surprised with all of it, because he'd never drunk alcohol before, and because he'd stopped crying in front of me a long time ago. Someone always wants to show others their mature side, and he was the epitome of that. Of course, the other message was from the person in question, asking if I knew anyone who could help fix the bass. At the time, I replied that I'd need to see the damage, but he never wrote back. Around noon, Egg messaged me again, complaining about a sudden meeting notice from the professor and begging me to go check on him. After all, neither of us had heard back from him; after all, he'd been drunk; after all, he'd cried. That's why I was here.
Stepping into his bedroom was like stepping into a jar that had been sealed for a long time—dark, stifling, and heavy with the stench of alcohol. Even though I already knew about it, actually being there made me want to sigh. The room's owner was curled up under his blanket, his body rising and falling gently with each breath, like a drifting glacier. Scattered sheet music lay on the floor. I picked them up and placed them on his nightstand, then crouched beside his bed and unearthed his face from the covers. His eyes were a little swollen, with dark circles that could rival the smoky eye makeup rock stars like to wear. When I pulled back the blanket, he instinctively shrank back toward the warmth. I wished so much that he could have a good dream, even though I knew things wouldn't go as I hoped.
"Wake up." I patted his face. "Get up and eat something." Waking him was never easy, both Egg and I knew that well. He only ever responded to his own internal clock and detested any other form of wake-up service.
His brow furrowed impatiently, and he turned his head to the other side, his bangs falling to cover half his face. Something was wriggling under the blanket—a hand emerged, slapped down onto the nearby throw pillow, groped around for a moment as if to confirm something, then yanked it up and hurled that soft pillow at me. Since he hadn't put much force into it, I caught it easily and tossed it back into the corner of the bed.
"Where is my personal space?" His weak voice came from beneath the covers, hoarse and exhausted.
I said, "You're hungover. I made you some honey water and porridge." He said, "Why do you know so much about this?" I said, "Because I have more life experience than you, all right? Now get up—you'll only get dizzier the longer you sleep."
He threw off the covers and sat up abruptly, eyes still closed, face full of reluctance. His hair was a mess from sleep, with two tufts sticking up on top like some animal's horns. I reached up to try to press them down, but they sprang right back up as soon as I let go—just as stubborn as he was—so I gave up. He just sat there in the darkness, not moving anymore. I could smell the scent radiating from him: alcohol, sweat, sadness, and bewilderment.
"Go take a shower." I said softly. "Change your clothes. I'll change your sheets for you."
"Minute." He called my name. Light spilled in from the hallway, peeking timidly around his doorframe but refusing to go deeper. I could only see half his face. He finally opened his eyes, pursed his lips, and looked down at his own hands. "Why did you come?"
Why did I come? Because his roommate had told me everything. I even felt I should have come earlier—leaving a drunkard unattended was genuinely dangerous. Fortunately, he'd just slept soundly and hadn't done anything risky. I suppose I couldn't blame Egg either. Neither of them drank, nor had they ever been in a similar situation, so of course they thought it was just like exhaustion that everything would be fine after a good sleep. So they'd left him to sleep, believing dreams could heal the body's discomfort and the heart's void. But you see, that's precisely where illness sneaks in. Back when I worked at the company, I often had to attend social engagements, so I knew all too well how to deal with the agony of a hangover. "Egg and I were really afraid you might die." I said.
"My head hurts." He mumbled, flopping back onto the bed with a soft thud. The pillow dutifully caught him, though I was sure it didn't help much, such a sudden movement would only worsen the pain. I wasn't at all surprised to see him wince. "Help, my head is about to explode." I reached out to feel his forehead. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"That's why you need to get up and take some medicine and eat something." I patiently explained. He argued that he'd already taken some last night. In fact, I'd seen the box of medicine on the dining table when I arrived—brand new, just opened, bought in a hurry like an emergency measure. Neither of them kept a first-aid kit at home, let alone hangover remedies, because neither of them drank, because they believed they could always live in reality.
"You need to take it again today." I sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, slipped my arms under his armpits, and lifted him up, letting him lean against me. His head nestled into the crook of my neck, his short hair prickling me slightly. I was still more used to him with long hair. Why did he have to bet his own hair like that? I could never quite understand it. But seeing him like this reminded me of when he was younger, that innocent time when he would show up at my door with his pillow on every rainy night, and I knew what he needed without a word. I would pull him into my arms. He was so small, his hair not yet long, quietly curled up in my embrace, waiting for me to tell him a story, waiting for me to gently pat his back, and then falling asleep in my arms. I do miss those days. I didn't have to worry about anything, because he was right there, in my arms, where I could see and touch him, and that gave me peace of mind.
His arms hung loosely at his sides as he rested quietly on my shoulder. I thought he might be falling asleep again, but after a long moment he asked, "Do you think my bass can still be saved?" I didn't speak. Seeing the bass when I opened his case at the entrance had startled me a little—it was in such a pitiful state. I knew who had given it to him, and I knew what it meant to him. I knew some things were simply beyond repair; I didn't know any better craftsman who could fix it, nor could I find any way to fill the void in his heart. Rejoice had left, leaving behind a hole shaped like a sunflower.
I knew how much he loved that bass—that deep purple, like his eyes, with a string of silver stars running across the neck, as beautiful as he was. I remembered the look on his face when he brought it home, so joyful, calling my name the moment he walked through the door, asking me to come out and see. When he lifted that bass from its case, I would have bet that no instrument in the world suited him better. He held it as if he were looking at another version of himself. He said Rejoice had given it to him, along with a bouquet of golden sunflowers, as a gift for his first time on stage. He left the sunflowers in the living room; I insisted on changing their water every day for a week, and finally set them in the scorching sun to become dried flowers. By the time they withered, Rejoice was gone. No hidden meaning here—the former bassist had simply left that bar, left this city. He'd told me that Rejoice once said he probably wouldn't perform on stage again. I thought he knew the reason, but he was just as bewildered as I was. That was when he said, "You know what? This bass was actually the one Rejoice used." The former bassist had left behind that instrument, like leaving a phantom of the past upon him.
"Come on." I said. He nodded slightly, braced himself against my shoulders, and slowly shuffled out of the covers, his feet touching the floor. "I'm never drinking again in my life." He said miserably, staggering a few steps as he stood up. I watched nervously from behind as he grabbed the chair, then the wall, and slowly made his way out of the room. I pulled open the curtains and the window. Sunlight poured in with the wind, instantly filling the entire room and sweeping away the stale odors.
When I carried the bedsheets downstairs, the sound of the shower started up. I stuffed everything into the washing machine and pressed the button, watching them tumble and spin rapidly inside. The water looked like a miniature ocean, swallowing drifting ships in a downpour. When I was still working at the company, he usually handled these household chores, because my boss was a control-freak lunatic who came up with new tricks every day to torture us. Early mornings and late nights became my norm; he hadn't graduated yet, so he took care of most of the housework, except cooking. The day the company went bankrupt, I managed to come home in the afternoon for once. He was in the living room, and didn't seem surprised to see me. He sat on the couch and told me very seriously that he wanted to play a song for me. I said okay. That was the first time I'd heard him play. That guitar was one he'd saved up for himself, now it sat at the place he shared with Egg. He frowned, looking as serious as if he were conducting a war rather than playing a tune. His fingers moved stiffly, the notes stumbling along, but I listened with such focus—months of pent-up tension dissolved that afternoon. He said Mane had taught him that song, and asked how I liked it, looking away with a hint of shyness. I said it was great. His eyes lit up again. He said Rejoice told him he would become a great player, but Mane always sighed when he heard that. So I went on, "You can do anything you want to do, because you always manage to." He asked why I was home earlier than usual, and I said it was time for a job change. He laughed with relief, as if he too had been tormented by that lunatic. It seemed we were both done with that kind of life.
The fresh scent of lemon drifted over. At some point he'd finished his shower, changed into a new set of pajamas, and walked over, drying his hair with a towel, standing beside me as we both watched the washing machine. It made me feel a little nostalgic. The last time we'd talked in front of a washing machine was around the time he was about to graduate, when prolonged standoff with Manepear had just begun. I didn't know the cause of their quarrel, and neither did Egg. It seemed he had resolved to keep it to himself. During that period, his right hand had been broken in a fight, so he stopped going to the bar or the music room. I was actually relieved, because I was afraid he might run into Mane again, and I worried his other hand might end up broken in another fight—though clearly, I no longer had reason to fear that now. The day after his cast came off, he messaged me to say that Parrot had asked if he wanted to join their band, and he'd said yes.
I was taken aback. I replied that his hand was still recovering and he couldn't do anything too strenuous, and that we needed to talk. He vanished like a ghost. Egg told me he hadn't gone to class. I asked Egg if he'd known about this; the "typing..." indicator showed for a long time before he replied that he did.
I eventually found him at the communal laundry room in the apartment building. Only one machine was running in the hall, humming low like some kind of accompaniment. He was leaning against the wall, staring blankly at the washing machine with that guitar in his arms, his fingers idly plucking the strings over and over. I recognized the melody—it was the same piece he'd played for me the first time, the one Mane had taught him. I stood outside the door for a long time, listening until the washing machine finally finished its spin cycle, until my legs started to ache, until he finally looked up toward the doorway, toward me.
"Why?" I asked. I was afraid. I was the one who grew afraid first, though I shouldn't have been. I knew he was scared of losing things, but so was I; what I feared even more was facing his broken heart. I couldn't forget how he'd been when Mane left—always silent, always alone, always staring at the sky. I knew Egg had tried everything to cheer him up, but nothing worked. He grew quiet, became unlike himself. One night at dinner, he put down his fork—with a bit of ketchup still at the corner of his mouth—and looked me straight in the eyes. He said, "Minute, am I a lost cause?" My head buzzed, like ten thousand bees flapping their wings at once, but my mind wasn't a flower, and I couldn't make honey. I wanted to say no, you're not. I wanted to say you're my pride. I wanted to say you're our star. But in the end I could only manage one flat, hollow sentence: "Who told you that?" He dropped his head again and said he would never join another band, that he was never any good at music.
So standing at the door of the laundry room, I couldn't hold back and I asked, "Why?" After everything, why is he starting again? He turned his gaze back to that humming washing machine. God, they really should fix those old machines. He wasn't going to find an answer in that machine to brush me off. I walked over and stood beside him, leaning against the wall with him.
"I'm not trying to stop you." I said, catching out of the corner of my eye as his shoulders suddenly relaxed. "I just want to know why."
The washing machine beeped. He took the guitar off and handed it to me, stepped forward, crouched down, opened the lid, and slowly tossed the clean laundry into the basket. The cool instrument still carried his warmth. I watched him quietly sorting through the clothes, thinking he might not answer my question.
"Because I miss that feeling." He said softly, snapping the lid shut. "The lights are always so hot, my clothes always get soaked with sweat. People clap along to the beat, they cheer, they applaud, they call out our names when it's over. We'd play all night long, until my throat was nearly hoarse, until I barely had the strength to stand. We'd down a glass of iced lemonade, eat apples as a late-night snack, then we leave, and I know that maybe next time, we'll play until we're exhausted again, just like that night." For the first time in that silent night, he looked into my eyes. My brother, his purple eyes carrying a hint of a smile, and yet so sorrowful. "Isn't that good?"
I couldn't argue with him, so I just stayed silent.
He leaned back against the wall beside me, nudging my shoulder with his. He said, "Maybe someday you can come to the bar and watch me play, since you're not as busy as before." I said I would. He said, "I hate it when you drink, I hate it when you come home reeking of alcohol, so you have to order lemonade at the bar like me, with ice, but not too much." I said, "You haven't even started working yet and you're already drumming up customers?" He finally laughed, his brow easing, and took the guitar back from my hands. He looked like himself again.
"I'm hungry." He suddenly spoke, interrupting my recollection. "Didn't you say you made porridge?" The laundry was still tumbling in the machine. We went back to the dining room, and I ladled him a bowl of porridge. I watched him stir it slowly with his spoon, blow on it, and sip it bit by bit.
"You know you can't take medicine with juice, right?" I asked him. He glanced at me over the rim of the bowl, as if mocking my ignorance. The washing machine hummed in the background; he swung his legs while sitting on the chair, occasionally kicking my calf, and showed no sign of remorse.
"Tomorrow's the weekend." I said. He hummed in agreement.
Tomorrow's the weekend, and I knew what we'd do. I didn't have work, Egg didn't have class. We would go to the music store, where he'd start nitpicking every bass on display—because in his heart, none would ever compare to his old one. The staff would get annoyed, Egg and I would apologize on his behalf, and then we'd go to the next store and repeat the process—until he had no choice but to hold his nose and make a decision, or else the bar would dock his pay. He would have to decide who got to be the lucky one. On the way home he would complain to us, finding every possible flaw in the new bass—but he would adapt. He would take that new bass and stand on stage time after time, offering himself once again to the lights and the music. The lights would fall on him like a false bouquet laid before the hollow in his heart.
He kicked me again. I said, "You didn't get into a fight with anyone last night, did you?" He let out a self-deprecating laugh. Actually, I knew he hadn't fought anyone since that fracture. For a long time, he hadn't been able to play at all, and that was exactly when his estrangement from Mane began, and the prelude to Rejoice's departure. I guessed that perhaps something had changed him. "Why did you drink?" I stared at him, and he finally finished the bowl of porridge.
"Some troublemakers." He looked quite calm. "Is that strange? There are always a few idiots who've had too much to drink and think they're kings of the world, believing it's an honor for us, their servants, to drink a few glasses with them. I said I don't drink, and they laughed as if it were the funniest joke they'd ever heard. Are all musicians supposed to drink?" He propped his chin on his hand and tilted his head to look at me. "They wanted to force Parrot to drink, but Parrot's allergic to alcohol. They said if no one was willing to drink, they'd complain to the bar tomorrow and get the owner to fire one of us. Spoke was holding Flame back so he wouldn't charge at them with his drumsticks. I'm older than all of them, and aren't older people supposed to look after the younger ones? So I drank that bottle they wanted to force on Parrot. Sounds a bit heroic, doesn't it? But I knew if I didn't, they would never stop pestering us."
I noticed the unit of measure.
"Bottle?" I repeated.
"A small bottle of vodka." He gave me a gentle smile. "And then I said, 'All right, your majesties, if you've had your fun, take your vile, shameless ambitions and go find your next amusement somewhere else. If harassing a few musicians satisfies your urge for conquest, then you're no different from ants.'"
The clock's hands ticked steadily. I picked up the glass pitcher and poured him a cup of honey water.
"Earlier, Egg said I shouldn't have provoked drunk people, and I think he was right." He admitted. "They pulled me off the stage, and when I struggled, the bass strap broke. You can probably imagine what happened to the bass once it was in their hands, right?" He took a sip of the honey water. "Then it was the three of them holding me back. After that, I don't remember much, but Parrot should be able to handle the compensation."
"Egg said you cried." I said, and his body stiffened.
"Did he?" He tried to force a smile at me but failed, so I stood up, walked over to him, and opened my arms. He looked a little confused, but still leaned in. The lemony scent of his body wash enveloped me. I held his head and ruffled his hair, trying to close that golden hollow. His arms wrapped around my waist, gripping my shirt tightly. His still-damp hair left moisture on my shirt, as if he were crying again.
"Does it hurt?" I swayed gently, as if he were still that child who would appear at my bedroom door on rainy nights—as long as I held him, even if the world collapsed, it couldn't hurt him.
He shook his head, then nodded. The water from his hair dampened my clothes. "It hurts." He admitted. "My head is killing me. Stop swaying for a second." He knew what I was really asking, and I knew what he was really answering. "But you know I'll keep going."
I knew there was nothing I could do to change it. I knew I could only watch. I couldn't erase the cracks in him. I could only watch as his life became a furnace, throwing him, scarred as he was, into the high heat again and again—screams and tears hammered into his soul along with the forging. I was a bucket of water, waiting to embrace him, waiting for his quenching, waiting for him to cool down and harden into a blade.
"Yeah." I said softly. "I know."
I've always known.