Work Text:
His freckles align like constellations. His shining green eyes make you stop and stare and think of rolling hills in the summertime. The scruff on his face is just a shade darker than the dirty blond crew cut he’s been wearing recently. He smells of leather and coriander and just a hint of apple pie. His smoky voice fills the room with every syllable. He wears bulky boots that scuff up the floor.
Every time I get into his “baby,” the massive jet-black Impala he got when his father died, there’s a book on the passenger seat. I used to think he was trying to impress me with Vonnegut and Keats, but I quickly figured out he doesn’t attempt to impress anyone but his brother. His glove box is jam-packed with Led Zeppelin and AC/DC tapes. Sunlight pours across his dotted skin as the miles pass by and he hums along to the tracks. The warm leather of the seats and the rattling of the Legos jammed in the air conditioning let me know I am home; I am safe. He looks into the rearview mirror and frowns. He hates what he sees. He has too many freckles, too many scars. His nose is crooked and his ears don’t line up. If only he could see the way his eyes light up when he talks about how he got a car to run or hear how much his brother talks about his “superhero big brother” to everyone he meets.
He turns off the engine when we pull onto the rough gravel driveway. The peeling blue paint of the house is covered with old steering wheels that form an entryway. He sits motionless, staring at the smudge of a greasy handprint on the windshield, until his brother pounds twice on the window with his fist. “Are you coming or what?” He smiles and opens the creaking door, slamming it shut. I get out and follow them into the dark house. It smells of whiskey and motor oil. The staircase groans as his brother dashes up to his room. He makes way to the kitchen without bothering to turn the lights on. When he returns with two glasses and the bottle of Jack Daniels, I don’t say a word.
We sit on the worn orange leather couch and don’t talk. He picks up the photo sitting on the coffee table and a tear drips off his cheek. I don’t ask him if he wants to talk, if he needs a hug, if he wants more whiskey. The same conversation has been played out too many times in the past three days. He looks up at me for the first time since I got in the car; wet eyes and a locked jaw trembling, trying to keep from falling apart. He opens chapped lips to speak. A sob takes over instead. He rests his head against my chest as he repeats “I couldn’t save him.” I trace the constellations on his shoulder.