boys buried in the backyard ; brad&mav

[ᴥ]

m a v   h a l e

Mav hadn't been well enough to attend his brother's funeral. That's the excuse playing on repeat in his head, scratched vinyl meant to drown out the guilt that overwhelms him every time it skips a beat. His parents understood, of course they did. Bodies aren't meant to stagnate for four years; weeks of physical therapy had done little to stop him feeling like he was made of jelly every time he tried to stand. Everything about this body feels a little more wrong than he remembers, like he's wearing his shoes on the opposite foot.

(He's not, by the way. He checked.)

(...more than once.)

But time is not a merciful thing. The days drag on into months and give him no choice but to get better. His appetite starts picking up again and suddenly he's scarfing down refrigerator-burned spaghetti at three a.m. He's grown three fucking inches in the six months his brother has been rotting underground. Part of him wants to forget about all of it, to pretend the marble headstone engraved with the last name they share is as blank as his memories of what came before waking up.

It's ironic, right? He's got all the time in the world to put off saying goodbye to a guy with no time left.

The decision was impulsive, as are all of Mav's attempts to do better for once. They're few and far between and so often a desperate attempt to relieve a burden resting heavy on his shoulders. He always regrets trying.

He regrets it now, wrapped up in an old jacket that's too tight around the shoulders. He shudders against a gentle breeze, no stronger than a feather touch dragged along the back of his neck but still cold enough make him uncomfortable. By the way the clouds churn overhead it looks like it's about to rain and that's making him nervous for some stupid reason.

When he told his mother he was ready to go see Gavin, she'd insisted on coming along. It's a struggle to get his parents to let him piss in private, so obviously he was incapable of looking at a sad little grave and pretending it meant something without her.
    
"Just- wait over there." He hisses through his teeth, tearing his hand through his hair and avoiding his mother's eyes because he knows they've gone all weepy and hurt by now. "I'll be fine. I'm not a little kid."

He doesn't feel very fine, if he's being honest.

(Which Mav almost never is.)

The grave itself small and insignificant - a gash in the earth that's just started to scar. It's been long enough that grass has sprouted from churned dirt, the flowers his father had left two weeks ago are already brown and wilted.

His mother never leaves any because she still blames him for the stairwell incident.

"So uh, this is it huh?" He shoves his hands in his pockets, teeth chattering because he's always so fucking cold now. "I was gonna tell you I forgave you for everything, but I don't think I do so-"

This is dumb. He feels dumb.

"I guess I'm just gonna say goodbye and ask you to get the fuck outta my nightmares."

He runs his hand over the headstone and squeezes his eyes shut, "I'm so tired, Gav."

(I don't think I was supposed to wake up.)

[arx]

b r a d   b r a d f o r d

Momma caught him at the door on his way out with a puzzled look on her face, flour on her apron and hair tied back. "Well, good morning- hey, Brad!" He stutter stepped at the door, stumbling into the coat rack with a rather lengthy exclamation.

"Honeeeyyy? You okay?" He hears his brother from their room, something about it being the weekend.

"Yeah!" he hollers back toward the kitchen. "Sorry, sorry, I uhm, shit- ah! Sorry! Didn't meant to curse, or-" maybe he did, but, only because he'd heard something about it sounding cool from, um... shit. Ugh, whoops.

Maybe coach was right. Maybe it wasn't just his eye that broke on that hit, but some bits inside his head, too.

("You've never really been the brightest of the bunch anyway, kid, heh!")

"Just tripped, all good," he untangles himself from his Letterman jacket and throws it over his shoulders instead, scrambling to make sure his Momma didn't have to worry about him any more than she had been these past few weeks.

"Wait, love, I made pancakes, did you want- where are you going?"

Strange. He didn't know. Er, actually he did, but the answer didn't make much sense- if that makes sense?

"To the cemetery?"

It wasn't a question, just sounded that way. "I'm, uh, going for a little, light jog is all-"

"In the cemetery?"

"I'm meeting someone- a friend?" Nope, wasn't supposed to be a question. "-nnnd."

He spins on his heels as he's halfway through the door. He has to bend to kiss Momma on the forehead, and his depth perception's all off so it's sloppy, but she grabs hold of his cheeks to tell him to be careful and to be home for lunch.

"Love you, gav- have a good morning, Momma. I'll be back!"

And then he's outside and thankful for the extra scarf he decided to grab because the breeze bites at his ears before he's even halfway there.

There.

He'd been feeling as if he was meant to. Today, of all days, but also- ever since the accident, too. He'd come out just to walk the rows. Sometimes he'd stumble upon a funeral and have to remind himself not to stumble aimlessly through it. He's always torn between smiling at the people he passes or if that might be considered-

Rude? Inconsiderate? He's not trying to be all that. He's just tripping over his own feet more than usual lately—Momma always said sometimes it took awhile to get used to things that were bigger than what you'd always had before. Which—when he'd said as much to his coach—he'd been informed that the statement probably didn't mean what I thought it meant.' He had guffawed and everything.

Brad had a tendency to say things that made people smile. Even if maybe they didn't want to. And maybe, just sometimes, he didn't want them to either.

And, see. He'd forgotten to remind himself to look out for people. "Oh, my- I'm so sorry, my apologies, I- that was my bad, I should've been doing the thing people do with their eyes." A pause, a small grin. "Which, I can't even do out of this one, but hey, the other one's 20/20 so, yeah," he points it out for him, not that it mattered, but he looked so- felt so- like, familiar?

His shoes felt too big.

"Which is- over sharing, I'm sorry, again, I'm just- I'm leaving, so sorry."

Ah.

He jogs back the few steps he'd already briskly paced, nodding to the boy as he pulls a small, sunshine-colored, tea-cup shaped flower from his pocket. He holds the bloom gently in his palm, extending it to the stranger he'd nearly knocked over in the cemetery.

"A friend, for whichever of you needs it the most."

[ᴥ]

m a v   h a l e

Yellow.

Like sunshine, but more obnoxious. Of course, the flower is beautiful but only in a way that's desperate for attention. Its delicate petals curl into the stranger's palm, fluttering with laughter in the breeze. Maverick observes the offending act of kindness for a while, trying to remember how to scowl before he lifts his gaze to meet that of the idiot who'd just barreled into him.

And you know those moments when you realize you've just made a terrible mistake?

His heart drops into his stomach, angry and aching. If not for his brother's headstone pressed against the backs of his legs, he'd have probably turned and walked away. Just to put a premature end to whatever the hell this was going to be. There's something devastating about this perfect moment. So lovely that it makes Maverick's skin crawl.

He does not deserve beautiful moments, he's not even sure he wants them.

He's already exhausted by the look on this boy's face. Too open, too honest, with lips that curl up slightly at their edges as they wrap around stupid fucking words that are little more than worthless.

A very small, very sad part of Maverick begs to hate him.

"That's stupid," Maverick laughs, held hostage by his own smile. His fingertips brush against the boys palm as pinches the flower's petals between them. Warm, he notes, and wonders if he was wrong in assuming his gift was what was so blinding. His greed gets the better of him, as it so often does, as he pushes his hair behind his ear and slots the flower along with it.

Truth is neither he nor Gavin was in need of a friend. Dead boys don't have much use for those.

Of course he still basks in obnoxious sunshine.

"How many of those do you keep in your pockets. And why?" He clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes onto the back of his head in search of more quips, "And, by the way, you shouldn't be running alone with your eye like that. What if something terrible actually happened to you?"

If Maverick had his way, that injury would have taken away from the stranger's good looks. Instead the way one eye dances with amber fire and the other, glazed as it reflects be world back at him, is far more mesmerizing than it should be. Maverick keeps having to remind himself to look away lest he seem like a creepy weirdo who gazes into stranger's eyes with equal parts wonder and interest.

Maybe this is why he doesn't have any friends and the brother-induced trauma is just an easy scapegoat.

He waves a dismissive hand at the boy and his parents, turning back to his brother's grave. This is the part where they leave him to rot. This is the part where they all walk away. "Well, have a nice day. And do try to be more careful."

They seem to get the message - good thing as he was practically screaming it. They all begin to meander away and for one, blissful moment Maverick Hale is completely alone.

Just how he likes it.

Just how it should be.

The daffodil's petals tickle his temple with their sweet laughter.

Aw, fuck.

"Hey! Wait!" He takes off at a sprint, only to find the boy hasn't moved very far at all. "You shouldn't... walk home alone. With that eye. Dangerous and all."

It's charity, nothing more.

(So why're your cheeks burning?)

[arx]

b r a d   b r a d f o r d

Brad tilts his head, a curious glint in his eye- "That's stupid." -trying his best to figure out how that could be true when Brad had made him smile and laugh. His momma always said he had a gift, that not everyone would understand him and that not everyone would be kind to him, but that he should never let anyone take that gift from him or make him feel bad for having it.

He did feel bad though. He said he'd leave, but he hadn't really planned to. He really, really shouldn't be telling lies, and he knew that, but his hands are freezing- well, not his hands, but this stranger he'd knocked over in the cemetery had fingertips of ice and it took everything within Brad not to seize all ten of them immediately with his ten to save Cemetery Guy from the cold.

Name, name, ask name, get a name. 'Cemetery Guy' is probably not his name. Probably. Not that I would judge if it was or anything, but- oh! It's always best to introduce yourself first and- wait, did I already do that?

Brad rewinds his actions in his mind, but it just sorta feels like he's messing up another cassette tape and the film is spewing and curling in on itself and coach is not gonna be happy about this, but- ah, he was mixing up memories and people and metaphors and not answering the questions that the stranger whose name may or may not be Cemetery Guy was asking.

"What's my name?"

Whoops.

"I mean, sorry," he chuckles at himself and rubs at the patch of heat rising on the back of his neck. Cemetery Guy was, um. Well he's- y'know.

Shit, I'm still just smiling at him. Wave, wait, no, don't wave. Curse these nervous hands. Well, not curse, but- gah! Speak, talk, w o r d s.

"My name is Brad. Nice to meet you, uh, what's yours?" Brad pokes him in the shoulder; he can't figure out why his hands have to have a mind of their own. "Because I've just been calling you, 'Cemetery Guy' in my head-" he points to his own skull, taps lightly. "And, like, even if it was, that'd be cool! Because you have it, which makes it cool. But I have to, um, call you something to thank you-"

He trails off because he's too busy staring at him. It makes heat rise in his cheeks and neck and ears-"Errrrrrryour your your hands! Your hands are so cold."

Smooth. Very good save.

Not that he was trying to pick up a guy in a cemetery, but also he didn't want to stop holding his hand now that he'd snatched it up in his own. His veins sat toward the surface, blue webs like the frosted tree branches lit up against the night sky during hockey season or the ice covered pond cracking beneath his feet as he raced his brother to shore or warm honey over a scoop of his famous blue ice cream. Which was only blue because he put food coloring in it and wasn't exactly famous, or anything, but he wondered if maybe he'd like to try some - like, after the whole meeting in a cemetery thing.

Or maybe that was the perfect time for ice cream. Post-cemetery.

"Plus it's dangerous, like you said, with the one good eye, yeah? And, uh, shoot, I haven't stopped talking again, huh? I tend to ramble when yellow is your color," Wait, what? He was using his one good eye to look at his hero instead of paying attention to walking or talking. Which he knew wasn't very careful. And he really didn't wanna lose this eye, too.

Because yellow really is his color.

"I mean, it is! But, I- what I meant is, uh," His free hand is giving him a thumbs up. "I'm shushing. And then you're talking. Or not, if- I mean, okay! I am silent as a mouse. Starting now."

Mice are actually pretty noisy though; he hums because he's happy.