"I don't want it."
Okaaaaaaaaaaay, another big surprise. Growing up, his brother had talked nonstop of everything he'd wanted to accomplish when he was older: the schooling, the social prominence, taking over where their father left off.
Him saying no was like someone turning down a throne - unfathomable.
"Have you ever been tortured?" Luchas murmured.
His childhood came to mind. Then the Honor Guard. But he sure as shit wasn't going to bust the guy's balls. "I been knocked around some."
"I'll bet. What happened afterward?"
"What do you mean?"
"How did you get used to normal again?"
Qhuinn flexed his sore hands, looking at his own fingers that were all perfectly functional and intact in spite of the aches. His brother wasn't going to be able to count to ten anymore: Healing was one thing, regeneration another entirely.
"There is no normal anymore," he heard himself say. "You kind of...just keep going, because that's all you got. The hardest thing is being with other people - it's like they're on a different wavelength, but only you know it. They talk about their lives and what's wrong with them, and you kind of, like, just let them go. It's a whole different language, and you've got to remember that you can only respond in their mother tongue. It's really hard to relate."
"Yes, that's exactly right," Luchas said slowly. "That's right."
Qhuinn scrubbed his face again. "I never expected to have anything in common with you."
But they did. As Luchas looked over, those perfectly matched eyes met Qhuinn's f**ked-up ones, and the connection was there: They had both been through hell, and that lockstep was more powerful than the common DNA they shared.
It was so weird.
And funny, he guessed tonight was the night for him to find family everywhere.
Except the one place he wanted it.
As silence prevailed, with nothing but the steady beeping of the machinery by the bedside to break up the quiet, Qhuinn stayed for a long while. He and his brother didn't talk much, and that was okay. That was what he wanted. He wasn't ready to open up to the guy about Layla or the young, and he supposed it was telling that Luchas didn't ask if he was mated. And he sure as hell wasn't bringing up the Blay thing.
It was good to sit with his brother, though. There was something about the people you grew up around, the ones you'd seen throughout your childhood, the folks you couldn't remember not knowing. Even if the past was a complicated mess, as you aged, you were just glad the sons of bitches were still on the planet.
It gave you the illusion that life wasn't as fragile as it actually was - and on occasion, that was the only thing that got you through the night.
"I'd better go so you can rest," he said, rubbing his knees, waking up his legs.
Luchas turned his head on that hospital pillow. "Odd dress for you, isn't it?"
Qhuinn glanced down at the black robe. "Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on."
"Looks ceremonial."
"You need anything?" Qhuinn stood up. "Food?"
"I'm doing well enough. But thank you."
"Well, you let me know, okay."
"You are a very decent fellow, Qhuinn, you know that?"
Qhuinn's heart stopped, and then beat hard. That was the phrase that their father had always used to describe gentlemales...it was the A-plus of compliments, the top of the pile, the equivalent of a bear hug and a high five from a normal guy.
"Thanks, man," he said roughly. "You, too."
"How can you say that?" Luchas cleared his throat. "How in the name of the Virgin Scribe can you say that?"
Qhuinn exhaled hard. "You want the bottom line? Well, I'll give you it. You were the favorite. I was the curse - we were on opposite ends of the scale in that household. But neither one of us had a chance. You were no more free than I was. You had no choice about your future - it was predetermined at birth, and in a way, my eyes? They were my get-out-of-jail, because it meant he didn't care about me. Did he f**k me over? Yeah, but at least I got to decide what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. You...never had a f**king chance. You were nothing but a math equation already solved when you were conceived, all the answers predetermined."
Luchas closed those lids again and shuddered. "I keep running it through my head. All those years growing up, from my first memory...to the last thing I saw that night when..." He coughed a little, like his chest hurt, or maybe his heart rhythm went wonky. "I hated him. Did you know that?"
"No. But I can't say it surprises me."
"I don't want to go back in that house again."
"Then you don't have to. But if you do...I'll go with you."
Luchas looked over once again. "Really?"
Qhuinn nodded his head. Even though he was in no hurry to walk through those rooms and dance with the ghosts of the past, he would go there if Luchas did.
Two survivors, back to the scene of crimes that had defined them.
"Yeah. Really."
Luchas smiled a little, the expression nothing close to what he'd used to sport. And that was okay. Qhuinn liked it much better. It was honest. Fragile, but honest.
"I'll see you soon," Qhuinn said.
"That would be...very nice."
Turning away, Qhuinn pushed open the door, and -
Blay was waiting for him out in the corridor, smoking a cigarette as he sat on the floor.
As Qhuinn came out of his brother's room, Blay got to his feet and stabbed his Dunhill out on the lip of the drink he'd been nursing. He wasn't sure what he expected the fighter to look like, but it hadn't been this: So tense and unhappy, in spite of the incredible honor he'd been paid. Then again, spending time at your brother's bedside was hardly a joyous occasion.
And Blay wasn't stupid. Saxton was back in the house.
"I thought I'd find you here," he said, when the other male didn't even offer a hello.
In fact, Qhuinn's blue and green stare went around the corridor, hitting pretty much everything except him.
"So, ah, how's your brother?" he prompted.
"Alive."
Guess that was the best they could hope for right now.
And guess that was all Qhuinn intended to say. Maybe he shouldn't have come down here. "I, ah, I wanted to say congratulations."
"Thanks."
Okay, Qhuinn still wasn't looking at him. Instead, the guy was focused in the direction of the office, like in his mind he'd already walked down to the damn thing and put that closet full of paper supplies to good use -
The sound of Qhuinn cracking his knuckles was loud as gunshots. Then he flexed his hands, spreading the fingers as if they hurt.