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"FUCK OFF ALAN!"

"No! Shan't!” I replied in a sing-song playground voice I thought I'd long forgotten. I frowned, “at least until you explain yourself. Let me in, Keith ... please." I waited as patiently as I could, well aware that the Mater and Pater were lurking in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. They were badly worried about their youngest son, and eavesdropping.

I'd come back the week before, after spending a quiet fortnight with Charlotte at her parents country cottage, to be taken aside - almost before I'd got through the front door - and told that Alan had 'gone off the rails' and I needed to do somthing about it, fast. I'd enquired why they thought I'd do any better than they could and been snapped at mightily.

"Hsst!" came from below. I walked over to the bannisters and stuck my head over. Mother's teary face, pale in the light that spilled from the kitchen, looked up at me. Father sat on the hall chair behind her with his arms crossed looking stoic. I felt a frisson skitter up my back as it occured to me I too might end up an emotional cripple like he was. The thought shocked me. I swallowed and blinked. No, that wasn't fair. He was a pretty good father all things considered, just not a very emotional man.

"Well?" Mother whispered.

"I'm doing it!" I said, then went back to Keith's bedroom door. I heard the parents whispering something I couldn't quite catch and I almost laughed. The situation was farcical. Keith was a teenager, and all teens went off the rails. I certainly had, though, I reflected, I'd obviously been better at hiding it than Keith seemed to be.

His door needed a fresh coat of paint and the ‘Nuclear Disaster Area - Keep Out!’ placard I’d bought him for his thirteenth birthday was torn, creased, and missing a drawing pin. I knocked again.

“Keith?” The slow steady tick-tock of the grandmother clock marked a counterpoint to my heart. I wasn't particularly given to patience, but when it came to my younger brother going off the rails in such a spectacular fashion I'd decided to curb my temper. I nibbled another shard off my thumbnail. "Please, Keith." I murmured under my breath, more for my benefit that his. I took a deep breath and was about ready to up the ante and put my shoulder to the door, when I heard key turn in lock and the door opened a crack. Angry tired blue eyes glared up at me before turning away. "Thanks" I said, pushing the door open and entering the darkened room before he decided to change his mind. “Umm, mind if I sit down?"

"Feel free, you always do," he muttered. I edged by him and sat down on the overly hard desk chair. He closed the door, then, punching his pillows, flopped down on the bed and put his hands behind his head.

"It's what brothers are for," I said, continuing the repartee almost unconsciously.

"Yeah, right," he said, sounding more bitter and hurt than I was expecting. "As if you really give a damn."

"Oh, that's not fair! Come on Keith, knock off the sarky, embittered, 'woe is me' crap. Tell me what's wro...! Jesus Christ!"

“What?” he snapped. I pointed to the bedside table and the glinting Razor blade. He looked from the blade to me and almost smiled.

"I was practising decoupage," he said innocently.

"Sure you were, and did you know I'm joining the Bolshoi?" I leant over and picked up the blade. It glinted in the light from the desk lamp. "You weren't ... I mean, seriously, Keith. You weren't really thinking of...? Ouch!" I winced as I sliced my finger, and dropped the blade on the carpet in shock. He looked at me a little guiltily, then blinked and huffed to cover it up.

"That'll teach you, Alan. Here, have a tissue."

"Thanks," I said, taking it and dabbing the blood away from the cut so I could see how deep it was.

"De nada," he replied, his tone a little lighter as he picked the blade up from the floor, wiped it on a tissue and put it back on the table, then he looked at me and smiled, albeit wanly. Finally, he got to the point. "He... he hates me."

"Hmm?" I murmured, sucking my finger. "Do you think I need to disinfect it?" I folded the tissue, then wrapped it around the cut.

"No,” he shook his head, “you'll be fine, the blade's fresh out of the packet."

"Oh, okay.” I decided it probably wasn't the time to have a talk about cutting and self harm, or drugs. “And by the way, no, he doesn't."

"Huh?" He was looking at the framed photograph on the wall which had been taken the previous summer and showed them ragging around in the park, their love obvious for all to see. Obvious except to his close family. I almost laughed.

"He doesn't hate you, Keith, far from it. He phoned yesterday, but you were out on one of your ‘my world is ending so leave me alone’ walks."

"Mark called? But I....” His expression went from one of wistful yearning to one of confusion. “He called, he called and you didn’t tell me! Why didn't you tell me, Alan? Why didn't you, and what did he say?"

"Umm,” I managed, watching him bouncing expectantly on the bed like a kid waiting to open his presents on Christmas morning. It was my turn to feel guilty. “I'm sorry, mate. I didn't write a message 'cause I thought I'd see you, and then I forgot. What can I say, I'm a total dunderhead."

"I'd put it a tad stronger than that!" He glowered at me, then swung his legs around, sat up, and giggle-smiled, the sun breaking through his personal cloud ridden micro-climate. It gave him an angelic look. "But I won't!"

"Better not or I'll ... on second thoughts. Umm, look, about what you told me last week, I've been meaning to ask you."

"What?" he batted his eyelashes at me, and there in his darkened and messy bedroom I suddenly realised what it was that Mark saw in him. Beautiful wasn’t a term I’d ever used for another guy before, but at sixteen, with long raven hair, dark blue eyes and rosy smooth pre-beard skin and lips, my brother was beautiful: he could have been a model. I don’t know what expression I was wearing, but he suddenly frowned and leant towards me. “What? Alan?” I coughed and tried to recover my aplomb.

"Don't 'what' me, you know perfectly well what!" I said, trying desperately for light hearted, my voice almost cracking. He paused, unsure of what was going on.

"Yeah," he said slowly, "I thought I did, but Alan, you're blushing.” As we looked at each other he realised I was embarrassed and, like the nice guy he was, he lightened the atmosphere. “You know, you're quite cute when you blush, Bro, even though you're as old as the hills!" The awkward moment flew away and I blinked and thanked the gods for it.

"Which makes you nearly as old as the hills, you cheeky git! Well?"

"Ask outright, and I might ... might ... just possibly think about telling you!" he said and laughed, the sound rich, uncomplicated, and just the ticket to appease the fears of our parents. He knew it, too. We smiled at each other and I lowered my voice to a whisper.

"Okay. So, are you really, really in love with Mark? There I asked!” I was rewarded as his eyes turned to saucers and his cheeks caught fire. “Oh! Ha! Now who's blushing?!" This time our laughter was belly deep, long lasting and almost painful. Finally we wiped our eyes.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he waged his finger at me. “Subtlety flew by you years ago, big bro."

"Yeah,” I fired back, “probably when I was changing your diapers."

"That's so not fair!"

"True. So?"

"What?"

"Not again, mate! Simple questions deserve simple answers. A yea or a nay will do."

"Yea! Yea, yea and thrice yea!" He grinned and we high-fived.

"Great, because Mark told me he feels exactly the same." I was winded as he flew into my arms, and then almost hugged to death.

"It seems that's you sorted out, then," I said a little while later. We'd talked as we hadn't in what seemed an age; talked and laughed in the way brothers should. "So let's go and sort out the worries of the parental unit."

And so we did.

 

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