→﹐ ⛩ ﹒hadley ﹒⟢

Getting punched in the face fucking hurts. Is this how that greaser kid—what's his name? Johnny Cade—felt? Melvin learned that fact during the dreadful, nightmare stoking rumble.

The air in Tulsa felt heavy that night, the kind of air that sticks to your skin, clinging with the remnants of sweat and washed-out adrenaline from fighting. The sound of pained yells and grunts engrained deep in everyone’s mind the same way blood permanently leaves crimson red stains on clothes. Heavy rain smacked against the ground, the thud of fists against flesh and wailing echoed in his ears. The fight had been brutal.

Everyone involved knew it would be.

With losses on each side of town, tensions were at an all-time high. The Socs had their leader flat-out torn away from them, and the Greasers? They were hungry for victory; hungry for revenge in the name of their fallen.

Melvin could feel the sting of the night’s events all around his body and through achey joints. His head throbbed, the feeling of a migraine threatening to catch up with him, made itself painfully known. That Greaser girl threw a good slug at him, leaving his forehead all beat up and bruised. What soon will become a scar of shame, laid a jagged line stretched across his face from the corner of his eyebrow up. Sallow-toned marks were beginning to bloom a dim purple color along his arms and ribs, and he could feel every one of them as if they were blatant reminders of his failure.

But that was nothing compared to the anger building inside him now as he sat on the edge of the cool bathtub tile in the small, dimly lit bathroom of their grandmother’s house. Anger directed at his brother: Trip.

He followed the older boy’s every movement, watching intently as he soaked a cotton pad in peroxide. Whenever their eyes met, he quickly averted his gaze to the floor. Trip wasn’t the kind of guy who showed his worry. No — he kept it all inside, a stoic expression on his face, but Melvin knew him well enough to read between the lines.

Understood the softened upset expression all too well.

Melvin was jolted awake in the middle of the night by the sound of someone walking down the old, creaky stairs of the Dipp household. In a daze of confusion, his sleep-addled mind compelled him to follow the sound. In the dim glow of a small plug-in nightlight, he saw a figure standing in the hallway. If he squinted closely enough, Melvin could make out the person's features: heavy-lidded brown eyes that stared longingly at a portrait of their mother holding her firstborn son. It was Trip.

The younger made the mistake of inching closer, and an obnoxious creak echoed from beneath his feet as he took a step forward. In an instant, he was discovered. When Trip turned to face him, the other has already darted back upstairs and into his bedroom.

Tonight, his brother had been worried the whole time, eyeing him during the rumble like a hawk. He never took his eyes off him for a second.

And Melvin had hated it. He hated being treated like he was fragile, like he was some little kid who couldn’t take care of himself. It’s not like it was his first fight. His first rumble—sure, but both involved the same range. The only difference was that a rumble had one rule in place: it was skin-to-skin only.

“You should’ve just stayed home like I fucking told you to,” Trip muttered, his voice low and sharp. Melvin didn’t even have to look up to know his brother was agitated. He could hear it in the way his words cut through the silent air like a switchblade.

The same weapon which was used against Bob.

“I’m fine,” Melvin replied, his voice laced with bitterness as he fought to mask the tremor that contradicted his words. He clenched his fists on the rim of the tub, determined not to appear vulnerable. He was not a baby, and he sure as hell did not enjoy being babied; he didn’t need help from anyone, least of all from Trip, who always seemed to find a way to peel away Melvin’s own hard-headed surface and uncover the truth lying beneath.

Trip’s rough hand gripped the back of his head, holding him in place, while the other carefully dabbed at the cut with a soaked pad. The sting shot through Melvin’s skin, causing him to reel back with a sharp hiss much like a cat.

“You’re not fine, Melvin,” Trip’s voice was gruff, but there was a tenderness to it that he refused to acknowledge. His mind was too shrewd to even register what the other said. “You think you’re all tough, huh?” He blatantly ignored him. “Look at you — see what happens when you run into things you ain’t belong in?”

Melvin’s jaw clenched.

He wanted to swat away the brown-haired boy's hand, to push Trip off of him and tell him to just quit it. The agonizing pain in his skull was becoming unbearable, and with every jolt of discomfort trailing down his back came along a shiver from the viscous liquid pressing against his open wound. He needed to push Trip away so he couldn’t see the moisture building up around his waterline.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it, yet.

Instead, he kept his head down, feeling the peroxide burn against his flesh as Trip cleaned the wound.

“You didn’t hafta fight, y’know.” I didn’t want you to fight — didn’t want you to get hurt; is what he wanted to say, but the words get caught in the back of his throat as he opens his mouth. Rather, he continues as if the phrase had already fleed his mind, voice a blend of frustration and worry. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Glory, Gramma’s gonna tear me to shreds when she gets a good look at you.”

“Quit—“ Melvin winced through gritted teeth after a particularly rough swipe at the dried blood, the deep red creating a sickly contrast with his skin. He ducked his head further away from Trip’s hands before being pulled back in place. “If you held still for more than a minute it won’t hurt so bad.” He reprimanded the boy who in return simply rolled his eyes.

“I’s not like I need you t’baby me,” he muttered, his voice meek, but firm speaking with whatever confidence he could muster up. “I can handle myself.”

“Clearly, you can’t handle yourself too well when you’re bleedin’ all over the damn place,” Trip retorted, his tone of voice rising with the frustration boiling up inside him. Christ Almighty, why wouldn’t Melvin just let him do this one thing for him? Why is the little shit so stubborn?

He supposes he inherited that trait from Gramma.

Calloused fingers pressed harder into his brother’s skull to keep the flinching boy in place, and for a moment, Melvin almost wished he had just stayed home too.

But he wouldn’t admit that aloud. He wouldn’t admit that he regretted a single moment of that night.

“Jesus, Trip — I’m fine!” Melvin repeated, clutching at his brother’s arms as they tussled for a moment, doing his best to just get him the fuck off. He was no match for the older’s brute strength earned from playing football all throughout highschool, yet he made an effort nonetheless, grunting in frustration while shoving him away. It didn’t matter how hard he tried anyways, because Trip had him sitting still in no time. He was completely fed up with himself his brother.

Melvin could feel salty tears the same ones he wished away earlier welling at the corners of his eyes, a direct result of the cleanser burning his skin. Well — at least that’s what he attributed it to, as his vision became a hazy blur through heavy tears. Maybe that was part of it, but he knew what the he main reason was. Embarrassment; shame.

The Socs lost. Lost against their long-time rivals after preparing to win. Lost against the people who slash their tires and steal hubcaps with a shit-eating grin plastered on their faces.

Lost against the ones who murdered Bob.

Who left the boys without their commander in battle, the “golden boy” quarterback of the football team, the set of green eyes that always held a subtle glint of mischief — but above all else, their brother.

It was all his fault—Melvin thought was certain of that now. If he had just stayed in bed where he belonged, he wouldn’t have found himself perched awkwardly on the rim of the bathtub with his older brother fussing over him as if he were a child in need of a bandage for a scraped knee. Trip, was more focused on looking after Melvin than focusing on the Greaser he was slugging. Each time the brunette glanced over his shoulder, he checked to make sure his brother wasn’t lying face down in the gravel — the same way Bob was found in that fountain.

There was that feeling — guilt twisting and tying his stomach into one giant knot.

It was supposed to be the Soc’s grand win for control over Pershing Park, and yet here the brothers were, the aftermath of the rumble hanging heavily above their heads. If he had just kept his distance, maybe Trip wouldn’t have found himself with that busted lip, the angry swelling a reminder of what could have been avoided.

He kept his head down.

Trip’s calm demeanor seemed to break down at the edges — clear irritation seeping through the cracks, and for a moment, Melvin was sure his older brother was going to shout at him. But instead, Trip’s look softened, his tight grip in his hair loosening. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

The older tossed the bloodied cotton into a nearby garbage, silently peeling open a bandaid. His presence was overwhelming, yet it was the cold shoulder that got to Melvin. Trip wasn’t the type to hold his tongue, and this complete quiet? Being a person who constantly fills the silences — it was the worst kind of punishment.

“I ain’t—…” He began. “I ain’t mad at you, Melv,” Trip spoke up finally, his voice melting with every word. “Jus’ pissed off at myself is all.”

And that was all Melvin needed to hear to understand why he was being so serious about the situation. He couldn’t protect him; his kid brother. The blond’s stomach dropped, but he didn’t dare tilt his head upward. He didn’t need to hear it, not from Trip. He didn’t need to hear that he was worried about him, didn’t need to hear that he cared.

The silence stretched between them again as Melvin scrubbed harshly at his eyes, leaving tear-stained streaks along his forearm — the only audible sounds being the ruffle of his Madras shirt and a low shaky huff of breath escaping from his lips.

“You’re too young to be gettin’ mixed up in all this,” Trip added, knowing he was Melvin’s age when he started jumping greasers and smoking cancersticks. He wanted to do everything he could to protect Melvin from the unforgiving streets of Tulsa — protect him from being hardened. His tone was thick with something the other couldn’t quite place. “But you’re still my brother; my kid brother. ‘Nd I don’t know what I’d do if I see you end up in the newspaper, or— face down lyin’ in some ditch. Don’t wanna see you end up like Bob.”

Melvin swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing more prominent. He bit down on his tongue, knowing the state he would find Trip in if he looked up.

Hunched over with the same dreadful expression as that late night in the hallway.

Trip’s hand landed gently atop the shorter’s head, his touch tender despite the subtle frustration still simmering beneath his outward visage. “I’m gonna protect you, no matter what. There ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. It’s what I’ve gotta do, y’hear?”

Melvin nodded finally letting himself exhale the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his shoulders slumping simultaneously. He knew how he probably looked — pathetic with furrowed brows and a quivering lip. He hated how much his brother’s words had gotten to him. Hated how they slugged him in the gut and forced tears out of his eyes, but he could not bring himself to force Trip any farther away. He understands he needs him.

The throbbing headache, the sting from the peroxide—none of it mattered anymore. They didn’t need to speak for Melvin to comprehend that Trip will forever be there for him, even though the younger would never in a million years ask for it.

They were all each other really had.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable for Melvin, but it was familiar. They are the only ones who have stayed in each other’s lives longer than anyone ever has. No matter what happens, they will always still be brothers.

“C’mon,” Trip patted Melvin on the back. “Head up to bed ‘fore Gramma wakes up ‘nd has a stroke just lookin’ at you.”