#bledsins

Four houses from that dirty street in Rome could fit in this floor alone. Four. He wonders distantly how may were torn down to make room for it. Space enough for a cul-de-sac of impoverished misery and it was just John in this lonely high rise. At least, Joseph said that hard eyed man was John.

Joseph... Joseph he’d recognized immediately. Some breadth to his bony shoulders, power in that once bird-like chest. His hair is longer than their father would ever have allowed, but undeniably Joseph. That same strange, intense child he’d been since age eight now a strange, intense man. But Joseph. His Joseph. The man with him was unrecognizable. The shape was right, features distorted by years, but predictable. The same nose though it looks to have met a fist or three. The same Seed blue eyes. But there’s such hatred in them now. That handsome face is more inclined to sneer than smile. When he can find it in himself to want for anything, Jacob doesn’t want him to be John.

36 hours since Joseph last laid his hands on the marks of war one can see as if that alone could heal them; could heal the ones gone unseen. It’s the longest reprieve Jacob has had from his brother’s insistence that their suffering had purpose; that the three would never be separated again. It’s hard to believe such words when you’d screamed them yourself dragged away between the arms of two officers. He knew how quickly such promises fell to rot. Soles worn thin and tract-less are silent on the untainted white marble tiles. Soundlessly the soldier-- is he still?-- drifts through the halls laden with excess. A triangle of light falls from a door at the far end. Even from here rich, thick scents assault his sensitive nose: cologne, product, body-wash. Not a poor infantryman’s last can of body-spray, but every bit as stomach-roiling. His fingertips trail along the wall, a soft shushing sound easily covered by the shufflings of the man in the bath ahead.

John supposedly. Without care, a jacket-- the price of which could buy their childhood home twice over-- is tossed over the rim of the tub. Given that the Benjamin rolled and held in elegant fingers is treated with marginally more respect than toilet paper, it doesn’t surprise Jacob. It’s been a long, long time since John relied on Jacob to hoard, steal, borrow, or beg to keep his belly quiet. Why would he respect money as anything more than the paper that made it? Jacob leans a withered shoulder into the door frame, resting the worn toe of his boot against the tile as he watches. So John’s become an addict as well as an over-educated little shit clambering up society’s ladder. Jacob’s no stranger to vacant gazes, to ruined veins and bad teeth and a dusting of powder beneath a nose inclined to bleed. He’s seen it in the pitiless streets of Rome, the barracks and opium dens of desert lands. Even in the institutions that echoed with desperation like his brothers had plucked him from, where the desperate would spend whatever they could scrounge to forget just for a little while. This version is, prettier, more palatable. But no less weak. John was never meant to end up among them.

Something long disused curls in Jacob’s chest, makes his teeth grit. His voice, always rough and graveled, comes out barely louder than a whisper for its lack of use. A question he’d asked a thousand times as the gleeful face toddled to him, arms outstretched: “Whatcha doin’, little brother?”

“I need to confess my adoration for Banni [ @hollandvalleythotpatrol, @bledsins, @truckfix]. No matter the blog or format, Banni’s content is top notch and always pushes me to be better.

Not to mention her incredible patience and generosity as I figure out everything from this fandom to painfully inept attempts at photo manipulation. Friends for six years and I’m still not sick of her.

It seemed like more and more they were getting these sorts of calls. Calls about gatherings that were making some people nervous. Now, Pratt was the first one to think people were just being sensitive and that people were allowed to worship as they wished. Right? They didn’t have that much information yet on this new movement but they had to go check in and make sure everyone was A-Okay. Green uniform screamed what he was, hands on hips and thumbs curled into his sturdy belt. He looked like he thought he was some hot shit as he walked up onto the scene. The sermon must have finished up because people were talking amongst themselves. The podium was empty and Pratt took a sly look around for one of the Seeds without trying to look too much like he had that goal. 

Small bunkhouses have been built to house them temporarily. They’re cramped but they keep the snow out. Most importantly, they keep his children warm. When they arrived at Hope County, winter was still grasping the land. Despite the fact that many other states were welcoming Spring, Montana seemed determined to hold onto the cold and snow just a bit longer.

Joseph, who has felt winter in his very bones during his period of homelessness, isn’t particularly fond of the lingering season. It draws too near memories of helplessness and hopelessness. To stave off those memories, he grounds himself in the present. In the work. For while they may not be able to build their bunkers, there is still work that can be done renovating the old and forgotten church. 

Only a spare few houses reside on this small island in the center of Hope County. Most have either gathered closer to the main town of the area, Fall’s End, or are dotted throughout the countryside where they can own large pieces of farm land. Because of this migration of work, the church was abandoned. Another was built in Fall’s End. Though they have only been here for a few weeks, Joseph knows that the man who calls himself a pastor of that church is named Jerome. 

He doesn’t know yet the state of Jerome’s soul. Though as a fellow man of faith, he hopes the pastor will see and understand his word. 

Joseph is writing in his book, reciting another sermon, when he notices a familiar truck. His brother is within. He immediately stops writing and tucks his book away to greet his brother. The time spent separated is too large of a gap for him to ever not miss his brother’s face now. 

“John,” he smiles once his brother gets out of the truck. Arms encircle him, hugging him tightly. A kiss is pressed to his forehead, and he pulls back but takes his baby brother’s face between his palms. “You’re here to share dinner, I hope?” he asked, gaze falling to a letter within his hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

The huff wheezes, pained, but still amused. Oh John’s faith in his big brother. Still so strong. 

“While I appreciate the vote of confidence…”  Warmth oozes through his fingers, proof that pressure on his hip is growing weaker.  “You’re only part right.”

The sun’s warm on his skin, streaming through the floor to ceiling glass as if solely to bathe him, to coax some of that decades old tension from his shoulders. Over the rhythmic clatter of the keys and Brahms, those long legs stretch out before him. The old soldier can almost forget the itch of new growth, the ragged beard and hair trimmed or sheared away completely mere days before. So too can he put aside the discomfort of clothes bought soft rather than worn that way. It’s harder to ignore the weight of the PA’s glower, not visible from this corner of John’s lush office. Felt though. Oh the pretty little blonde thing had not been happy to see him. From elation on greeting his suave baby brother to a look of near horror on seeing John’s scarred and silent shadow.  An eye cracks, returning the scowl though the sight-line is far from ideal. So far from ideal that the pale orb gets shaded again, leather creaking as he settles deeper into the chair’s embrace. Not worth it. She can scowl herself into early botox all she likes, it’ll have to be John who orders him away, not a secretary who’s credentials were revealed by a neckline rather than a CV. The thought makes Jacob smirk. He could almost fall asleep, can feel that welcoming blackness prowling just out of reach. Just out of reach. But so much closer than it’s been in a long while without the wolves nipping at its heels. 

He’s got a hip cocked against the dam’s railing, face turned into the warmth of the sun. It’ll be too soon before seven years of naught but the damp chill of concrete halls and buzzing LEDs are all they have. Much too soon for a man who can only just tolerate the relative liberty of walls above the Earth. Jacob indulges a long exhale, shifting so his back presses against the sun-baked metal. Arms fold across his midriff, the shifting of muscle causing half-closed sores to crack and weep. He doesn’t even notice. One of the few things he doesn’t. Instead he’s occupied watching the man he can only just recognize as his baby brother stomp up the steps as if each committed some personal offense. It’s a far, far cry from the bright-eyed child whose weeping Jacob had never been able to bear. 

The indignant tread is only half so amusing as when the youngest brother catches sight of a gaggle of tourists below. Over-packed, under-prepared and phones extended overhead in direct contradiction to the majesty of nature unfolded behind them. Jacob himself had frowned on noticing them. Soft. Weak. Everything wrong with humanity in this age of looming crisis. But John shares an expression with a man who’s just trod in a pile of dogshit. Tourists give me heartburn, indeed. One broad palm covers the curl to Jacob’s mouth, blunt-tipped fingers rasping against that red beard. It does nothing to conceal the amusement in eyes so much lighter than his brother’s.