#jaggamaywrite

The noise pauses, and you know Caleb's probably wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Drink your lemonade, or else I'm gonna have to hold you underwater to re-hydrate you later."

"I can't." Hoping he's looking your way, you helplessly flop an arm in a fake attempt to grab the glass. "I don't have the strength...go on...without me..."

"Oh you poor thing," he mumbles, voice suddenly too close.

Your eyes snap open, finding Caleb standing over you, hands on hips. "Just put me out of my misery..."

"Drink, you big baby." His foot carefully nudges the glass closer.

With a halfhearted scowl, you turn your head away. "My final moments...and you mock me!"

"Uh huh." Your arm gets pushed up against your side, clearing space for Caleb to sit next to you.

Curious, you look back, only to find the jerk lifting the glass up to his own mouth! "Caleb, you—!" Your words die around the same time his free hand takes hold of your jaw and angles your face up before suddenly leaning over you.

Escape is impossible, unless you suddenly unlock the ability to phase through solid objects, trapped between him and the floor, and frozen in place as his thumb hooks into your mouth to force it open. Thanks to the iced glass, his lips are cool when they touch yours, but it's hard to concentrate on that when your mouth is suddenly flooded with cold, tart, sweet, wet. Nearly choking, you wrench away from him, suddenly finding all the energy in the world to roll to your side; coughing as you sit up to glare at him.

Caleb looks smug as all hell, practically glowing from his glistening skin as he takes a proper sip from the straw; shirt adhering perfectly to his sweaty body. "Feel better now?"

    A chuckle rumbles your chest at the nickname you’ve (literally) grown out of years ago, and yet Caleb still weaponizes it to turn you into a soft, gooey nostalgic mess at her whim; even when in debilitating pain. Ever the master manipulator.

    “Caleb,” you sigh. “Why didn’t you take any medicine?” The cocoon stubbornly tightens in on itself. “I bet you’re not even using any of the heating pads I prepared either.”

    “I’m fine,” she insists.

    “Clearly.” Your hand strokes down the length of the blanket, hoping it might comfort her in some small way. “I don’t know why you torture yourself like this.”

    Without an answer, the cocoon shifts, rolling to the opposite side; turning away from you, probably in prevention of lashing out while in misery.

    You’ll never say it out loud, for fear of the retaliation, but these moments are so precious to you. Caleb actually being vulnerable, actually allowing you to witness a moment of weakness you know she is more than capable of either avoiding or pretending there is nothing wrong while suffering in silence as she always had before. All in effort to present infallible and perfect, as someone you could always trust and depend on. But those years are far behind the two of you, now it’s your turn to take care of her when she needs—when she allows.

    “I’ll be right back,” you say, leaning forward to kiss the approximation of the back of her head covered by the blanket before setting off for the bathroom. First, you check the drawer where you always store monthly supplies: pads, pain killers, attachable heating pads, tampons; all accounted for and untouched. With a sigh, you pull out the supplies, set it all aside, and then turn to the bath. The water runs cold for a few moments before heating up, and after adjusting the temperature to her preference, you leave the tub to fill, bring in a glass of water to set on the countertop, and finally then return to the living room.

    Caleb still where you’d left her, you wriggle your arms beneath her blanket-wrapped body and lift.

    The reaction is instant; Caleb’s arms hook around your neck as she is partially dislodged from her swaddle. “What are you—put me down!”

    “Don’t fight this time, okay? Just let me take care of you this once?”

    “When did you get so disrespectful of your elders!?”

    Despite her protests, Caleb doesn’t fight nearly as hard as she otherwise would have. It must have been a great deal of pain this time for her to give in so easily, and you count your blessings; hauling her into the bathroom before setting her too up on the counter. Her darkened violet gaze is so very unhappy, yet you ignore the glare in favor of helping her.

    Her hands close over yours, stilling the attempt to unfurl the blanket from round her body, eyes glassy as she stares up at you. It’s the timing, the hormones, the imbalances, your rational brain tells you; but the irrational part claws at the inside of your skull for allowing Caleb to ever have such a pained look on her face in the first place.

    “I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of you…”

    “You know,” your fingers sweep away the hair clinging to her face, “age doesn’t automatically exempt you from accepting help.” Her frown pulls the corners of her mouth further. “Leaning on me once a month won’t change anything else.” Hands slipping down her shoulders, to her arms, then finding the blanket again, you press your forehead to hers.

    War rages in her eyes; the struggle to keep her ironclad control gripped tightly on everything around her, to maintain the image she’s spent her entire life crafting for your sake, against the promise of ‘just this once’ when she clearly feels at her worst.

    “Please?” You muster the best puppy-eyes possible, hopefully hearkening back to your collective childhood of actually being smaller than her and always depending on her, instead of just looking mostly pathetic.

    Without a word, Caleb leans in, face hidden against your neck, slowly nodding. Your arms curl around her instinctively, rubbing circles into her back. “It…hurts…” she admits so quietly, you almost don’t hear the tiny voice despite being so close.

    “I know, baby.” Caleb leans into the kiss against her temple. “Let’s get you in the bath, okay?”

    Her acquiescence hard-won, you can still see the struggle in her body to allow your hands to help her undress. Nothing so silly as shame in her appearance—Caleb’s always worked hard at her physique and strength—but the shame in giving into her self-proclaimed selfish desires to be the one accepting assistance. Certainly, she was more than capable of shedding her blanket-armor and clothes on her own, but the kind of all-consuming care you want to provide spurs your actions faster than your brain can even register. Your mouth follows your hands, leaving little kisses and nuzzling your nose against every inch that is revealed till finally pressing one last kiss to the inside of her ankle before standing again.

    The softness of the moment is rivaled only by the softness of her skin as Caleb leans fully against you, relinquishing the last bit of fight left as you haul her up from her perch and settle her gently into the bath. The water rises up with her addition, luckily to the perfect amount, and you quickly reach up to turn the faucet off.

    The relief of hot water soaking into sore muscles is almost instantaneous on her face, but you know it won’t be enough to keep the cramps at bay. So while she splashes her face to wash the sweat away, you turn once more to the counter only to return with the glass of water in one hand, and four small pills in the other. Both are offered to her, and for a split second, you can see the reaction to decline.

    At your insistence (holding them out even closer) Caleb takes the pills, pops them into her mouth, washes them down with the water; then, without any prompting, opens her mouth at you, proving she actually swallowed the pills.

    The words ‘good girl’ nearly slip out in jest, but you think better of it. Now is not the time to taunt her, so you instead settle on the tiled floor after she passes back the glass. Checking the temperature by dipping your fingers into the bath, you watch her sink further down into hot water with a small sigh. “Sorry I didn’t add any bubbles or anything. Thought too strong a scent might make you feel sick.”

    “I’m glad you didn’t,” Caleb murmurs, unsurprised you’d know her well enough to make such an executive decision.

    “I wish you wouldn’t force yourself suffer so needlessly.” She’s always like this—at least ever since the evolution of your relationship. Either she hid the pain exceptionally better before, or it’s all just gotten so much worse now, but it kills you to see her so miserable despite your best efforts to accommodate.

    “Pip-squeak…”

    “I know, I know. ‘Not now.’ Sorry.”

    Steam makes the room cozy. Even sitting on the hard, cold, floor, you find yourself relaxing alongside her till Caleb stirring snaps you out of it. Water drips from her hands as she raises them above the surface.

    “I’m gonna get all pruney…”

    “Oh no, end of the word. Who in their right mind would choose soothing their cramps over perfectly smooth finger pads?”

    Caleb promptly flicks water at your face.

    Instead of retaliating, you fish her hand out of the water, bringing it to your lips to kiss each of her fingers. “Just relax, baby. Don’t worry about anything else.” To your relief, her expression softens. “Let me know when you’re ready to get out. I’ll wash your hair for you?”

    There’s a brief moment she wants to protest, you can see it, but once again, in compliance with your desire to take care of her, Caleb simply nods. “Not too much longer, I’m feeling a little tired now…”

    “I bet so.” You reach for the shampoo and conditioner bottles. “Being in pain is exhausting.”

    Obligingly, she turns in the tub, giving you better access to her hair as you carefully pour water over her head, ensuring none of it trickles into her face. Your fingers scrub gently, pressing down in the right places to massage her scalp along the way, and knowing you’re doing a good job when a quiet, satisfied sigh escapes into the air. You almost don’t want to stop, wanting her to enjoy the feeling as long as possible, but you’re on a timer now. You spread the conditioner through the length of her hair after washing out the shampoo, twirling the ends around your fingers to ensure coverage as you subtly glance at your watch. It was quicker than you anticipated, but just grateful Caleb will soon be able to rest peacefully.

    It probably wasn’t long enough for the conditioner to set, but you rinse the excess away regardless. Hoping she can stay awake long enough for you to dry her hair, you watch how slack her body gets with each passing moment. Her shoulders relax, head dipping forward a bit before suddenly snapping back up, and she turns a suspicious look up at you.

    “The medicine you gave me…”

    With a sweet, innocent smile, you tilt your head. “Learned from the best.”

    She does not make it through the rest of the blow dry. Unfortunately you don’t have her evol to help, so you manage the best you can; holding her head up with one hand, body propped up against your thigh as you finish drying her hair, only to then find out how difficult it is dressing someone who is actually unconscious. Luckily, pajamas aren’t complicated, and you can only hope the pad in her underwear is positioned correctly—you really hadn’t thought any of this through before double-dosing your girlfriend just to make sure she wouldn’t be able to fight sleep.

    You wonder if this is how Caleb had felt back then. This sense of adoration and caring, of responsibility over her well-being, being needed just as much as wanted. As she slumbers in your arms, halfway curled up on your chest, you can’t imagine ever going back now. Back to Caleb taking charge of everything, of shouldering all her responsibilities while also trying to take on yours. If you could, you would freeze time itself, and keep her safe just like this for the rest of your lives.

    “You may be the older one,” you murmur quietly, even though there’s no real danger of waking her, “but I’m the bigger one now. So, maybe it’s time to let me take care of everything from now on.”

    At the evident shock in your voice, he turns, grinning. “What, you were expecting Gran?”

    “When did you get back?”

    “Got in late last night,” he shrugs, turning back to the stove. “You were already out cold, so I just let you sleep.”

    “Good, I would’ve knocked you out if you woke me up just to say hi.” It’s a lie. He knows it, and knows you know he knows. You would’ve been stoked to find him home, but neither of you addresses the fib to maintain your ego. After all, you have to prove you’ve long since grown out of practically worshiping Caleb as you try to navigate around his footsteps.

    “Set the table, almost done here.”

    “Ugh, thirty seconds and you’re already bossing me around,” you grumble, yet still go to the cupboard to grab plates and utensils without any real protest. “Grandma?”

    “Just the two of us this morning.”

    You set the usual spots, motions ingrained in your muscles after a lifetime of sitting in these exact places each morning and night. There’s even been times when he wasn’t home that you auto-pilot set his place for dinner. Caleb puts the plates of food in the space between his and your plates, positioning them to be shared like always.

    Despite it having been so long, you fall easily into the routine as you eat, as he talks, as you listen; shoving his feet and legs with your own for encroaching on your side of the table, and purposefully stretching your legs out to invade his space too. Even if just to prove you can do it as well as him; your legs have grown nearly as long as his.

    You swap stories with him, catching him up on life in Linkon while he fills you in on life in Skyhaven. Miraculously, you’re able to choke back the urge to complain about everyone always comparing you to him. Stacking your achievements up against his; his high scores; his records. Practically a living legend that no one else can come close to touching, and you, trapped in his ever-stretching shadow.

    “You’re getting ready for your Hunter’s exam soon, right?”

    “Yeah. I feel good about it.”

    Caleb’s grin grows as he reaches across to add more food to your plate. “Sure I can’t convince you to pivot into piloting? Could always use someone as hardworkin’ as you.”

    Though there’s no real invitation in his words, you still roll your eyes, “No thanks. I’ll leave the sky to you.”

    “Well with you on the ground, we’ll make the perfect team.”

    Breakfast eaten—and yes, it most certainly turned into a (lost) competition on who could eat the most—you sit slouched in your seat, regretting shoveling in the rest of your overindulgent meal even after feeling full.

    “It wasn’t even that much,” Caleb nudges your shoulder in an attempt to get you moving. He’s already cleared the table and washed the dishes while you still sit nursing your overstuffed belly.

    “Oh shut up, some of us have to regulate our portions…”

    “Portions?”

    “Yeah…can’t move or run fast if I eat too much, you know. Not like some lazy pilot who just sits on his ass all day for work.”

    Caleb scoffs as he playfully shoves your head forward, passing by to grab a towel to begin drying the dishes as well. Back at the sink, he speaks with his back to you, “You’re eating though, right? And enough?”

    “Yes, mom.” You roll your eyes, knowing he knows you’re doing so without even looking. “I just have to be lighter on my feet. Bulking up like you wouldn’t help me out in the field.”

    The last dish goes into the rack with a clack and Caleb turns, leaning back against the counter as he slings the towel up over his shoulder. His eyes move slowly, down the length of your horrible posture and back up, seemingly appraising. When you notice, your blood runs cold, recognizing the look in his eyes from back when he was captain of the basketball team. As expected, the corner his mouth quirks up into a crooked grin and he speaks the dreaded phrase, “Okay then, let’s run some laps.”

    When you had initially expressed interest in playing basketball—and definitely NOT because you wanted to be like him—Caleb had taken to training you like a part of his own team. Though you were never able to out-play him, his lessons stuck with you; how to stay balanced on the balls of your feet; when to stand on your heel; always keep your knees bent; how to maintain your center of gravity more efficiently; how to breathe properly. It helped you in the other sports you branched out to in the first attempts to claw your way out of his shadow, and with physical training to prepare for the Hunter’s exam.

    However, none of it seems to help you now in the face of Caleb’s back as he runs ahead of you. As always. Always ahead, always in front, always taking charge, always taking care of everything before you even have the chance to prove yourself.

    And how the fuck does he move so fast, while being that big!? His shoulders, his arms, his back, his chest—all larger than your own, and yet he breezes ahead of you like a man half his size. Hell, half your size!

    In a final desperate attempt to overtake him, you grit your teeth; jaw clenched so hard, a few teeth may end up cracking. Your legs pump harder, willing them to carry you faster, faster, faster, closer and closer, closing the gap to Caleb. His shoulder is just within reach, able to snatch him by the back of the shirt if you wanted. With a final burst of energy for this dead sprint race, you align right next to him, actually at his side for once in your life, no longer following behind chasing after him. Adrenaline drives you onward, and Caleb tosses you a look.

    A shit-eating-grin, a wink, then he looks forward and absolutely takes off. Pulls ahead like it’s nothing, like he was just playing with you the whole time, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. Caleb rounds the final curve of the pond, palm slapping against the trunk of the tree designated as the finish line before turning to wait for you. Mere seconds later, you smack the tree, using it to stop your momentum and lean on as you gasp for breath.

    “You…haah…jerk…”

    He has the audacity to grin again, pulling the edge of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face and showing off his perfectly defined torso in the process. You try not to stare, a real honest effort, but it’s hard not to admire the veritable living textbook example of Adonis—picture perfect aspirations of all guys who know him. Abs clenching as he laughs, chest heaving as he catches his breath; your eyes follow a bead of sweat that slips down the ridges of his ribs, to his navel, the V of his hips, getting distracted by his happy trail before abruptly turning away when catching your wandering gaze.

    “Not gonna lie,” Caleb pants, letting his shirt fall back in place, necklace glinting in the sunlight, “didn’t know if that would work… Thought you might’ve had me there.”

    “Don’t even try it.” You squat down, leaning fully against the tree to avoid his gaze, and to hide the genuine disappointment in yours. “Like I’m ever gonna be able to catch up to you…”

    “C’mon now, Pip-squeak.” He tousles your hair. “It’s only natural, isn’t it? I’m the older one, so of course I’m gonna be faster—”

    Abruptly, you knock his hand away and stand to your full height in one smooth motion. Face-to-face like this, it’s painfully obvious how much you’ve grown from the little boy who used to hide his face against the back of Caleb’s neck to pretend you hadn’t been crying over scraped knees, or broken bike chains, as he carried you on his back. You’d always been so small compared to him. Now, nearly the same height, give an inch or two, he still calls you that ridiculous nickname.

    For a long moment, Caleb doesn’t move, aside for the rise and fall of his chest; simply looking at you as if realizing for the first time how tall you are now. As if he completely understands every little thing that had just been swirling your head, as if he might apologize for not realizing sooner. Instead, in true Caleb fashion, he huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he steps back to put distance between you again. “What? You wanna fight? Get whatever this is out your system?”

    You have half a mind to agree, another half to close the distance again to prove how unafraid you are of that challenge. Even a lifetime of memories of Caleb’s countless victories in every real fight you’ve ever seen him in doesn’t dissuade you from the idea. Not when you have so much to prove.

    Caleb tilts his head a calculated fifteen degrees to the right, smile never faltering. “You’re not disagreeing.”

    You think back to all the play-fights; especially the ones that began growing too close to serious as you got older. The ones Grandma would have to actually break-up and send you both to opposite ends of the house, only for the two of you to later wind up shoulder-to-shoulder once again barely an hour later, having fallen asleep to an old movie or reruns of your favorite show. You never won any of those either, though Caleb had always made sure you never went to bed angry about it. Seems it’s easier to go to bed mad at him when he’s not around, especially when he doesn’t even know about it.

    “Would you even take it seriously if I did?” You gesture to his face, his grin. “Or would you hold back because I’m so much smaller than you.”

    “Wanna find out?”

    The air around him shifts, heavy with tension as Caleb levels a rather serious gaze at you. You’ve never been on the receiving end of such a look; only having ever seen it in action from the sidelines and a hot pang of nervousness bolts through you. This must be what the bullies from back then felt, five seconds before disaster, as he squares his shoulders and shifts forward a step. Testing your resolve. Taunting you into throwing the first punch. Just like all the playful wrestling and sparring matches from childhood, Caleb never struck first. Always giving you the opening, the advantage. And now, as he stands across from you, resembling a leopard ready to pounce, your hands feel too heavy to move, feet and legs unwilling to take you any closer as you battle the unconscious urge to back away from that intense expression.

    “Well?”

    You scoff at him. The vibrato. The intimidation tactic, you realize. You’ve known him far too long for it to work on you. Refusing to let him get in your head, your knees bend, your arms go up, elbows in—just like he taught you. “Just don’t go crying to Grandma when I black your eye…”

    He smiles; so amused and just the tiniest bit off, it honestly sends a chill down your spine. “Count,” he instructs, grin gone as if it had never been, waiting.

    “Three.” You expect him to go on the defensive as soon as the countdown ends, like always. “Two.” Block, or dodge, or somehow get you in a headlock, like always. Never deviating. This time will be different. This time, you’re ready. “One—” This time, you’re in control.

    Before your brain can even send the signal to your arms to fake a right hook, then to follow up with your left to catch him off guard, Caleb dips forward and has already closed the gap between your bodies. His shoulder slams into your ribs, arms hooking around your waist. Your feet come off the ground, and suddenly, you’re in the air for about four whole seconds before the world is plunged into wet murkiness.

    You surface with a sputtering gasp, coughing up pond water and hurriedly righting your balance in preparation to defend yourself, only to find Caleb standing right where he’d thrown you from. It takes a few moments to process, realizing he hadn’t even used his evol to do so. “Caleb, what the fuck!?”

    Arms folded over his chest, he cocks up an eyebrow, like you’re the crazy one here. “Cooled off now?”

    “Are you serious!?” Water sloshes loudly as you wade towards the edge of the pond, determined to drag him in with you. “What happened to taking me serious—what are you doing?”

    You freeze, watching as Caleb pulls his shirt up over his hand and tosses it behind him before taking a running start and practically cannonballs into the pond. He lands behind you with a large splash, water smacking you right in the face that you barely have time to wipe away before he’s popping back up.

    “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

    “What?” Water splashes up in your face again as Caleb scoops it into his hands and launches his attack. “Not gonna fight back?”

    Giving up on trying to reason with him, lest you continue ending up with mouthfuls of pond water, you splash back. Like two kids, throwing water in each other’s faces, laughing. Your arms hook around his waist as he’d done before and forcefully sling Caleb underwater. Without a chance to get away, your legs are swept from under you, disrupting your footing, and down you go as well. His arm locks around your neck, trapping your face against his bicep as he hauls you back-to-chest up above the surface.

    “You give?”

    Sputtering, and thrashing to break free from the hold, you try wriggling your fingers beneath his arm to pry it away. “Ch-cheater!” Lucky for him, he has plenty enough experience to make sure your chin is above his arm to avoid being bitten.

    “Yeah?” The hold tightens just a bit more. “But you’re so big and strong now, Pip-squeak.” Heat crawls up your chest, into your face; heart thudding in an unusual pattern. “You can take me now, right?” Something alarming knots in your stomach, infiltrating your brain. Something akin to panic, something unknown stirred by the drop in Caleb’s tone as his lips stray dangerously close to the shell of your ear and exacerbated by the steady squeeze of his headlock.

    Your feet dig into the soft earth of the pond’s floor, weight planted, and use the leverage to flip Caleb right over your shoulder. No sooner than his warmth disappears from your back, you scramble out of the water as if escaping the seeking jaws of a starving shark; practically clawing at the grass as you flop up on dry land.

    Caleb surfaces moments later, coughing up his unexpected lungful of pond water, eyes darting around, searching. When finding you, on your back, propped up on your elbows on the grass, he pushes his dripping bangs from his face, shoulders relaxing. “Giving up already?”

    “Hah!” You push yourself to sit up, pointing triumphantly at him, “Clearly, I won that one.”

    Caleb begins wading towards you, setting you on edge. There’s no telling what trick he’ll pull to one-up you after that stunt. “Didn’t know fleeing the battlefield counted as a victory for Hunters.”

    “Pretty sure only one of us looks like a drowned rat right now.”

    He laughs, finally reaching the edge and climbing out of the water before plopping down with a wet squish right next to you. The shorter strands of his hair have begun drooping over his forehead, dripping droplets down onto his cheeks; gaze following the path of one such drop, watching it fall from his jawline and onto his chest.

    “Maybe you have gotten a little stronger.” Your eyes snap up to his face in a panic, thanking whatever deity you can think of to find he’s not looking back at you—not catching you in the act of absently ogling him again. “Just a little.”

    It takes every ounce of the self-control you possess to not start the ‘fight’ all over again. Almost as if, no matter what, you’ll just be that little runt you used to be as a child in his eyes. Rather than let the frustration of—wanting his approval? Acknowledgement?? Admiration??—get the better of you again, you shake your head. “What, you wanted me to stay tiny and pathetic forever?” You find a random stone, a perfect distraction to keep your eyes off him when catching the turn of his head in your periphery. It skips over the water from your throw, and you watch it intensely, as if there has never been anything more interesting than the distance it will go.

    “You’ve never been pathetic,” he says, voice clear, suddenly serious. It catches you so off guard, you forget the entire plan to avoid his gaze; to avoid letting him see the inner turmoil and disappointment probably written all over your face. There’s something in his eyes, something fierce and piercing, not at all matching how calm he sounds. “You’ve always been the best.”

    “Not better than you,” you huff, letting your weight fall back to the ground. The sky is mostly clear, almost overbearingly bright with so few clouds to shade from the summer sun.

    “Well, how else am I supposed to take care of you if I’m not better than you?”

    You look up at him, well, squint, thanks to the sun, finding him smiling down at you. Relaxed, amused, no hint of whatever profound mental happenings had been going on only moments prior. “You realize I’m, like, a grown ass man, right?”

    Caleb’s signature winning smile spreads across his face. “A grown ass man who still calls me in the middle of the night because he procrastinated yet another assignment.”

    “That was once last month, and—”

    “Which was also last week.”

    “Okay, but—”

    “Grown ass man who’s first instinct is calling me to ask questions he could easily find the answers for by Otto-searching.”

    “It’s faster!” you protest, but he isn’t done.

    “Grown ass man who still gets mad at me when he’s not the very first person to know when I’m back from Skyhaven.”

    “Will you stop saying ‘grown ass man’ unless you want me to strangle you to death!?”

    Caleb’s mouth opens, lips poised to begin another sentence starting with the letter G, and you spring up, hands in position to jokingly choke him out. His find your wrists first, anchoring your arms in place as you struggle to break free. “Point is,” he says instead, fingers tightening around your wrists after a near-victory to pull away, “you’re always gonna be my lil Pip-squeak. No matter how grown you are.”

    You yank again, harder, and Caleb (most definitely on purpose) lets go at that exact moment, watching you fall backward to the ground. Okay, maybe you fell back for dramatic effect, arm over your eyes to block the sun. And him. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Caleb…”

    “And I’m not callin’ you a kid.” You hear shifting, rustling of the grass that tells you he’s moving, laying down next to you; elbow touching yours as he tucks his hands behind his head. “This what all that aggression’s been about?”

    You dare a peek at him from beneath the shade of your arm. Caleb’s eyes are closed, looking much like he’s settling in for a nap in the sun. ‘Pip-squeak’ is the nickname he’s always called you since childhood—since your earliest memories. There’s undeniable comfort in the consistency, and you try thinking of a future where he doesn’t address you as Pip-squeak anymore; fighting off the involuntary chill of the impulse to think you’re in trouble when imagining him saying your given name too seriously. “I just…” Your arm goes back in place, the last barrier to prevent being read as easily as a diagram. “Don’t wanna always be…I dunno…” Needy? Annoying? A burden? A kid, in his eyes? “I just always fall short compared to you.”

    The grass rustles again. Blessedly, he doesn’t take the low-hanging fruit of making the joke that it’s only natural he’s taller, or that you’re shorter. “And I’m gonna keep making sure you do, even if it’s just to be the goal you keep chasing. Until you realize you don’t need me anymore.”

    He sounds sort of…sad at the thought. You peek again, this time caught when you’re greeted by the sight of Caleb on his side, temple resting against his knuckles. “I don’t think there’s a world that exists where I won’t need you…” The words slip out without even thinking and his lips curve into a bright, genuinely happy smile.

    “That’s good, because I’m always gonna be the one you can rely on.” Your heart flutters stupidly in your chest. “No matter what it’s for.”

    “What about when you finally grow up?” you ask weakly. “When you have a family of your own…wife’n kids, castle in the sky?” The words leave a bitter taste on your tongue; the thought of Caleb giving all the time and attention normally reserved for you to someone else even more sour.

    “Not gonna happen,” he scoffs. “You and Gran are already enough for me. You’re all the family I need.”

    “Ugh, you’re so embarrassing…” you mutter, turning over on your side as well—away from him. Hiding your reaction. Caleb always says dumb stuff like that so casually, you’re afraid one day you’re actually going to believe him.

    Behind you, he chuckles, reaching out to flick away the stray blades of grass he finds caught in your hair. Restless, always needing something to occupy his hands. “You know…you don’t have to stress yourself out competing with me. Even if you do eventually beat me, I’d still call you Pip-squeak.”

    Feigning to be so very put-upon, you cross your arms in a big gesture, purposefully keeping your back to him. “What if I get taller?”

    “Maybe I can use my evol to shrink you back down.”

    “Yeah,” you huff, hunching your shoulders for added effect, “wouldn’t want you to lose your authority over me.”

    “And when have I ever flexed ‘authority’ over you?”

    Nearly a hundred arguments with Caleb bossing you around, citing his older age to more or less benignly bully you into obeying him flash immediately through your mind, but before you can even form the words to state your evidence, he flicks the back of your head. Blindly, your hand whips back, swatting at him, missing entirely; a temperamental cat issuing its final warning, and sigh dramatically, over-exaggerated, “You just want me to rely on you forever.”

    “Yeah, so?”

    Startled, you turn around to stare at him, to verify if you heard him right, only to be greeted with Caleb’s knees as he moves to stand. He looks totally unbothered, and maybe you just imagined that response…

    Without another word, he strolls over to his abandoned shirt before returning to kneel at your side, reaching over to tousle your wet hair with his shirt, as if to dry it. “C’mon, let’s go back and get outta these wet clothes.” He backs off when you expectedly bat his hands away, ignoring your grumblings about him still treating you like a kid; sticking his hand out to haul you up from the ground. “Last thing I wanna do is spend the afternoon rubbing ointment on your thighs because they’re chafed. But, for you, I’ll do it if I really have to.”

    The memory floods you immediately. Many years back, so much younger than you are now, at the beach. You’d been so impatient to get into the ocean, so ready to be free of school and just swim your little heart out; breaking away from both Grandma and Caleb to race across the burning sand and straight into the waves. Without even changing into your bathing suit, without even waiting for the three of you to check in to the hotel room, without sunscreen.

    Caleb had hurried after you, fussing about your jean shorts, urging you to come back with him and change; which you promptly ignored, continuing to play and splash and swim until you were too hungry to focus on anything else. By evening, you had to endure not only the irritating sting of your legs being victimized by wet denim, but also Caleb’s I told you so’s—which was probably the worse of the two, in your opinion. It was just another unfortunate result of your own hardheadedness, Caleb helping you soothe the raw skin with ointment on one leg while you tended the other as he quietly scolds you to listen to him next time; to be more patient; citing his older age as ‘wisdom’ all the while. It of course resulted in yet another fight your grandmother ended up interrupting, only for the night to end with the two of you passing out on the floor watching old movies together and mysteriously waking up in a bed the following morning.

    Face ablaze, you take a half-hearted swing at him. “Anyone ever told you that you’re much cooler as the strong, silent type?”

    Naturally, Caleb dodges with ease, jogging ahead a few steps to stay out of range. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

    You refuse to chase him this time—and not because of your soaked joggers—deciding that’s enough victories for him in one day and pointedly walking the rest of the way home to then quickly shower the pond water off your body before dragging him back out into the summer heat to have your real fun.

    One arcade, one lunch, two basketball games, a trip to the grocery, and one kid’s lemonade stand later, you stroll leisurely down the streets. The orange sky expands as far as you can see, threat of sunset looming just overhead. Back in the day, the sight would’ve thrown you into a panic; curfews to be kept, groundings to avoid, homework to pretend was already done only to shuffle into Caleb’s room after Grandma had fallen asleep in her recliner to weasel assistance out of him.

    Now, you move unhurriedly at his side, sweat of the day cooling on your skin as you hold the cup up. Caleb takes it back, taking another swig of lemonade that has been watered-down too quickly in the summer heat. Not that he’s complaining about something cool and tart that only costed a single coin. He takes a survey of the plastic cup, determines there’s only enough left for one or two more gulps, and passes it back wordlessly, despite the fact it was actually his. Your cup had been emptied in mere minutes within buying it after drinking it so quickly.

    “This my consolation prize?” you grunt, grabbing hold after he nudges your free hand with it, letting the condensation cool your palm.

    “Well, give it back if you don’t want it.”

    “Didn’t say all that.” You bring it up to your mouth, tilting it enough to swipe two ice cubes into your mouth with your tongue, and bite down on them. Caleb sighs, forgoing fussing at you for it, knowing it won’t deter you from chewing ice anymore now than it did back then. Besides, you’re only slightly miffed about losing the two-out-of-three match to him on the court. Annoying him with the sound of crunching ice is the real prize.

    “So, what are you planning for dinner?”

    “Me?” You hold up your other hand, shaking the grocery bags at him—carrying them all as your punishment for the loss. “You too tired to cook?”

    “Shameless. Shouldn’t you be cooking for me since you lost?”

    “If you really want my butchered version of your recipes…”

    “Even stealing my recipes,” Caleb clicks his tongue in faux-distaste. “When will these transgressions end?”

    “Should be ‘round the time you take pity on our stomachs and cook instead.”

    Cicadas chorus. The gentle glow of fireflies begins in the line of trees, fading only seconds later to begin again. “Hold up a sec.” A hand taps your chest and Caleb is suddenly half-turning, going down on one knee in front of your leg. “Your shoe’s untied.”

    “What’re you doing—you don’t have to do that—”

    “Chill, your hands are full.” Caleb answers casually, fingers even quicker than his words and already standing again before you can even take the next breath. “Stir fry’s pretty quick’n easy,” he continues on so casually, you have to wonder if you just imagined the whole scenario. “Can’t mess that up.”

    Quickly forcing your feet back into step with his, you catch up in only a few strides. “Wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. I tried making some stir fry noodles for Grandma a few weeks ago…and lets just say the wok she has now is new…”

    Caleb, understandably, expectedly, laughs in response. Full-on, nearly stumbling over his own two feet as he fights doubling over.

    Having expected it still doesn’t help the flush of embarrassment, so you jab your elbow into his shoulder to shove him. “Shut up!”

    “All right, all right,” he manages between the laughing fit, slinging an arm around your shoulders and hauling you right up against his side. It’s too hot for the proximity, coupled with his way too high body heat, yet you merely grumble, steadying your own feet under the sudden swaying. “We’ll cook together, then.”

    Ideally, he’d just take over and it’d all be perfect, but you suspect ‘together’ is code for wanting to actually teach you without making it seem like a lesson to spare your already tattered ego; especially after all that smack-talk on the blacktop.

    At least he wasn’t treating you like a baby; letting you slice and dice without hovering; only mildly taking over when the ingredients were in the pan and starting to stick. You acted annoyed, but it was hard not to be grateful since buying yet another good quality wok so soon would’ve been a serious dent in your wallet.

    Grandma makes sure to tell Caleb all about it too—the plume of smoke, the burning smell that lasted for two whole days, your distress and how you rushed out that same night to buy her a top of the line replacement. They laugh together—with you, they insist. Head in your hands, you miss the way Caleb looks at you before finally having enough and begin clearing the table.

    At the sink, you pass the washed dishes to Caleb to be dried. Grandma has moved to her recliner, hot tea in hand as she watches TV; relaxing under yours and Caleb’s orders while you two clean the kitchen.

    “Why didn’t you tell me about the wok?” he suddenly asks after nearly ten minutes of shared silence.

    You pause to flick your fingers at his face; he doesn’t even flinch when drops of warm water land on his cheeks. “Why would I brag about my epic failure?”

    “No,” the last plate is placed into the rack before he turns to you. “I could’ve bought another one.”

    “Yeah? So could I, obviously.” Caleb makes a face, and you snatch the towel away from him, hanging it to dry. “Which is why I did.”

    “But aren’t you trying to build up your savings?”

    “Yeah, but it’s fine. It was just a little setback.” A lie. It was a lot of a setback in your funds; not like you’ll admit it. Especially not now.

    “You know if you need money, all you have to do is tell me.”

    You know this very well. But part of growing up, part of proving to him you’re an adult, is earning your own funds with your own work and time. Gone are the ages of allowances and expecting Caleb to line your pockets for your creature comforts or future wants. “It’s fine.”

    Caleb shifts, purposefully moving over in your way when you try stepping around him. “Gran told me you started working two more part-time jobs too. That why your grades started slipping?”

    Annoyances rushes you. Here you are doing everything in your power to prove how much you’ve grown, and here he is still treating you like a little kid that has to be reminded to do your homework and chores. The whiplash of Caleb seemingly coming to terms with your maturity to suddenly regarding you like you haven’t matured at all is mind-boggling. “I’m not working three.” He doesn’t need to know you dropped the third one for his exact accusation. “Just two. And my grades are fine, mom.”

    “It’d be easier to just focus on studying. Then you’ll have the time to prepare better for your Hunters exams as well.” He tilts his head, nodding to the general area of the house. “Until then, I can take care of—”

    “So can I!” You suddenly interrupt with a raised voice, just short of shouting.

    Caleb blinks, looking legitimately shocked.

    Over the ambient noise of the television, Grandma’s voice floats in, “Boys? You’re not fighting again, are you?” She sounds tired, very much like she doesn’t want to referee yet another argument but is one more angry sound away from getting up.

    “Everything’s fine,” Caleb calls back, eyes not leaving yours, “Don’t worry.”

    You set your jaw into a hard line, refusing to back down, refusing to buckle under the authoritative weight of his suddenly stern stare that quietly expresses you’re starting to push the line a little too hard, and he is about two seconds away from putting you back in your place. The need for it had lessened over the years, so much so, you’d almost forgotten what the bolt of dread felt like when he looks at you like that. Even now, only a few inches shorter, Caleb manages to make you feel several feet smaller in that one moment.

    After a beat, his edges soften, but his voice is still low when he tilts forward just a fraction. “Come with me,” he says, then turns, heading for the front door.

    For a moment, you consider refusing; consider planting your feet and rejecting that command. You’re grown now. Caleb may’ve been your guiding force growing up, always pulling you this way and that, and helping you in all the ways he could, but now you’re an adult. Hands no longer seeking, feet no longer wandering, voice no longer wavering.

    “Back in a bit, Gran,” Caleb calls from the front door, pulling you out of the contemplation. “We’re goin’ on one last walk before bed.” He then gives you one more long look before passing through the door, leaving it open for you; making it clear there is no other option.

    For all your rebellious thoughts, you join him outside with a sigh, speaking no sooner than the door clicks shut behind you. “You know we’re gonna have to shower again thanks to this humidity, right?” It’s never been uncommon for you and Caleb to snap back and forth between arguing and talking, but he doesn’t banter this time. Just continues right out onto the sidewalk without pausing or even waiting for you, forcing you to catch up.

    You admittedly feel a bit like the child you’re trying so hard to prove you’re not as you follow after him—and it’s nearly impossible not to when Caleb takes long strides ahead, radiating the air of a disappointed older brother dragging you off for punishment as to not have to discipline you in public; or in this case: beat your ass in front of Grandma.

    “You’re not gonna throw me in the pond again, are you?”

    “Thinkin’ about it.”

    It sounds like a joke, but his voice is still far too serious to rule it out. Or air-jail, though you figure you’re far too old and tall for that anymore. The silence stretches on again after that. It’s all you can do to remain calm as you walk by his side; counting fireflies as a distraction. One thing is certain: you refuse to apologize for what you said. Raising your voice and startling Grandma, sure; but you meant every word.

    “You need to tell me what’s going on with you lately,” he finally speaks up again after a while.

    “Nothing’s going on,” you deadpan, maybe a little petulantly. Your inner pendulum swings so rapidly between wanting to be an equal and wanting to be the brat he keeps treating you as, even you have trouble with the impulses most days. None so much as when Caleb has inadvertently aggravated you.

    “Uh huh.” His hands slide into his pockets. “And you’ve always just raised your voice out of nowhere before.”

    “Well, you were treating me like I can’t do anything right—like I can’t handle shit without you taking charge!”

    Caleb puffs a long breath. “I thought we squashed this inferiority thing this afternoon…” Abruptly coming to a stop, he turns back, not even pausing when you nearly walk right into him; instead instinctively reaching up to steady you by the shoulders as you stumble back. “I don’t think you’re incapable of anything. I’m just trying to help you—”

    “I don’t need you to, I can do it!” You knock his hands away from your shoulders. “I can handle it. The money. Working, finishing my exams, becoming a Hunter, I can do it all, just like you!”

    “Pip-squeak—”

    “No, Caleb, I’m not a kid!”

    “I know you’re not.”

    “Then why are you still treating me like one!?”

    Even though Caleb smiles in response, he looks anything but happy. His expression seems actually saddened, and the sight sinks an arrow directly into your heart. “I guess,” he begins softly, “I’m the one who’s not ready to let go.” He shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself. “I wanted so badly for you to have your childhood, to be able to be just a regular kid without any worries.”

    The sentiment isn’t lost on you, not now. As a child, it was easy to take it all for granted—how could you have known otherwise. “I did,” you try to sound reassuring, “the only thing abnormal about my childhood was growing up in the golden boy’s shadow.” He’s only a few years older, and yet you can’t remember a time he hadn’t been there, always taking care of you. Now that you’re grown, you want him to know the efforts paid off, and don’t want him to feel obligated to shoulder everything on his own anymore. “You’re the one who doesn’t need to stress out anymore. I can handle things here.”

    “I always knew you’d eventually get all big’n tough. Just didn’t think I wouldn’t be ready for the day you realized you don’t need me after all.”

    “That’s not true.” You’d told him—confessed to him, really—there wasn’t an existing world you didn’t need him in. But what you need now is Caleb to see you as you are; evident in the way you had long since stopped calling him those childish titles and stopped chasing after him to cling on so tightly. Strong and capable, despite your fuck-ups along the way because you’re also quick to remedy them. Every bit as reliable as him. Maybe even someone he can rely on. “Did you already forget?”

    He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark behind the fringe of his bangs as he tilts his head. “Tell me how you need me, then.”

    “I need you to trust me, believe me when I say I can handle things. I need you to not feel obligated to take on everything alone.” I need you to need me as much as I still need you, you almost blurt, tucking the words carefully back into your chest.

    His hand ruffles your hair in fondness, not at all like the previous times when he called you some variation of ‘kid’ as if to placate; pensive expression evaporated. “You really are all grown up, huh?”

    “Grown ass man,” you nod, smirk pulling the corner of your mouth up.

    He matches it with a smirk of his own. “Grown ass man who doesn’t know how to prevent food sticking to a wok.”

    “Oh my god.” You shove him, turning to walk away, heading back home.

    “Grown ass man who’s face still loses all color when he thinks he’s gonna get scolded…”

    You stick your fingers in your ears. “I’m not listening!”

    Caleb laughs as he catches up, arm slinging around your shoulders in that all too familiar gesture that gravitizes you flush against his side; legs moving in tandem naturally. “Just so you know…I’m still gonna call you Pip-squeak.”

    Dramatically, you sigh, throwing your head back against his shoulder, as if he’d just levied the world’s greatest burden upon you. “If you must.”

    You wake up even earlier than Caleb’s usual alarms, determined to make breakfast without his help; just barely getting started when you hear the stairs creaking. The plan to have it all laid out and ready goes out the window, but at least the surprise to waking up to breakfast being made was still there. The footsteps stop and you turn to grin triumphantly over your shoulder at him, only for your smile to slowly fall.

    There stands Caleb, all right, but with his duffle slung over his shoulder, smile slight and apologetic. “Mornin’…”

    “You’re leaving already?”

    “Yeah.” As if it wasn’t already obvious. “I was gonna cook you and Gran breakfast before heading out, but I can see you have it under control.”

    “I’ll be done in a few.” You turn back to the stove, and behind you, the chair scrapes across the floor as Caleb pulls it out to sit; waiting. The kitchen is silent, save for the sounds of cooking up until Grandma joins. She sits with Caleb at the table, who promptly gets up to make her a cup of coffee. He sets her mug down just in time for you to begin loading the table with breakfast.

    You try not to drag the conversation down, but the disappointment is too obvious on your face. “Oh honey, don’t be sad,” Grandma reaches across to pat your hand. “Caleb will be back before you know it.”

    “I’m not sad,” you huff, putting on the best performance of your life. “I’m just annoyed that I gotta do all these dishes by myself now.” It at least passes the test, as the chatter eventually dissolves and you’re washing the plates as quickly as you can manage after declaring to Caleb you’d drop him off at the station.

    He even tried arguing you down, telling you to stay home and enjoy what remains of your weekend, but thankfully held back once recognizing the determination on your face; waiting patiently again until you’re finally wiping your hands and going straight for the keys.

    Normally, Caleb would drive, but he makes it a point to hang back, watching you go to the driver’s seat before following. He slides into the passenger seat and the entire energy is strange—the first time you’re driving him anywhere even though he’s the one who taught you. After you’d learned, and gotten your license, Caleb had naturally resumed his role in driving. It’s clear on his face as well that it feels weird. Neither one of you calls it to attention, and the ride is smooth; though ultimately too short once you’re already pulling into a space.

    “Thanks for the lift, Pip-squeak.” Caleb holds up his hand, pinky extended. “Same time, next year?”

    Some selfish, still childish, part of you wants to ask him if there’s anyway he can stay longer; though you’re sure if there was, he wouldn’t be leaving already. “Yeah, yeah,” you say instead, still feigning indifference about his departure as you hook your pinky around his. “Just admit already that you’re dying to get away from me.”

    “Caught me,” he agrees with a shrug. “Now that you’re all grown up, I don’t have to pretend to tolerate you anymore.”

    Your pinky unconsciously squeezes tighter before practically tossing his hand at his own chest. “Get the hell outta my car.”

    Outside the door, Caleb leans down on his arm in the window. “Careful on your way back, and make sure—” He stops short, shaking his head. “See ya later, troublemaker.” With that, he turns, walking away and disappearing into the station.

    Not even five minutes after departure, his phone vibrates. “I still better be the first one who knows the second you step foot back in Linkon.”

    “Don’t worry. You’ll always be first.” Once he gets the indication you’ve read his text, Caleb smiles, then tucks his phone back into his pocket; unaware you sport the exact same fond smile as you do the same.

    The guitar solo leads into the drum solo, still giving you time to catch your breath; allows you to continue playing with the crowd. An arm slings around your shoulder, joining you at the edge of the stage, and then a downpour. You whip around, finding the wide grin of the bassist, still holding the weapon of the crime before promptly dumping the rest of the water bottle down your front before dashing to the opposite end of the stage. Instead of giving chase, you pull the soaked shirt over your head and lob it at her—all in good fun—as the crowd’s cheers escalate at the expanse of bared skin. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence at all, and yet, whenever the shirt comes off, or gets ripped open, the resulting screams always seem as if it’s the very first time anyone has witnessed the phenomenon.

    It’s actually more odd that it had stayed on for the entire show.

    You’d taken care to keep the shirt on, tossing it in a thoughtless moment of fake-revenge to reveal the glint of silver dog tags beneath meant to be kept concealed; meant to be for your knowledge alone. Rumors about your personal life already swirl uncontrollably that any little unknown addition to your wardrobe or jewelry sends the theories back into overdrive. In the back of your mind, anxiety spikes, thinking of all the cameras and videos no doubt zooming in on the necklace, trying to decipher the text, and yet at the same time, a thrill rushes through your veins.

    The one bit of proof of Caleb’s existence, flaunted to the world amid your bare chest like his personal brand—and now he’d know where this particular old set of tags disappeared to once he got around to watching the recording you’d send him later tonight.

    The guitar and bass join back in, queuing up for the chorus again as you grab hold of the mic stand in one hand, the other pressing flat to your chest to run down the length of your torso; thumb dragging over the cool metal of the tags. Head tossing back when your palm grazes over your hips, all in show, letting the crowd pretend their outstretched hands are the fingers dragging over the worn denim covering your thigh before roughly shoving your fingers between the frayed bits to force the tear wider; showing off the dark fishnets coming all the way up your legs.

    The spectacle you make is raunchy and charged, exactly how the crowd loves it; from the explicitly lewd lyrics to the exaggerated seduction of your own actions. Your body follows, sliding down the mic stand till your knees hit the ground; leaning even further back as if the crowd’s cries are pleasuring you in lieu of hands or fingers or mouths or tongues. All without missing a beat or note as your chest arches out.

    Normally during this part of the song, you’d be draping an arm over the guitarist’s shoulder as he plays a riff, bringing focus to him. But still on your knees, seemingly stricken with euphoria as a shadow covers you, and above you find the guitarist having come to you; feet spread wide and planted on either side of your hips. The camera sweeps around to this side of the stage, following the guitarist, framing you both perfectly as you sit up and very purposefully angle yourself just barely out of view in the shot in front of his hips. From this angle, it’s unmistakable what it would appear to be to the camera; tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek in perfect rhythm of your bandmate’s hips to push your cheek out for added effect.

    Overkill, really, free palm pressed against your own crotch as you eye-fuck the camera from this position; your portal to Caleb, knowing the exact view he gets rather than the wrong side of the stage that would ruin the illusion. This little debauched moment curated just for him at your friend’s expense.

    When the riff completes, the guitarist spins away, swinging his leg up and over to free you from the cage of his legs as you push off the floor to resume the final piece; making your way to the bassist and leaning back-to-back on one another until finally the song ends and everything is engulfed in screams and cheers and chants.

    Backstage, you can still hear the shouting, but you are all encored-out, and from the looks of it, so are your bandmates. The venue staff are already cleaning up and normally, you stick around to help out, but right now all you want to do is go home—which luckily isn’t too terribly far since this show was only a town over.

    That sickening empty feeling creeps in on you. The lack of distraction. It’s tempting to join your friends to go back together, to drink, to pass out, to wake up in the morning bleary-eyed and hungover. They call you boring, affectionately of course, but say nothing more when you pull on a spare shirt and make a direct line for the exit.

    After a brief chat with the camera crew, asking to be sent the recorded footage of the last song as soon as possible, only to be informed it’d been live-only, you sink in the driver’s seat of your car; dejected. Well, there went your plan to taunt Caleb long-distantly.

    As ritual goes, you immediately video-call him. If he isn’t busy, he’ll answer; if so, he’ll either answer only quickly enough to inform you he’ll call back, or it’ll ring forever. Just when you think he’ll miss the call, the video connects. But the screen is nearly pitch black, and you’re only able to vaguely make out his silhouette when he shifts.

    “Hey,” he answers, voice gruff.

    “Shit, did I wake you? Sorry, I’ll call b—”

    “No, it-it’s fine. It’s fine…” Well he definitely sounds tired, but if he’s willing to stay on the line, even if just a few minutes, you’ll accept it.

    “Just finished the show. Tonight was…” you pause, squinting at the screen, as if that would bring him into view. “Why are you in the dark?”

    Caleb hums, low and slow. The sound familiar and sending chills racing along your skin. “‘Tonight was’?”

    “Hm…intense, maybe.”

    “Maybe?”

    “Caleb, I wanna see you.”

    He makes a noise, strained; bitten-back. “Yeah?”

    “I need to see you.”

    “You think you,” he stops abruptly, hums again; quicker this time that breaks off into a breathy laugh. “You think you deserve that?”

    “What?”

    “After letting someone else get that close to you? While sporting my tags? I think, maybe,” Caleb sucks in a sharp breath, “maybe you need a talking-to about public indecency.”

    “You were watching!?”

    “Of course.” His voice just barely softens from its previous edge, as if he can’t help but reassure you.

    A sly grin grows across your face. “Did you like the last performance I did for you?”

    He snickers, “For me, huh?”

    “Yeah, because I might miss you. Just a little.”

    “You,” he groans, “are a menace.”

    “You alright?”

    “Wanna see?”

    “You? Yes. Always.”

    Dim light suddenly illuminates the screen, but it’s not Caleb’s expected put-upon pout you’re met with. He’s angled his phone out, showing off the way his shirt is pulled up, hem trapped between his teeth; the way his pants are shoved down his hips; the way his free hand is closed around his dick as he moves with long, deliberate strokes.

    “Caleb..!”

    “What,” he laughs, all breathy, “you said you wanted to see me, didn’t you?”

    On impulse, a hand drops into your own lap, nearly ripping the button off in your haste to pull your pants open.

    “Nuh-uh,” Caleb commands, knowing exactly what you’re doing without even needing to see. “You’ve already let all those people see enough of what’s mine. They don’t need the full show too, do they?”

    The frustrated sound you let slip is totally involuntary, actually contemplating disregarding his words to find relief in your own palm anyway. Not like he was around to dish out any punishment for disobeying…and riling him up always made for more fun.

    “Get home,” he continues, as if sensing your rebellion simmering just beneath the surface. “I want to see all of you.” The phone moves, view sweeping up his torso to finally show his flushed face; pupils already so blown out, there’s barely any color to his eyes. His gaze shifts, a finger coming into view for a few moments as he taps a few times. “According to your location, it should only take you about thirty-five minutes to get home. I’ll call you back in forty.”

    His reaction isn’t quite expected.  There’s hurt in those eyes, yes; but more than that, there’s a horrible confusion as he stares just barely past you and at the callous chop-job.

    Severed strands lay scattered around you across the frigid tiles, dead leaves to your withering state.  Remaining hair haphazardly hacked and uneven.  You hadn’t even cared enough to use scissors; the dull pocket knife—where the hell did you even find that—abandoned in the sink the only clue he needs to know what happened in his absence.

    His gaze grows distant.

    “I like your hair,” you hear the ghost of the boy you once knew respond to the memory of telling him how much you hate your hair; all soft, and doting as he runs the comb through the long strands while you continue to lament and complain about the upkeep.  Upkeep you yourself aren’t even majority responsible for.

    “It’s so hot,” you whine from the bathroom floor, palms flat to the once-cool tiles in search of relief from the heat.  “Just cut it all off, Caleeeb!”

    “You want me to chop it off like mine?”  His hand gathers the loose strands, pulling just slightly.  “I’ll even spike it up for you like those boyband members.”

    He can’t see your pout, but it’s certainly audible; even knows exactly how far your bottom lip pokes out as you futilely try shaking his grip off before he actually follows through.  “Not THAT short!”

    “You sure?  Wouldn’t even be that hard…”  Your hair twists around his fingers, grouping, tightening, making it easier to be sawed through.  “Just need to get my pocket knife and—”

    “Caleb!”  When you’re free to move, whipping around and quickly reaching up to feel for the jagged ends to explain the lack of heat against your neck, Caleb grins at you.  He watches your fingers carefully feel around the bun he’d meticulously secured, and as you stand to check it out in the mirror.  A bright red scrunchy starkly contrasting to your hair.

    “How’s’at?” he prompts with a tiny tilt of the head.  “Not too hot anymore?”

    He’d always liked your hair—how could he not?  A part of you, a literal extension of who you are.  He loved it so long as it was yours.  Now he stares down at you and your mangled hairstyle; the small pieces of you cut away and strewn about in a funeralless graveyard.

    He could mourn them.  Could call for their justice.  He could question you and your motives.  Could implore you to explain yourself.

    Instead, Caleb reaches into the medicine cabinet.  Doesn’t brandish or show what he’s grabbed, and quietly steps around you before settling down on the tiles, all in that same stagnant silence.  Fingertips brush gently at the ends of your hair, brushing away and pulling some of the remaining pieces that hadn’t fallen on their own; voice bringing you to a halt before you can even try jerking away.  “I’m a little out of practice, so be patient.”

    The slow sound of sharp metal pushing past each other follows.  Followed by another, and another, and another agonizingly slow snip of scissors.  Bits of hair fall around your shoulders, landing on your lap and among the longer strands of their forsaken brethren as he attempts to even the cut out.

    “Aren’t you angry?”  The scissors slow to a stop.  “You liked my hair more than I did.”  Your shoulders hunch.  “Always cared about it more than I did.”  After a long beat of silence, the scissors once again begin cleanly shearing away the irregular remnants.  “And now it’s ugly.  Why aren’t you mad?”

    Caleb takes a long breath.  He hadn’t needed you to explain to him why you’d done this, and doesn’t bother dignifying the attempt to get under his skin with it.  “Your hair being long isn’t what makes you you.”  A few more sure snips and the warmth of his hands leave.  “You’re clearly the one that’s angry, and now that you’ve done this, do you feel better?”

    “Yes,” you lie, unconvincingly.  Even if it had been convincing, you’re half-certain Caleb would’ve been able to see through it anyway.  You’d wanted him to get mad, upset, to be affected by allowing something even as miniscule as your hair to slip out of his control.  Gentle as it was, underneath his thumb was still suffocating.

    “Well I’m glad you feel better.”  His voice sounds numb, and maybe that is as much victory as you’ll be able to wring out of this moment, but a victory nonetheless.  “If you don’t like it, I’ll take you to a real stylist to fix it.”

    Hair still unseen, you don’t attempt to stand to look in the mirror.  What would it matter?  It wasn’t to change your appearance, it was to wound him in one of the only ways possible without actually causing him bodily harm.  And it hadn’t even worked.  Not really.  The old Caleb would have at least scolded you in that benign way only he could manage.

    With a quiet sigh, Caleb’s arms fold around you, drawing your back to his chest as his chin hooks over your shoulder.  The warmth of his body bleeds instantly into yours.  Makes you acutely aware of the aches and pains sitting hours on the cold bathroom floor has wrought, and yet you resist the urge to lean back into him, to siphon that warmth for yourself in an attempt to find comfort in the grievous familiarity of it.

    “You know you can always talk to me.  You can tell me whatever’s on your mind.”

    The sudden drop back to his soft, warmhearted tone twists the knife.  Tears sting your eyes and you quickly blink them away.

    “I’m here for you, pip-squeak.  Always gonna be, no matter what.”

    Silence follows.  Not tense, not comfortable.  Just long stretches of quiet before Caleb nudges his head to yours.

    “C’mon.  It’s getting late.”  As if he doesn’t expect any response, or any movement, he begins without any acknowledgement.  “It’s too late for anything heavy, but I don’t want you to go to bed on an empty stomach, so,” he stoops down to effortlessly haul your body off the floor, “I’ll whip you up something light.”

    “Perfect,” you grit, trying to keep your weight of your still-numb leg as you look back at Simeon. “Never better.”

    “Be that as it may,” he tugs the sugar from your grasp, depositing it rather carelessly to the floor, in comparison to your painstaking effort to not drop it, before guiding you to take a seat on the very chair that had just accosted you.

    “Don’t make such a fuss over something like—!” You jump in place, nearly jerking your leg away when he applies even the slightest pressure to your knee.

    Knelt in front of you, Simeon cuts his gaze up to your reaction.

    “Okay, maybe it’s still a little tender at the moment…”

    “Sit still,” he rises to his feet, slipping by, “I’ll get some ice.”

    “It’s not that serious, Simeon…” Despite it, you wait, knowing arguing is futile when it comes to injuries—even when it’s a literal bump. In mere moments, he returns, small bundle of ice in hand and repositions to kneeling once again.

    First his palm touches, gingerly, gauging the way you tense, the heat from the bump he can feel forming, then the press of ice elicits an involuntary shiver up your leg. “I think you may just make it,” he murmurs gravely. “I don’t think we’ll have to amputate this time.”

    “Oh, thank you, doctor…you’ve saved my life.”

    Simeon chuckles, readjusting the homemade icepack over your knee as he smiles up at you. “Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished.”

    “I don’t even wanna think about the punishment for your good deed of coming to my poor knee’s rescue.”

    His gaze drops back to said knee, lifting the ice pack and replacing it with his palm again. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

    You pause, knowing he means nothing at all, and yet can’t help the stupid lurch of your insides over his concern. Every fiber in you screams to decline, to declare you're fine, to walk it off and prove it doesn’t even bother you anymore already. Instead you nod, numb as you reach down to pull the material covering your leg up just past your knee for Simeon’s scrutiny.

    The mark is still raised, bruise already forming; slowly darkening your skin as his warm hand brushes over it. Another shiver erupts out from your knee and he thankfully readministers the icepack. “Doesn’t look too bad,” Simeon sighs quietly, relieved. “It looked like you hit it much harder than this mark indicates.”

    “Oh, yeah, it’s fine, really.”

    “Better safe than sorry.”

    “Yes, doctor…”

    He doesn’t have to look up to know you’re rolling your eyes; sarcasm draining from your entire body as his hand braces the back of your calf, lifting your leg ever so slightly. The icepack shifts again, moving away and granting Simeon ample room to lean forward. His lips are warm, soft and reassuring and electric and promising, all pressed against your knee in a moment that simultaneously lasts too long and too briefly until he is backing away with a smile far more innocent than you think should be capable.

    Belphegor’s level of laziness and lethargy is something you’ve never encountered before, but it definitely sailed to the top of your list of annoyances when being tasked as the one responsible to motivate him for anything.

    And sometimes it seems like they’re all working together to take turns in testing your patience.  Each deciding to take a day or two to be the one most on your nerves just so they don’t overwhelm you and chase you off all at once.  Today that brother appears to be the third.

    Some have accused you of being more lenient on Leviathan than the others.  While you think there is some level of leniency for all the brothers, one would be hard pressed to ever believe you even slightly liked any of them at this moment.  Especially Leviathan, down on the flat of his back, staring wide-eyed up at you towering over him.  The flood has barely cleared, water still high enough to frame Levi’s face, sloshing around his body and your legs as it rushes past.

    Now that you’re able to, you take a sweeping survey of your room, and the damages from yet another temper flaring induced visit from Lotan.  It’s mostly salvageable, but there are some things that look ruined at the moment and that is enough to lose your temper.

    Water splashes as you stomp even closer, feet planted on either side of his hips and Levi looks like he’s trying to turn into water to get away from you.

    “What the hell, Leviathan!?”  You gesture around to the room, even though he doesn’t look away from your angry expression.  “Can’t you and Mammon ever take your fights outside!?”

    He shifts to his elbows, slowly starting to scoot back and you move forward with him to counter.  No doubt Envy is about to attempt to scramble away, but you aren’t going to let that happen.

    “Stay,” you demand, half-tempted to invoke your pact with him just to get your frustration across.

    Leviathan visibly gulps, adam’s apple bobbing quickly as he otherwise halts; cheeks reddening even brighter.  “I’m…I’m sorry…  I’ll…  I’ll help you…”

    “You’re damn right, you will!”  You gesture again to everywhere.  “This is your fault, flooding the house everytime you lose your cool.  You have to get your temper under control, Leviathan!”

    In response, his lips purse, nodding quickly.

    It’s nice to see him being agreeable, even if it’s just due to being yelled at.  You’re already turning away, freeing Levi from the cage of your legs, to get started on the cleanup effort.  “You can start by dragging Mammon back here.  No way I’m letting him off the hook, either.”  It’ll be impossible to get everything fixed before Lucifer gets back, but hopefully he’ll be less infuriated to come home and see you three working together to clean.

    “Y-yes, Master…”

    You pause, abruptly, turning back to stare down at Leviathan.  He’s completely flushed, but he doesn’t look particularly afraid, even in the face of your flaring temper.  And the water is rather cold, so you don’t think it could be due to being overheated.  Any redder and the water draining around him might turn to steam.  “What did you say?”

    Levi slaps a hand over his mouth, scooting back when you step closer again.

    Your gaze sweeps down his body this time, soaked clothes doing him absolutely no favors; fabric clinging to every curve and shape, and giving him away immediately.  His thighs snap shut when you take another deliberate step.  “Leviathan.”

    “I'm—I’m going…”

    “What?”

    “I’m going…Master.”