Greatest

20: a deadly lightning to his heart

The flight home is slightly more awkward than the one in which I throw up eighty-eight times and had a seizure. But only slightly. Our agents are more than accustomed to keeping secrets and it's not their job to police or even talk about our personal lives. In fact, it would be considered rude. So we do not talk about the kiss, at all. However, as soon as we are seated, Jonesy just turns to me and very, very slowly, offers me a fist bump, which I accept.  He smiles. I blush, then he goes back to staring at his phone.  Shane does nothing and says nothing which is honestly more awkward. Though, I appreciate that they do NOT chastise me for nearly missing the flight.
I'm the first of us kids home, and after a de-brief with my father I'm left to limp off to bed. My mother expresses concern that I'm still limping but I brush her off and she allows it. My brothers make it in later in the evening, and I'm in bed when they arrive. That doesn't, like, stop them.
"You're gross," Micheal hugs me extra long though, before pushing me out of my bed.
"I missed you," Peter says, stuffing ice cubes down my shirt. That's about how that reunion goes.  Our mother soon comes to break it up. Micheal has kept blessedly silent on the entire cancer thing,  as well as the gay thing, which given our family is worse than the cancer thing. No, really, it is.
Anyway. I'm quite high most of the first week of break. My head won't quit pounding, and I have to heavily rely on my various medications, which leaves me mostly bedridden. No, I do not text Bradley. I don't dare. My father monitors correspondence on our lines and we are not talking about that. Bradley already knows I can't really text him from home I already warned him of that after last time so he won't expect anything. That doesn't make me feel much better. Though I do appreciate him thinking of me. I hope he's thinking about me.
I'm in my room, listening to Christmas music alone, and thinking about The Kiss. It's very therapeutic for my gayness and I'm very happy. I didn't know a person could be this happy. I play 'Step Into Christmas' on repeat on my phone, and try to figure out how to dance with just one leg working. Again. I am an amazing dancer.
"Hey, we're going out tonight. You, me, Micheal, and Peter," my father stands in my room doorway, clearly having been there a long time.
"No, we're not," I say, barely turning to acknowledge him. I feel like hell. And I'm not going anywhere. We both know what going out means.
"It's Senator Kyd. He won't be quiet after his daughter's—mysterious death," my father purrs, leaning in the doorway, suit crisp as usual, red tie too thin and too neat on his chest.
"He doesn't need to die. Our war is over, you've won," oh. If you are not familiar with my country's legal system it's that, by Christmas time of election year, election will have already happened.
"But he's going to. You will come," he leaves.
"I will not," I mutter, looking for where I hid a bottle of my mother's wine. The good stuff. Time to get drunk and forget everything that's ever happened to me, except The Kiss. Forget the men I've killed, the tears I've shed. Just let it all go.
"Dad says you're coming?" Micheal comes in to find me half naked, lying on the bed, drinking wine directly from the bottle.
"I'm not," I say, "You don't have to go you know."
"It's whatever. Can be fun," Micheal shrugs.
"I guarantee you, brother, there's a better story in this bottle than in your deeds tonight," I say, holding it up, "And I like drinking, and boys, far more than senseless bloodshed and that does not make me the villain."
"It does not make you the hero," he says, quietly.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps it should. Perhaps that's the story for another night," I say, toasting him with the bottle, "Tonight I shall get very drunk and father's dark deeds shall get on quite without me. I am not needed. So I shall not go."
"There will be hell to pay, you know he'll be cross," Micheal sighs.
"I do not fear his wrath," I say, dryly, before taking another long drink, "Join me, I promise you might like my version of villainy."
"He'll be angry, Cyrus, just come along," Micheal sighs.
I shake my head no, "As you said. I'm not the hero. Perhaps you are and Father is, and I'm not  and I've got everything ever backwards. But I can't stop myself from preferring it."
"As you like," he says, nodding to me, "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, little brother," I say, smiling at him. Then he goes. I lock the door and find the next bottle of wine. My head is starting to pound so I take another handful of pills. It's a long night of forgetting everything that I am. But I'm willing to take the time to reinvent myself before it's too late. I'm a slow learner. I wasn't born brave. I'm just searching for an answer. And tonight I can pretend it's at the bottom of this bottle, as I can't find it someone else's arms.