BEAU (original version)| ✓

23

• CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE •
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My bedroom door creaks open during the late hours of the night.

Opening my eyes and turning on my back, I let myself adjust to the dark. December is frostier, our house is icy, and the blanket sprawled over my body fails to keep out the cold. I notice a shorter shadow next to the door and it's almost impossible to distinguish it from a figment of my imagination. But as it gets closer and a head of tousled blonde hair enters my line of sight, I let go of a soft breath.

"What're you doing here, Marc? It's late."

He shifts from foot to foot and rubs his hands together at the edge of my bed, hesitant to invite himself any closer. "I wanted to talk to you, but I fell asleep with mom earlier."

I move aside for him to join me on the mattress. He eagerly occupies it; the Marc-sized space to my left now filled, the gaping hole closing. Days without him are slow, but nights without my brother hurt even more.

"Was there something you wanted to tell me?"

Marc and I stare up at the ceiling, letting the silence subdue us. He's really here, and without any distractions I can sense him wholly, feeling my heart swell with relief when he rests his head over my chest.

"The doctor said I'm narcoleptic." His confession sits heavy between us. "After the test I did, the lady used a lot of big words, but she told me and mom the reason I sleep a lot. It's like being sick, except I don't feel sick. Mom was kinda sad about it because she didn't know what dad would say. He left halfway through."

"Did she tell him yet?"

I can't see his face, but as he nuzzles into me, I know he's still as afraid of Ethan as we all are. I can only imagine how he'd react finding out his son has a...problem. I'm having a hard time believing it myself, but Marc will always be Marc, and I'll always be Beau, and nothing's going to change the way I love him. I say I have to protect him at his most vulnerable. Right now, he's susceptible to everything.

"I don't want to tell dad," he whispers, apprehensive. "He's not gonna be happy with me, Beau. You saw what happened today, he'll be so upset."

"Hey, don't worry about those things." My hands nestle themselves in his hair, feeling its softness as they glide along my fingertips. "Focus on school and Dara, not what's going on here. They'll take care of themselves."

Marc's lifts his head and gazes at me with wide eyes, inquisitive. "I'll be okay, right? Narcolepsy isn't a bad thing?"

I smile down at him before my arms move on their own accord and hold him close. I miss Marc. I miss my brother.

"It doesn't change anything about you, Marceau. You're still my bratty brother and a pain in the ass."

Our laughter is a cacophony of bliss, and the knots are tying themselves together again.

"You'd be a cool dad," Marc sniggers, squeezing me with his smaller arms.

"You really think so?"

"Yeah," he shines with a grin and pulls the blanket up to his chin. "But do you ever wonder where your dad is? What do you think he's doing right now?"

My heart pounds. It's not a question to expect, certainly not from an eleven-year-old. I'm surprised he even remembered the things I told him about Eliot, but just like him, I wonder on most nights.

In my dreams I can be five or six, in his embrace, tucked into bed, giggling while he spoke to me in that beautiful language of his. Mom would stand in the doorway with a smile on her face and shake her head, then she'd join us on my little bed and listen to our stories. She didn't understand the words he said but his voice would be so comforting that it'd lull me into a peaceful slumber.

That was what love felt like.

He was always so happy when he came home and so was I. Eliot, dad, papa...regardless of the name, I loved him so much.

"Apparently I have other siblings, Marc," I say, facing the half-open window. "I think he's with them right now."

Marc hums and he raises his brows. "What if he's thinking about you too?"

"He's got another family to worry about."

"He can still think about you, Beau," he expels a soft sigh. "Maybe he's in his room right now and imagining what you look like or sound like or if you have another brother. I bet he always does that."

I want to dismiss Marc and just soothe him until he falls asleep, but his words resonate with me in a way nothing has for a long time. I ponder upon the possibility that perhaps Eliot has me on his mind too, and if he does have questions, are they the same as mine.

"If you could tell your dad one thing what would it be?" Marc lies on his side in wait for my response. His sudden curiosity has me winded.

"I'd tell him that I miss him," my voice trembles with sorrow. "And that I really wish he came back."

"I'd tell my dad that I care about him a lot. And that I want him to be happy."

"You're smarter than I thought."

He throws an arm over my abdomen and his head makes its way back over my beating heart. "What's your dad's name?"

I pause, hesitant. Marc tugs on my hand, his lips pouting. "Tell me, Beau."

"His name's Eliot," I tell him, words shy and timid. "Eliot Jensen."

"Is he the guy you keep drawing?"

I decide not to answer anymore of his questions. They weigh too heavily on me and I don't want memories of my father stealing the tiniest glimpses of hope I have with my brother. Eliot doesn't exist in this house and he shouldn't.

"It's time for you to get some shut-eye, Marc. We'll talk some more in the morning."

"'Night, Beau."

"Sleep well, freckles."

The last thing I hear is his timid laughter.

It doesn't take long for his breathing to even out and tranquillity to shroud the room. It becomes icier, but Marc's body heat doesn't make it so bad. I pull him closer and tighten my hold around his fragile body, I gently kiss his forehead and close my eyes. I remember Eliot doing the same to me all those years ago and I know how comforting it had been to have someone care for you in a way no one else could. He's right here, my narcoleptic brother, and I still miss him in some way. But the love I have for him is absolute.

Maybe he'll remember this, maybe someday he'll tell a story, and maybe he'll lay in his bed and think about me. Someday.