Post by Dane Wayland on Sept 30, 2022 13:45:15 GMT -5
This is just a too-long, one-shot imagining I had one sleepless night. It's kinda AU/future-ish where Dane uncovers Dino living a new life (as "Patrick") and confronts him. It kinda seems unfinished but I don't know where to end it, so I'll just stick the mess here because why not. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Also what even are tenses and punctuation lmao, I'm not used to writing by myself.
CW: Violence, blood, death
- - - - - -
"Hey there, little brother."
The voice — somehow both familiar and unrecognizable — is a cold weight, sinking slow and heavy in Dane's stomach. It's without tone and unreadable, but there's a certain, unmistakable pull to the man's lips as the words leave them. Dane pushes the door shut behind him and simply stands there, motionless. The space between them is only half a dozen strides, but somehow it yawns impossibly longer — somehow, the fifteen feet is more... is the six-and-a-half years it's been since Dane's seen the moonlight play on his brother's face. It filters through the cracked blinds now to cast shadows over Dino's stony features and he realizes that the man looks older. But the bags beneath his eyes are not due to the fine aging of those six years. It's the aging of those six years, crammed into the three weeks it's been since Dane first saw Dino in the street. He wonders if his brother has slept at all since then.
Despite having thought of it dozens of times before, Dane never knew what he would feel when he saw Dino again. Sometimes... sitting in their childhood treehouse and drinking beers for the both of them on the absent Wayland's birthday... he imagined he would simply be happy to hear his voice again. But now, as he flips on the room's light and meets his brother's gaze, the guild member only feels a familiar coiling of anger — the only emotion that's remained a constant in his twenty-seven years, and the same one that burned to rage every time Dino's name ended up in someone's slandering mouth. That flared to fury when he split his knuckles on those same mouths when they called his brother a traitor. The anger is the same, only tinged now by a growing sting of betrayal, and as soon as the words leave Dino's lips, Dane's moving further into the room — swallowing that fifteen feet and those six-and-a-half years with heavy, threatening strides; hurrying to cover that dumb voice. "You didn't go far enough, Dino."
His voice is quiet, too, but unlike Dino's empty tone, his is entirely palpable; dripping with the heat churning hotter and hotter in his twisting chest. His betrayal and fury, roiling now with something far more devastating, crops up his throat and threatens to close it, but he swallows it down as he stops before his brother's desk. "Or should I say... Patrick?" he speaks the alias — the lie — venomously, as he glances down at the 'Employee-Of-The-Month' picture propped on Dino's desk. The hair is wrong, and the eyes, too, but the smile is the same one Dane has always known; a wide, casual beam, radiant with calm and benevolence. But there's an awkward, almost mischievous pull to the man's gaze — a split-second of careless movement, interrupted and captured by the camera's shutter — and Dane imagines someone across the room, trying to distract this "Patrick" and make him laugh. The guild member frowns, before pulling the framed picture face-down and drawing his hand over the nearest pile of neatly-stacked paperwork; testing his fingertips on the paper's sharp edges. "Why didn't you leave California?"
Dino doesn't answer and Dane winces with a small, pretended pout as he slices the pad of his index finger against supposedly-important documents. The guild member pretends to study the wound, giving his brother a minute to respond or act, but when Dino remains silent and still, he finally sighs and drops his hand.
"Mom misses you," he states coolly, and observes the subtle twitch to his brother's brow. It's not remorse or a stab of sadness, and it's obvious that Dino knows the words are only meant to wound. That Dane's only saying things to try and hurt him. But what about his hurt? Their mother's? The guild member's fists curl at his sides, but he only huffs out an incredulous noise. In none of his treehouse imaginings, did Dane think he'd be this angry. Losing Dino had been painful, but he'd never realized how hurt he was until he'd actually found his brother, alive and well. He'd never believed it completely until the bastard was standing before him. He was trying to hurt him. And he'd use any words he could.
"Your friend, Emily... she was nice," he delivers his observation with the barbed nonchalance that every other exchange between them has so far demanded. Emily. A bit of digging into his brother's new life had brought his little girlfriend to light. "In that annoying, too nice way, you know? Real pretty girl. Real pretty." It's Dino's fist that curls now and Dane lets his gaze linger upon the white knuckles before his lips pull into a faint, fond smile. "Less pretty now, of course." As he takes a breath to continue, he began emptying his pockets with slow, deliberate movements; placing his belongings upon the desk and shrugging his arms from his jacket to fold neatly atop them. "Yeah, she was nice. Not much fun, though... in the end."
Dino stands abruptly and Dane smiles at the sight — at his brother's rigid, affronting stance and the fury (only a mere fraction of Dane's own, but still distinctly Wayland) building upon his features. Dane lets out a sharp bark of laughter then pulls a knife from his belt. He tosses it to his brother, who catches it without so as much as a flinch — making Dane's grin infinitesimally widen. He watches him, anger subsiding to anticipation, but when Dino exhales a placating breath and places the knife on the desk, Dane's sneaking smile droops at the corners. Did he honestly think that there was an alternative to this situation?
There wasn’t.
Cold disappointment washes over Dane in a single wave, and he's moving with equal parts thoughtlessness and firm decision. The guild member steps forward and removes everything from Dino's desk, except for the knife, with two wide sweeps of his long, heavily-scarred arms. Papers scatter throughout the room, his belongings fall to the floor, pens and pencils bounce off of file cabinets, and cold coffee splashes across the linoleum; followed by the jarring smash of thick porcelain. Dane doesn't stop, but upturns the chairs on either side of him; smashing both into the wall, one after the other. Charging forward, he picks up the knife Dino had surrendered and pushes his brother back. Dino's always had the advantage of height, but Dane hardly notices the three-and-a-half-inch difference as he presses in his brother's face. Dino only matches his gaze cooly, however — he hadn't flinched once through the entire tantrum. "Defend yourself, Dino!" Not a trace of pretended civility remains in the snarl as Dane slaps the knife in his brother's palm and forces his fingers around it.
They have been here countless times before. Training in the backyard as children... pots secured upon their heads with laces from old, outgrown sneakers. Rubber spatulas gripped in their tiny fingers. Mona's favorite throw pillows taped to their stomachs. In those early days, it was always Dane shoving Dino's face in the dirt and laughing every time his big brother moved too slowly to apprehend him. "Don't cry," he'd whisper sharply when they followed their father around on missions for the first time and all Dino could do was tremble and fight back tears. Even as they got older, and their training graduated to real weapons and no armor, Dino still moved too slow, and not from lack of reflex or physical aptitude. But at that age, Dane quit jesting every time he bested his brother. When he had the older Wayland pinned, with a blade pressed close to his throat, he no longer laughed. "Do you want to die, Dino!?" He would yell, angry at his brother's insistent hesitation... because he knew an enemy's hand would be less forgiving. "Protect yourself!" Even when years passed, and Dino had not only done his fair share of reluctant killing, but could beat his little brother more times than not in their continued training, Dane still found himself forcing those trembling fingers around knife after knife and meeting a remorseful gaze with hard, demanding eyes; angry that his brother would let himself be disarmed over and over.
Dane steps back and slips a second blade free, which he turns carefully in his palm. Across from him, Dino measures him with a level, fixed gaze, and does the same — feeling the weapon's weight. "Dane. I don—" Dane grits his teeth together hard and shoves forward without a sound, not wanting to hear any plea for peace. He slices at his brother and Dino, thankfully, lifts an arm to block. The older Wayland parries and makes the demanded swipes, but they're not delivered with the weight or intent of their countless years of training — they're not meant to land — and Dane flinches away from them with pathetic ease; jaw clenching tighter with each half-hearted duck and sway. When Dino makes another purposely-slow, unenthused jab, the guild member swallows a curse and slams his knife, point-down, into the desk beside them, before throwing all his weight behind a punch. His fist connects with unforgiving strength against his brother's jaw and he begins to stumble back. Dane's fist curled in the collar of his shirt keeps him on his feet, though, and Dane strikes him again. And again — pulling his brother to meet his bleeding hand over and over. Dino's face grows more and more dumb with each hit, and with an outraged yell, Dane throws the older Wayland to the floor. Forcing an arm in the center of his back, and holding it there with a knee, Dane leans down to whisper harshly in his brother's ear.
Dino cracks his head back to strike the back of his skull against Dane's nose, and the unexpected retaliation and blossoming pain loosens Dane's hold just enough for Dino to break an arm free, which he promptly pulls back hard; driving an elbow into his reeling brother's jaw. Dane releases him and both Waylands are on their feet in seconds; falling back into their mirrored poses with practiced ease. Blood seeps warm down Dane's face and he smears it across his cheek when he lifts a hand to test the feel of his jaw. He grins, with crimson spittle bright on his teeth, and gives a nod. "There we go. Wasn't so hard?" They've been here countless times before, too. Baring knuckles whenever Dino found out Dane had fucked his girlfriend. Or when he got too mouthy and stupid with some murderous somebody three times his size and Dino stepped in to keep him from getting the shit kicked out of him — only to beat the shit out of him himself once they got home. But those nights always ended the same, with the two of them sharing a six-pack in the treehouse, wiping each other's blood from their knuckles and chuckling.
But Dane didn't think that would be the case, this time.
Dino didn't answer, only watched his brother with steeled eyes, even as blood trickled from his nose and his face swelled. He makes the first move this time, and the pair fall into a seamless game of counter and counter-attack; moving on instinct and muscle memory alone. Every blow is blocked and countered perfectly, with the sort of ease that only comes from a decade of both fighting one another and fighting side-by-side. They knew one another's movements and their deadly dance appeared almost scripted.
Dane could tell that, in the six years Dino had been hiding, he'd kept up with himself in the gym — that much was apparent in the power behind every strike. But it was obvious, too, that in those six years, Dino had not been in many fights. He'd lost his touch and Dane landed the first successful punch with surprising ease. Capitalizing on Dino's split-second of shock, he kicked his foot into the man's shin, landed another blow to his side, and ended by connecting his elbow to Dino's face.
His nose broke with a distinctive crunch and Dane paused while Dino stumbled back. The trickle from his nose was now a steady stream and the front of his white, button-up shirt darkened quickly. Straightening into a more comfortable stance, Dane smiled smugly, and began another provoking retort. But, unexpectedly, Dino — face spewing blood — swipes a book from the still-standing bookshelf beside him and sends it flying toward him. The guild member turns to dodge it, and when he spins back around, it's just in time to see Dino reclaim the knife and charge forward.
The guild member feels both a relief and an overwhelming sadness crash over him, all at once. Was Dino going to really fight back now? Would he kill him, so he could run away again? Dane laughs to himself, and for split second, his defensive posture falls limp. How did they get here? How could Dino have left him? Didn't he know he needed him? Everyone knew that Dino had needed Dane — to pull the trigger, to ask the questions, and to take pliers to traitor's toes. But Dane had needed Dino, too. Probably even more. Dino had always been his tether and in the six-and-half-years since his alleged death, he'd been groundless. He'd been alone. Discarded completely by Antonio, who after years of handing him insulting missions and tasks, tried having him — his only, "living" son — killed. Oh, Dane didn’t know for certain it was Antonio, because his father was far more careful than that, but he knew. The only one who knew their father in the same way was Dino — Antonio had always treated Dino differently, of course, but the older Wayland knew both faces with equal familiarity. Dino had left him alone in that. It would have been different if he'd actually died or been killed, but he'd just… left. Without a word, he'd shed his skin and disappeared — his relationship with Dane proving little more than an expendable causality. Not a word for six-and-a-half-years. Only wondering and unanswered questions.
Dane rushes forward to meet Dino's momentum; hands positioned to knock the blade away. He sees the flick of his brother’s wrist and the subtle angling of the blade… but it's only a brief flash, and before Dane can fully comprehend it, he can feel it. The resistance of muscle and then the final give as the blade slips through. He can feel the air leave his body... the audible pain in his throat, as the knife buries itself into important organs. The pair fall against the wall and Dane pulls slowly away. He glances at Dino's face, searching there for a quick moment, before dropping his gaze to the hilt protruding crudely from his brother's stomach. The older Wayland had purposely turned the knife at the last possible moment, so Dane drove the blade into him. "You..." Dane's voice is a whisper and Dino's lips part in a knowing smile. "You cowardly son of a bitch."
- - - - - -
The pain is a worsening throb and when Patrick manages to blink the blinding lights from his vision, he watches his brother's face. Blood pours from his stomach and over his hands, still wrapped about the knife's hilt, and Dane simply watches the bubbling crimson, before releasing Patrick's shoulders and drawing back his arm to punch the wall, mere inches from his face. There's an undeniable break to his little brother's knuckles but Dane's face only twitches from the pain. He stares at the bloodied wall and Patrick can see it in every shadow, every angle, and every line of the guild member's face — Dane is so angry. But Patrick knows also, as he watches his brother's gaze search the broken sheetrock, that beneath that turmoil, Dane very simply didn't know what to do. What to feel or what to do with what he was feeling. Patrick knows this very well. Knows Dane very well. When his brother finally pushes away, Patrick plucks the knife from his abdomen and presses his hands hard against the weapon's gaping absence. Doing his best to hold in the blood and feeling it gush between his fingers regardless, he drags himself back to his desk. Pain stabs through him with each step and each jab makes him more nauseous.
He'd chosen a good spot.
Pulling himself into the chair, Patrick blinks open an eye to observe Dane's back. His little brother is stone — standing as motionless as he was when he'd first entered the office. "How is Mom, anyway?" Patrick asks around the bubbling sound of blood in his throat. For a long moment, Dane remains completely still. But then he shakes — shoulders bobbing as he throws his head back. Patrick, for a moment, thinks he's crying, but when the low peals grow louder, it's apparent he's laughing. Reigning in the hysterics, Dane shakes his head, clears his throat, and glances down to straighten his shirt. Once he's put himself back in order, he turns, and as he crosses the room again, Patrick can clearly see tears on his brother's face. Dane didn't bother to wipe them away and, in turn, Patrick doesn't bother to comment on them.
"She's fine," he answers finally, as he seats himself at the edge of Patrick's desk, right before him, and pulls a cigarette from the pack he'd picked up to put between the older Wayland's lips. He doesn't light it but simply lets it hang limp as he continues. "I'll have you know, she's taken a cooking course." Patrick snorts and blinks up at him, disbelieving, and the guild member cracks a grin. "No, I'm being fucking serious. You've missed out." The pair chuckle and, for a single moment, there's the warmth of shared familiarity. But it's only fleeting and when the chuckles die, it's replaced by a tainted silence. It presses on the pair, as Dane cradles his swelling knuckles and Patrick casually bleeds out.
"And Dad?" Patrick whispers, voice gritty and coarse. The hand nursing broken knuckles stills and Dane's gaze doesn't move from the bloody pulp there. A long moment passes and Patrick simply lets it. Silence is all the answer he needs because he knows Antonio. And when he left the guild, he imagined for weeks after how Dane would fare there on his own; without Dino to keep their father's gaze.
Sniffing, Dane lifts his head finally, not to answer the question, but to ask instead, "Well, did you find what you wanted, Dino?" Patrick can hear it in his voice, that it's a question his brother has wondered for years. He presses his hand harder to his weeping abdomen and closes his eyes to think. He'd asked himself the same question plenty of times, with never coming to a decisive answer. But he doesn't have to think about it long, now. "No."
He didn't. There was so much more that he'd wanted. He thinks of Emily. He would have liked a family — to love someone as much as he knew his father loved his mother when Antonio thought no one could see. To peek into the kitchen and watch as his wife dipped her finger in the bowl of brownie mix to sneak a taste, or propped their child on the counter to let them shape the cookies. But that life was never meant for him. He knew, even as he stroked a thumb against Emily's cheekbones as they twisted around one another at night, he could never have anything remotely close to such a thing... not with having left the guild and living in secrecy. And certainly not now, that he was bleeding out and dying.
Dane doesn't press the question and allows him his silence. After a moment though, he leans forward to finally light the cigarette between Patrick's lips. And as the flames lick greedily at the end, Patrick tries to inhale. But the attempt makes him cough, and the cough completely devastates him. He heaves once and the pain is excruciating — it wracks through him and blood pours more heavily from his stomach. The cigarette drops from his mouth as he writhes, but Dane doesn't make a move to help him. His brother only watches somberly — sobered and accepting. When Patrick settles again, breathing jagged and coarse, the guild member bends to pick up the cigarette. He intends to finish it, but as he lifts it before his gaze, he finds it covered in blood and extinguished. Patrick — dizzy and weak now — watches him flick it away, before reaching for another one. "That's a shame."
CW: Violence, blood, death
- - - - - -
"Hey there, little brother."
The voice — somehow both familiar and unrecognizable — is a cold weight, sinking slow and heavy in Dane's stomach. It's without tone and unreadable, but there's a certain, unmistakable pull to the man's lips as the words leave them. Dane pushes the door shut behind him and simply stands there, motionless. The space between them is only half a dozen strides, but somehow it yawns impossibly longer — somehow, the fifteen feet is more... is the six-and-a-half years it's been since Dane's seen the moonlight play on his brother's face. It filters through the cracked blinds now to cast shadows over Dino's stony features and he realizes that the man looks older. But the bags beneath his eyes are not due to the fine aging of those six years. It's the aging of those six years, crammed into the three weeks it's been since Dane first saw Dino in the street. He wonders if his brother has slept at all since then.
Despite having thought of it dozens of times before, Dane never knew what he would feel when he saw Dino again. Sometimes... sitting in their childhood treehouse and drinking beers for the both of them on the absent Wayland's birthday... he imagined he would simply be happy to hear his voice again. But now, as he flips on the room's light and meets his brother's gaze, the guild member only feels a familiar coiling of anger — the only emotion that's remained a constant in his twenty-seven years, and the same one that burned to rage every time Dino's name ended up in someone's slandering mouth. That flared to fury when he split his knuckles on those same mouths when they called his brother a traitor. The anger is the same, only tinged now by a growing sting of betrayal, and as soon as the words leave Dino's lips, Dane's moving further into the room — swallowing that fifteen feet and those six-and-a-half years with heavy, threatening strides; hurrying to cover that dumb voice. "You didn't go far enough, Dino."
His voice is quiet, too, but unlike Dino's empty tone, his is entirely palpable; dripping with the heat churning hotter and hotter in his twisting chest. His betrayal and fury, roiling now with something far more devastating, crops up his throat and threatens to close it, but he swallows it down as he stops before his brother's desk. "Or should I say... Patrick?" he speaks the alias — the lie — venomously, as he glances down at the 'Employee-Of-The-Month' picture propped on Dino's desk. The hair is wrong, and the eyes, too, but the smile is the same one Dane has always known; a wide, casual beam, radiant with calm and benevolence. But there's an awkward, almost mischievous pull to the man's gaze — a split-second of careless movement, interrupted and captured by the camera's shutter — and Dane imagines someone across the room, trying to distract this "Patrick" and make him laugh. The guild member frowns, before pulling the framed picture face-down and drawing his hand over the nearest pile of neatly-stacked paperwork; testing his fingertips on the paper's sharp edges. "Why didn't you leave California?"
Dino doesn't answer and Dane winces with a small, pretended pout as he slices the pad of his index finger against supposedly-important documents. The guild member pretends to study the wound, giving his brother a minute to respond or act, but when Dino remains silent and still, he finally sighs and drops his hand.
"Mom misses you," he states coolly, and observes the subtle twitch to his brother's brow. It's not remorse or a stab of sadness, and it's obvious that Dino knows the words are only meant to wound. That Dane's only saying things to try and hurt him. But what about his hurt? Their mother's? The guild member's fists curl at his sides, but he only huffs out an incredulous noise. In none of his treehouse imaginings, did Dane think he'd be this angry. Losing Dino had been painful, but he'd never realized how hurt he was until he'd actually found his brother, alive and well. He'd never believed it completely until the bastard was standing before him. He was trying to hurt him. And he'd use any words he could.
"Your friend, Emily... she was nice," he delivers his observation with the barbed nonchalance that every other exchange between them has so far demanded. Emily. A bit of digging into his brother's new life had brought his little girlfriend to light. "In that annoying, too nice way, you know? Real pretty girl. Real pretty." It's Dino's fist that curls now and Dane lets his gaze linger upon the white knuckles before his lips pull into a faint, fond smile. "Less pretty now, of course." As he takes a breath to continue, he began emptying his pockets with slow, deliberate movements; placing his belongings upon the desk and shrugging his arms from his jacket to fold neatly atop them. "Yeah, she was nice. Not much fun, though... in the end."
Dino stands abruptly and Dane smiles at the sight — at his brother's rigid, affronting stance and the fury (only a mere fraction of Dane's own, but still distinctly Wayland) building upon his features. Dane lets out a sharp bark of laughter then pulls a knife from his belt. He tosses it to his brother, who catches it without so as much as a flinch — making Dane's grin infinitesimally widen. He watches him, anger subsiding to anticipation, but when Dino exhales a placating breath and places the knife on the desk, Dane's sneaking smile droops at the corners. Did he honestly think that there was an alternative to this situation?
There wasn’t.
Cold disappointment washes over Dane in a single wave, and he's moving with equal parts thoughtlessness and firm decision. The guild member steps forward and removes everything from Dino's desk, except for the knife, with two wide sweeps of his long, heavily-scarred arms. Papers scatter throughout the room, his belongings fall to the floor, pens and pencils bounce off of file cabinets, and cold coffee splashes across the linoleum; followed by the jarring smash of thick porcelain. Dane doesn't stop, but upturns the chairs on either side of him; smashing both into the wall, one after the other. Charging forward, he picks up the knife Dino had surrendered and pushes his brother back. Dino's always had the advantage of height, but Dane hardly notices the three-and-a-half-inch difference as he presses in his brother's face. Dino only matches his gaze cooly, however — he hadn't flinched once through the entire tantrum. "Defend yourself, Dino!" Not a trace of pretended civility remains in the snarl as Dane slaps the knife in his brother's palm and forces his fingers around it.
They have been here countless times before. Training in the backyard as children... pots secured upon their heads with laces from old, outgrown sneakers. Rubber spatulas gripped in their tiny fingers. Mona's favorite throw pillows taped to their stomachs. In those early days, it was always Dane shoving Dino's face in the dirt and laughing every time his big brother moved too slowly to apprehend him. "Don't cry," he'd whisper sharply when they followed their father around on missions for the first time and all Dino could do was tremble and fight back tears. Even as they got older, and their training graduated to real weapons and no armor, Dino still moved too slow, and not from lack of reflex or physical aptitude. But at that age, Dane quit jesting every time he bested his brother. When he had the older Wayland pinned, with a blade pressed close to his throat, he no longer laughed. "Do you want to die, Dino!?" He would yell, angry at his brother's insistent hesitation... because he knew an enemy's hand would be less forgiving. "Protect yourself!" Even when years passed, and Dino had not only done his fair share of reluctant killing, but could beat his little brother more times than not in their continued training, Dane still found himself forcing those trembling fingers around knife after knife and meeting a remorseful gaze with hard, demanding eyes; angry that his brother would let himself be disarmed over and over.
Dane steps back and slips a second blade free, which he turns carefully in his palm. Across from him, Dino measures him with a level, fixed gaze, and does the same — feeling the weapon's weight. "Dane. I don—" Dane grits his teeth together hard and shoves forward without a sound, not wanting to hear any plea for peace. He slices at his brother and Dino, thankfully, lifts an arm to block. The older Wayland parries and makes the demanded swipes, but they're not delivered with the weight or intent of their countless years of training — they're not meant to land — and Dane flinches away from them with pathetic ease; jaw clenching tighter with each half-hearted duck and sway. When Dino makes another purposely-slow, unenthused jab, the guild member swallows a curse and slams his knife, point-down, into the desk beside them, before throwing all his weight behind a punch. His fist connects with unforgiving strength against his brother's jaw and he begins to stumble back. Dane's fist curled in the collar of his shirt keeps him on his feet, though, and Dane strikes him again. And again — pulling his brother to meet his bleeding hand over and over. Dino's face grows more and more dumb with each hit, and with an outraged yell, Dane throws the older Wayland to the floor. Forcing an arm in the center of his back, and holding it there with a knee, Dane leans down to whisper harshly in his brother's ear.
Dino cracks his head back to strike the back of his skull against Dane's nose, and the unexpected retaliation and blossoming pain loosens Dane's hold just enough for Dino to break an arm free, which he promptly pulls back hard; driving an elbow into his reeling brother's jaw. Dane releases him and both Waylands are on their feet in seconds; falling back into their mirrored poses with practiced ease. Blood seeps warm down Dane's face and he smears it across his cheek when he lifts a hand to test the feel of his jaw. He grins, with crimson spittle bright on his teeth, and gives a nod. "There we go. Wasn't so hard?" They've been here countless times before, too. Baring knuckles whenever Dino found out Dane had fucked his girlfriend. Or when he got too mouthy and stupid with some murderous somebody three times his size and Dino stepped in to keep him from getting the shit kicked out of him — only to beat the shit out of him himself once they got home. But those nights always ended the same, with the two of them sharing a six-pack in the treehouse, wiping each other's blood from their knuckles and chuckling.
But Dane didn't think that would be the case, this time.
Dino didn't answer, only watched his brother with steeled eyes, even as blood trickled from his nose and his face swelled. He makes the first move this time, and the pair fall into a seamless game of counter and counter-attack; moving on instinct and muscle memory alone. Every blow is blocked and countered perfectly, with the sort of ease that only comes from a decade of both fighting one another and fighting side-by-side. They knew one another's movements and their deadly dance appeared almost scripted.
Dane could tell that, in the six years Dino had been hiding, he'd kept up with himself in the gym — that much was apparent in the power behind every strike. But it was obvious, too, that in those six years, Dino had not been in many fights. He'd lost his touch and Dane landed the first successful punch with surprising ease. Capitalizing on Dino's split-second of shock, he kicked his foot into the man's shin, landed another blow to his side, and ended by connecting his elbow to Dino's face.
His nose broke with a distinctive crunch and Dane paused while Dino stumbled back. The trickle from his nose was now a steady stream and the front of his white, button-up shirt darkened quickly. Straightening into a more comfortable stance, Dane smiled smugly, and began another provoking retort. But, unexpectedly, Dino — face spewing blood — swipes a book from the still-standing bookshelf beside him and sends it flying toward him. The guild member turns to dodge it, and when he spins back around, it's just in time to see Dino reclaim the knife and charge forward.
The guild member feels both a relief and an overwhelming sadness crash over him, all at once. Was Dino going to really fight back now? Would he kill him, so he could run away again? Dane laughs to himself, and for split second, his defensive posture falls limp. How did they get here? How could Dino have left him? Didn't he know he needed him? Everyone knew that Dino had needed Dane — to pull the trigger, to ask the questions, and to take pliers to traitor's toes. But Dane had needed Dino, too. Probably even more. Dino had always been his tether and in the six-and-half-years since his alleged death, he'd been groundless. He'd been alone. Discarded completely by Antonio, who after years of handing him insulting missions and tasks, tried having him — his only, "living" son — killed. Oh, Dane didn’t know for certain it was Antonio, because his father was far more careful than that, but he knew. The only one who knew their father in the same way was Dino — Antonio had always treated Dino differently, of course, but the older Wayland knew both faces with equal familiarity. Dino had left him alone in that. It would have been different if he'd actually died or been killed, but he'd just… left. Without a word, he'd shed his skin and disappeared — his relationship with Dane proving little more than an expendable causality. Not a word for six-and-a-half-years. Only wondering and unanswered questions.
Dane rushes forward to meet Dino's momentum; hands positioned to knock the blade away. He sees the flick of his brother’s wrist and the subtle angling of the blade… but it's only a brief flash, and before Dane can fully comprehend it, he can feel it. The resistance of muscle and then the final give as the blade slips through. He can feel the air leave his body... the audible pain in his throat, as the knife buries itself into important organs. The pair fall against the wall and Dane pulls slowly away. He glances at Dino's face, searching there for a quick moment, before dropping his gaze to the hilt protruding crudely from his brother's stomach. The older Wayland had purposely turned the knife at the last possible moment, so Dane drove the blade into him. "You..." Dane's voice is a whisper and Dino's lips part in a knowing smile. "You cowardly son of a bitch."
- - - - - -
The pain is a worsening throb and when Patrick manages to blink the blinding lights from his vision, he watches his brother's face. Blood pours from his stomach and over his hands, still wrapped about the knife's hilt, and Dane simply watches the bubbling crimson, before releasing Patrick's shoulders and drawing back his arm to punch the wall, mere inches from his face. There's an undeniable break to his little brother's knuckles but Dane's face only twitches from the pain. He stares at the bloodied wall and Patrick can see it in every shadow, every angle, and every line of the guild member's face — Dane is so angry. But Patrick knows also, as he watches his brother's gaze search the broken sheetrock, that beneath that turmoil, Dane very simply didn't know what to do. What to feel or what to do with what he was feeling. Patrick knows this very well. Knows Dane very well. When his brother finally pushes away, Patrick plucks the knife from his abdomen and presses his hands hard against the weapon's gaping absence. Doing his best to hold in the blood and feeling it gush between his fingers regardless, he drags himself back to his desk. Pain stabs through him with each step and each jab makes him more nauseous.
He'd chosen a good spot.
Pulling himself into the chair, Patrick blinks open an eye to observe Dane's back. His little brother is stone — standing as motionless as he was when he'd first entered the office. "How is Mom, anyway?" Patrick asks around the bubbling sound of blood in his throat. For a long moment, Dane remains completely still. But then he shakes — shoulders bobbing as he throws his head back. Patrick, for a moment, thinks he's crying, but when the low peals grow louder, it's apparent he's laughing. Reigning in the hysterics, Dane shakes his head, clears his throat, and glances down to straighten his shirt. Once he's put himself back in order, he turns, and as he crosses the room again, Patrick can clearly see tears on his brother's face. Dane didn't bother to wipe them away and, in turn, Patrick doesn't bother to comment on them.
"She's fine," he answers finally, as he seats himself at the edge of Patrick's desk, right before him, and pulls a cigarette from the pack he'd picked up to put between the older Wayland's lips. He doesn't light it but simply lets it hang limp as he continues. "I'll have you know, she's taken a cooking course." Patrick snorts and blinks up at him, disbelieving, and the guild member cracks a grin. "No, I'm being fucking serious. You've missed out." The pair chuckle and, for a single moment, there's the warmth of shared familiarity. But it's only fleeting and when the chuckles die, it's replaced by a tainted silence. It presses on the pair, as Dane cradles his swelling knuckles and Patrick casually bleeds out.
"And Dad?" Patrick whispers, voice gritty and coarse. The hand nursing broken knuckles stills and Dane's gaze doesn't move from the bloody pulp there. A long moment passes and Patrick simply lets it. Silence is all the answer he needs because he knows Antonio. And when he left the guild, he imagined for weeks after how Dane would fare there on his own; without Dino to keep their father's gaze.
Sniffing, Dane lifts his head finally, not to answer the question, but to ask instead, "Well, did you find what you wanted, Dino?" Patrick can hear it in his voice, that it's a question his brother has wondered for years. He presses his hand harder to his weeping abdomen and closes his eyes to think. He'd asked himself the same question plenty of times, with never coming to a decisive answer. But he doesn't have to think about it long, now. "No."
He didn't. There was so much more that he'd wanted. He thinks of Emily. He would have liked a family — to love someone as much as he knew his father loved his mother when Antonio thought no one could see. To peek into the kitchen and watch as his wife dipped her finger in the bowl of brownie mix to sneak a taste, or propped their child on the counter to let them shape the cookies. But that life was never meant for him. He knew, even as he stroked a thumb against Emily's cheekbones as they twisted around one another at night, he could never have anything remotely close to such a thing... not with having left the guild and living in secrecy. And certainly not now, that he was bleeding out and dying.
Dane doesn't press the question and allows him his silence. After a moment though, he leans forward to finally light the cigarette between Patrick's lips. And as the flames lick greedily at the end, Patrick tries to inhale. But the attempt makes him cough, and the cough completely devastates him. He heaves once and the pain is excruciating — it wracks through him and blood pours more heavily from his stomach. The cigarette drops from his mouth as he writhes, but Dane doesn't make a move to help him. His brother only watches somberly — sobered and accepting. When Patrick settles again, breathing jagged and coarse, the guild member bends to pick up the cigarette. He intends to finish it, but as he lifts it before his gaze, he finds it covered in blood and extinguished. Patrick — dizzy and weak now — watches him flick it away, before reaching for another one. "That's a shame."