BART
While Sunjata’s smug face would have Bart itching to rearrange it any other time, for today he gets a magnanimous pass. He’ll let it slide considering exactly the person he has ushered to Bart’s door. The ghost from his past, aged and filled out and different in so many ways, but god it’s still his brother. Still his twin, the other half of his soul that he’s been missing for far too long, cruelly torn away before they were ready. Would they ever have been? They’d never gotten the chance to find out.
Bart doesn’t feel the sting of tears, only the wetness that tickles the corners of his mouth as Nate crashes into him like a freight train. His hands come up to clutch desperately at that damnable jacket, the same one he’s fucking wearing. He clings like the child he hasn’t been in so many years, stumbling backwards into his room beneath the force of Nate’s momentum, and hides his tears in his brother’s broad shoulder. It’s not long enough, but at least his arms are still tight around Nate when the man pulls back, and his own watery grin is full of emotions like shattered glass; mixed to hell, impossible to sort through, but gleaming and sharp all the same.
“My fuckin’ jacket now, ain’t it?” It’s bitten back in that same thick accent, feeding off each other instinctively. “‘sides, it was th’only good part’a ya, ‘course I had to keep it,” Bart teases, sharpness dulled by the blatant relief and gratitude that contort his features. He can’t look away from Nate, even when Scarface pipes up in the corner. He doesn’t give a shit what the dude does honestly. He’ll leave that one to Nate.
Bart doesn’t feel the sting of tears, only the wetness that tickles the corners of his mouth as Nate crashes into him like a freight train. His hands come up to clutch desperately at that damnable jacket, the same one he’s fucking wearing. He clings like the child he hasn’t been in so many years, stumbling backwards into his room beneath the force of Nate’s momentum, and hides his tears in his brother’s broad shoulder. It’s not long enough, but at least his arms are still tight around Nate when the man pulls back, and his own watery grin is full of emotions like shattered glass; mixed to hell, impossible to sort through, but gleaming and sharp all the same.
“My fuckin’ jacket now, ain’t it?” It’s bitten back in that same thick accent, feeding off each other instinctively. “‘sides, it was th’only good part’a ya, ‘course I had to keep it,” Bart teases, sharpness dulled by the blatant relief and gratitude that contort his features. He can’t look away from Nate, even when Scarface pipes up in the corner. He doesn’t give a shit what the dude does honestly. He’ll leave that one to Nate.
Even if I do a little just to get me through the night
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
Always getting me in trouble, smoking like I wanna die
