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He's lost all damn hope crying in some run-down bar's back alley. His hands pressed into his face as groans of grief or frustration tumble past the salty flows. One hand falls down to snatch a lighter and he misses it. He misses the warmth of his own flames. The simple anger and destruction. However, life plays them cruel hands.
It makes them bet all their chips and win back none. Even when they're betting smaller than normal.
None of tonight should've happened, but the boys are still boys, in which, they cannot help the swinging of their fists at ill taunts. Sometimes, being a boy is not knowing when to stop. Then has he come out the other side? When his fists loosened?
His younger brother huffed at him with bruised and bloodied knuckles. The canvas lay trembling on the ground as he wrenched them to leave. Turn around, run, and never look back. Are you trying to get us caught? You're going to fuck this up, he near snarled.
The words burned in his throat as his hands tightened at their standoff. He almost swung. He almost brought back the monster under their bed. All that fighting, all that running for nothing if he unsheathed the same claws.
So, he sent his brother back to the run-down apartment. Gave him instructions to wrap the knuckles no matter what. Say nothing to Boomer if he asks.
He hates this fucking city. He hates being responsible for two brothers who are off in their own world. However, abandonment never crossed his mind. They're in this together to the end, so, he'll go far enough to calm down.
Sometimes, he thinks it was easier living with the abuse. Maybe, it's the trauma talking but people like them don't do trauma. Or at least, he doesn't.
If Boomer had an incident again, he would - he would find him someone or something to help. The drugs can only get you so far.
He-can only get them so far.