To say that Ava was only slightly upset was an understatement. The woman was worried sick.

"Oh heavens, you two, just what exactly did you get yourselves caught up in this time? You're lucky Jimena took time out to run over and tell me you two had decided to rest up at her shop. You could've at least left a note!" She scolded, drowning the two boys in guilt, their heads hanging low.

"Sorry, Mama."

"What am I gonna do with you both?"

The woman sighed, silently motioning towards the upstairs, the boys' already moving up the steps to head to their room. When she was upset or disappointed, it was best to let her be alone with her thoughts for a while. No point unnecessarily stirring the pot and risking tipping it over.

They slipped past the narrowed walls of the upstairs hallway, passing the tall white doors before reaching their own; black letters scrawled over the pasty white paint, screaming "KEEP OUT."

Mama had nearly killed them for the childish vandalism when they were thirteen.

Cyrus pushed past the door, searching in the dark for the small box of matches hanging against the wall. He pulled out two matchsticks, handing one to Logan before taking his own and scraping it against the patch of powdered glass and gum arabic. There was something oddly comforting about the subsequent fire that brought life to the once dead room, almost immediately washing the cold away with its warm orange hues. Logan shuffled close to him, tipping his matchstick forward to catch some of the redhead's fire for himself.

Cyrus dipped down to light the candles on his right side, Logan slipping past him to get started on the ones on the left. With practiced ease, they set fire to their bedroom.

Cyrus murmured, his words slightly covered by the crackling flames.

"What happened, Lo?"

A sharp intake of breath.

"Nothing really, Cy," Logan's voice trailed, "I already told you what-"

"Cut the act, Logan."

The tiny flames slightly cowered, subdued by the growing weight in the air.

Logan shakily sighed, blowing his matchstick out and tossing it in the bin next to their rickety nightstand. He plopped down on the edge of the bed, turning his head away from Cyrus, looking off towards the opposite wall.

"I already told you that it was Simon," Logan said, turning back towards Cyrus. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

The words came tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could think.

"Lo, you know why I'm making such a big deal about it. Myra gave you those pills to help with those dreams, remember? You were doing great, Lo. Hell, you were finally coming to terms with it and moving on."

"Well, they're back, alright?" Logan snapped. "They're back, and I've got to re-live the same, fucking moments over and over again."

The boy reached for his black locks, nearly ripping them out from his harsh grip.

"I know, alright? I-I've been taking the pills consistently, been sitting down with Myra, I talk to Ma, I-I did," he choked, "Fuck man, I'VE DONE EVERYTHING I COULD'VE DONE."

Cyrus' mouth felt like it had been sewn shut.

"Where did I go wrong?" Logan nearly whispered, but the words rang clear through the room. The air twisted in discomfort, while the flames sunk deeper into their glass cages. It felt horribly wrong—like somebody had dropped a bucket of cold water over their heads, even though they were surrounded by warm candles.

Cyrus wanted to move his feet, but they refused, stuck like glue to the floor. He could only stand still and gnaw on the inside of his cheek. Through his quiet sobs, Logan managed to look up towards Cyrus with a weak smile.

"I'm sorry you gotta see me like this, Cy," Logan started, and Cyrus could only shake his head in regret.

"No, Lo, I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to pry."

Cyrus listened as his brother's sobs slowly die down to slight sniffles. Logan shifted about in bed, swinging his legs over the edge and slipping under his sheets, covering his blotchy face.

A dull ache spread through the redhead's legs, the strain from the day's activities finally catching up to him. He slowly sat down next to the candle-lit wall, crossing his legs as the flames danced beside his form.

Cyrus stayed silent, looking off towards the sole windowsill in their shared bedroom.

It was a small little thing, the wood slightly chipped from their irregular maintenance. Cyrus looked up towards the white fabric hanging off the window awkwardly—Mama bought fabric from a vendor in 5th Street once, accidentally getting the wrong measurements.

"Damn, he cut it lengthwise, and I specifically told him not too! Ugh, what am I supposed to do with this now?"

It was a glass window, but oddly, there was no way to tell whether or not it was closed or not. The tar-like skies seemingly swallowed everything whole, and it took the usual glassy reflection away in its murky depths.

"What are you thinkin' about?"

Cyrus nearly flinched at Logan's voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He was finally up from the sheets, resting his back on his pillows, his blue eyes looking right into Cyrus' golden ones.

The redhead looked away quickly, his head hung in shame.

"Cy, look at me."

"I don't-"

"Please."

Cyrus forced his weighty head up once more, grumbling before looking up at his brother. Logan was smiling, his blotchy skin glowing under the candles, and Cyrus could only look at him in disbelief. 'How does he look good even after crying his eyes out?' The amused look on Logan's face didn't help—it only made the redhead feel even worse, his cheeks tinted pink, hands balled tightly at his thighs. 'Could this idiot really read my thoughts, or what?'

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Logan watched his brother's embarrassment grow, unable to hold back the laugh building in his stomach. It was painful, the choked sobs from before lingering as an ache that erupted over his chest with each heave, but it was worth it—Cyrus' expression slightly softened while the tension in the air loosened its noose.

"Hey, Lo," Cyrus said, "you know we're all here for you, right?"

He finally pushed himself off the floor and walked towards Logan, plopping on the edge of the bed next to him. One look in those golden eyes of his, and Logan knew he was concerned—afraid that Logan would start bawling once more because of his words.

It reminded him of when this all started.

Logan's skin felt like it was going to burn off right there and then, boiling blood cooking his insides whole. He almost wanted to tell the people pushed up beside him to step back, worried that they'd burn with him if they got too close, but his jaw was locked.

The militants were patrolling the truck, their steel legs hissing with each step. Occasionally, they looked down at the passersby with those unnatural smiles on their plaster faces.

"ᴛᴏ ᴇɴꜱᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴀꜰᴇᴛʏ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ʙᴀᴄᴋ."

Logan felt like bolting as soon as he saw the ever-familiar faded green top his youngest seemed to never let go. He felt some of his fellow crewmates grip his hands and shoulders, almost trying to restrain their horror and his own. "Don't move."

When did the dread finally kick in?

Was it when he saw the thick crimson leak from the pipes?

Maybe it was when he saw them stuff Simon's lifeless body into a cart?

It honestly all felt like a blur—the lack of oxygen was making him feel lightheaded.

His whole body was turning against him.

There were holes in his lungs, and his limbs felt like they were about to fall off.

Where did you come from, Cy?

"Hey," a slightly deep voice called from behind him, footsteps creeping closer. Logan flinched when unfamiliar, tanned hands carefully curled over his shoulder. They squeezed tightly, almost trying to release all the tension building in his body.

"Breathe."

Logan greedily sucked it all in, life slowly creeping back inside his body.

What the hell?

"Ya feel a little better, dontcha'?" The voice from before asked and Logan almost felt like sucker-punching the living hell out of him.

'Is this kid blind? Can't he at least tell what's going on here? Why is he so calm when there are dead children being cart-'

He twisted Logan's body around so fast it made his head spin, and he looked him dead in the eyes.

"Look. The only reason I'm here is for that kid who was just pulled from under that truck. You think he'd wanna see you like this? His leader looking like a walking corpse?" The taller boy started, his eyes narrowing. "Get your head out of your ass, Logan O'Donnell."

It stung.

"W-Who the hell are you?" Maria hissed, gripping the edge of Logan's shirt harshly. Two other members of his crew stepped forward, cracking their necks and knuckles, ready to beat the ever-living shit out of the redhead.

Logan looked up once more in those hardened gold orbs, somewhat confused.

'He looks...concerned?'

"Don't start you two," Logan called, finally getting a hold of his bearings, pointing over towards the silver soldiers in the distance.

They were watching.

"Smart choice." The gold-eyed boy softly smiled, turning back towards Logan.

"Stay safe, kid."

Logan's face contorted, his mouth twitching in remembrance of that particular comment. It was one thing to be indifferent during such a fragile time, and another to jab at his height while you're at it. Cyrus slightly tilted his head, confused.

"Lo, you good?"

"Remember when you first met me?

"Yeah," Cyrus said, his lips quirked up at the edges, "I was rude as hell."

"Damn straight," Logan responded, "I remember kicking you in the balls the next time I saw you."

"Fuck, don't remind me. You nearly killed me cause I mistook you for a kid," Cyrus smirked, looking back at him, "could ya really blame me, though?"

"You lookin' for a repeat, bastard?"

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Soon enough, both of them were laughing, reminiscing their favorite memories from the past, only the flames bearing witness to their shared smiles and laughs. It was interesting, almost disturbing, how they were able to look at this wretched city they lived in, and see the good it could offer.

"Boys, come downstairs!" Mama's voice slipped through the thin flooring, and the two of them nearly shot up from the bed. They rushed down the steps, recognizing the distinct smells of coriander and turmeric lingering in the kitchen air.

Their stomachs growled.

Mama was already seated at the table, her hands tightly grasping her handless cup of black tea as she sipped her tea earnestly. She put down her cup in its saucer, looking towards the boys expectantly.

"Go wash your hands first, alright?" She said calmly, and the boys nearly bolted out of the door, running to the water supply leaking at the back of their quaint home.

Dinner was loud and boisterous as always, the boys joking around with their mother, any sign of their previous discussion or worries hidden away in the recesses of their minds. They both wanted to savor these few moments of bliss—the times where their fears could never reach them.

So Cyrus pushed aside the thoughts about his migraines and Logan.

And Logan tried not to think about the missing loaves from the table.