2019-09-19 - What Soup Can't Solve

It is late afternoon, perhaps five or five thirty. Normally Corey would be in class right now, but he walks into the house with his bag slung over his shoulder, dressed in the same jeans and t-shirt - red, with cursive 'omg Becky, look at her Bundt' printed on the chest, with a large bundt cake in the centre of the words. Maybe classes were cancelled?

But no. He's not moving with his usual loose-limbed casual saunter. His body language is tight, movements stilted, and his face drained of all colour. Blue eyes are slightly glassy, the chef travelling on autopilot as he heads towards the stairs leading up.

Sparrow, sunshiny morning person who schedules classes at stupid o'clock, has been out of her classes for a couple hours now, but that doesn't mean she's free from work. When Corey comes in, she's tucked into the corner of the couch with a textbook splayed across her lap and a highlighter in hand. "Please tell me you've brought tequila," she calls out with playful desperation, looking for any excuse to do anything else.

Well. Maybe not any excuse. When she looks up and catches how Corey's looking, she straightens up, brow furrowing with concern. "Hey," is a bit softer spoken. "You alright, C? You need me to make mom make you some soup?" Pale like that? Yeah, he looks sick.

Were it anyone else calling out to him, like as not Corey would have ignored them, intent as he is on getting back to his room. Sparrow isn't just anyone though and so he slows his roll, stopping just at the foot of the stairs rather than heading up, turning his whole body so he can look at his twin.

There's a slight, jerky shake of his head, one hand gripping the shoulder-strap of his bag with white knuckles, the other fidgeting at his side. A gesture or two there, a slight tilt of his head, slant of his body-language; he's not sick, but he's also not okay.

Not a soup kinda problem. Okay. Sparrow frowns to herself as she looks down at her work and takes the time to put the cap back on her highlighter and mark her page in her book, setting everything neatly aside before she gets to her feet. Every step is deliberate, time intentionally taken to limit the knee-jerk panic starting to kick about in her gut. Once she's on her feet, though, her course is direct, her intention clear: without any further word, she just wraps her brother up in her arms and holds him tight. Tight enough to speak all the worry she doesn't put to words.

There's very little movement from Corey while Sparrow sets her study materials aside in good order, the boytwin waiting until she's reached him and curling his arms back around her in turn. A necessary hug, one that is familiar and welcome, and this seems to act as the key to a lock behind which are all his words.

"It wasn't a trip," he whispers, the first trickle of an explanation, slowly deepening to a constant stream. "There were creatures.. horrible, emaciated, cracking, glowing creatures. Seven of them. They had hideous voices and grasping hands and eyes that.." comes the continuance, that stream broadening to a full waterfall of babbled, half-nonsensical and half-terrified story. "They stared. And then they burned and turned to ash, and it was less than an hour ago, Phil. Bright daylight. No drugs."

Sparrow doesn't let go. The words don't need any space in order to come out, so she gives them none, keeping her protective hold of her younger-by-a-few-minutes brother. "Alright." Quiet, accepting. Noncommittal. She draws away enough that she can look Corey in the eyes as she tells him, "Whatever it was? It's not here now. Gone. Okay? So." Her hands settle on his arms, giving a restless little rub, maybe meant to comfort but potentially signalling her own unease as she glances toward the kitchen, toward the stairs then back to her brother. "Let's go sit down, alright? I can get you a beer or... we can go hide. Whatever you need."

"I couldn't do anything, Phil. I was frozen. Terrified. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't.. anything." More than just fear, there is shame in Corey's voice, a sense that he should have been able to do more in the face of terrifying strangeness. He does follow her over to the kitchen, shaking his head to a beer.

"Coke," he requests quietly, slowly sinking down onto a seat by the kitchen table. "She protected us both, but after.. god. She was so angry. At the universe. Like.. worse than Aunt Freya's sister-in-law. Walls cracking, ceiling crumbling, desk shattering angry."

Now is not the time to make some inappropriate joke about cocaine, Sparrow. Do not. Do not. "Coke." She makes for the fridge like a good and responsible sister and grabs a couple of cans, taking a second or two longer than she needs in order to make faces at the condiments rather than at her brother. There's nothing but warmth and worry when she returns to him, holding out that soda. "First." Cuz Sparrows love counting. "Fear is a totally natural response to the world doing something it's not supposed to, okay? There is no shame in running away if it keeps my brother whole and alive, okay?" She seems almost stern on that point, eyebrows drawing down together even as she looks up at him. "Second." This one's harder. She lets out a breath. "Have you considered maybe not hanging around the person who has all this awful shit coming down on them? I mean, I'm glad she protected you, but--" Well, she's already made her suggestion.

Taking the offered can and cracking the tab, Corey seems oblivious to Sparrow's mental battle against making a drug-related joke, and blind to any suggestion that she's making faces at the contents of the fridge. "I couldn't even run," he whispers, looking down into the opening of his can before lifting it to take a few sips, the motions mechanical.

Her observation that this one person could be avoided gets a glance, but there's no anger or reproach in his eyes; more, a kind of defeat. Yes, he's thought about it, inasmuch as he thought about anything on his brief walk home while in a state of shock.

Sparrow hesitates, staring at her twin when he just sits there staring at his can and casting defeated glances her way. It's a long moment before she follows, settling down at the table with her own unopened soda set off to the side, nothing she actually wants at the moment, while she's distracted trying to figure out how to fix whatever broke in her brother. "You wanna come to my kickboxing class with me?" she offers gently, a vague note of optimism in her tone. "Or I can get you some one-on-one lessons with Joey Lee Kelly, if you want. He owes me."