Brothers

It was snowing, the day I found him. Big fat flakes that near enough covered him up, as he lay there, motionless in a deadly blanket of unforgiving ice. I spotted him in an instant; it was the hair that saved him. Dirty blonde spikes that stood out against the snow. The blood had seeped through his shirt into the white, marking his staggering trail through the blizzard until his collapse.
Of course I helped him. How could I just leave him there? He was so small. Tiny, a child. I knelt beside the frail body, searching  frantically for a pulse with desperation building up in my heart… I couldn’t let him die…
Relief.
The pulse was there, weak, but present. No time to lose.
I ripped the material from the left sleeve of my jacket and tried to stem the flow of blood, all the time trying not to throw up. I’ve never been good with blood, but I carried on. Besides, this was important. A life was in my hands; not a good time to freak out. I wrapped him in my coat and carried him home. Fortunately we weren’t far from where I was living, so precious time wasn’t wasted.
He coughed slightly as I laid him down as gently as possible on the old sofa. I suppose I could’ve used my bed, but that was further away, another minute wasted (plus I didn’t want blood on my bed sheets). I watched him for a moment, saw him slipping in and out of consciousness. I had to act fast; he wasn’t out of the woods by a long stretch. His breathing hitched sharply with the pain as I unstuck his bloody shirt from him to check the damage: not a deep wound, small but very neat. Switchblade? It was definitely a knife wound of some sort, at least the poor thing hadn’t been shot. This was something I could deal with from home, which was lucky on the kids’ behalf. No ambulances, sirens, operations. I had a medical kit. He’d be alright.
I dressed his unconscious form in some of my old clothes; not the best fit, but better than bloodstained, frozen shirts. He looked even smaller in my old, baggy sweats. And at least he was warm.
Later that night I watched him sleep. He was so innocent looking, so young. Eyelashes that resembled a girls, soft blonde spikes framing his porcelain face. Made me wonder what the hell a kid could be doing, getting in such a state.

A couple of days later, he was talking. A lot. His name was Eli, he said, and he was fourteen years old. I raised an eyebrow at that; he only looked about ten. Big mistake.
“I am fourteen! God, all you adults are all the same, always checking up on us, on our backs for I.D. Just fucking believe me for God’s sake!”
Hmm. Yes, he was a mouthy one.
“Language. You kiss your mother with that pottymouth, dirt-bag?”
It was clear he wasn’t used to being talked back to. I didn’t question him about where he’d come from. He obviously came from a bad place and didn’t deserve to be reminded of it just yet. Or so I thought. As it turned out, he brought it up himself.
“How come you rescued me? I was doing fine all by myself!”
“Fine? You were on deaths’ door. That doesn’t seem fine to me, If you don’t mind me saying.”
His sapphire eyes darkened at that.
“You don’t know anything. I could have handled it. I almost had ‘em.”
I frowned.
“What? You mean you were fighting someone?”
“Yeah. Some people, actually.” There was a smugness I didn’t like about his voice. “And I almost had ‘em. But…”
“But?”
“But…it’s a long story.”
“I don’t mind hearing it.”
“I’m not telling.”
I could tell this would be a difficult process, but nonetheless I had to find out what was up with the kid. He couldn’t stay forever. He probably had parents that were worried sick about him, and would be phoning the police. How would that look if they found their son in a twenty-one year-old guy’s flat? Not the best look. I’m no perv.
“Eli. This isn’t funny. You tell me or I’m ringing social services…”
“NO! PLEASE DON’T!”
…
I stared at him. This kid had issues.
“Well, tell me this story, and I won’t have to ring them, will I?”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Just tell the goddamn story.”
He sighed, and began in a very different voice.
“…My father died before I was born. My mother went mad with grief, and couldn’t deal with me. She died when I was nine. I’d looked after her before. After she died I had no-one else, so I ran away. Never got caught. As far as anyone knows, I don’t exist.” He smiled briefly, staring at the floor. “I used to steal to live, Y’know, food and stuff. After a while some other street kids noticed my…er… abilities, and snapped me up. They’d pay me to nick stuff, and I got to live with the older ones in return for everything I stole.
“But…It got…out of hand. They tried to get me to do stuff that was way out of line, and I said I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. So they beat the shit out of me.”
Heavy.
“But I thought you were dealing with them fine all by yourself?”
He glanced up at me and spoke lightly.
“I was slightly outnumbered.”
“Ah. I see.”
Silence.
I sighed. “ You know…You don’t have make out you’re the tough guy here. It’s ok. You don’t have to impress anyone.”
He stared at me, his eyes boring into mine. I could tell what he was doing; his eyes scanning my face, trying to suss out even the slightest hint of deception, but I was speaking honestly. Satisfied I wasn’t just saying it to make him feel better, he nodded and went to the spare room. He didn’t come down for a long, long time.

And we’ve been together ever since.