Pitbabe S2, Chapter 26 pg 7

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 26 pg 7

   “How does you know that if I stop, Tony will let everyone go?”

   “I don’t know,” Babe says softly. He sounds utterly defeated, as if my unyielding stance isn’t bending to his pleas as much as he’d hoped. “All I know is that if you don’t stop, everything he said he’d do, he’ll do for real.”

   Even though my head is swirling with questions about Tony and his staged “death,” I have to admit he’s being far more cautious this time. No reckless, all-out assaults like before. Instead, he’s squeezing me from the inside, moving slowly but deliberately, lulling me into a false sense of security before striking when I’m too drained to escape.

   “I’ll handle this myself,” I say calmly. The shattered hope in Babe’s eyes screams louder than words. This is probably the answer that disappoints him most, but my options are limited. I can only hope deep down that he understands. “Babe, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone touch our team.”

   “No matter what, you really won’t stop, will you, Charlie?”

   I’ve heard this question time and again, and my answer is always the same. I don’t know which will come first: Babe getting tired of asking or me getting tired of answering.

   “I can’t stop,” I repeat, even though it feels like millions of my brain cells have died by now. “But I swear, everyone will be safe. Babe, you have to trust me.”

   No response from Babe. He just looks into my eyes, breathing in and out with an odd rhythm, like he’s trying too hard to control it and losing its natural flow. He doesn’t argue back, no complaints like I expected. There’s only silence and the message conveyed through the warmth of his hands.

   It’s as if he wants to believe me too.

   Since the day we broke up, this is the first time I feel like we’re walking in the same direction, on a dark, rough road, with desolate surroundings and no way to tell what might be lurking.

   Nothing guarantees our safety, only his warmth… making this path a little less terrifying.

   

   CHRIS:

   “Charlie?” 

   Alan opened the lab door and immediately asked for his favorite little brother, not seeing that handsome face working downstairs. It’s understandable—he wouldn’t be here unless he was looking for Charlie. But would it kill him to at least say a word to me, sitting here alone, before jumping to that?

   “Upstairs,” I replied flatly.

   “Working?”

   “Resting.”

   “That chill?” The young captain’s face looked like I’d just said, “The sun rose in the west today.” I wish Charlie could see his beloved brother’s expression right now. Next time I nag him about being a workaholic, maybe he’ll stop arguing. “Took the wrong meds or something?”

   “He’s not feeling well.”

   “What’s wrong?” The captain’s concern spiked instantly, his demeanor like an overprotective uncle who freaks out if his nephew trips, scrapes a knee, or gets a little wet in the rain. No wonder those racers adore this guy. “Overworking again?”

   “Maybe,” I shrugged nonchalantly, grabbing the AC remote from the table to lower the temperature by two degrees, suddenly feeling hot for no reason. “Said he had a headache.”

   “And you didn’t check on him?”

   “Why check? If he’s got a headache, he should sleep.”

   “Some doctor you are.”

   Alan gave me an exasperated look, and suddenly I’m getting scolded for something that’s not my fault. More importantly, I’m not his little brother. Sure, we can talk, but I’ve never once said I wanted to play his little family game of parents and siblings.

   “I’m a researcher here, not a doctor,” I leaned back, soaking in the cool air, unfazed by the older racer’s judgmental stare. “If you want treatment, you’ll have to pay me. I’ve done enough free work.”

   “Isn’t that against ethics?”

   “Ethics? What’s that?”

   His face grew even more troubled the moment I said that. Of course. Even if we haven’t known each other long, I can tell this guy’s the type who clings to righteousness. Alan’s the kind of adult who lives by morality rather than the voice in his head. He’s the type society labels as “good,” undeniably proper and upright. But by my standards, I’d rank him as a top-tier coward and bore. Unlike Charlie, who’s also good, but his goodness is far more thrilling than Alan’s.

   “Speaking of Charlie, he’s been up there for a while,” I said casually, while his Phii looked increasingly worried. “Wonder how he’s doing. Still alive up there?”

   “Then why don’t you ever go check on your little brother?” Alan muttered drunkenly as he climbed the stairs, grumbling like a bear stung by bees. It seemed more like he was venting his frustrations to himself than anything else, probably knowing full well that complaining to me was pointless. “Living together and not even taking care of each other…”

   Even after he disappeared upstairs, I could still hear his voice faintly echoing before it gradually faded away. I didn’t pay much attention to his old-man-style scolding. Instead, I felt a strange sense of warmth, hard to explain. It wasn’t the mischievous thrill I got from annoying Charlie or provoking Babe until he snapped. This was different—a quiet, steady warmth in my chest, oddly comforting.

   Shouldn’t being nagged at feel annoying?

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