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For all that they are similar, Boomer never really understood him in this way. Sure, they might be highly energetic people, and both of their personalities are laid back, but they never really understood the way the other was thinking.
Boomer cares. It’s a fact that’s deeply integral to the core part of who he is. He gives out empathy like it’s nobody’s business, probably because no one gave them that when they were younger. But, even as his brother, Boomer has never quite understood the way the world works for him. He doesn’t understand the way Butch can sometimes feel like he’s on top of the world, like he’s managed to achieve everything that he has wanted for several days. Then, as quickly as can be, he dives headfirst to the lowest place on earth.
Butch places his head on the table, chewing slowly. Boomer stares at him without staring outright, phone between them like it’ll shield him from Butch’s gaze. He’s unsure if he can manage the energy to do anything about it.
They should really talk about the elephant in the room, he decides. The problem—because there always is a damn problem—is the pit the size of the Grand Canyon in his gut. Why should he be the one to break the ice? He’s already dealing with himself, and now he has to deal with Boomer being a little bitch. Why is he always the damn mediator?
“I’m Bipolar.”
Boomer breathes out, putting his phone face down on the table between them. His eyebrows scrunch together.
“Brick told me.” He bites his bottom lip, chewing on the topmost layer of skin. “He said you didn’t care who knew.”
“I don’t.” He only holds his head up long enough to take another bite of the diner’s shitty burger, letting it slam back down on the table. Another customer glares at him.
His brother nods slowly. “You know… it’s okay if you do care. I know mental illness is a personal topic and you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
“Whatever.”
Silence falls over them, heavy and thick. Boomer has this look on his face and his gut can’t help but churn. He wants to help him, that he’s sure of, but he’s tired of it. Granted, he’s tired of everything.
“Butch—”
“Leave it alone,” he snaps, glaring at his soggy burger.
“I just want to know how to help you.” His voice is pleading.
He grunts in response. Why should he even respond? There’s nothing that can help him, or at least he doesn’t know what would help.
“Butch.”
“What do you want from me?” He slams his hands against the table, standing up. “You think I want this. You think I want to be like this!”
The diner gets quiet. Butch can feel eyes on him, but he just remains standing. His brother glances over, apologetic. He’s such a people pleaser. It drives him crazy.
“Butch, I—”
He stops listening, pulling out his wallet and placing a twenty on the table. He can’t be there. He can’t deal with that bullshit.
“I’m going home.”
No one stops him from leaving. He’s pretty sure he hears one of the servers say something about it being a good riddance, but he’s past caring. What does it matter?
The door to the diner closes with the bell ringing out cheerfully behind him. He pulls his hood up, keeping his eyes to the ground. Walking away from his brother, he wonders if any of it matters.