#but I’m a few steps closer to official diagnoses for my physical pain at least

[bambino1294]

the absolute severity of the change in my ability to work quickly post-covid is insane

[echo-bleu]

down to breathing (3)

Part 3 of this 4+1 Manes Brother series. Four times their father's shadow was too large for them, and one time it isn't. Alex, Greg and Flint over the years.

I meant to post this a lot sooner but I took a much needed break from writing and fandom. I’m back. A little bit, at least.

[edited to add CWs because I was somehow too tired to remember, sorry: mentions of abuse, Jesse Manes being a shit father, post-injury including loss of limb, mentions of ableism and homophobia, mentions of hospitals]

3.

Greg crosses the physical therapy gym in search of Alex and finds him by the changing rooms, being helped into his jacket by an attendant.

“Everything okay today?” he asks his brother.

Alex doesn't meet his eyes. “Can we just go home?” he asks, struggling to move his wheelchair with his one good arm.

Greg nods at the attendant, who is still hovering, and steps behind Alex to take the handles of the chair. “Sure,” he says. He's starting to recognize Alex's moods, and to get better at letting him handle them on his own. This is his tired, defeated 'rough day' stance, not his 'bad news' attitude. There's nothing for Greg to do but watch out for him.

He's showered and wearing fresh sweats, at least, so they won't have to endure that process at home. The loss of independence is the hardest thing for Alex to accept, and he sees having his brother help him bathe as humiliating. Greg has tried to make it as painless as possible, but it's never easy.

He lets Alex sulk until they're both in his car. “How's the pain?” he asks casually.

“Same,” Alex mutters. “Doesn't let up.”

Greg reaches out to squeeze his thigh, avoiding his injured shoulder. If nothing else, they've grown more tactile in the last few weeks than they've been since they were kids. “It will,” he says.

“It might not. I looked it up, for some people phantom pain never goes away.”

“And for the large majority of people, it goes away or reduces significantly over the first couple of months,” Greg says. “I tried to read about it too. The odds are good.”

Alex sighs. “I'm just tired. Nothing helps.”

“I know.” Alex has been out of the hospital for three weeks, and while the heavy-duty painkillers he's on help with his broken neck and his torn shoulder, nothing even makes a dent in the nerve pain coming from his amputated foot. It's been truly rough, and Greg keeps wondering if he's really equipped to give Alex the help he needs. He didn't hesitate to offer his place and his time to his brother−deep inside, it's an opportunity to atone in a small way for letting their father abuse Alex so badly−but he feels so helpless to alleviate Alex's pain and grief.

Greg parks into the one handicapped spot in his street, which is unfortunately half a block away from his entrance. He helps Alex back into his wheelchair and starts them on their way, but he freezes when he looks up.

“What is he doing here?” he mutters under his breath.

“Flint?” Alex frowns.

Their brother is standing awkwardly on the steps in front of Greg's building, wearing fatigues, a backpack slung over his shoulders. He startles when he spots them and scrambles down the steps.

Greg can see the way his face falls when he takes in Alex's wheelchair, the sling and the brace around his neck, and finally the empty, rolled up pant leg. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a shaky breath before attempting a smile. “Greg,” he says, nodding. “Alex.”

“What are you doing here?” Greg asks, sensing Alex's discomfort mounting quickly.

“I finally got leave, and I−I wanted to see Alex,” Flint hesitates.

“About time,” Greg spits out. They all know Flint could have asked for a few days to come see Alex in the hospital, but he didn't try. “Even Clay came before you.”

Flint glares at him. He opens his mouth, but before he can come up with an answer, Alex shifts in his wheelchair. “Can we not do this in the middle of the street, please?” he asks, his voice low and pained.

“Of course,” Greg murmurs, for his benefit only. “Move over,” he adds coldly for Flint.

Flint frowns until he realizes that he's standing between them and the ramp, and steps aside. Greg pushes Alex up to the door and punches in his code, purposefully using his body to hide it from Flint. None of them say a word as they cross the small lobby and ride up the elevator to the third floor.

Greg's apartment is badly lit and still full of boxes−he found it in a hurry and moved here while Alex was in the hospital, to be able to welcome him in an accessible place. He set up all the essentials−living room furniture, kitchen, and Alex's room−but he still sleeps on a mattress, since he only owned one bed in his old place. Flint raises an eyebrow at the lack of decorations and the boxes in the corner, and Greg dares him to comment with a glare.

He brings Alex up to the couch and lets him transfer on his own, then work on removing his coat and his shoe. Alex needs every bit of independence he can manage, right now. Greg takes the coat from him. “Need anything?”

“Water and meds,” Alex mutters. “Please.”

Greg ignores Flint, who is hovering by the door, in favor of grabbing a glass and Alex's pill bottles from the kitchen. “There you go,” he sets them down on the coffee table.

“Come sit down,” Alex ushers Flint closer. His tone is kinder than Flint deserves, in Greg's opinion.

Flint shrugs off his backpack and obeys hesitantly. “How are you doing?” he asks, his face growing softer as he really takes in Alex's state.

Alex shrugs with his good shoulder. “I've been better.” He offers a small smile, before bending with a wince to grab the glass of water.

Greg considers leaving them alone, but he decides he's not done giving Flint a hard time. Besides, Alex might still need him as a buffer, especially if the subject of Dad comes up. He plops down beside Alex on the couch, careful not to jostle him. Alex flashes him a quick smile.

Flint is staring. Alex meets his gaze steadily, with a courage that Greg can only admire. “Everything will heal, except for the...leg,” he says. “That's gonna take a little adjusting. But I'll be okay.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Flint breathes, stilted and awkward but with real concern in his eyes. “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” he adds, glancing at Greg briefly.

“I understand why you didn't,” Alex says softly. Greg almost intervenes, because Flint really doesn't deserve this forgiveness, but Alex goes on. “To be honest, I'm not a fan of hospital visits. I was pretty out of it anyway.”

“Dad was there several times,” Greg explains. “Clay, too. Well, once.”

Flint hears the “you should have been there” loud and clear in his tone, and he glares. “I couldn't, okay? I was on a assignment.”

“Bullshit. You just didn't want to see Alex like that.”

Flint has the good grace to look ashamed. “I would have come if I could,” he still insists.

“Dad started blaming Alex for getting injured,” Greg spits out. “I could have used some back up to make him stop.”

“He wouldn't have helped,” Alex whispers. Greg turns his head to look at him, and immediately feels guilty at the sadness on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, don't you know? Dad and Flint are good friends now.”

“Alex−” Flint starts to protest.

“Tell me it's not true,” Alex stares him down. It's impressive in itself that he can do that even in his current state.

Flint looks away.

“What happened?” Greg asks.

“I don't know, they were all buddy-buddy at my last promotion,” Alex rolls his eyes.

“I'm not his buddy,” Flint says through gritted teeth. “We just worked on something together.”

“You watched him go at me in the fucking bathroom for bringing a date and you just smirked.”

“You did what?” Greg stammers in shock. “He did what?”

There is little more important to Dad than decorum, and his sons certainly aren't. For him to go at Alex in public, he must have been truly enraged.

“I didn't let him come close,” Alex shrugs his good shoulder. “Found out just how satisfying it is to outrank him.”

“Good for you,” Greg smirks. He rounds in on Flint again. “What the fuck?”

“Alex had it handled,” Flint shrugs, but he's still averting his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Greg mutters.

“It doesn't matter,” Alex says. “I don't need either of you to protect me.”

Greg forbids himself from looking at him doubtfully. Alex is right, objectively. He's the best ranked of them all, in their three different military branches. He made something of himself, despite their father, despite everything he's endured. Even now, weeks away from a major injury and facing a life change Greg can't even imagine for himself, he's more emotionally rational than either of them. And that's three days after being officially diagnosed with PTSD.

“Do you know what you're going to do now?” Flint asks Alex quietly. “You're gonna take the discharge?”

“I don't know yet if they'll give me a choice,” Alex says. He looks at the same time younger and much older than he really is, the vulnerability striking on his face. His eyes are full of shadows, now, full of grief. Greg took him to the Purple Heart ceremony last week, where Alex received his own, but also had to hand two medals out to the families of his fallen comrades, Dawson and Karl. His best friend, and his lover, Greg knows.

How are they still here, a decade later? Greg thought he'd be out of the Navy as soon as his enlistment was up, and yet he signed up twice more. Alex was never supposed to enlist at all. Clay is the only one of them who had any wish to follow in their father's footsteps, but somehow Alex is the one who's paid the high price for it.

“Will you stay, if they allow it?” Flint asks.

“Maybe,” Alex admits. “I only have nine more months, they can probably let me ride a desk.”

Greg nods. It would be easier than him having to find another job right away, if nothing else. Alex has the kind of skills the Air Force won't throw away just because he was injured.

“You'll, um, you'll get a prosthetic or something, right?” Flint asks uncomfortably, looking at anything but Alex's leg.

Alex stares back at him, with a sort of defiance in his eyes. He looks more lively than he has in weeks, in some ways. “Yeah, we'll start the fittings in a month or so. Don't worry, in a year or so I won't even look disabled.”

Greg shudders at the echo of their father's words, the constant admonition to never appear weak. What's important is that it won't be visible, he said in the hospital, when Alex could barely look at his stump without throwing up.

Flint closes his eyes. “That's not what I meant,” he murmurs.

“Isn't it?” Alex challenges. Flint just shakes his head mutely, looking honestly apologetic, and he deflates. “Sorry.”

“I'm not Dad,” Flint says.

“No, you're not,” Alex admits. Greg nods along, because it's a fact. Even Clay has yet to reach Dad's levels of cruelty. He wonders where the line is. Which one of them will take a wrong turn, in these murky waters, and lose himself. They all know that their grandfather was probably even worse than Dad, and his father before him. It's the Manes way.

They'll never be free of that.

They'll never be the kind of brothers who hug and chill together, so they sit rigidly and a frozen pizza, their backs straight, never touching and never relaxing, until Alex's painkillers start to make him woozy. Greg helps him through his evening routine while Flint lays a comforter and a pillow on the bumpy couch for himself.

“Is he really gonna be okay?” Flint asks very quietly when Greg comes back out of Alex's bedroom.

Greg sighs. “I don't know. But he'd tough. Tougher than any of us.”

Flint nods. “I really am sorry,” he whispers. “Dad got in my head again.”

So that's the real reason for his absence.

“He does that,” Greg murmurs, like forgiveness.