Griffin ⇆ Kieran - Blog Posts

griffin tugged down the hood of his sweatshirt as he entered the kitchen — not necessary to be the more hermitic version of himself in kieran's presence — hands shoved in the pocket as he approached the counter. he wasn't sure what he expected when kieran told him to come downstairs, but the array of weapons spread out across the cold countertop weren't exactly what he had imagined. and he was sure his face said as much, eyes slightly widened and eyebrows shooting up his forehead, "this looks like a hunger games survival kit. who are you? haymitch?" he would be dead from the jump in that scenario. or maybe he'd hide like peeta. regardless, griffin wasn't sure of his skills with weaponry of any kind. "you're trying to cause me twenty-one more years of absolutely no dates, huh?" he gestured to the hello kitty taser, which looked about as threatening as a sleeping golden retriever despite its designated purpose. he looked up at kieran, "i'm gonna need a utility belt." then griffin paused, deciding to finally set the jokes aside and humor kieran as had been requested, a deep sigh pulled from his lips, "do you really think i'll be able to do anything useful with these things? not saying that they aren't useful, but i'm not the most..." he trailed off, glancing back down at the things his older brother had brought, "i feel like i'd just fuck myself up with the bear spray on accident or something like that, if y'know what i mean." he wasn't physically imposing like his brother and he wasn't exactly coordinated. he had thrown a punch maybe once in defense of angela when they were kids and he had missed and nearly fallen on his face which was mostly just incredibly embarrassing and not-at-all tough. but, all that aside, he understood what kieran was doing and why he was worried and he loved him for it. as a kid, griffin had practically hero worshipped kieran, thinking of him as a protector, as a person to emulate — everything an older brother is supposed to be. in some capacity, he still thought those things, but he knew, too, that now that they were older, kieran wasn't always around to be those things. griffin wasn't trailing behind him down the sidewalk like a shadow anymore. and even if he was, when if it came down to it, it seemed the boogeyman had no problem taking down those who seemed big and strong. griffin ran his fingers gingerly over the knuckle dusters, "it's only gonna get worse, huh? the murders and attacks? i mean, that was the pattern the first time, right?"

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ sometimes,  looking  at  his  brother  felt  like  looking  at  himself⸻    a  reflection  of  his  own  timid  set  of  shoulders,  the  way  anxiety  and  fear  clung  to  him  like  cigarette  smoke.  and  it  was  a  terrifying  thought,  that  griffin  could  be  carrying  all  the  same  emotions  he  did  when  he  was  at  that  age.  those  feelings  of  being  small  and  inconsequential,  so  insidious  with  how  it  could  compel  him  to  fold  himself  up  in  so  many  ways  as  to  not  take  too  much  space  and  draw  attention  in  such  a  big  terrible  world  that  devoured  people  like  them.  and  there  was  nothing  in  this  world  he  wouldn't  do,  not  a  sharp  knife  he  wouldn't  jump  in  front  of,  just  to  make  sure  his  brother  never  think,  even  for  a  second,  that  he  didn't  matter—  that  his  softness  wouldn't  be  enough  to  keep  him  whole.  but  kieran  also  knew  that  he  wouldn't  always  be  able  to  protect  griffin  ﹕  not  that  kid  who  used  to  follow  him  and  his  friends  around  anymore,  couldn't  just  put  his  hands  over  griffin's  eyes  whenever  something  abhorrent  happened,  like  taylan  beating  someone  up  or  finch  pissing  in  the  middle  of  street  like  a  bad  dog. though,  maybe  this  could  be  a  helpful⸻    objects  solemnly  laid  out  like  artifacts  on  display,  every  item  looking  incredibly  barbaric  on  top  of  their  father's  sleek  choice  for  a  countertop.  a  bear  spray,  bright  orange,  its  purpose  blaring  like  a  hazard  light  ;  the  hello  kitty  taser  he  got  on  sale  from  amazon,  as  though  violence  could  be  sanitized  by  design  ;  and  the  knuckle  dusters,  inherently  brutish,  something  primal  made  manifest.  and  kieran  stared  at  them  for  a  long  time,  as  he  wondered  if  his  brother  could  stomach  it  ...  how  protection,  if  it  came  down  to  it,  would  demand  more  than  tools.  it  called  for  instinct,  resolve,  the  kind  of  hard  calculus  that  turned  you  into  something  you  might  not  recognize.

then,  he  thought  about  the  memory  of  alaina  price,  not  just  the  soft  recollection  of  laughter  or  late  night  babysitting  when  they  were  kids,  but  the  raw  unflinching  truth  of  the  morgue.  he'd  been  there  when  thierry  gore  unzipped  the  bag  and  made  the  first  incision  in  that  sterile  and  cold  room.  he  was  the  one  who  weighed  and  cataloged  her  organs  like  they  belonged  to  a  stranger,  not  the  girl  who  taught  him  how  to  braid  piper's  hair  or  told  them  monsters  weren't  real.  and kieran  had  held  her  heart  in  his  gloved  hands,  felt  the  emptiness  in  it,  and  wondered  if  she  had  known—  really  known—  how  brutal  the  world  could  be.  how  wrong  she  was  about  the  monsters.  and  it  was  the  kind  of  knowledge  he  couldn't  risk  griffin  learning  the  same  way.  ❝  hey,  c'mere  for  a  second, ❞  kieran  beckoned  to  the  kitchen  once  griffin  finally  came  downstairs,  his  expression  quiet  but  deliberate,  hand  brushing  briefly  over  the  taser's  smooth  surface  before  retreating,  as  though  unwilling  to  impose  the  weight  of  his  fears  too  heavily  on  his  brother.  despite  how  raw  the  memory  of  seeing  alaina's  corpse  was,  the  lacerations  in  her  flesh,  the  way  memories  of  her  effortless  smile  had  been  replaced  with  seeing  her  lips  purple  and  slack.  ❝  just  humor  me,  alright  ?  i  want  you  to  carry  this  stuff,  please. ❞  no  sharpness  in  his  tone,  no  explicit  urgency—  only  the  quiet  unyielding  care  of  someone  who  had  seen  too  much  and  refused  to  let  it  happen  again.  ❝  it  gets  dark  so  early  now,  i  don't  want  you  walking  'round  without  anything  to  protect  yourself. ❞  @chappcdlips