"Y’ don’ know that," you say. "Y’ can’t jus’ assume that."
You don’t know how he came back. You don’t know what he saw, what the universe wants with him. You wish you knew. You wish you understood what was going on, so you’d know how safe your brother actually is. You don’t. Sure, he could die tomorrow and jump right back up, perfectly fine, just like before.
Or he could die and stay dead.
You’ll never know which death is going to be the permanent one.
You pet his hair. “I can’t lose ya’,” you say. “I ain’t got no leverage on th’ Horrorterrors, I got nothin’ t’ make deals with. I can’t bring ya’ back once you’re gone.”
The Horrorterrors don’t give a shit about you the way they do about him. They won’t listen to you. They won’t offer you a damn thing.
"Scoff, do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried before?"
Of course he doesn’t. He never took much notice of any previous attempts. Not nearly as often as you tried. He’s not attentive enough to notice scars, or changes in your behavior. Sometimes, he’s not attentive at all, for very long stretches of time that always feel like eons to you.
Then again, you weren’t fully aware of what was happening, either. You were just under the impression that you failed each time. You thought you were just unlucky, or, perhaps lucky, depending how one wanted to look at the situation.
"I’ve done it so many times. I’ve done things I never should have walked away from, and I thought it just… didn’t work."
Maybe, if this weren’t the case, you never would’ve made it to this planet. Maybe you never would have survived growing up.
"Scoff, I shot myself when they drafted me, and you know what? I still ended up on Skaia." All you did was stall. A lot of healing time, psychological screenings, and unnecessary pain.
"They wouldn’t have made the deal if they thought I’d give out after a week or two, Scoff. They knew it, too."