How Sorry I Am

Different people treat sorrow in different ways.

Jake pretends not to notice Geoffrey wheeling Nicholas down the path that winds through the garden, just wide enough for the chair, as if it had been cleared for that specific, ultimate purpose, as if the entire environment were tailored to fit Nicholas.

There is a yellow butterfly flexing its wings, and it tries to fly from the flower it has lighted on to escape, but only manages to flutter into Jake's palm, the source of a large shadow. Jake closes his fingers around it and feels the furious fluttering on each finger, a humming feather drumming.

He ignores Nicholas, even when Geoffrey stops the chair beside him, and it embarrasses Nicholas to have to speak to turn Jake's head.

"Hey," he strains.

"Hey," Jake says shortly, and watches Geoffrey's feet as he leaves them.

"How was your day?" Nicholas feels ridiculous in saying it and immediately braces himself for a snide reaction from Jake, but it's the safest phrase he can manage now.

"Fine," Jake huffs, not in the mood for much more than that.

"Mine was boring," Nicholas says. "But Dad did find a little bird outside this morning. It'd flown into the window, you know, the glass and everything. He brought it in and we fed it, but I think it's getting sick."

"Like you." Jake almost regrets saying it. He can feel the slow, silent sonic boom of hurt coming from Nicholas, but he concentrates on the hum of dusty wings in his palm.

"Jake-- are you mad at me?"

"No," Jake says impatiently, sneering down the courage it took Nicholas to ask it.

"You act different.

"That's why I called you, to ask you if there was something the matter." Nicholas, in a burst of insistence, pushed the wheels forward and rolled closer to Jake.

"Nothing's the matter," Jake said, and waited before taking a step away from the hiss and creak of him.

"You sure?"

"Yes, stop acting a girl," Jake rolled his eyes.

"How's the team doing?"

"You know how. We suck without you," Jake said, just harshly enough for Nicholas to register the accusation.

Nicholas sighed. He'd built a heavy structure of frustration and pain in himself, and now he risked it, exposed it to Jake.

"It's not my fault, you know-"

Jake suddenly hated Nicholas for recognizing one of his emotions. He turned sharply, annoyed, and, without realizing it, crushed still the erratic movement in his palm.

"Fucking- get over yourself, Nick," Jake spat, and turned to leave.

"Jake-! Wait! Can you...?" he'd meant to ask Jake to push him back to the house, but pinched the rest of the request off in his windpipe. It was too late, however, and Jake pounced on the opportunity.

"Do it yourself," he said with deliberate indifference, and wiped the film from the butterfly wings off on the front of his jeans.