Chapter Text
Phobos didn’t remember getting home. He didn’t remember the drive home, or leaving the courthouse. He floated through his front door, must have shut and locked it. He unclipped the waist belt from around him, undid the other end from his dog. He hung it all up, feet dragging as his dog, Doctor Sung vyed for his attention.
His home didn’t feel like home anymore. The neighbors were unusually quiet, mockingly so.
His clothes fell off his body; the suit jacket, the good shoes, the tie a nasty wrangle that he pulled off over his head and got caught in his hair. His belt cast across the couch, the slacks, the dress shirt, all of it had to be off and kicked away, it just made everything cling to him. Everything that had happened that day, the stink of the courthouse.
Phobos wrapped his arms around himself. Goosebumps up his arms, a jerking shiver. He must be cold. A wet nose at his calf, then some furry force. A push, his dog pushing him along. Phobos plodded along, then stopped.
The door at the end of the hall was his room. The door next to him, directly to his right, was his brother’s room, Deimos.
He didn’t know why, but he opened it.
The room looked like Deimos had just stepped out for a moment. Like he was just in the bathroom and would be back in a second; his bed wasn’t made like it was when he left for work in the morning, his laptop was unplugged on his desk. Phobos stepped into the room, towards the bed. His closet was shut tightly as usual, framed posters on the wall-- one of them was missing, a movie poster that Phobos never could remember the name of even when he was standing right there, Deimos having had taken it down just a couple weeks prior, replacing the frame.
Phobos sat on the edge of the bed, the very bottom corner, looking back into the hallway. Doc snorted at his feet.
Phobos leaned down, picked Doc up with a small grunt. His bed had steps up the side for Doc to get in easier, but Deimos’ didn’t. His dog in his brother’s bed with him, he crawled to the head of it, pulling the blankets over himself, finally warm again.
The living room light was on, the hallway light, but not the light in the bedroom. It was dark, but not so dark that Phobos couldn’t see his brother’s hairs weaved into the pillow case, couldn’t see his daybook open to last week’s page on the nightstand.
Eventually, somehow, Phobos fell asleep.
The morning came too soon. Phobos rolled over, flat on his back, shoulders aching. He sat up, too fast, a shock of pain going up his back. Everything hurt, and Doc whimpered next to him; first a warning about his joints, and then that he couldn’t jump off the bed.
That warning whine with nips at Phobos’ skin finally stopped after he made his way to his room and gotten dressed. Doc sat in Phobos’ lap as he had a morning coffee, scrolling through his phone contacts until he finally clicked one, the dialing tones playing as he held it to his ear.
The line picked up right away. “ Titka ,” Phobos said; a Ukrainian term for an aunt, though she wasn’t related. His parents were close friends with her as he and Deimos grew up, and they spoke with her often. “How are you?” he asked, voice still gravely from sleep.
“ Kusaka , did you just get up?” she asked, then quickly switched to Ukrainian, “ have you eaten? ”
Phobos smiled at the nickname, holding his coffee under his nose. “ No, no ,” he responded in kind, “ not yet. Doc hasn’t eaten yet, either .”
She tsk’d, in that loving, fond way, just a breath away from threatening to come over there and feed him.
“ So, Deimos, ” he said before she could do just that. It was the whole point of him calling her, after all. “ His trial was yesterday. ”
“ It was on the news ,” she told him. “ The television last night, and the radio this morning. ”
Phobos took in a breath, held it. Everyone would probably know. He’d tried to keep quiet about the trial, but people heard the name Volk pop up and tuned in. People would know now, people would ask him, maybe well meaning, about his brother being found guilty of murder.
“ Kusaka ?” she said, cutting through the spiral Phobos was starting. “ Kusaka , speak to me. ”
“Sorry,” Phobos mumbled. “Do you still have that-- your telephone book, the address book? I want a lawyer. A good one.”
She hummed an ‘ mhm ’ which was followed by pages turning. A small smile spread across Phobos’ face, thinking about her taking that worn address book off her shelf, laying it by the phone while she waited for him to call, knowing he would.
“ It’s a law firm, ” she said, “ lots of lawyers, your family has used them for a long time, not just me and your parents. ” Phobos hummed, grabbing a pen and paper. She gave him the name, the number, and the address. Phobos paused after writing it all down. It wasn’t too far, just in Bonnie Doon, he was pretty sure.
“ You should’ve asked for that in the first place, ” she said, chastising. “ Your parents, they got you boys too used to being in the city, not being part of the community. That lawyer you got for his trial, he never could’ve-- ”
“ Well, it’s too late now. ” Phobos interrupted. He didn’t need to be told it was his fault his brother was locked up, he already knew. “I have to go,” he said in English.
“Ah, kusaka , wait--” But he didn’t hear her, hanging up and smacking his phone face down on the table. He pushed it away, looked down the hall to the bedrooms again. He sniffled, stood. He tried to fill his mind with thoughts of breakfast instead, with preparing Doc’s food and then his, fill his mind with anything, to keep it off that silence of the closed door.