He has fetched the notebook. Its white pages have been waiting for him. He knows that the pen is mightier than the blade.

He writes in his slanting cursive. It's the one he was taught throughout his time in the education system, because mainting a semblance of control, elegance and coherence is essential at all times. Who cares if you're falling apart on the inside so long as everything on the outside is just peachy? So his writing is immaculate as ever. As immaculate as it was before everything that happened. Immaculate as the styling of his hair. His hair is quiffed, straight out of a James Dean film. 

Night sky in its liquid state comes from his pen. Reasons to exist - March 29th. Tuesday, he writes. 

One. 

His hand leaves the page. He stares at it, and it stares back, unsympathetic, hostile. It's challenging him. He can sense the judgement coming from it, and he can't bear it. It must change.

Toby loves you. 

There. March 29th's reason to exist is that Toby loves him. It doesn't matter if Toby is an aging golden retriver who barely even wants to walk, never mind run, anymore. When Nan grabs Toby's lead and waggles it in his face with completely misplaced enthusiasm, as if the old dog is still the puppy he was eleven years ago, Toby turns to him with a look of such distaste, of such violent disdain and indignity, that he really, truly believes that Toby would honestly rather be dead than go for that walk. 

Him too, Toby. Him too. Nevertheless, Nan always takes him out, Toby always comes back alive, and slumps at his feet as if to say why do you let her put me through this?

The languor is cut by the muffled blaring of a pop song in the other room. It's definitely a girl band, that's all his sister ever listens to. He listens. It's Little Mix-- no, no. It's Fifth Harmony. Definitely Fifth Harmony. 

Two. He writes. Your sister has abhorrent taste in music. 

He stares thoughtfully at the words, his words, contemplating them. 'Abhorrent'. He likes that word. Abhorrent. Abhorrent. Abhorrent. He grabs a sticky note and writes it there and slaps the luminous orange paper onto the wall above his desk. Abhorrent.

Three. Words like 'abhorrent' are a thing. 

Fifth Harmony is still playing, and he swears it just got louder. 

Four. You've still got one sister alive and she needs saving from her abhorrent taste in music. 

Not that she'd ever call his attempts to make her listen to some other music an act of 'saving' her. She is obstinately, resolutely sticking to her guns as concerns her taste in music, and considering she is almost as stubborn as he is, he knows that means she won't listen to anyone else unless she decides to, without the influence of anyone else, much less him. Since when do younger sisters ever listen to older brothers voluntarily?

This isn't going to stop him. He pushes himself out of his chair and walks out of his room, crosses the gap between his room and hers, and enters without knocking.

She sits cross-legged on her bed, small laptop in front of her, capturing all her attention. She doesn't look up as he opens the door uninvited. "Go away. I'm not turning it down."

"I never asked you to turn it down," he bites back, mirroring her tone of voice. This is normal. In spite of everything else, their relationship has remained wonderfully, comfortingly homeostasis. He wouldn't change the way he's currently glaring at her for anything in the world. Their inability to agree on anything is one of the most reliable, steadfast parts of his life. "I just-- let me show you this." Without her permission he is making his way over to her bed and sitting on its edge next to her.

"Hey-- stop!" She's slapping his hand that's moving towards her laptop. He doesn't care. He still gets his finger onto the mousepad and is trying to make it to the keyboard.

"Just let me enlighten you!" He exclaims. She is trying to push him all the way off the bed. But it isn't going very well for her. Her little legs, little arms, little torso and generally little body are no match for his heaviness. He may have lost a lot of weight, but he's always been heavy. And he's even been trying to gain a little bit of weight back lately, too. But he hasn't told anyone about that because expectations are the cause of all disappointment and pain. Expectations, always too high, always unfulfilled. Like expecting people to want to stay with you voluntarily. Like expecting relationships not to constantly change and evolve and cause alienation and the slamming of doors and leaving. Like expecting that life will not be snatched with no warning of any kind. 

They take part in a shoving match which leaves her hanging off the bed, screaming to be pulled back up so she doesn't fall head first onto the thick plush carpet. He reaches a hand out to pull her up, but only after he's placed the laptop securely in his lap. And then he's searching through Spotify, she's tidying up her hair (because, she's said, she has a date later. He responded by telling her to use protection), and then a new song is blasting through the speakers.

Her thin, dark, pencilled-in eyebrows frown. Her eyes narrow accusingly. "What the hell is this?"

This is 'Sweet Dreams' by Eurythymics. "Only one of the most stupendously good pop songs to have been churned out in Western culture. You need to appreciate it."

Never before has he seen such a look of disgust. It's swallowing up her features, drowning her deep-set eyes, screwing up her small mouth, wrinkling her hooked nose. It's so forced, it's funny. He knows she's only doing this because this is the music he put on. It doesn't matter whether she likes it or not, she would always have reacted like this. 

"Turn this off and get out, loser." She all but growls, and if he could ever take her seriously, he'd probably feel threatened. But as it stands this is his little sister and she could be threatening to push him off a cliff and he'd still tell her to do it, knowing she wouldn't. 

But, he is satisfied that he's managed to force some other music down her ear canals. Even if she's pretending she doesn't like it (because she is pretending; who doesn't like this song?), he's succeeded. So he smiles sanguinely, stands up and leaves again.

If you couldn't tell by the dark cresents under his eyes, he doesn't get much sleep. This is not because he stays up late, or because he has an overactive mind that refuses to be put to slumber. Not sleeping has become a fact of his life, and he accepts it. It is four in the morning, and his occupation for the night has been staring at the white ceiling. In the slightest of light coming through the curtains from the moon, he can make out the greasy marks where there were glow-in-the-dark stars tacked up there. He took them down when he was eleven, though, under the pretence of trying to be more adult. Adults didn't have glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling. 

He knows everyone is asleep. That is, until he hears something faint. He's surprised - no one is ever awake as this time, save for him. Perhaps Nan has woken up and can't sleep, or someone was having a nightmare. Regardless, there is something playing, constantly, quietly, and it has a rhythm.

He strains to hear. It's almost impossible to know what it is. 

Then he hears it. Layered on the constant beat, he hears the silvery hissing of sweet dreams are made this. 

All grievances of not being able to sleep are lost as his face is invaded by the widest of smiles. It continues in the background for another minute, then stops. He is almost certain he hears a slight shuffling of someone moving around, then the silence of the house resumes. 

It's four in the morning. He knows what he wants to do now. He tosses the duvet off, pivots into placing his feet on the floor, and stands, moving over to his desk and sitting himself in the wicker chair. 

Reasons to exist - March 30th. Wednesday. 4am. 

One. 

Tiffany likes Eurhythmics.