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Going home was surreal. For Grayson Graves, it felt like he had never really left -- everything looked and sounded the same as ever on the quiet little street as he trailed his feet along the sidewalk, hands deep in the pockets of baggy, borrowed jeans. With no money to his name and even less in his pockets, it was a wonder he'd made it back to Destiny City at all; a wonder, and a testament to the kindness of the family that had been watching over him. They'd watched over him for weeks, hoped and prayed that he would open his eyes and speak to them, and just because they'd hoped he was someone else didn't mean that he appreciated it any less. Without those people, he didn't think he would have survived.

They were a nice family. Olivia and Len were their names, the couple, and it still hurt him a little bit to remember the pain and the grief in the woman's face when she'd kissed his forehead and sent him on his way. He'd wanted them to meet his parents, really wanted them to know one another after all that had happened, but it had been too difficult for her. She was mourning the loss of her son, and he couldn't ask that. Wouldn't ask that. So he accepted the ride, let them drop him off a couple of blocks away from his house, and waved as they drove off.

Olivia and Len. He'd never forget them, even though he was sure he would also never see them again.

The lawn was well-manicured, though the edges of it were browning from a less-than-rigorous watering schedule. Grayson imagined it had fallen to Tristan to mow, which explained why it was getting done regularly; Grayson had very rarely had any patience for the task himself. He could remember countless summer days where he'd leaned his arms on the handle of the mower, eyes at half mast while he wove his way across the grass. Pop was always getting pissed because it looked like a drunk fourth-grader mowed their lawn.

It looked perfect just then, and it made him kind of sad. Life without him, just like Barren Pines... life went on, even if he didn't. Even if he hadn't actually died this time.

He hesitated on the stoop, and that was stupid. He was still Grayson, even from the tips of his borrowed sneakers to the edges of his short-cropped, wildly curly hair. They'd still recognize him, even with the wicked, jagged lines fanning down one side of his face, over his shoulder and chest, down over his hip; they'd see him in the violet eyes under long lashes, and they wouldn't look at the fresh scars and wonder. Dad had been murmuring about him getting a haircut for years, so he would be happy to see the black curls finally at a manageable length. They'd be happy, he told himself, lips stretched uncertainly over white teeth clenched tight as he knocked.

Once, twice. It was strange to knock on his own door, but he didn't have his wallet, didn't have his keys. Didn't even have his own clothes, and he smelled strange and unfamiliar even to himself. He smelled like Ryan, Olivia had told him, petting the top of his head and smiling sadly. He could keep the clothes, of course, she said, and then she'd turned her face into her husband's chest, and Grayson had known it was time to go.

The wait for the door to open seemed infinite, excruciating. His pulse skipped when the doorknob turned, palms springing damp as he curled his hands in his pockets. It was home, so why was he nervous? It was home, so why did he feel like he should have called ahead first?

The door opened, and it took him a moment to realize who was standing in front of him. She was thin, thinner than he remembered, big eyes in a face that was too pale, but she was unmistakably Elke. Unmistakably his sister, wearing one of his old plaid shirts, standing in the doorway and crying into her palms.

From the kitchen he could hear people moving around, and upstairs, footsteps hit the floor heavily. He stepped inside, slowly bringing clenched fists out of his pockets, easing tense fingers until his hands were fanned out at his sides, and his smile remained in place. Uncertain, wide, but a smile.

"Hey, sweetie," he said, just exactly as he always would have, and brought his hands up to her shoulders. Feather-light, for just a moment, and then he dragged her to him, arms locking around her in a hug more fierce than he intended.

Behind them, he could hear his pop saying, over and over, "My God, my God," as he leaned against Arthur, but Grayson wasn't quite able to greet him yet. Elke was still crying, was still shaking in his arms, and he could do little but run his hands up and down Elke's back, make soft noises to reassure her as best he could.

"Please stop crying, sweetie," He said, lips to her cheek, forehead. "Please stop crying. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long to come home."

Because for Grayson, even though it felt like yesterday that the car had skidded off the road and slammed into the tree, it had been weeks. Weeks and weeks where his family had thought he was dead, again, weeks and weeks that he could never give them back or apologize enough for.

He hadn't known exactly what he would say when he saw his parents again, wasn't sure what they would say when they saw him, but the matter was out of his hands. Elke had been the one to open the door, the last person he had expected, though that wasn't right; he should have always expected her. They were close in this life, but they had hundreds upon hundreds of years of connection: he should have known that she would be the first one he saw when he walked back into his life.

Her face against his chest, he stilled his hands, palms anchoring her close to him as he rested his cheek atop her head. Her words sliced through him, cut open old wounds that would never really scar, never fully heal; he'd left, again, and he'd hurt them, her, again. He couldn't have controlled any part of this, but that didn't seem to matter when his sister's tears were wetting the front of a borrowed shirt. She was crying because of him, and he couldn't take back the pain no matter how much he wanted to; he was powerless to help, powerless to stop it.

His hands tightened in the fabric of her shirt -- his shirt -- and he closed his eyes for just a moment. A hand rested on his shoulder, weight that was as familiar as his own name, and his father said, "Son, come here."

Arthur's face was solemn, set in serious lines that weren't befitting of the moment. His eyes, though, deep purple and a little painful to look at, spoke volumes for him. He drew the pair over, as neither Elke nor Grayson seemed ready to let go, and awkwardly, his arm came around her shoulders, his hand cupped the back of his son's head.

"Dad," Grayson managed, struggling to loose one arm and extend it across the room. Van still stood there, shock and something terrible warring on his face; guilt, perhaps. "Pop."

After a moment, he asked, "Where's Tristan?"

Everything was almost perfect, except Tristan was upstairs and his pop was still standing across the room, and that wasn't right. Biologically, Grayson was unrelated to Van Graves, but he took after him more in personality that he did Arthur; he could see easily the guilt and the shame in his face, knew the slow-coiling feeling in his gut matched the one in Grayson's from mere seconds before. It was important to hold Elke, yes, it was important to comfort her, but there was also his pop. His poor pop.

Wriggling free of Arthur's grasp, he brought his hands around to Elke's shoulders again, lifted them to her face. His thumbs marked the corners of her eyes, smearing tears into her cheeks.

"Sorry," he said again, leaning down to kiss her forehead, just between her eyebrows. "Can you please get Tris? I'll be right here."

His eyes roved to his pop again, took in the sad, defeated set to his face, and he gently broke away from Elke to go see him.

While Grayson was downstairs, arms linked tight around his blond father, Tristan was up in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed and trying manfully not to cry. He had always been the more emotional of the two; the first time Gray had died -- because he'd died, both times, for his little brother -- Tristan hadn't been able to handle it. He'd cried, he'd screamed, he'd torn apart his brother's room and broken all of his things. He's gone had been a mantra in his head, and he'd wanted nothing that could remind him of Grayson anywhere near him. He'd cut his hair, shaved his damn head so that he wouldn't look in the mirror and see dark curls, but even that hadn't helped. Losing your brother wasn't like having a friend move away, or a dog die, or even a grandparent. It was losing a brother.

And then he'd lost him again, not even a goddamn year after he'd come back. Elke, too -- Elke kept ******** dying on him, and he'd never been really good at restraining his emotions no matter how hard he tried. He was only fifteen, he was barely able to cope with the fact that his family was coming back together much less losing pieces of it and having them come back -- and he just couldn't.

He lifted his head at the knocking, dragged the backs of his hands over his eyes even though he definitely hadn't been crying. After a moment or two he stood, hesitating before wrenching the door open, a scowl on his face.

"I saw him. What do you want, Elke?" He'd been crying; his mouth was set, his eyes were narrowed, but it was easy to see the reddened edges of them, the tremble at the corners of his lips.

His brother was alive, again, but he wasn't ready go downstairs and deal with that.

"I don't want to see him," he said suddenly, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Stubbornly, he didn't take them back, glancing away and jerking his arm out of Elke's grasp. There was an uncomfortable pause between them, and he shuffled his feet.

"Tristan?" It was Arthur's voice, and though there was a slight lift at the end of it, there was no mistaking the precise tone employed; he was wanted downstairs.

Another brief pause, the space of a heartbeat, and Tristan muttered, "How the hell is he even alive?" and this time he gave himself away, because his voice thickened, hands clenching at his sides.

From the base of the stairs, again, came his name. This time it was Grayson.

For a moment, Tristan almost pulled away again, almost threw himself back on his bed and told her to get lost. He didn't have that luxury this time, though; Grayson was at the top of the stairs, a hand brushing absently over the thighs of jeans that were too big around his hips. He looked the same, but different: Grayson, undeniably, but with shorter hair and scars on his face and a strange, uncertain look in his eyes that Tristan realized was all his fault.

He swallowed, shook his wrists free from Elke's grip. "Hey," he said, quietly, glancing away to blink furiously against what were bound to be more tears.

"Hey," Grayson returned, a smile turning up one corner of his mouth. After a brief pause, he added slowly, "Dad wants you downstairs."

"Fine," he returned tightly, brushing past Elke. He hesitated, then reached out, clapping a hand on his elder brother's shoulder. "Don't ever ******** do that again. Three strikes," he added, and Grayson's eyes blurred because Tristan's did.

"Sorry." He pulled Tristan into a hug even though he didn't want one, nearly crushed his little brother's ribs with the intensity of the brief embrace. It embarrassed them both, a little -- Tristan more than Grayson -- and then the younger Graves stomped his way down the stairs.

Alone in the hallway with Elke, Grayson brought a hand up, swiping the heel of it under his eyes. His hand faltered on the scarred cheek, hovered for a moment over it as though he didn't quite want to lower it again. He wasn't vain enough to be truly depressed by the scars, he just...

They were a constant reminder of what could have happened, what had almost happened. Every time his Pop looked at him he was going to remember, and every time he remembered Grayson was going to think of their argument, of how he'd almost abandoned everyone again. How for weeks they'd all thought he died, and he'd been unconscious, and some other family had been pinning their hopes and dreams on him waking up --

He drew a soft breath, smiled at Elke. He offered his arm, turning his face away from her just a bit, asking, "Want to help me pick out something to wear? I don't -- it's kind of weird, wearing this."

His lips tugged down into a frown, and he picked at the hem of his shirt with his free hand, looking a little uneasy and unsettled.

Grayson had never minded when Elke borrowed his things. She seemed to like wearing them, and not only his; Andeon's shirts, too, at least, and he wasn't sure if it was because it brought her comfort or it was just her way of showing that she cared. Either way, he'd never thought much of it, because clothes were clothes and they were just things. If it made her happy, why should he get worked up about it? He had plenty of shirts to wear, and it wasn't as though she never brought them back. The fact that she was wearing one of his shirts just then didn't surprise him -- if she hadn't been, he might have been a little surprised, a little hurt, even.

It was normal. It was something that she'd been doing for as long as he could remember knowing her in this life, and he appreciated it. He also appreciated the fact that she'd moved into his room, had kept Tristan from trashing all of his things, whether that had been her intention or not. There were some things he really liked, even though they were just possessions, things like his journals and his Colts sweatshirt and the hat that Jude--

It was strange how sudden it was, a cold fist around his heart, a reminder that he'd lost someone precious to him. This was the feeling that his parents, brother, and sister had all felt, most of them more than once, because of him. Grief, the sort of thing that slipped into the shadows while life moved on, but slithered around your heart when you let your mind wander for just a moment back toward someone you'd loved and lost. It was consuming, but fleeting; terrible and desirable all at once, because no one really ever wanted to forget someone they'd loved, but no one wanted to be sad all the time, either.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willed Jude's face to come forward. It hurt, but not as much as it had, and there was peace in that as much as there was torment. Benny, too, he tried to recall, but the image was a little blurrier, a little softer around the edges. Only two people out of countless others who had died, only two, but they'd carved scars on his heart as sure and true as the ones that now marred his body.

He was aware that he'd gone silent too late, drifted back into the present in time to see Elke watching him anxiously. To make up for it, he grinned, fast and bright, and it didn't even hurt to pretend for a moment that there was nothing heavy weighing on his heart or mind. The reason was because he wanted to see Elke smile, of course; he didn't want her to look at him like that, like he was a figment of her imagination that was going to disappear into so much smoke if she so much as blinked.

She would never know how much it hurt him that he'd hurt her, Dad, Pop, Tristan. She would never know, and that was how he wanted it, because the hurt would keep him from being stupid. It would keep him safe so that they wouldn't worry, and it would remind him that he could never, ever let them down again.

"At least somebody's been doing my laundry," he teased, eyes roving the room, unfamiliar in its tidiness but unmistakably the place he'd spent the majority of nineteen years. "I almost don't recognize this place, being so clean..."

She was holding his arm, but he needed a little more contact than that. Something to brace himself, for just a moment, so he twisted his hand, twined his fingers with hers. They stood in silence a moment, heartbeats thudding in wrists resting snugly against one another, before he gently pulled her to the closet.

"I don't see why you can't stay here," he mused. "I can take the other room, since you're all set up." With someone else, it might have been a statement meant to achieve the opposite result, but Grayson sincerely meant it. If Elke was comfortable in his old room, why shouldn't she have it? A room was a place to hold things, and he could just as easily make the guest room his own.

He began pushing through the shirts, fingers skipping over hangers as he tried to decide on what to wear.