Song of the Chapter: Lonely - Rezonate ft. Bijou (Dubstep) 

(Tristam's POV)

As it turned out, I did not get to make my pancakes. I guess that's alright, though, because instead, I got my best friend back. It was almost like he was gone, those long hours where it was very obvious he wasn't himself. He also played around with me this morning, something he hasn't done for a couple months. What's even better? He did it in front of the others. Slowly, I think he's allowing himself to open up and be himself around the rest of the artists. Hopefully, if this continues, he'll be able to handle himself if anything happens to me again.

After our breakfast at noon, the older woman who owns the house pulls me aside for a moment. "I know who you are, child," she says.

"Uh ... thanks?" I say, more like a question.

"You are the one Jensen wants. You are his 'perfect specimen'."

"Yes, I am aware of that ... " I get that tingly feeling again, creeping up my spine and making me shiver.

"You need to be extra careful when you go out today," she says, nodding.

"If you want us out - "

"No, no, stay as long as you must. But your friend over there ... " she points, and I follow her gaze as it lands on Braken. He's drawing something, his face determined. He's even biting his tongue as it sticks out, something I tried once and found that it actually helps my concentration. He doesn't look up.

"What about him?" I ask warily.

"Two things: he's not to be trusted." She turns me back so she can stare right into my eyes. It feels like she's staring into my soul. "When you're as old as I am, you see the same eyes in different people. Yours are protective, trustworthy. His are dark, clouded with pain and rage. It's only a matter of time before he breaks, and all hell will break lose." She pauses, still staring at me, and then says, "Second: you're leaving, if only for a little while, and he's going to lead you. You will find yourself in a situation where you can't help him."

"You're freaking me out," I say.

She laughs, and it's like the dark mood vanishes. "I'm sorry. I used to be a songwriter, you know. I wrote songs with cryptic and deep lyrics, like yours. Sometimes, I slip back into that 'song writing mode'. I just meant that he wants to go somewhere today."

I breathe a sigh of relief. If that's all it is ...

The look in her eyes tells me otherwise.

After that, I go downstairs to find the piano I'm sure I heard, but someone's already playing it. I open the door and Phantom almost jumps off the bench in surprise, quickly yanking his hands off the keys.

"Hey, Phantom," I say. "I didn't know you could play the piano."

He shrugs. "I haven't had one to play on for a while." We wait in a semi-awkward silence until he stands up. "Do you want a turn?"

"No, I'm good. You can keep playing - " But he's already gone, down the hall. I shrug and sit down, playing a few chords. I don't know what to play, though, so I mostly just sit and stare.

Eventually, someone knocks on the door.

"Yeah?" I call.

It's Braken. He comes and sits next to me on the bench and plays the opening chords to Frame of Mind. Before I can start singing, though, he stops and says, "Hey, Leo?"

"Yeah?" I take over and hum the melody as I play.

"You know what day it is, right?" He pauses for a moment as I think. "It's my mom's birthday. I want to go ... visit her."

"Alright," I say, standing up with a wince. "We can go."

His worried expression quickly changes to relief. "Great. I thought I couldn't go because of this mess."

"Hey, we'll make it. You haven't missed a set date yet, right?"

"I missed my birthday last year," he says quietly.

"Oh. Well, yeah, of course you can go today."

The sun shines down warmly as we walk there, but there's a light breeze that makes me pull my coat closer every once in a while. We don't get very far before Braken wraps his hand under my arms to help me walk. He told me that I could stay back, but I told him I'd always be there with him. Of course, loyalty isn't the only reason. I'm worried about him getting caught on his own.

He stops and picks some flowers every few minutes, the weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk and on the side of the road. He's humming Frame of Mind as we walk, singing the harmony part to himself under his breath. I don't say anything. I know he likes to collect his thoughts before talking to his mother.

Eventually, we reach the place and he carefully sits me down on a bench. I sigh happily as I rest my aching leg, and watch him walk into the field, surrounded by memories and old stones. He finds what he's looking for and kneels down, sitting back on his heels and holding the flowers in his lap.

"Hullo, Mom," he says to the gravestone. His voice is quiet, but it's the only voice here, and I can hear every word he speaks. "Happy birthday. A ... a lot has happened these past months, but you know that, don't you?"

He tells about our adventure with the MI so far, and I find myself listening intently, as if he's telling me the story. He talks as if she's sitting right there next to him, and he points and gestures and even laughs a little. He tells her about me, and how I'm the best friend he's ever had. He says that no one deserves a friend like me. I try to swallow the emotional lump in my throat with no luck. It's always something different to hear someone talk about you to someone else. I want to tell him that he's the same way; he's my best friend, too, no matter how different we are.

"I brought you some flowers, because I know you love them," he says, his voice getting quieter until I can't hear him at all. The silence is only broken by the birds and the wind, and it makes the scene before me even more beautiful. He takes out each flower individually, whispers something, and gently places it down on the grave. When he's finished, he sits back and simply listens. I don't know if he hears anything, and I never ask, but after a few moments, he stands back up, still facing his mother's grave. He's not even shaking. Somehow, he does it all, three times a year, without ever crying.

Someone comes up to the grave, approaching from the side and stopping when he's about twenty feet away. I recognize him instantly, and pull myself to my feet as an alarm goes off in my head. My friend notices him, too, and flinches visibly, his face going pale.

It's Braken's father.

I take a step and hiss in pain, and then can't go on by myself. I want to call to him, but my voice won't work. All I can do is stand here helplessly.

Braken is shaking now, at first out of fear, but then rage slowly builds up, almost as visible as the sun. It starts in his shoulders, traveling down to his clenched fists and up to neck. I remember what the woman told me about Braken's rage. I want to warn him, but I can't.

I watch the man's shoulders tighten. "Braken," he says in a monotone.

"Hullo." Braken nods his head just once. His voice is calm, even though I know he wants to explode. He wants to hurt him. He wants to return everything his father gave him.

The two simply stare at each other for a painfully long moment, and then Braken takes a deep breath and walks around him. He passes by him very closely, and the man suddenly grabs his wrist, still keeping his eyes fixed on the grave. Braken immediately goes rigid, freezing up in terror. His eyes widen and his face turns whiter than a ghost. They don't move, completely frozen, until the man finally releases him. Braken yanks his arm back, rubbing his wrist and staring at the ground angrily. He marches over to me and mutters, "Let's go."

"What - " I start to say, but he cuts me off with a wave of his shaking hand.

"Let's go."

He pulls my arm over his shoulders and helps me walk away, never looking back. I glance at the man, who's still staring at his wife's gravestone, and then turn again to face the direction Braken is leading me.

I can feel him shaking all the way back to the house, but he doesn't break down. He doesn't cry, like I know he wants to. He just walks in silence, staring at the ground, focusing on putting one foot in front of another.

Once we're back and he's safely put me down at the table, he wanders upstairs, swaying like he's lost. I try to follow him, but I can barely stand up on my own, and I don't want any of the other artists to come up with me. He's closing himself off again, and I don't want to make it worse. But as I recall the moment over and over, I realize something.

Braken is growing up.

It's a strange thought with a strange explanation, but it's true. Before he came here, before he met up with the other artists, he was still the same lost and afraid boy he'd been when he was eleven. He was still eleven when I met him for the first time in high school. He was still eleven when he ran away a year or two later. He was eleven as I graduated, and then he graduated at eleven, too. He stayed eleven as we released together. He hasn't grown past eleven, and yet he's one of the most mature artists here. I shake my head and rephrase my statement. He hasn't emotionally grown past eleven. He's stuck in that eleven year old frame of mind, and yet there he stood, in the presence of his father ...

And he grew up a little.