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You regard it the same way you’d regard a swordless refrigerator.
Bored out of your mind, sometimes you stand with the door ajar, letting the cool air hit you after dodging the countless swords with little to no regard for the electricity bill. If Bro can get away with his legendary power-hour shower- of which climbs to an upwards of three whole fucking hours, holy shit what does he even do in there- then you should be allowed to have your alotted fridge time as well.
Whenever Bro goes out to a gig, usually the signifier of the granted "Weekend" your Bro offers you, free of strife and his presence in the the apartment, no matter what day it is (as is the law of irony) you'll sit, prim and proper on the futon couch, innocently waiting to make sure he's really gone , before stumbling maddash to the icebox.
Truly, the dented chrome monolith is one of your favorite mindless indulgences. Screw the ol' sextuple u internet providers- letting those shit blades clatter and crack on stained linoleum and pile at your flinching feet; feeling stale watery air hit your eyes, shades in your hair for once and eyes burning from the artificial light; smelling the shitrank stonk of a long forgotten vegetable that's haunted the poor fridge since its arrival and breathing it in like it's the new line of Old Spice and Shaq just did another promotional- it was all so addictively homely- so addictively yours . You can only stomach so much liveleak and senseless SFM videos before it gets stale.
Channel Number 21 in the crisper drawer is particularly entertaining right now: there's a stain that's been encroaching on dominant black mold territory for weeks now, and it seems like the mold had finally caught wind of the declared turf war.
It's an underdog story that's sure to be a tearjerker in the end. The drama. The tension. It's got you at the edge of your feet, peering into the drawer quietly every now and then, waiting on bated breath to see the outcome.
Your stomach growls.
For a very long time you assigned a certain deluded purpose to your Fortress of Solitude. In your defense, nobody really says “hey this thing is meant for food”, it's just sort of assumed that the common populace doesn't have a cooler older brother to use it as a low-budget weapon cabinet instead of a chilled pantry.
To you, in your idiocy, it was a mythical metal behemoth, taller than even Bro, that shone bright holy light and gave you a glimpse into a different dimension that still felt like home. The only thing you could compare it to was a TV, and so that is what it became for you.
Bro never let you touch the TV remote- you could cajole him into letting you play the Xbox as long as he was in an amicable mood and said so, but any attempts on grand theft TV remote were met with a brutal thwap on the noggin or a wrenched arm socket from getting dragged to the roof for an impromptu strife sesh.
The TV was sacred to your Bro, so the fridge, its seemingly closest companion, became sacred to you- it came before your computer and it was different from your shades or your turntables. It was ultimately another mimicry of his habits and interests, but this felt special. Holy. Not even Lalonde's psychobabble techniques could explain his reverence to an old, hollowed out, make-shift bomb shelter.
(Except, it totally could and Rose would go through great lengths to undermine your one peace of mind and that was exactly why you never told her anything ever no matter what even if you sometimes mentioned it accidentally.)
So one day, due to your borderline obsession, when something in your little temple changed, you noticed it almost immediately. Newcomers to your little synagogue weren’t uncommon. Swords were not the only residents of your fridge- it acted as a one-stop christening shop for new weapons your brother picked up from where ever the fuck he gets his shit. Katana, wakizashi, tachi, and sabres galore were its main residents, but your icebox would also find itself home to wayward shuriken, cherry bombs, and even a few stray halberds and polearms.
It was a revolving door establishment, with common blades as staple whores, and yet, when you'd found that a new weapon had ninja'd its way into the fridge, you were shocked, stuck clutching your manly pearls.
Guns were a huge no no in your apartment- which is admittedly pretty strange for being in America's lone star state- weren't y’all s'posed t'be them gunslangin' cowfolk round these parts? It never made sense to you, but it was chalked up to one of the many enigmas of life that only your shaded glance would betray your curiosity of.
Bro had explained it to you one time, in his familiar halting syllables, telling you that the fight'd be over too fast if he shot you in the gray matter, right through your lobes and straight out of your crown, and it was the same reason why he didn't leave actual sword slices on you. It was a killing weapon, not a fighting one.
'Too easy,' he'd stated, with the same absolute numb confidence he'd always had.
'...boring,' he'd mumbled, about ten minutes after you'd thought the conversation was over.
So yeah it made sense that Bro was against all forms of firearms, kind of a no brainer- dont give a toddler a gun- but he thought going at that same toddler-almost-preteen with a boot to the head down the stairwell was fine and dandy because he had priorities. You didn't question it because it was all you knew and Bro was always right.
However, despite this seemingly decisive full-stop embargo of any sort of firearms staring in your daily strifes, a gun appears in the cold static snow of your chrome cathedral. Right under a two-year old, handle-split halberd and a pile of dented, subpar swords. It's shoved into the cramped fridge the same way all the other weapons are, but it highlights itself as a matte and rounded vortex between all the straight, stinging steel and oiled leather.
You'd never felt the touch of a gun in this house of silent and cold metal, and after a short pause, you were quick to rectify this obvious error in human experience with greedy, frostbitten fingers. You had licked your lips in hunger, as if you'd been conditioned to expect sustenance from your holy chrome god, instead of the ringing sound of iron, as you'd cataloged where exactly the gun was and how to finagle it in and out with as little disturbance as possible.
The handle and barrel of the gun had fit awkwardly into your hands- both hands, because you didn't know how to hold it properly and it felt straight up scandalous to not treat this blessing as the miracle it was- and admittedly, you had no idea what you were doing, so you did what you were raised to do, which was observe and copy.
So you put the gun back exactly how it was. And observed. And copied.
You went out of your way to consume the massive amount of pop culture that centered around guns. Shitty appropriated westerns, overused mafia tropes, gritty melodramatic noir films that made Bro raise an eyebrow at you, ghetto and gang culture toting their second amendment rights- anything under the unbearable Texan sun was free game for your reference spank bank- although, you weren't nearly as fetishistic about gun the same way those tv supremacists were. You were just… taking notes. You even learn a little bit of gun safety from Jade, who had mentioned her guns beforehand and had been all too excited to share her know-how.
Shakily, after another designated "Weekend" that started on a ripe Tuesday afternoon after repeated tornado watches had chased your brother away and left you to worry about being swept away by the wind, you peered into the fridge again for a little stress relief and possible application of your learned knowledge.
The crash-bang two step routine of the accumulated metal was as startling as it was comforting- monotonous clockwork in action, with each motion simultaneously tensing its springs and relaxing its cogs interchangeably- checking for camera lights, cataloging how the weapons were arranged, flashstepping back to avoid getting cut- but this time, you were looking for some unscheduled programming. Your fingers wrapped around the handle, surely this time, attuned by your practice with an Xbox controller as substitute. The trigger meets your index with the same comforting assurance as the hilt of a sword.
The first time it gave you a rush of adrenaline, a thrill of power and finality.
Now though, you check the revolver with a familiar sort of detachment, spinning the little six-shooter barrel like a proper gun toting cowboy. This ain't your first rodeo. When you point it at yourself you get a small little thrill that you don't get from sword fighting. The barrel touches the curve of your jaw, pointing inwards, and you pause.
Straight through the gray matter, right into your crown, like Bro said. You can feel your Adam's apple bob and your breath slow. The safety is off. It usually is whenever you do this- you’re not a little bitch.
Ultimately, you point it away from yourself again and again each time, thumbing the safety on and off, and beginning your inspections anew. At this point, it's more like retrospection than any sort of well intentioned check up. To be, or not to be? That is indeed, the bullshit question.
You wonder if Bro put the gun in there on accident, or if he was just fucking with you. There's only two bullets in the chamber and you can't find any other signs of ammo in the apartment. You wonder if he was going to teach you how to deflect a bullet with a sword, and then couldn't do it himself and threw it in the fridge, which you never go into when he's here. There's no cameras pointed towards it either (the fridge is directly in the kitchen camera's blindspot thanks to some minor adjustments over the past couple of weeks.) He knows it scares you when all the shit tumbles out and threatens to impale you, and he thinks it keeps you away from the fridge in general, but you think that the fear is relieving in its own sort of way.
It's different from strifes, which you dread but not outwardly fear, and Lil Cal, who haunts you in a paralyzing, overwhelming sort of way. When the freshly fridge-cooled metal is in your hand you get the comforting terror that is control.
You choose to point the barrel to your cheek, your jaw, your forehead, and each time it feels like a forbidden little kiss. A whisper of care that your guardian is too cool to sacrifice. Bro- the fridge- the gun- you had a type where your (not love, love was lame) attention was drawn to. Cold, silent, and unforgiving hearts that you chased after, and damn it all did you love the bite of the chase (except no, you really didn't, as uncool as that was).
Unrequited, and running out of time, you decide to multitask- Bro would often cut Weekends short and they'd only last an hour or two, so you had to make it count- placing the gun in a cushion and plopping down on the couch, hand creeping towards the TV remote.
Lately, you've been pushing your boundaries when Bro's not around (as, you admit, you are too much of a pussy to ever challenge him when he IS around) and this has coalesced in the form of you cautiously changing the channels on the TV like you were cutting wires to defuse a bomb.
You’re shy lovers, you and the TV remote. Bashfully reaching for one another in a taboo Romeo & Juliet type beat, just as long as the others don’t see your forbidden love. Be careful it's my first time babe, and your hand grazes the edge of the channel down button.
A primal chill runs down your spine just in time for you to catch the front door silently closing out of the corner of your eye. Your heart races with adrenaline but your face stays calm.
Suavely, you start groping the futon-couch instead in an inquisitive manner. Hm, yes, quite an exquisite blend of fiber and grime. There’s no other reason for your hand to be this close to the remote, you just felt for felt. Your face portrays a picturesque aloofness only befitting a Strider of your caliber. Lil Cal is lounging next to you, as if he was always there and not shoved into the farthest corner of smuppet hell last time you saw him.
“YOU LIKE THIS CHANNEL, HEEHEE?”
It takes a practiced breath to not glance at the jeering screech, and you shift your focus to what the TV is playing.
Oh. My fucking god. Oh my fucking god. You cringe and close your eyes but it's too late, groping wet and fuzzy humanlike plushies are seared into the inside of your eyelids. It's not that bad, they're just inanimate objects, this isn't the first time you've seen that shit, it's ok man, it's not the end of the world, you're fine- DO NOT THROW UP THAT IS PANSY SHIT, OKAY? OKAY.
Okay.
Bro must've had one of his livestreams casted to the living room to hear what the audio is like without headphones like he sometimes does. Your eyes are glued shut until they reflectively twitch open at the weight settling next to you.
Bro sits facing the horrific scene on the screen like the chill motherfucker he is, immune to its grotesque nature due to being the originator of it.
“If you're that into it, we could always collab, lil man,” he tells you, blank shades reflecting snippets of the scene.
Your knee jerk response is a firm hell to the deepest pits of naw, but you recognize the false offer as it is. Bro hates you touching his stuff baseline- ESPECIALLY his show stuff- and doesn't show it unless he's trying to get a rise out of you.
You coolly shake your head and explain that you don't think the masses could handle that swagalicious of a crossover event.
Bro considers this, shifts back to recline on the couch, and then freezes.
Slowly, just as slowly as you realizing you’re the stupidest motherfucker alive, he reaches to his side and pulls the gun from where you haphazardly stuffed it into the futon and holds it loosely in front of you.
“. . .”
The gun. The gun that you put down when you sat down. That gun. Yeah.
You lunge for it. You have no idea what came over you. Desperation, stupidity, need- something along those lines.
Bro pistol whips you. The matte handle catches on your shades, flinging them to unseen carpet. You see your own reflection in his shades, highlighted by the bright puppet filth that lights up one side of the room. Your face is numb, and by the look of it, bleeding.
Bro’s face crinkles and it's like watching a wild dog snarl, despite how little motion is in it. Had anyone else seen your Bro’s face, they would’ve thought he just stepped in shit and was playing it off cool, but you know better. You know, from practice, how to fear it and what it means.
“I fuckin’ knew it .” And you hate him because that's the worst, the fact that he always just knows, because of course he does.
“I fuckin’ knew you were doing some shit like this,” Bro spits, dismantling the gun in a quick motion. “
Stupid fuckin’ shit
like this,” and then he’s gone, spirited away like good ol’ Totoro.
The gun disappeared that day too. There’s a gun-shaped hole right under a halberd with a split handle, and cherry bombs explode in your face when you check for it.
A week after The Incident and you don't check anymore. Instead, you stand and stare at a false idol. Nothing more than a broken-down appliance.
It got unplugged when he left. Since he hasn't come back. The channels are nothing but static. There's still mold in one of the drawers. The TV is playing some infomercial about a department store.
You’ve had a week-long Weekend and Lil Cal is still in the corner, unmoving.
Even though you always got cold feet in front of the refrigerator, it somehow feels colder with the door shut.
Maybe you should've pulled the trigger when you had the chance.