( CHAPTER TWO: TO LOSE A FRIEND )
March, 1998

❝ you're on your own, man. ❞

◯

Perhaps Devon should have started from the beginning. Perhaps he should've given therapy a fair shot. But frankly, his own stubbornness made him clam up, and instead, he resorted to his protective shell. He had been burned too many times to ever consider the severity of honesty and vulnerability, and only up until this moment— where his heart boomed beneath his ribcage— did he begin to shake back to reality.

He was playing a forced hand.

Devon stood at bottom of the porch, a red brick platform slabbed in front of the crispy brown door. He had no idea what to say, or what to do. Should he knock? Run away? Pretend this never happened in the first place?

He wanted to cower in the bushes, but even he couldn't ignore the throbbing pains pulsating through his chest. So, with a shaky breath, Devon knocked on the door, deciding that his own pain was becoming too unbearable to ignore. He knocked once, then twice, his knuckles now raw from his own urgency.

To his relief, someone answered his cry for help. The door flapped open, and standing in the threshold was none other than his ex-therapist, the same wide-eyed woman who now stared at him, flabbergasted. He couldn't say that he blamed her.

"Evening," Devon said, "I-I... I'm sorry for coming so late, I just—"

He bit his tongue. The words felt so elementary and shameful, he didn't even know where to begin.

"Devon?" She questioned, squinting her tired eyes, "What are you doing here?"

He didn't know.

"Um..." the man shifted his weight, his worn out running shoes now scoffed by his tireless descent over here. He didn't expect a late night run to end in an existential crisis. But it did, and now the only way to settle his hitched breathing was seeing a shrink.

How depressing.

"Listen, maybe this was a bad idea," Devon said, quickly backing away, "I'm sorry, I'll get out of your hair."

He turned on his heel and trotted down the steps, a wave of embarrassment flushing down his spine. Right now, he wanted to disappear into thin air. The look on his shrink's face, compared with the shame of his own feelings, made him want to sink through the ground. This certainly wasn't his brightest moment.

However, just as Devon stomped down the expanse of the stoney path, he was stopped by her panicked call, which seemed to silence every doubt he ever had.

"Wait, Mr. Emmet!" The woman exclaimed, "Just hold on!"

He did just that. He came to a reluctant stop, his broadened shoulders sagging gently in order to display his vulnerability. Devon turned around, looking at the woman with sad eyes. He didn't even bother to hide his distress.

"You can come in," she gently said, standing at the foot of the porch, "I don't mind, honestly."

Devon swallowed thickly— like a large pebble was lodged in the depths of his throat. His eyes bounced between the empty street stretching on around him, and the inviting presence of his therapist craning her front door wider. He juggled with his options. He analysed the pride and ego that had driven him away from her in the first place.

He didn't need therapy, he had claimed. It was useless. But now that he was backed into a corner, Devon didn't know what else to do. So, after a few more seconds of further pondering, he turned back around and walked down the narrow path.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Devon said, awkwardly shuffling through the front door.

She shook her head, closing it behind him, "Not at all."

He stood in the hall awkwardly, examining the fine purple wall prints, and peculiar choices of artwork. The rug beneath his sneakers was fuzzy and tattered at the edges, reminding him of the rug he had in his childhood home growing up. The dancer took two steps forward, disdain curling against his bottom lip.

"Please, come in and sit down."

Devon glanced up, following his shrink into what he presumed was her main living room. It was a small space, with the same wacky colours that he saw near the front door. Devon didn't know why, but the sight of so many clashing shades and strange furniture pieces made him feel like a fish out of water.

"Can I get you any tea?" She asked, watching as the male settled down on one of the red sofas.

Devon shook his head, his face still crinkled with worry, "No thanks."

In truth, he knew that if he consumed any food at that moment, he would spew it right back up. That was how bad his anxiety was.

"So what brings you here, Devon?" The woman asked, sitting across from him, "Is something wrong?"

"Well—"

"—Cause I thought you were done with therapy."

He was, supposedly.

The male looked down, conflict biting the edges of his mind. "I was, I just..."

Deep breaths, Dev.

"...I just couldn't breathe."

He couldn't find any other words to explain his struggles. Even now, as he stared at his shrink, who was as confused as anybody by his broad declaration, the air in his lungs felt scarce and weedy. He felt like he's been holding his breath for hours; like he was one gulp away from choking to death.

"What do you mean?"

"I went for a run tonight, and everything started out fine," Devon began, his leg bouncing repetitively, "But by the end of it, m-my chest felt tight, and I couldn't breathe properly... it just felt like the sky was falling..."

Like the end of the world. Like everything as he knew it, would just be obliterated. He hated that feeling more than anything, it felt terrifying to even think about it. And, as he sat there on the couch thinking about his troubles, his therapist stared at the same with extreme curiosity.

This had to be one of the most puzzling clients she's ever worked with. On paper, he had no real reason to be depressed. No clear indicator pointed in that direction. A well-adjusted man, with power, a blooming career and well-loved perception by the general public— she sometimes struggled to remind herself that this was the same Devon Emmet on the cover of all the magazines.

The man everyone wanted. The man referenced in every popular song, which normally alluded to his swag, smile or fly-ness. But, the man right in front of her told a different story. Something wasn't adding up, something was clearly wrong, she just needed him to talk to her.

"You weren't just out of breath? I mean, you were running," she said, trying to rule out the obvious.

She wanted to blame it on poor cardiovascular health, but she knew good and well that Devon Emmet was in tip-top shape. His fitness regime was relentless, she knew because he often coordinated therapy sessions around his training.

So, when Devon shook his head no, she was hardly surprised. That only left one other option.

"Well, Mr. Emmet, it sounds like you had a panic attack."

What?

Devon's head zipped up, surprise blaring through his large brown eyes. No, no, no, that didn't make any sense.

"A... panic attack?" Devon repeated, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, "No, that's impossible."

"All of your signs point to that."

No, they couldn't!

Devon was regretting this already. He didn't like the thought of a fucking panic attack humbling him so easily. Growing up, he was taught that this stuff was just fake. An illusion, a result of weakened ideals and a money-scamming endeavours. Panic, depression, anxiety— the lot of it was fake.

So why then, did it feel so real to him?

"Devon, were you... thinking about anything while you were running?" His therapist asked, bringing him out of his cloudy haze.

His brows crinkled some more, not understanding the nature of her question, "Thinking?"

"Yes, about your career, your family, anything..."

His face widened, the realisation slipping through his mind immediately. "I was," the male said, "I was thinkin' about my mother, my brother, how I've let them down..."

The ominous tone of his voice ended with a tortured stare into space. Devon's mind darkened yet again, a whirlwind of regrets and guilt sawing through his body like a chainsaw. Oh, how he hated it. Oh, how he failed everyone. Family, friends, Janet...

He couldn't take it anymore.

"Don't be scared," she urged, her voice a steady beacon in Devon's dark mind, "What happened to your family?"

He looked her way again, eyes wobbly with fear. She scooted forward, looking at the male intently, practically begging him to speak. He didn't want to, but after several weeks of silence, and stubborn resistance, Devon did something he'd never thought he'd do.

He spoke the truth.

◯

Circa. 1994–1997

Again, Devon should've started from the beginning, but he had to admit, sometimes the past was too painful to bear. It all began after the coming of the new year. 1995. A year filled with change and hardship. A year in which Devon had the rug pulled out from under him.

He embarked on a worldwide tour, performing in seven continents, and several countries. He showed the world how hungry he was — for dance, for movement and for something new. His signature move — now donned by fans as 'the Dougie' — reached new heights throughout the year.

Rappers and actors were imitating it in films and music videos. Kids tried it on the streets. Talk show hosts begged him to demonstrate it whenever he came on their shows. This wasn't just a trend, but a cultural phenomenon. He was succeeding in every possible way.

On the inside, however, it was a different story.

Devon felt like a hole was missing from his heart. And unfortunately, he filled that void with trivial, poisonous things. Things, which at first, seemed healing.

At the beginning of the year, Devon's mother was very supportive of him. She raved about his rising celebrity, bragged to her friends back in Harlem about her new famous son. She even attended some of his shows, whenever Devon felt inclined to fly her out to each city.

However, when the curtain was drawn and the screams stopped, it was like a flip switched in her brain. Suddenly, he was back to being a failure. She complained to him relentlessly— about him, the house, her life, his work schedule. Most of all, she began to demand more from him.

If he showered her with silver jewellery, suddenly she wanted gold. In mid-1995, when he bought her a big, lavish house in Bel Air, suddenly it wasn't big enough. With every new movie he signed onto — a big motion picture with Sidney Poitier, or an action-flick with Martin Lawerence — she never liked any one of them.

Nothing was ever good enough for her.

Eventually, Devon became frustrated. He tried tirelessly to please her. He dressed like she wanted to, adopting more suits and smart-dress wear, instead of chunky timberlands and swagged out jeans. He did more movie dramas, and pulled away from street dancing and choreography.

He became sophisticated, an object moulded by her approval.

He even married a woman that she liked. Sort of. But, all in all, Devon could not do anything that would satisfy her high expectations. To her, he was never the star that everyone made him out to be. To her, he was just a disappointment.

"You're stooping too low, Devon," she would say to him, right after he did something she didn't like. Like posing for a Tommy Hilfiger streetwear line, or appearing in a rapper's music video, or doing a comedy film with Jada Pinkett and Eddie Murphy— she didn't like any of it.

"You're not a thug anymore," she would sneer, "Don't disappoint me."

When was he ever a thug?

He bit his tongue and held back his words, deciding that suffering in silence was better than making a scene. He was a high-established celebrity now, he couldn't afford to lose his cool.

Instead, he silently kept on seeking her approval. In 1997, when he wrote a screenplay modelled after his grandfather's journey in the second World War, he wrote it with his mother in mind. He hoped to God that his efforts would be praised this time, knowing how much his mother loved her late father. However, when filming wrapped and the final cut was made, Pamela Emmet wasn't very excited by the thought.

Even after attending the glamorous Hollywood premiere, with Morgan Freeman and other Hollywood heavyweights in attendance, she was simply not impressed. By the movie, by the red carpet, and lastly, by him.

It was the harshest reminder known to man.

After everything he's acquired, after every award and box office record— his mother was still thoroughly underwhelmed by him. Devon did not take that lightly. In fact, one could say that he spiralled.

Pills and booze was the common denominator, combined with excessive clubbing and one too many late nights. Mostly, however, he worked like a damn race horse. He took every single job he could get his hands on, hoping that every second spent working would drown out the disappointment he felt in his veins.

And while it was the only way that Devon knew how to cope, there was one man who wasn't a very big fan of Devon's antics.

TJ.

After the stark move from Harlem to Los Angeles in 1995, he saw gradual changes in Devon's demeanour. Despite the fact that he did enjoy watching his best friend accomplish everything he's ever dreamed of— he sometimes wondered if it was all worth it.

Devon offered to move TJ out to Los Angeles with him, and at first, the shorter male agreed. He couldn't think of a better choice than to go to a new city with his newly successful friend. However, it wasn't as glamorous as Devon made it out to be.

TJ saw the light dimming in Devon's eyes. He saw the silent pain simmering on his face. But, he said nothing, realising that Devon did not need another person whispering in his ear. He now had a large entourage, filled with managers, publicists and assistants, who all offered their advice about his career and public image. TJ decided that Devon did not need that in his private life, too.

However, there was only so much silence that he could stomach. For instance, after Devon announced that him and Janet had spilt back in late 1994, TJ was furious. Livid, actually.

"You need to talk to her man," TJ would say, "She just made a mistake."

But, Devon didn't listen. He was too stubborn to realise that his brash decision to break up with her was done out of anger. He wasn't thinking clearly, and frankly, he didn't care. So, TJ swallowed down his pride and supported his friend through the hardship.

Despite the fact that Devon's decisions were becoming very grey. TJ watched in the background as his friend surrendered to rigorous work schedules and back-to-back acting jobs. His thirst for dance began to dwindle, and Devon surrounded himself with a team of professionals who managed his career, and encouraged his unhealthy habits.

They changed everything about him. His style, his image. The way he walked, the way he talked— they scrubbed him clean of the street dancer he used to be. Now, Devon was a serious actor, donning himself in designer clothes and the finest cologne.

At first, TJ thought nothing of it. He thought that his friend was simply elevating his look, switching up his style. He didn't pay attention to the whispers on the streets claiming that the slick, streetwise Devon Emmet was becoming a 'sham' now. TJ didn't feed into the delusions that Devon had forgotten about his roots; that he had rejected his true being, which was street dancing.

He didn't pay attention because he was trying so hard to convince himself that it wasn't true.

"Hey Dev," TJ would say, on one of the rare occasions where him and Devon would hang out at some extravagant bar, "Why don't you choreograph again?"

Devon's face would twist with confusion, "Choreograph? T, I'm a movie star now."

"I know, but—" he hesitated, hoping to bring the subject up lightly, "Don't ya think you're forgetting 'bout your roots? You know, Harlem and all."

Devon remained silent, apparently not very swayed by his friend's admissions.

"Why don't you do a dancing movie again?" The male cheerfully said, expecting a rowdy chain of agreement from his well-dressed friend.

However, Devon's eyes went ice cold, apparently not so amused by the thought, "Because I don't want to, T, that's why."

His voice was harsh and said with venom. The stubborn streak that he always had was no doubt breaking through. TJ never wavered, however, he just glanced at the barricade of publicists and managers standing by the foot of the bar, and drew out a long, exasperated sigh.

"You won't want to, or they don't want to?"

He pointed towards his friends' entourage, causing for the dancer's jaw to clench even harder.

He never questioned Devon about that again. He just sat there and kept silent. However, when Devon's tight schedule began to bear terrible consequences, he saw it for what it truly was: a farce.

The man barely had any time for anything else. And TJ barely saw him.

Again, he tried not to jump to conclusions. His best friend was now the biggest movie star in the world, why wouldn't he be busy? Why wouldn't he spend his nights clubbing, having fun and rubbing shoulders with other celebrities? Why wouldn't he forget about his friend — simple and streetwise — from Harlem? It seemed like the natural evolution of things.

So, after a year of dismissive answers, strenuous work and a rigorous schedule, TJ made the tough decision to return to Harlem.

On a rainy February night in 1996, TJ visited his friend's Bel Air mansion one last time. He walked through the glass doors, entered the dark white foyer and tentatively stepped through the large, spacious halls. It was dead silent.

"Devon?" TJ questioned, tiptoeing across the plush carpet, "Man, are you awake?"

No answer.

TJ stepped deeper into the house, a strange feeling bubbling at the pit of his stomach. Something felt very off.

"Dev!" TJ called again, rounding the corner to step into the living room, "Are you there? I'm go—"

The shorter male stopped dead in his tracks. In the dark, shadowy hues of the room, he saw a sight that made his stomach drop. Devon — lying limp on the couch — with crushed powder trailing from his nostrils.

A shiver slithered down TJ's spine. Without even thinking, he raced forward, panic laced through his veins. He stooped down low, frantic eyes looking towards the coffee table, which had empty bottles of pain tablets strewn along the surface. Some were crushed into dust, while others trickled onto the floor.

He instantly put two and two together.

"Devon!" TJ nudged his friend's shoulder, unable to conceal his panic, "Wake up, man!"

The dancer drowsily offered a grunt, his eyes — dilated and rolled backwards — fluttering with acknowledgement.

"Get up!"

TJ grabbed Devon's large, sullen hand and yanked him upright. He was a very heavy man, and despite the fact that TJ was shorter, he liked to think he made up for it in ample measure. However, maybe the drugs were weighing Devon's body down.

So much so that when he sat up, Devon tiredly slummed over his knees, his eyes barely open. He was as high as a kite.

"What the fuck?" TJ whispered to himself, horror beating across his chest.

Devon let out a small train of slurred laughter, his head rolling to the side. "You're ruining it..." he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

TJ leaned forward, his features cut up in confusion, "What?"

"I said you're ruinin' it," Devon repeated, "You're messin' up my high..."

A weak smile. Devon laughed some more. His New York accent came out thicker, a rare appearance after spending much of his time on the West Coast. TJ leaned down, eyeing the pill bottle with a fraught brow. Painkillers. Opioids, more specifically.

He gritted his teeth at the sight, "I thought you stopped using these!"

Devon didn't respond, he just idled on the couch, enjoying the last specs of his momentary euphoria. TJ shook his head, hating the mere sight of what laid in front of him. He picked up the bottle, attempting to swoop it up and take it as far away as possible from the man.

However, the minute TJ's fingers touched the container, Devon's hand — strong and bitter — grabbed his wrist with scary accuracy. TJ looked down, seeing Devon's tight, scowling face glaring at him right in the eyes.

"Don't touch 'em."

It wasn't a suggestion, but a command. Somehow, TJ did not heed Devon's warning. Instead, he slapped his hand away, expecting his friend to surrender to another cloud of tranquil drugginess. However, Devon's aggression came in hot.

The taller male shot to his feet, and with a single arm, he shoved TJ backwards— hard. So hard, that the young man flew across the carpet, and landed steeply on his back. The wind soared out of his lungs the second he hit the ground.

It took him several minutes before the air started to return to him.

"What the fuck?"

TJ looked up, stunned and angered. He saw Devon pacing around the living room, gobbling down another frantic mouthful of pills. At least he didn't snort them up this time.

"I need it," Devon muttered, his red, veiny eyes now crazed, "I need it, I need it..."

TJ stood up, attempting to try again, "Devon, give it to me—"

Another shove, only this time a fist was added at the end. The punch was packed with power. Devon's brute strength now matched with crazed intensity, his body and mind pumping with galloons of poisonous drugs. TJ however, did not taste the influence, only the blood.

He rubbed his jaw, now bloodied with regret. Devon did not show any remorse, only an urgency to consume more drugs. The urgency to alleviate the hungry goblin tearing away in his body, urging himself to feel that high forever.

But at what cost?

TJ got up — his arms now raw from being flattened onto the carpet — and started to dab away the fresh blood. He looked to his skittish friend, mean and violent in ways he's never ever seen, and felt nothing. For the first time in their long friendship, TJ was not concerned by Devon's wellbeing, he just felt angered. And it translated into words.

"You're pathetic," the shorter male seethed, breaking through the silence like a soaring missile.

Devon looked up, his eyes an inky brown, forcing himself to consciousness, "What?"

"I said you're pathetic," TJ repeated, "Every single day I've stood by and watched your ass run your life into the fucking ground. I didn't say nothin', because you were my friend."

He swallowed, the blood now thickening in his mouth.

"But now... you're becoming a junkie?" He said, giving Devon a disgusted once-over, "I should've stayed in New York."

"Then leave," the dancer spat back, "I don't need you anyway."

"Fine, you're on your own," TJ growled, "Janet was right for leaving you."

His words stung more than he could ever imagine. It dug deep, puncturing the sore spot still left unhealed from the last months of 1994. Devon stood in the dark — breathless and thunderous — and watched as TJ headed towards the door.

Somehow, the hurt became too much. Somehow, he gave into the rage, and found himself marching after his friend, ready to cause more havoc than ever before.

He was like a storm. Violent, disastrous and turbulent. He demolished everything in his path. He left bruises on his friend, and took some hits in fair share. Never once did he consider himself a vicious man. Never once was he fuelled by aggression and skewed emotions. But, the physical tumble that the two men engaged in, proved Devon wrong.

They fought like they were each other's worst enemies. Like death and harm often crept in the corners of their mind. Brotherhood was now tarnished. Friendship and harmony turned to dust.

By the time Devon's uncle floundered out of bed and came stomping down the stairs— breaking the two of them apart did nothing to repair the damage already done.

TJ left the house that night in an infuriated rage. And Devon did nothing to stop him.

The next morning, when Devon awoke from the sweaty place on his couch— now sober and terribly bruised— regret poured through his heart like a rushing stream.

He crumbled at the hazy memories. The spitfire, the flying fists. Devon tried calling his friend. He tried stopping by the new condo TJ was residing in— an apartment Devon had bought for him. However, by the time he arrived there, the place was cleaned out, which confirmed Devon's worst nightmare.

TJ was gone.

His friend— his best friend and brother, had left him. He walked out of his life, freed from the chaos and ruin that was Devon Emmet's world.

He hurt him. Not just that, he said he didn't need him.

And so, on that morning, on the porch of the condo, Devon sat there and got high— a piece of his heart now gone.

◯

Devon sat there on his therapist's couch — eyes stricken with exhaustion — unable to shake the regret that tortured his insides. It was impossible.

A beat of silence followed after Devon's harrowing story, his brief recollection of his family and friends no doubt, making him feel even more depressed. So much so, that his throat itched with the need to consume some more pills. He needed to alleviate the pain in his heart once again.

"Have you tried contacting your friend to apologise since then?" The shrink's voice rang softly in the background.

Devon looked up, making eye contact with her curious gaze, "Yes, I tried callin' him, but..."

"He doesn't answer?"

Devon nodded, his shoulders dropping sullenly.

"Mr. Emmet," the woman piped up, her interest suddenly perked, "Have you always responded to pills that way?"

"What?" He asked, confused, "What do you mean?"

"Let me rephrase that," she said, "How long have you been addicted to pills?"

Her question was like a sledgehammer to the chest. His head shot up, his gaze now immersed with surprise, somehow not expecting such a question to arise— despite his rather revealing story.

"I'm not addicted," he snapped back, defensive in his manner. However, she saw right through him.

"Mr. Emmet, you punched your friend over them—"

"—I was in pain," Devon said, cutting her off, "After I went on a world tour, where I was dancing on stage for months, my wrist... my body... hurt."

A pain he still dealt with today. However, he never told a soul about it, up until now.

"So on that night, I just wanted a break from the pain," Devon said.

"So that excuses what you did?" The woman asked.

"No, I—" he paused, running a frustrated hand over his clammy face, "What kind of fucking therapist are you?"

He was getting angry now. He could feel his blood boiling beneath the constraints of his skin. "Ain't you supposed to be sympathetic and shit?" Devon continued, "Instead, you're just blamin' me?"

His accent came out swinging. It wasn't so subtle and subdued now. The woman stared at him calmly, taking in every angry word and muscle twitch. Every frown and huff of rage. She examined him for what he truly was: a man, terribly defensive, and guilty of one thing: the power of his own mind.

"I'm not attacking you," the shrink responded, "I'm trying to understand what you were thinking."

Who knows.

"I don't know what I was thinkin'," Devon growled.

"And maybe that's the problem," she replied, "You need to listen to your mind more, instead of pushing thoughts away."

Devon's face loosened, as if a bizarre secret had just been revealed to him. He felt troubled and confused all the same, knowing that his thoughts were like a deep, dark black hole— pulling him into the dangerous unknown. A place where doubts prevailed and fears reigned the day. How was he supposed to listen to that?

"I should go," Devon croaked, his brow still fraught, "I have to go to a photoshoot soon."

He noticed the sunrise peaking behind the floral blinds. Had he really spent all night talking about his problems? He felt guilty for keeping this woman up this long.

"I'm sorry I-I kept you up all night," Devon stammered, "I'll pay you for your trouble." Classic Devon, always compensating for his problems.

"Tell you what... if you continue your therapy sessions, then consider your debt settled, Mr. Emmet," His therapist said, apparently not dismayed by the long night. She appeared to be in good spirits. Hopeful, even.

It made Devon weigh his options even more. So, without thinking, or even blinking, he did something that made no sense, but made him feel whole again. He agreed.

"Okay, I will," he said.

◯

Devon hated getting the dreaded call. He hated anything that alluded to trouble, and his family. So, later that day — recovering from the grogginess and post-therapy haze — when he got a call in the middle of his photoshoot about his little brother, Arkell, he instantly got a sour taste in his mouth.

And, as predicted, the news wasn't very good.

Apparently, while Devon spent the night unloading his problems in his therapist's house, his little brother and his friends wound up breaking into a high-end clothing shop. There, they proceeded to try on clothes, vandalise property and they even tried to sneak away with some goods in their bags.

Eventually, an alarm went off, and the police arrived. Hence, Devon being called.

And when the dancer arrived — enraged and pumping with fury — he paid for the damages, got the shopkeeper to drop the charges, and whisked his brother away in his blue Ferrari. It wasn't a very delightful way to start his morning.

Devon sat in the driver's seat, revving the engine and whisking through the cluttered LA streets, not saying a word. Arkell sat in the passenger seat, shifting uncomfortably under the silence, not appreciating his big brother's lack of a scolding.

In the past, if Arkell messed up or got into trouble, Devon would give him an earful. One that would last for days. However, now Devon was oddly quiet, and that scared him more than he liked to admit.

However, after three or four times of the same routine, Devon had no more anger left to express. Well, sort of.

"Don't touch the stereo," Devon grumbled, at the corner of his eye, seeing Arkell's long, skinny fingers reaching over to change the sleek car station.

The seventeen-year-old boy huffed, by now, his nerves completely gone. "But I don't like this song," he whined.

Devon gave him a sharp glare, eyes fierce and mean. Arkell kept quiet after that, but unluckily for him— he just opened up a pandora's box of hidden rage.

"Less than an hour ago, you were nearly arrested for stealing, a few months away from your graduation, too," Devon started, gripping the wheel tightly, "And you have the fucking audacity to argue with me?"

It wasn't really an argument, more like a subtle disagreement on song-tastes, but Devon didn't care.

"Me and my friends were just foolin' around," Arkell muttered, "It's no big deal, it was mistake."

The fire in Devon's eyes grew tenfold, "No Arkell, the first time is a mistake, the second time... maybe it's a poor decision, but the third time?" Devon shook his head, his strained jaw now sore from being snapped shut most of the time.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?" Devon screeched, "What is wrong?!"

"What's wrong?!" Arkell yelled back, "Well, my mother's a nut job, my brother's a celebrity, I hate school, and I want to go back to Harlem!"

"—You're the one who wanted mom to move in with us again!" Devon screamed, "Plus, you seem to be havin' a grand ole time in LA, you're making plenty of friends down in South Central."

Arkell's brown face turned a bright red, clearly not expecting for Devon to know about his late night escapades. But, he knew about it. Devon knew all too well. Girls, booze and drugs, did he miss anything?

"Yeah, don't think I don't hear you sneaking out at night," Devon said, "If you continue like this, you're gonna end up on the street, is that want you want?"

Arkell didn't respond, he just stared at his lap, angrily locking his jaw. Devon had to admit, seeing his little brother like this — now grown-up, tall, with a slender build and a coarsened face, he was no doubt a shadow of what Devon used to be. A skinny breakdancer from Harlem, still baby-faced and naive.

Trouble was, Arkell was not naive. He had seen too much, and that was Devon's nightmare. He couldn't even protect his own brother's innocence.

"Look, I want to help you," Devon said, lowering his voice, "I believed you when you said you were fine, that you didn't need anymore therapy, but... I know you're acting out because you're—"

"—Because I'm what, Dev?!" Arkell yelled, "Crazy, troubled? Because of some weird shit that happened when I was ten years old?"

Devon swallowed down his discomfort, easily detecting the suppressed sadness in Arkell's tone. After all this time, he still hasn't recovered, Devon knew this for a fact. However, in spite of that, Arkell still continued.

"If there's anyone that's crazy in this family, it's you!" the teenager said, "I'm not the one who tried to jump off a balcony."

Devon's face darkened, immediately stiffening in his seat in surprise. That was a low blow.

"You're the one that needs help," the teenager muttered, apparently not noticing just how angry Devon was becoming.

So, as the dancer continued to drive — festering in his own seething fury — he spoke again, his voice low and meticulous.

"Say that again," Devon commanded, a grit to his tone.

At the sound, Arkell looked at his older brother again. He saw the pressed lines distorting the smoothness of his face. He saw the hurt eyes and the fire in his scowl. His words hurt him, tremendously. Apparently, however, it did not hurt him as much as Devon's next words would.

"You're such a disappointment," the dancer mumbled, quiet and barely above a whisper. However, Arkell heard it. He heard it and buried it deep, not understanding that Devon's words were said out of pain; not understanding how deeply his words cut, as well.

Right now, it was lost in the space of the unsaid.

And so, the conversation halted to a stop, the two young brothers choosing to drive the rest of the way home in dead silence.

◯

a/n;

well, we have more context guys. A little insight into Devon and TJ's relationship, and sadly... the two of them had a falling out.

Do you guys have any thoughts on the whole interaction? Especially since the falling out was mainly due to Devon's drug-use...

There was also slight mentions of Devon's career, how some people view him as a 'sham' now. Any thoughts?

Also, Arkell has made an appearance, a very sombre interaction. What are your thoughts regarding his current situation, and Devon and Arkell's relationship now?

More heavy stuff and backstory coming... so prepare yourself y'all.