But Justin already knows.
"You're not sleeping," Chris says. Tolerant Chris, funny Chris; he's so good with children. Why, Chris can watch after Justin, Justin's momma said. Justin is half grown, not old enough for alone but more than old enough to stay behind. Chris'll take care of Justin, and if anything bad happens, he'll know what to do.
"Mmm hmm," Justin says. Hums. If he sings to himself, then he'll never be alone.
Chris chuckles, turning on the lamp. He angles the shade until the light falls fully on Justin's face. Don't move, don't move-- oh, too late. Justin turns his face towards the wall.
"Let's see what we've got," Chris says. He pulls the sheet away. Goodbye, sheet. Chris's fingertips are such clever things. They're good at finding the places that hurt. When you're Chris's little sister, he puts bandaids over the hurt places. Justin knows this. Justin saw it, when Molly brought Taylor over and showing off in the pool turned into bloody hands, scraped raw against the concrete.
When you're Chris's little brother (not really, not by blood, but close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades), it's different. He doesn't have to look for the hurt places, not now. Chris remembers where he puts things.
Chris tsks. "Your fucking skin, I swear. Pain in my ass. You heal right up before I even get a chance to enjoy it." Justin tries not to get hysterical. He's half grown; he's half a man. Half of him wants to cry, but that's the half that loses. Chris leans close, nudges away the curl that's tickling Justin's ear. "This is going to hurt," Chris says. It's not a warning. It's a promise.
Justin'd promised his momma he'd be good for Chris.
Justin knows what scabs feel like. They're the places where he can feel the skin stretching, trying to stay together, trying to get back to the way it had been before. But it's been a while now. Days. A week, almost. Skin forgets, and then there are only the straining scabbed bits. Chris's clever fingers have clever nails. They pick and poke and when Justin doesn't flinch (a lot), they tear.
Most of those places were already torn.
Justin can hear himself saying "Jesus" and "momma." But the people he calls for? People who said they'd be keeping an eye on him? They're mostly just talk. Chris is keeping an eye on Justin right now, Justin figures, or he wouldn't have needed the light. The light's not for Justin. Just like those other people, Chris talks a good line. But Chris mostly talks to himself. He's not so interested in what Justin thinks.
Justin thinks he can feel each bead of blood as it wells up. With every breath, one drop breaks loose and rolls down the channels of skin between his ribs. If he didn't know it was blood, if he didn't know it was his, he might think it's pretty wild to be able to feel a little thing like that.
Justin's momma says you get numb, after a while, when God gives you bad things to deal with. His momma says the numb's kind of a gift, because it gives you time to rest.
Justin'll get numb soon. He hopes.
"Much better," Chris says. "Much." Justin feels the air move a split second before Chris's hand strikes his ass.
Justin only cries a little. He's just surprised. Chris worked him over so well earlier, first with his hand and then with the (hated) leather strap, that Justin figured he'd had enough for the night. Please. He's had enough for the night.
Chris laughs again. "No sleeping, I told you. I told your mom I'd put you to bed. I promised, y'know. But we didn't talk specifics." Chris fingers walk down Justin's spine, sticky baby steps all the way down. Justin's skin would like to have his blood back. Chris swats his ass again, and Justin, good at taking direction, spreads his legs.
Chris is good at finding the places where it hurts. Justin's momma says Chris knows a lot because he practically raised his sisters. She says that's why he's so good with Justin.
When Chris's fingers find Justin's hole again, Justin can't help it. "No," he says. "No no nononono--"
"Yeah," Chris says. "You can bleed here, too. For me, Jup." Something is pushing at Justin's asshole, something too clumsy to be fingers.
Justin doesn't sleep tonight, but that's okay. It's too late for sleeping.