The two brothers were at war. They did not know this until it was far too late, they were far too invested, far too close to breaking apart.

The younger wanted his freedom. He wanted to be lonely, isolated. He had lived his whole life under the watchful eye and guiding hand of the eldest.

The eldest wanted only to protect. He had been around, seen the world, knew of the dangers. The oceans were deep and the mountains were tall, and nothing was ever as safe as it seemed.

So they warred. They argued and yelled, at first things they could take back, escalating into things they would one day wish they could.

Then they started to fight with fists, and then with friends, and then with guns. It was a battle, and they didn't know it.

Maybe they didn't want it to end that way. Maybe there was a better way. The younger brother's glasses are broken now, the frames bent and cutting into his face. The elder brother's lip is bleeding, a dark bruise across his face. They gaze upon each other, broken and bloody and bruised. Brothers, breachers of the bond they once shared. The fight was over - bullets punctured skin and organs and precious little time was left. There was no victor, but there were two survivors.