Disclaimer: The Mercers are not mine.

A/N: Alright, so I haven't seen Four Brothers except for little clips here and there. I explain further on my profile. Hope you like it anyway. Review, tell me how close or far off I am!

Maybe he had bitten his tongue. But the blood that was rushing into his mouth he knew was not from anything that he had done. It was a mistake, all a mistake, just like Evelyn's death was a mistake and they were all mistakes. Everything had been a mistake, mistake, mistake, because here he was gasping for air and his lungs felt so heavy, he wanted to go to sleep, but then he would get a jolt of energy and remember that he had to call for Bobby or he would never come and he would die and it would all be a mistake.


Bobby wasn't coming, he wouldn't come. He could hear the song that was his life, playing out on a guitar like the one he had in his room, and the music was so sweet and young that it made him want to cry because the music meant him and the music would end soon. He didn't want the music to end.

His necklace that held his lucky charm, his guitar pick that he had strung on a chain and looped around his neck, was stained red by something. The same red was dripping from his shoulder but he knew it wasn't his fault. It was a mistake. He had run out after the man in the mask and it was all a mistake. Bobby was yelling at Jerry and Angel was saying it was a mistake.


His arms were wrapped around the telephone pole and he wanted so badly to put his cheek to the rough wood and rest for a moment. But he had to call for Bobby and tell him his mistake. I ran outside, Bobby, when I shouldn't have. You were yelling and I ran because I had always run before when they yelled. And I always hurt when the yelling was over but not like this, Bobby. Never like this. Make it stop?

"I'm coming, Jackie!" he heard, but the call came too late and he needed to tell Bobby no. He opened his mouth to say it but only another cry like the ones he had already shouted came out, followed by raw groans that burned his throat.


The snow felt too cold and he was shaking so bad that his arms couldn't hold on to the pole anymore and he rolled over in the snow, feeling the snow melt all around his shoulder with the red bubbling through him and out of him. And the music that was him was bubbling through him and out of him—if the music stopped then so would he. He was going to stop and he didn't need to ask Bobby to fix it anymore because it was too late, too late, mistake, mistake.

He hated that his guitar pick was red, that the music was red, because red meant the end, red was the color of the curtains on the stage, and they meant the end. The rapid beats that had punctuated the music in his head suddenly ended and Bobby was so warm kneeling beside him that Jack wondered if they could stay that way forever. He was telling him what to do, he always did, but for once Jack had something that he wanted to tell Bobby and couldn't because of the horrible red that wasn't on his shoulder anymore but in his throat. He opened his mouth and he knew the red was there and Bobby could see it. The music was ending. Bobby cradled his head, was talking to him still, but even Bobby could see the red that coated his mouth and dripped down his cheek in a thick smear that punctuated his attempts to whisper, Mistake, Bobby, a mistake.

Everything began to leave him, fading away into an awful grayness, and the more Jack tried to hold onto the music the faster it slipped through his fingers, as fast and deadly as the red that was the curtain of his music coming down, coating his guitar pick. He had never been able to protect the music; he had never been able to protect himself. Bobby had done that for him. But Bobby was holding onto the wrong thing, he was holding Jack's head and not his guitar pick, not the music and it would be gone. Because it was a mistake….