Mica yelped, flinching back from 'his brother' as he flickered into view. That wasn't actually suppose to work. That didn't actually-- it couldn't of. His mind reeled, his own blue eyes wide as saucers as he gaped  dumbly at Breya. "No fucking way."<br/><br/>He stepped forward tentatively, waving his hand before Breya's face, then through her. Nothing, he felt nothing but perhaps.... cold air? It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him. This was all his mind playing tricks on him. There was sinking disappointment, and he realized he had hoped his brother was actually back with him. Still, Mica's chest squeezed as he stared at the apparition of his brother. It looked just like him, from the broad shoulders that helped make his budding football career, to the scar tucked under his hairline by his ear, Thomas even wore his favorite slacks and polo shirt, his hands tucked so causally in his pocket as he wanted for Mica to join him.<br/><br/>"You're dead." No, he wasn't choking up. He was getting a cold. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice.<br/><br/>The last time Mica had seen his brother he had been haunched over a table begrudgingly doing his eighth grade math.  Thomas had put him there, as he did every night, sitting besides his younger bro as he did a pile of his own homework. "We're not gonna get stuck in this miserable town," was what Thomas said whenever Mica just didn't want to put in the extra effort. What Thomas really meant was-- we're not going to become Dad, who spent more time out on the sea than he did with his family. Guess the former came easier to him.<br/><br/>The only thing Thomas hated more than tourist season was the winter that followed after it. And some families never leaved, the kids graduating and keeping their jobs at the tourist shops while they went to community college to get degrees they'd be unable to use. Mica didn't even go to college. Why waste the money?<br/><br/>Mica hadn't thought about all of this in a while. The family drama, Thomas's death, what he was doing with his life, he hadn't spared any of it a thought in a very long time. And now he remembered why. He flopped down on the couch, a hand rubbing at his temples. He squeezed his eyes close, trying to blot out the whole moment. And then he tentatively opened them to see Thomas still there, bright eyed and alive as ever.<br/><br/>"I need a drink."  He abruptly stood back up, shuffling to the desk without stubbing his toe for once (the wonders of proper lighting). "This is fucked up, this is so fucked up." Ah, yes, Mica had picked up swearing over the years. "How are you here, bro. Am I dead too or am I off my rocker, I don't--" he swallowed back his words with a shot, his eyes stinging.