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Sparrow's the first person he tells, of course, but they're not kids anymore. His brother can't read him as well as he thinks he can, so Lark keeps his secret until the night he's ready to go.
"Hey. Come talk to me out back real quick." He nods to the door, fumbling for the cigarettes in his pocket even though he'd rehearsed his movements in advance. Sparrow's footsteps are soft, avoiding splinters on the worn and splitting floorboards. He lets Sparrow struggle alone with closing the back door behind them, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts, settling on the back steps and lighting up. When Sparrow joins him, he passes the cigarette in silence.
"What's up?" He handles the cig with hesitance, almost delicate in a way he's never been with Lark. The sunlight's fading, shadowing his brother's face behind his loose brown hair. The first time Lark buzzed his scalp, upstairs in Grant's bathroom freshman year, he'd had Sparrow to help catch the strands around his ears. He's done it alone ever since.
"I'm," Lark's voice cracks and he hates himself for it. He needs to come off as confident. "I'm moving out. Gonna leave San Dimas for a while." Sparrow doesn't say anything. Lark doesn't look up from the ground. He doesn't need to to know the tension in Sparrow's jaw, the way he leans forward, forearms on his knees as he puts the pieces together. Both of them hate leaving things unsaid. Both of them have done so much of it.
"You can't. You cannot leave." Sparrow's own voice tips upwards, just short of shrill.
"I'm leaving after dinner. I'm spending the night at Grant's." It has to be this way. For once, his plans will work out. For once, the only life at stake is his.
"Grant knew before me?" Sparrow's open palm finds Lark's hunched back, shoving him hard enough to send him forwards off the steps, but not hard enough to signal he wants to fight it off. Lark finds his footing, spotting the still-burning cigarette at his brother's feet. He should have waited to speak until he got it back.
"No. Just that I'm staying the night." Does that make his betrayal better?
"And the fucking car? It's mine too, asshole." Sparrow gets to his feet, fists clenched. His word choice is too casual, too deliberate. Lark knows he doesn't give a shit about the car. Sparrow opens his mouth again, ready with a laundry list of petty excuses for why Lark shouldn't leave. I need you isn't one of them.
"It is yours. I've got a bus ticket. Calm down before dinner. They don't need it ruined again." A low fucking blow, parroting years of Sparrow's pleas for a single peaceful meal. But Lark's well and worked up now, even though he'd promised himself he'd be calm for Sparrow's sake more than his own. Too late.
"Where will you sleep? What will you do for money? Lark, you know this will hurt our parents. Father--"
"I will be okay. Our parents will be okay." This isn't forever, Lark wants to reassure him. This is the best possible solution, brother. When Sparrow runs his hands through his hair, three times the length of Henry's, he looks like their father. Both of them are too soft, never prepared for the inevitable. What's a weakness in one is a weakness in the other, but Lark's weakness is Sparrow. He can't fault his brother for being better suited to a world Lark and his father had ended.
"I will not be." Sparrow's hysteria ebbs and flows, the cadence of his childhood gone from the overly-stilted dialogue.
"You are not okay now. Nothing will change for you." Five years since Lark had ended the world. Five years to learn new truths and new ways to be cruel. Inside, lights flick on. Two years ago, Sparrow would have raged, words failing in favor of his fists. Lark would have appreciated it then and now, forgoing right and wrong in favor of swollen knuckles and bloody noses.
"And leaving will make you okay? Your meds--"
"Do not work because the problem is here." It's not the whole truth, but admitting they help will open up another line of reasoning for Sparrow. He's more than willing to give them up in order to escape.
"You act like we hate you. Nothing here is so terrible you need to risk your life and run away from it. Grow the fuck up." Lark takes a step back.
"You know nothing. This is my best option." He should back away now. There's nothing to gain from fighting. He should apologize, and tell Sparrow he'll come back when his mind settles down or enough time has passed. He should tell Sparrow he bought two bus tickets, out of habit. Instead-- "Do you trust me?"
It's a double-edged sword, hung above his brother's head. Sparrow knows it just as well.
"As much as I love you. Fuck, Lark." He opens his arms.
Six months ago, Lark would have accepted the apology, falling into his brother's grip. Tonight, Lark brushes past him and into the house, headed for the bag he'd stashed by the front door. He doesn't have it in him to wait until dinner's over. Behind him, the back door crashes open once again. Sparrow calls for their mother, voice once again pitched just short of shrill. Her response is lost as Lark slams the front door.