Mozzie_D

【教父】One Thing .

There are times when Tom does not agree with Sonny; it happens quite often, actually, because Sonny is all fiery temper and reckless abandon, while Tom cautions wait and see, wait and see.

For a split second when they argue, Tom always feel an irrational panic—this will be when Sonny sees that Tom is not worth the trouble he took all those years ago to bring him home—but he forces himself out of it; he is the Don's consigliere and that means something. It means that he has to speak his mind even when advising the opposite of what Sonny says.

He knows, intellectually, that he is family now, and anyway, Sonny wouldn't break with him over a difference in opinion. He knows it in his mind, but still he has that inexplicable moment of fear, because Sonny is all that he has ever wanted and ever wanted to be, the veritable hero of his childhood and best friend of his adulthood.

It happens one day that they argue in front of the Don and the Don takes Tom's position—never his side, but Sonny does not see it that way—and Sonny's jaw clenches in anger and he storms out of the room. The Don dismisses Tom and he leaves, stomach twisting into a knot. He catches up to Sonny in the hallway and lays a hand on his shoulder, half-expecting it to be thrown off. He says, "You're the one that cared enough to bring me home all those years ago, Sonny. You're the one that made me my own person instead of that half-dead kid I was on the streets. If I just—gave in to you and went along with what you said, that would be a betrayal of the gift you gave me when you saved me. Not a repayment."

The anger and redness drains out of Sonny's face. He grabs Tom by the back of the neck and shakes him gently, tells him, "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know what it means that you're my father's consigliere? It means that you've gotta tell him exactly what you think he needs to do, and you're probably going to be right most of the time. Just because I get sore at you for a bit or we go about things a different way doesn't mean you're going to stop being my brother." He grins good-naturedly and says, "Besides, Tommy, you know I can't stay mad at you for long."

Tom smiles, ducks his head. Sonny's hand is hot like a brand on the back of his neck; Tom thinks that Sonny marked him as his own that day itself so many years ago when he brought him home, scrawny and sickly, and gave him food and new life.

Sonny tips Tom's chin up, looks him in the eye and says seriously, "And Tom. You know there's nothing to repay between us. There never has been."

And here is Sonny's dangerous charm—the way he can look at Tom and make him think that there is no person in the world more important than him at that moment; the blunt curl of his fingers at the nape of Tom's neck sends color up into Tom's cheeks, and he feels like he's frozen and burning all at once.

Sonny is wrong about one thing. There is something to repay between them, and Tom will never have enough in his life to match the gift that Sonny gave him when they were children: a family, a best friend, the knowledge that generosity can come as large in a child's heart as in an adult's. Tom had life before Sonny, but Sonny gave it meaning.

And if there is one thing, above all, that Tom holds to himself, that he has Sonny to thank for, it is that he knows this:

As long as Sonny is there, he will never be alone.