Next to him, you feel tiny, small, and horribly young, a feeling you're unfamiliar with because compared to your siblings, you were always the big one, the older one. But with him, all that is wiped away, and you don't have a lot of time to think about how things used to be because the more time your mind wanders, the less time you can spend soaking in everything he has to teach you.
His hands close over yours as he helps you hold the gun in your hands for the first time. Immediately, you don't like it, that cold steel in your warm hands, but he refuses to let you drop it. Instead, he guides you through the motions, pointing out the safety, how to hold it, never put your finger on the trigger unless you plan on using it. And even though you spend hours there getting to know that handgun, you never really like it. It's too much in your hands, too dangerous, and when it comes down to it, you simply don't trust yourself to hold it.
When you put it down, finally, finally, you tell him in no uncertain terms that you don't like it. End of story. And there's something in your voice that keeps him from arguing with you. You're not a killer, you tell him, and you want to keep it that way.