Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was dark. Pitch black. Eight-year-old Gladstone couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. He couldn’t see anything. Like his parents in the ground.

He wondered how dark it was in their caskets.

He scrubbed at his eyes when he felt them start to sting. They didn’t stop.

Then there was a gentle knock on the door.

“Go away,” Gladstone sniffled, voice weak. He swiped his sleeve over his beak, blinking rapidly to make the stinging go away. It didn’t.

“Come on, Gladstone,” ten-year-old Don’s words travelled through the door of the pantry. “Get out of there.”

Gladstone backed himself against the shelves, curling tighter in on himself.

“Gladstone,” Donald said again. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

“No,” the small boy whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut when the stinging began to hurt.

There was a heavy sigh on the other side of the door. Gladstone sniffled and wiped his beak again. He heard Don lean against the wall.

“I know you miss your mom and dad,” he spoke gently, gentler than he usually did.

Fire gnawed at Gladstone’s lungs, the burning sensation crawling up his throat. He trembled and swallowed painfully, trying to disappear into himself.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at comfort, Gladdy.”

Don rarely called him that. He only used Gladstone’s nickname when something was devastatingly wrong. Like right now.

It was weird, but Gladstone actually felt a little better just having his older cousin by the door. A little. His eyes still stung.

Slowly, Donald began to hum softly (or, well, as softly as he could). His humming slowly turned into whistling, a sad yet kind tune. It sounded familiar, although Gladstone couldn’t quite place it. And it gradually quelled the fire in his chest.

His eyes stopped stinging, overflowing with warm, wet tears. Suddenly, it was too dark, too cold, and the shelf behind Gladstone was digging into his back.

He stood up quickly and unlocked the door. Then he shot out of the pantry and into Donald’s waiting arms, sobbing against his abdomen.

Don held him tight and continued to whistle. They sank down on the floor in Grandma’s kitchen, Don’s hand steady on Gladstone’s shoulder blade.

For a moment, Gladstone thought of his dad. Don didn’t smell like his dad though. He smelled like dew on the grass after it rained.

It was comforting anyway.

______________________________________

Farm work was stupid, Gladstone decided. It was hard, it was messy, and it made him stink! Gladstone hated it. No, he loathed it. He loathed it with all his might.

“Quit yer complaining,” Grandma told him, pushing the shovel into his hands.

It was taller than him and heavy. Gladstone almost dropped it.

“Work builds character,” Grandma said, open bag of seeds in arm.

Gladstone pursed his beak in a pout. Grandma only crossed her arms. He sighed and looked down at the dirt, disgusted.

“Might as well get over it, kid,” said Cousin Gus, in the fields, tending to the crops. “Not a single person who lives ‘ere is excluded in the chores.”

It was true. When Gladstone looked around, he saw all his aunts and uncles working around the yard. He saw Donald feeding the chickens. Della was milking the cows. Even six-year-old Fethry was helping, at his mother’s side.

Grandma tapped him insistently on the head, not hard, but impatient. “That’s right. Now get to work!” she said strictly, giving his feathers a pinch.

“Ow! Okay, okay!” Gladstone exclaimed, ducking away from Grandma’s hand.

He huffed and pushed the heavy shovel into the ground, grunting. He tossed a pile of dirt aside and Grandma dropped a seed into the hole. Gladstone then buried it, patting the yucky dirt with the bottom side of the shovel.

Sweat was already forming along his forehead, making him groan in annoyance. “I hate the farm.”

______________________________________

Sometimes being lucky wasn’t a good thing.

It was good when Donald tripped over his own feet and Gladstone didn’t. It was good when Gladstone always found Grandma’s knitting needles, which she seemed to misplace constantly. It was good when Gladstone never got sick, even when his cousins were passing their colds, and fevers, and flus around, like a game of catch. It was good when Gladstone found a dime or a quarter in the cereal box.

That was good. All of that was good. Gladstone liked his luck because of it (and he liked to rub it in Don’s unlucky face every opportunity he got).

But he didn’t love his luck.

His luck didn’t help him make friends.

Or, well, it did for awhile. Gladstone would find all sorts of trinkets and toys when he followed Della on her adventures around the farm. He’d give them to the kids in his grade. He did it so often, he’d get asked everyday, ‘what’d ya bring this time, Gladstone?’

It didn’t help him keep his friends though.

“Do they play with you after you give them the toys?” Grandma asked one day, when he was telling her about his new friends in school.

Gladstone froze. They didn’t. They left him all alone as soon as he had nothing left to give. Their faces would fall when his pockets were empty and say that he should’ve brought enough for everyone. It made him feel guilty.

Grandma was giving him a look. Gladstone didn’t like it. Her eyes looked sad.

“Yes,” he lied, because he wanted her sad look to go away.

Grandma only sighed and gave the feathers on his cheek a pinch. “Fibbin’ is wrong,” she told him.

Gladstone rubbed his cheek.

The next day, he didn’t bring anything for the kids in his class. They called him selfish and nobody even talked to him for the rest of the day.

He felt just as lonely as before.

That was when Gladstone hated his luck for the first time.

______________________________________

It happened during a game of soccer.

Indoors. With no adults.

It was Della’s idea, but it’s not like the others opposed it. It was quite easy to convince Gladstone and Donald. And Fethry just wanted to play with his big cousins.

Donald and Della loved soccer. They loved most sports honestly. They weren’t perfect athletes, but they did have practice.

Gladstone usually preferred marbles or puzzles. However, Donald said he was on his team and Della promised to go easy on him, so he knew it’d be fun.

As for Fethry... well, he liked pretty much everything.

Things were okay. At first.

It was fun, until Gladstone kicked the ball a little too high. Donald missed the pass and it collided with the wall, knocking down the picture of Gladstone’s parents. It fell to the floor with a crash, a giant crack protruding across the glass and over Gladstone’s mom’s smile.

No one moved or spoke.

Gladstone’s gut twisted, as if he’d just been punched.

He ran to the kitchen and into the pantry, locking the door behind him. His ears were ringing and he barely heard his cousins call his name. He knew they did, but he ignored them.

He sank to the ground, shaking like a leaf and his insides on fire, face wet with tears.

“Gladstone?” There was a small voice on the other side of the door. Fethry.

Gladstone didn’t answer. His throat hurt and his veins were knotted so tightly, it felt like they might break.

“It’s okay. It was an accident,” Fethry tried telling him, tone soothing, but it didn’t help.

It only made him hurt more.

Gladstone didn’t come out. Not for Fethry. Not for Della. Not for Donald. Not even for Grandma.

______________________________________

The pain never went away. Actually, it just got worse with time.

Gladstone dreamed a lot about his mom and dad. He was so happy in his dreams. But then he’d wake up and he’d know they weren’t there anymore. And then he plunged back into that spiral of sadness, anger and loneliness.

Some days, he got so angry he picked a fight with everyone. Donald was always the closest, so he usually got the brunt of it. Which was both good and bad. It was good because Don could handle Gladstone’s outbursts better than anyone. It was bad because Don was a lot stronger than Gladstone, so when he hit back, it hurt.

Those days ended with Grandma punishing them both. And sometimes Aunt Hortense would yell at them too, her Scottish accent so thick Gladstone couldn’t really understand her.

The anger didn’t last long though. It flushed out of him as quick as it came and he no longer fought back when Donald pushed him around, trying to get a reaction out of him. The sadness seeped into him painfully slow, flooded him from the inside and squeezed.

He locked himself in the pantry a lot. He cried in there a lot.

No one could get him out.

He did less. He spoke less. He ate less—even when Della tried to force feed him, her grip like iron, he still didn’t eat. (Grandma and Don made her stop when she almost choked him).

Eventually, his dreams stopped being happy. It just hurt whenever he saw his parents’ faces. It hurt because he knew they weren’t really there.

It got harder and harder to wake up. So he slept less too.

He stopped being angry. He even stopped being sad.

He got used to how cold it was inside the pantry. Somehow, the cold must’ve crept under his skin and froze over the inside of his chest.

Because he couldn’t feel anymore.

______________________________________

“Aren’t you coming to bed, Gladdy?” Fethry asked softly, yawning.

If it were anyone else, Gladstone wouldn’t of responded.

“No,” Gladstone said, throat protesting as he spoke. He was laying on the floor in the pantry, picking at the box of plastic bags on the bottom shelf.

“You can sleep with my teddy,” Fethry offered, and Gladstone heard him hold up his teddy bear like he could see it through the door.

“Thanks Feth, but no thanks.”

“But, Gladdy...” Fethry pouted sadly.

Suddenly, Gladstone heard Della.

“Go to bed, Feth. I’ve got this.”

“Okay.”

There was the sound of Fethry’s footsteps fading away, then the sound of Della leaning against the wall beside the pantry.

Della thought she could get him to come out. Well, joke’s on you, Dels. Gladstone didn’t want to come out and he wasn’t going to.

Della didn’t do anything. She didn’t say anything for awhile. A long while.

Gladstone couldn’t stand it. “What do you want, Dels?” he finally snapped.

“What do you want, Gladdy?” Della asked.

Gladstone sighed at himself. He fell right into her trap. She had a way with him. He really hated it most of the time.

“Talk to me,” she said, drumming her fingernails on the wall. “Tell me how you feel.”

Gladstone clenched his teeth. She waited patiently, but Gladstone wasn’t going to give in. Nope, no way. Just this once, he was going to be more stubborn than her.

Della kept drumming her fingers, slowly turning it into a song of sorts. When Gladstone still didn’t speak, she began to talk again.

“My dad was sad at the funeral, like you.”

Uncle Quackmore? Oh right, Gladstone remembered, his mom was Uncle Quackmore’s sister. Gladstone didn’t have a sister, so he wasn’t sure what it was like. He wasn’t an adult either. But if he didn’t feel good, he was sure his uncle didn’t feel good either.

“But you know what he said to me?”

Gladstone waited. Della didn’t say anything. He huffed in annoyance. “What?” he asked because he wanted to know.

Uncle Quackmore never said much, unless he lost his temper. Which was a lot. He was like Donald in that sense. Or, Gladstone supposed he should say, Donald was like Uncle Quackmore in that sense. They sounded like each other. They acted like each other too.

“That life is infinite and we never really die,” Della replied.

Gladstone frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Della said, “but I think it means that life is precious. And you can’t spend the rest of yours in the pantry.”

Gladstone glared at the floor. He hated the way she had with him.

“I just wanna be alone, okay!” he shouted angrily, chest boiling.

He wanted to stay in here, where it was cold and dark, and he could hide his face, and numb his body.

“No, you don’t,” Della responded calmly, “You want your parents.”

Her bluntness pierced through the cold Gladstone felt and cut something inside him. He hurt all over suddenly, flames licking his bones. It was suddenly harder to breathe too.

“Della,” he whimpered, voice breaking.

She did it. He hadn’t wanted her to, but she did it. She made him feel again.

Della heard his voice break and wiggled the doorknob immediately. “Gladdy, come out.”

“But they’re not there!” Gladstone cried, missing the feeling of nothingness and wanting it to come back. The nothingness kept him from missing his mom and dad, and from feeling like he was on fire. Now that was all he could feel. Burning, burning, burn—

“But I’m here,” Della said gently.

Gladstone quieted, the flames inside him settling instantly.

“I’m here,” Della said again, even gentler, “Don’t push me away. Don’t.”

Gladstone swallowed.

“Don’t, okay? Otherwise we’ll lose you. And you’ll lose yourself too.”

Gladstone laid still for a moment. The flames were still there, just smaller than before.

“Please,” Della was begging now.

Gladstone took a deep breath. Slowly, he stood up. His spine was wracked with shivers, realizing how cold it actually was.

He unlocked the door and opened it. It hurt to come out, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Gladstone thought it would be. And it wasn’t cold anymore.

Della wrapped him in her embrace as soon as he was within reach. He sunk into her, her warmth enveloping him, and let his tears fall.

He missed his parents. He missed them so much.

Della was here though. He liked her better than the cold. He liked her better than the flames.

Gladstone wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, holding onto each other. Eventually, Donald appeared in the doorway.

“Grandma says get to bed,” he told them.

Della nodded. Gladstone clung to her tightly. She smiled at him. “You can sleep in our room tonight.”

She gave him a piggyback ride up the stairs, tucked him in her bed and let him curl around her arm.

At that moment, Fethry came into the room, teddy bear in arm.

“What are you still doing up?” Don asked, sitting up in his bed.

Fethry smiled shyly. “Sleepover?”

Gladstone smiled.

“Come here,” Della said.

Fethry climbed into the bed with them, draping himself over Gladstone’s stomach. The three of them looked at Donald.

Don rolled his eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

He slid under the blankets beside Fethry.

Gladstone’s heart swelled in size and he grinned for the first time in weeks. “We’re a Cousin Pile.”

Fethry and Della laughed, while Don shook his head at Gladstone’s joke.

There was no more ice or fire, burying his personality that night. Gladstone felt like himself.

______________________________________

Grandma dragged Gladstone outside, her grip strong on his arm even as he kicked and whined.

“Stop yer fussin’, Gladstone.”

“But it’s so dirty!”

Grandma pushed him forward. “Of course it’s dirty,” she said, handing him a trowel and a small bag of seeds. “That’s why they call it gardening.” She grabbed the watering can from the back porch.

Gladstone pouted.

Grandma rolled his eyes. “Stop being so spoiled, boy. If you just give it a chance, maybe you’ll like it.”

Gladstone highly doubted that. But there was no arguing with Grandma.

He got down on his hands and knees, grimacing at the feeling of the dirt under his feathers. He dug up a small hole with the trowel, dropped a seed into it and then buried it, and backed away when Grandma bent down to water it.

“Yer doin’ good,” Grandma said with a proud smile.

Gladstone sighed. “I hate the farm.”

______________________________________

Gladstone and Donald butted heads a lot. Most of the time, it was Gladstone’s fault. He knew that, although he’d never admit it out loud.

It was fun to push Don’s buttons and he made it so easy. Donald’s temper was an interesting thing.

Sure, sometimes Gladstone bugged Don a little too much and got a bucket thrown at his head, or his face shoved into the mud, or something like that. It was worth it.

But Gladstone would never go too far.

Don was his cousin; a big brother, really, to Gladstone. And honestly, the closest thing Gladstone’s ever had to a best friend. (Not that he’d ever say any of that to Don’s face).

And, as interesting as Don’s temper could be, it could also be dangerous.

Depending on the day—some days, Donald’s temper was even shorter than usual—that side of him threatened to come out. Gladstone’s almost seen it a couple of times. Della has almost seen it too. No matter how angry he got, Don would never actually lay a hand on them. But he’d come close to it before.

So, Gladstone never went too far.

He still drove Don bonkers, of course.

Like this morning. He’d poked holes through all of Don’s socks, stole the last of his favourite cereal, and hid his toothbrush on him. It was great! Don was so annoyed. And now he was refusing to speak to him, but Gladstone knew he’d be over it by sundown.

Just like every other day.

Don was stubborn. He was stubborn in all of their fights. But eventually, he always gave into Gladstone. No matter how hard he tried not to.

And no matter what, Don always had Gladstone’s back.

Gladstone swore Don had superpowers or something. He’d always had the uncanny ability to show up exactly when people needed him most. He was always there to comfort Fethry after a nightmare. He was always there when Dels hurt herself, trying to pull off some insane stunt.

He was there when Gladstone got his first black eye.

Some older kids decided it’d be fun to pick on a little kid and had chosen Gladstone, who just happened to be nearby. Which was surprisingly unlucky for him.

They started calling him names and pushing him around. Gladstone, used to wrestling with Donald, didn’t just roll over and take it. He pushed back and ran his mouth.

Then one of them punched him.

Gladstone could’ve sworn he was hit in the face with a frying pan. The ache spread all the way to the back of his head, and he felt involuntary tears well up in his eyes.

The way they laughed at him made his chest boil. But the pain was even more overwhelming and suddenly, Gladstone’s cheeks were wet.

“Look, he’s crying!” The kids laughed harder.

Gladstone rubbed furiously at his eyes, embarrassed.

Then there was a yell, “HEY!” And Gladstone would recognize that voice anywhere.

When he looked up, Don was standing in front of him, shielding him from the bullies.

“Touch him again, you’re dead meat,” he growled.

Gladstone could only imagine the glare on Don’s face and he was glad he couldn’t see it. Because this wasn’t the kind of short-lived anger Don directed at him when he pushed too many of his buttons.

This was Donald’s dangerous kind of anger. The kind that choked the breath out of someone with just one look. The kind that broke more than just bones.

“What’s it to you, Duck?” one of the bullies asked.

Gladstone snuck a glance around Don’s arm. All three bullies looked nervous, nowhere near as intimidating as they had been before.

It was no wonder. Don had a reputation of getting into fights. And winning.

“I protect my family,” Donald replied, “Bratty little cousins included.”

Gladstone smiled. Then winced when it hurt his face, covering his eye with his hand.

“Now you’ve got three seconds to skedaddle before I bite your faces off!” Don snarled like a wild animal, “One—“

They were gone before Don even got to two.

He crossed his arms and spat, “Jerks.”

If it didn’t hurt so much, Gladstone would’ve given Don the biggest grin in the world. Instead, he threw his arms around him and buried his face in his cousin’s blue flannel.

“Thanks, Donnie.”

Donald huffed, “I’m still mad at you for this morning.” He hugged Gladstone back anyway, then pulled away to take a look at his bruised eye. He shook his head and sighed. “Why were you even on the big kids’ playground, ya dummy?” he asked, “You should be on the babies’ side, playing with your friends.”

“I wasn’t on the playground!” Gladstone snapped defensively, “I was just walking around.”

“Well, you should’ve been playing with your friends!” Don snapped back.

“I don’t have any friends!” Gladstone quickly shut his beak. He hadn’t meant for that to come out.

Donald blinked. “What?”

Gladstone averted his gaze, scuffing his shoe on the ground. “All I’ve got is you, Della and Fethry,” he mumbled shyly.

Don was silent for a moment. Then he put his arm around Gladstone’s shoulders. “You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” he sighed. “Come on, let’s get ya to the nurse’s office.”

Gladstone found himself wondering if he was lucky to be Donald’s little cousin, or if Donald was unlucky to be his big cousin.

Maybe it was a bit of both. Maybe they were meant to balance each other out.

______________________________________

Gladstone couldn’t believe it. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, looking again. It was the same.

The garden he and Grandma planted behind the house had sprouted beautiful flowers. Tulips, lilies and roses, blending together like rainbows.

Gladstone couldn’t believe it. To think that the gross, yucky dirt had birthed such sweet-smelling, gorgeous plants.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Grandma said with a smile, “If you just give things a chance, you might end up liking em’.”

Gladstone turned to her with a big smile. “Can we plant more?”

Grandma laughed heartily, “Sure we can, hun.”

When Gladstone got on his hands and knees, the dirt was still disgusting. But he didn’t mind it as much anymore.

Beautiful things came from the dirt.

______________________________________

Aunt Lulubelle got very sick after Fethry turned seven. Fethry spent most of his time by her bedside, doing his best to be helpful to her. He fluffed her pillow, made her breakfast (with Grandma’s help), and did her chores for her. He ran up and down the stairs all throughout the day.

Often carrying something on his head. Nobody was really sure why.

“I’m gonna be the parent until you get better,” he told her.

Fethry’s mom laughed fondly. “I’ll be sure to get better as fast as I can,” she said and she kissed Fethry’s forehead.

Lulubelle’s health only got worse.

______________________________________

Gladstone remembered that his mom loved the moon. He loved it too because of her.

And he really loved how the garden looked under the moonlight, shimmering like crystals.

He blinked sleepily, curling up on the porch steps and resting his cheek on his arm. He watched the flowers sway in the night breeze, their shadows dancing under the moon.

“What are you doing out?”

Gladstone looked up. Grandma was in the doorway, the light on in the kitchen behind her.

“I told y’all to get to bed,” Grandma said with a displeased scowl, crossing her arms.

“I was in bed,” Gladstone yawned.

“Then what are you doin’, outta bed?” Grandma asked.

Gladstone chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking at the garden again. He hesitated, then said quietly, “I’m worried about Aunt Lulubelle.”

Grandma was quiet at first. Then she sighed softly and went to sit beside Gladstone. She combed a gentle hand through his feathers. Gladstone scooted closer to her, laying his head in her lap.

“We all are, hun,” Grandma murmured.

Gladstone curled up in her side. “Is Aunt Lulubelle going to...?” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but Grandma understood him.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” she answered honestly.

Gladstone gulped, fear clutching his heart. “What’ll happen to Fethry?”

Fethry was too young. Younger than Gladstone had been when he lost his parents. The thought of anything bad happening to that lovably weird kid made Gladstone’s chest ache. Fethry was full of sunshine, not a single bad bone in his body. Gladstone would do anything to protect him from feeling the weight of the world on his little shoulders.

Grandma thought for a moment, rubbing Gladstone’s back comfortingly. “We can’t predict the future,” she then said, “All we can do is hope for the best.”

Gladstone felt a burst of anger bubble up inside him. “It’s not fair!” he spat, “Why do people have to die?”

Grandma squeezed his shoulder gently. “Oh sweetheart, life is infinite. We never truly die.”

Gladstone blinked. Then he frowned at Grandma in confusion.

Grandma smiled at him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Gladstone sat up. “Della told me that.”

“And I told ‘er father that. And my sister told me that. And somebody told ‘er that, and so on, so on.”

“What does it mean, Grandma?” Gladstone asked.

“Well,” Grandma started, “The ground is where all life came from in the beginning. When we die, we just return to the ground. And then we’re born again.”

“What?” Gladstone frowned, even more confused. “But how?”

“Because our souls, mysteriously, never disappear. They just go somewhere different,” Grandma explained. She pointed to the garden. “Like the flowers.”

“The flowers?”

“Each and every one of those flowers is a reborn soul.”

Gladstone stared blankly at the garden, processing Grandma’s words.

Then his eyes widened.

He whipped himself back to Grandma, vibrating anxiously. “Are my mom and dad’s souls in the flowers?”

Grandma smiled at him, then put her arm around him. “See those two roses in the corner there?”

Gladstone squinted, then nodded eagerly.

“That’s them.”

A huge smile lit up Gladstone’s face. “Really?”

Grandma hugged him. “Really.”

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know. I just feel it.”

Gladstone’s eyes watered and he wiped them quickly. “If Aunt Lulubelle... you know... will her soul be a flower too?”

Grandma hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe. Or maybe she’ll be something else. Maybe she’ll go to Heaven. But no matter what, her soul will always be alive somewhere.”

Gladstone nodded. He liked the sound of that.

He sat on the porch with Grandma for a long time.

______________________________________

Lulubelle died in her sleep.

Fethry cried for days.

______________________________________

Gladstone parents’ funeral was big, overflowing with people. Not that Gladstone was introverted, or socially anxious, or anything, but his grief had been fresh. So he’d been overwhelmed.

Lulubelle’s funeral was small, and Fethry was usually a social butterfly at any given time. But a grieving Fethry was much different.

And he locked himself in the pantry, like Gladstone had done so many times before when something was wrong.

“I’m not coming out!” Fethry said, determinedly, from the inside, “I’m never coming out! Never!”

“Never is a very long time, Feth,” said Donald. He was sitting against the wall beside the door.

Gladstone sat against the other wall beside the door. Della was perched on a kitchen chair with the lean in front of her.

“I don’t care!” Fethry exclaimed.

“But we do,” Della told him, voice gentle.

Fethry faltered, thinking of how to respond. “I still don’t care!” he huffed angrily.

Gladstone sighed. He knew exactly what Fethry was feeling. The scene of the funeral had reminded him of those feelings. He’d deal with his own heavy heart later though. Right now, Fethry was what was important.

“If you’re going to stay in there forever, then we’re going to stay here forever too,” Gladstone said.

“No,” Fethry sniffled, “Go away.”

“No can do, cuz.”

Fethry sniffled again. It hurt Gladstone’s heart. He hated it when Fethry cried. Everybody hated it when Fethry cried.

Then Gladstone got an idea. He turned to Donald. “Whistle.”

Donald raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Whistle,” Gladstone repeated.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I can’t!”

“You don’t know how to whistle?”

“Shut up! Just do it!”

“Well, I can’t do both!”

“Don!” Gladstone was starting to get annoyed.

Donald held up his hands in surrender. “Okay already,” he sighed.

Della rolled her eyes at them.

Don then began to whistle, soft and slow; and as comforting as Gladstone remembered it. Although Donald’s singing made glass shatter, he sure could whistle. He carried a tune perfectly and the sound was smooth. It was what had comforted Gladstone when Don had no words for him.

He hoped it’d do the same for Fethry.

Slowly, Della began to hum along. Gladstone began to hum too.

Soon, he and Della were singing the harmonies quietly, while Don kept whistling the melody. They weren’t great, but they weren’t bad either.

An hour or so had passed when Fethry unlocked the door and came out of the pantry. His cousins all wrapped him up in a big hug and he held onto them, like his life depended on it.

“Will you do that again?” he asked meekly.

Neither of them answered. Don simply started whistling again, while Gladstone and Della slowly began to sing once more. Fethry closed his eyes and listened to them.

It was far from okay. It wouldn’t be okay for a long time and this wouldn’t be the last time Fethry would try to shut himself away.

But eventually, it’d be okay.

______________________________________

Fethry’s big brother moved in to help out on the farm for a few months. Nobody was very familiar with Cousin Abner. Nobody, honestly, knew a thing about Abner. Except for Grandma.

Fethry didn’t even know him. But that wasn’t really Fethry’s fault. Abner was eighteen and had moved out when Fethry was just two. Nobody had heard or seen him since.

It was awkward.

Fethry was still grieving his mom (most nights, he had to sleep with Della), but that didn’t stop his curiosity about Abner. He had no idea how to talk to him though. Abner always had a grumpy look on his face, but he never said anything. The only person he’d said more than two words to was Grandma. Other than that, Abner was anti-social.

And Fethry had no idea how to handle someone who was the complete opposite of him. They might’ve been brothers, but they hadn’t grown up as such. Not to mention the huge age gap—that didn’t help much either.

He asked Don and Della what having a sibling was supposed to feel like. They both said ‘annoying’, then got mad at each other and started fighting. Their answers didn’t help Fethry at all.

He started following Abner around, watching him work. Abner noticed, but didn’t seem to mind. Fethry hoped he’d think of something to talk about eventually. He never did, but he wasn’t going to give up.

Although, he wasn’t sure what it was he wanted.

He liked to be near Abner. It was familiar. Abner reminded him, subtly, of his mom. He was weird in his own way. Like Lulubelle. Like Fethry too. Maybe that was why Fethry liked being near him. Weird was a trait that seemed to run in the Loon side of the family.

‘And there’s nothing wrong with that,’ Fethry’s mom used to tell him, while she made eggs and pudding for breakfast, ‘You should be proud to be weird! Being weird is so much fun.’

Lulubelle was always proud of who she was. She taught Fethry how to be proud of himself too.

Abner was weird. He was grouchy, he didn’t like people, he was too quiet. He was different. He was a Loon through and through.

He was family.

Fethry liked him.

One day, Abner ruffled the feathers on Fethry’s head, messing up his red hat. It was like a spell had been broken.

Suddenly, Fethry could talk to Abner. For hours on end.

______________________________________

Abner stayed for three months before Grandma told him he needed to get back to his home and his job. They had a long argument in the kitchen that ended in Abner rolling his eyes, then the two of them hugging.

Fethry was teary-eyed when Abner told him he was leaving.

“I’ll visit,” Abner promised, wiping away the tears under Fethry’s eyes.

“Soon!” Fethry demanded, sniffling, and flinging his arms around Abner’s neck.

“Soon,” Abner repeated, hugging him back.

He kept his promise. He visited every two weeks.

______________________________________

Fethry was surprised to find Gladstone in the garden. There was dust and dirt smeared on his face, but he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he looked to be enjoying himself. There was even a smile on his beak.

Gladstone, who complained every time something gross touched him while doing the dishes. Gladstone, who hated farm work with a passion. Gladstone, who refused to dirty his hands on a daily basis...

Was dirty. And liked it.

“Are we in a parallel universe?” Fethry asked.

Gladstone jumped, not having noticed his little cousin squat beside him. “What?” he frowned, “No, we’re not.”

“But you hate dirt!” Fethry said, confused. If they weren’t in a parallel universe, then what was going on? Was Gladstone an alien? Oh no, Gladstone was an alien.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Alien Gladstone said.

Fethry squinted at him. “That’s exactly what a galactic being from outer space would say!” he accused.

Gladstone arched an eyebrow. “Feth, I am not from outer space. I’m your cousin.”

“Oh yeah?” Fethry challenged, “Prove it. Tell me something only the REAL Gladstone would know.”

Gladstone rolled his eyes. “I took the blame for you when you accidentally broke Don’s ship in a bottle.”

Fethry gasped. “You are the REAL Gladstone!”

Gladstone smiled. “The one and only.”

Fethry frowned. “Then why aren’t you complaining about how dirty you are?” he asked, still confused.

Gladstone laughed, “Nice to know what you really think about me. I’m flattered.”

Fethry gave him a look. “I know you’re being sarcastic.”

“Very smart, Feth,” Gladstone said with a fond smile, “I’m not complaining because I like gardening.”

Fethry blinked. “You do?”

Gladstone shovelled a pile of dirt, dropping a seed into the ground, then burying it. “Yup,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

“But why?” Fethry asked, “It’s dirty.”

“Yeah, but it’s worth it,” Gladstone told him, “because pretty flowers grow then.”

He smiled at the roses.

Fethry looked at the garden. He hadn’t really paid attention to it before, but the flowers really were pretty.

He turned back to Gladstone. “Isn’t it hard work?”

“Yeah,” Gladstone answered, “but I like this kind of work.” Then he smiled at Fethry. “Wanna help?”

“Sure!” Fethry agreed immediately. He loved helping and loved spending time with his cousins even more.

______________________________________

{2 years later}

Fethry loved all his cousins—even Cousin Gus (who mainly slept all day when Grandma didn’t put him to work).

But if Fethry were to choose a favourite cousin, it’d be Donald.

Della often claimed herself to be Fethry’s favourite cousin because of their closeness. And Fethry would agree that she was his favourite girl cousin (she never gave the fact that she was his only girl cousin too much thought).

Out of all of his many cousins, however, Fethry’s favourite would be Donald. And that was because Don was the one that all of them could rely on.

Don wasn’t necessarily responsible, but he did look after them. He always took charge when there were no adults around. He always kept them safe. He’d never steer them the wrong way.

Fethry couldn’t count all the times Don had been there for him. Don was always there; whenever Fethry had a bad dream, when he twisted his ankle, when he got a toothache, when he forgot his backpack at home, and so on—

Don was there.

Fethry knew he always would be. Even though he drove him crazy.

Don would never understand why he liked the patterns on turtle’s shells, or why he kept snowballs in the freezer, or why he dipped blueberries in peanut butter. And no matter how hard Don tried, he’d never understand the way Fethry’s mind worked. He could spend forever, trying, and never get it. And that was why Fethry drove him crazy.

But none of that really mattered to Don. He wasn’t ashamed of Fethry—embarrassed sometimes, but not ashamed. He didn’t say it very often, but Fethry knew anyway. He was Don’s baby cousin.

Donald didn’t need to understand Fethry to love him. He loved him already.

Sometimes he’d act like he didn’t; like he wasn’t a big softie inside. But Fethry knew the truth. They all did.

All it took was a single sneeze for Don’s caretaking instincts to come out.

Winter was nearing. The air was getting colder and the sun didn’t shine as bright. Somewhere between not wearing a jacket and being outside too much, Fethry must’ve caught a cold.

The adults were out of town for the day. Which left the twins in charge. Or, more specifically, Donald.

He had Fethry in bed with a thermometer in his mouth.

“You don’t have a fever, so that’s good,” Don said, checking his temperature.

Fethry broke into a fit of coughs, much to the protest of his sore throat. His chest felt heavy and his head hurt. He felt horrible.

“You want a glass of water?” Don asked softly.

“Yes please,” Fethry wheezed.

Don stood up, but before he left the room, Fethry called him again.

“What?” He turned back around.

Fethry gave him a weak smile. “Thank you.” And he didn’t just mean for the glass of water.

Donald rolled his eyes, like it was no big deal. “Yeah, yeah.” It was never was a big deal to him.

(By tomorrow, Fethry, Don and Dels would all be sick, except for Gladdy because of his luck, forcing him to take care of all of them. It happened every time. It was just how things went).

______________________________________

“Do you ever miss her?” Fethry asked Abner one time, during one of his visits to the farm.

They were laying around in Fethry’s room, Fethry showing his brother his collection of jelly beans.

“Mom?” Abner looked at him, “Yeah. I miss her. Lots.”

Fethry sorted through his jelly beans. “Do you ever miss Dad?”

Abner blinked, surprised. Which was surprising in itself. It took a lot to get a reaction of any kind out of Abner.

“You remember Dad?” he asked.

“A little,” Fethry replied. He leaned against Abner’s side. “I remember Dad telling me bedtime stories.”

Abner sighed, sounding bitter. “Dad had a heart. Under gravel and stone.”

Fethry looked up at him. There was a story behind that bitter sigh. Fethry was curious, but it wasn’t his place to ask. Maybe one day, when he was older maybe, Abner would tell him.

“Do you miss him?”

Abner stared at the wall. “No.”

______________________________________

Dels loved snow, so she loved it when winter came. She often dragged Fethry outside to play with her. Not that Fethry really fought it. He loved playing in the snow too. But in her excitement, Della sometimes skipped her winter gear. Fethry’s had to pull her back inside and make her bundle up multiple times.

Donnie hated winter. He got chilled to the bone easily, no matter how many layers he put on. At night, they had to give him the spare blankets. And not even that helped him.

Gladstone got sad when winter came by because then the flowers died. He stayed in bed all morning, with a photo of his parents pressed to his chest. Fethry was sure he’d heard him crying a few times.

But it’d get better throughout the day.

While Della and Fethry played outside, Donald would stay in with Gladstone. Then Della would start throwing snowballs at Gladstone’s window, until he and Don came out. They’d have the ultimate snow fight, Fethry on Della’s team and Gladstone on Don’s.

Della and Fethry usually won. Namely, for two reasons. Everyone went easy on Fethry, him being the youngest. And Della was the strongest out of the four of them.

After, they’d all pile together on the sofa to watch a Christmas movie—Don, shivering under their thickest blankets.

There’d be the sound of Grandma in the kitchen, dishes clinking. Uncle Quackmore’s snores never failed to reach their ears. Aunt Hortense, on the telephone, talking to her sister or brother—there was yelling either way.

When Gladdy looked sad again, Fethry curled up in his side. Dels squirmed beside them every five minutes. Donnie fell asleep halfway through the movie.

Gladstone could never stay sad for very long when he was surrounded by their warmth. They took the weight of the world off his shoulders. They always found a way to make him smile.

Fethry loved winter. It brought his family together.

______________________________________

Fethry had a knack for finding interesting sights. Some were so amazing, he simply had to share them with someone.

Don didn’t care and Della couldn’t stand still to save her life. He’d showed Abner once, but his brother didn’t find the same joy in it as he did. So he showed Gladstone.

And Gladdy never turned down Fethry. He liked the things Fethry showed him.

“You notice stuff most people don’t see,” Gladstone had told him when he showed him how pink an egg looked under the sunset. There’d been a strange look in Gladstone’s eyes at the time. “You look harder than everyone else does.”

Fethry had suddenly understood the strange look in Gladstone’s eyes. He saw the same beauty that Fethry saw in the most meaningless things.

Maybe because of his luck. Maybe because no one ever looked past it.

This time, Fethry took him to the frozen pond in the farmyard. They knelt down, dusting away the snow so they could see the ice.

Then Fethry took the flashlight out of his pocket.

“What’s that for?” Gladdy asked.

Fethry grinned at him. “Watch.” He turned the flashlight on and pointed it at the ice.

Gladstone looked, then gasped.

“See the fish?” Fethry asked excitedly.

Gladstone nodded and smiled wide.

“Aren’t they pretty?”

Gladstone nodded again. “They’re so colourful,” he murmured. He could see the fish swimming in the water, the light illuminating them. It was hypnotic in a way.

Fethry grinned, delighted. “I thought you’d like this,” he said, feeling a sense of pride swell up inside his chest.

“I like everything you find,” Gladstone said, “You find things that are only pretty if you look hard enough.”

Fethry thought about that, watching Gladdy. “Like you,” he then said.

Gladstone blinked at him. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Fethry nodded, “People don’t look hard enough at your heart. So they don’t know how pretty it really is.” Fethry smiled when Gladstone looked surprised. “Which is their loss, really.”

Gladstone was speechless for a moment. Then he smiled, a little embarrassed, but also pleased. “Thanks, Feth.”

They stayed out for as long as they could before they got too cold and headed back to the house.

______________________________________

Before Donald and Della turned fourteen, a snowstorm damaged the farm. The wreckage was so awful, it brought Grandma to tears. It was going to take months and a lot of money to repair it.

Not wanting the kids among the damage while they tried to fix it, the adults decided to send them to live with Uncle Scrooge.

______________________________________

Don and Dels ended up celebrating their birthday at Uncle Scrooge’s mansion. It was different. Too different, for Donald’s liking. But Della, ever the optimist, didn’t let it get her down. Next year, they’d do something ‘totally-insane-amazing-and-awesome-at-the-same-time’, she told Donald. And Don knew he’d be a fool not to believe her.

Adjusting to life with Uncle Scrooge wasn’t so hard. It took awhile to get used to the huge, spacious, gorgeous mansion, when all they’d ever known was Grandma’s little ranch.

Don got lost, like, every other day.

Duckburg was a nice place, although city life baffled them. Donald liked being able to see the ocean though, and Fethry really liked the city lights at night. And it didn’t smell like manure, so that was nice. (The noise was something they could go without).

Uncle Scrooge was cold at first, unused to having children around. He didn’t know how to act around them. None of them really knew how to act around him either. It took time and effort on both sides before defences were let down. Uncle Scrooge warmed up eventually.

The new school was harder to adjust to. Donald didn’t need to worry about Della, who was treating it like an adventure. Della breathed adventure like she breathed oxygen.

Fethry missed his old friends at first, but he made new ones easily enough. Feth was like that; he drew people in with his light without even knowing it.

Donald, himself, was otherwise alright. He butted heads with some of the teachers and some of the students, but he butted heads with most people. Nothing new. (Uncle Scrooge gave him heck for it when he got home. Again, nothing new. His mom and dad did the same thing).

Gladstone was the only one Don wasn’t sure about. He’d settled into the mansion alright, no longer as nervous as he’d once been. But there was still something off about him, and he refused to talk to Don about it—outright refused to talk about his feelings at all.

That meant something was wrong. Something was always wrong when Gladstone kept secrets.

When talking didn’t work, he’d tried wrestling it out of Gladstone. But that hadn’t worked either—and Uncle Scrooge yelled at them for causing a ruckus.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” Donald had demanded after, grabbing Gladstone’s arm.

Gladstone glared at him and shrugged his hand off.

They both went to bed, angry. Donald, angrier, because he knew something was wrong and hated that Gladstone wouldn’t tell him.

______________________________________

Don ended up getting his answer through Della.

As rough and hard-as-a-hammer Della was, she was also gentle and caring. She could make the sun shine again with a single word, like she could make the earth shatter with a single fist. Her hugs made storm clouds go away. She was as much a lover as she was a fighter.

A feat that never ceased to impress Donald. How she could turn her power into endless patience and nurturing touches, he’d never know. But she did it.

And it came in handy when Don wasn’t enough to get through Gladstone’s thick skull. (Fethry never kept secrets from any of them. He told them the second something was wrong, seeking out their comfort. He never saw any reason not to).

Don was walking by Gladstone’s room when he saw Della in there with him. They were sitting on the floor, leaning against each other, and Della was singing quietly.

“What’s up?” Donald asked.

“Gladdy’s homesick,” Della replied.

“Dels!” Gladstone protested, giving her a look. She just shrugged. Gladstone hung his head, clearly embarrassed.

That was Gladstone’s big secret? He was homesick?

Donald sighed, unable to choose between being annoyed or exasperated. He entered the room and sat on the other side of Gladstone.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” He’d been so worried that Gladstone’s secret was world-ending or something worse. To find out it was just homesickness, was both relieving and infuriating.

Gladstone pouted, “I thought you’d make fun of me.”

Donald rolled his eyes. Honestly, the kid was so stupid sometimes. “I miss the farm too.”

Gladstone looked up at him in surprise. “You do?”

Donald nodded.

“I miss it too,” said Della, hugging Gladstone a little closer.

A small smile formed on Gladstone’s beak, spirit lifting.

The stayed like that for a little while, until Fethry appeared with an armful of board games, telling them to come play with him and Uncle Scrooge. They played well into the evening, talking and laughing.

Gladstone grinned freely, looking like the sun and blooming flowers.

It made Donald’s heart feel light. He didn’t miss the farm so much anymore, not when Gladstone, Della and Fethry felt like home.

______________________________________

Life with Uncle Scrooge went on and the seasons changed slowly. The snow disappeared from the ground and the air warmed up. Tree branches were covered in green once again and the sky was bluer.

They got used to city life; to the noise, the traffic and everything else. Don still got into fights. Dels still found adventure in everything she did. Feth still found pretty things to show Gladstone. They each found ways to be themselves in this place, so different from Grandma’s farm.

They got used to their new school too. Although, that didn’t mean the school got used to them.

Bullies were everywhere. No matter where you went, there were stupid pricks around, who found sick satisfaction in hurting someone smaller than them.

Country bumpkins, like Don and his sister and cousins, stood out like sore thumbs. And that made them perfect targets.

Don somehow heard the cry from the other hallway before it’d even sounded. The familiarity of it made his blood go cold. Sharing a look with Della, they both dashed to the other side of the school.

They found Fethry, stuck in a trash can, struggling to get out. There was a teenager standing nearby, watching him with a sick smirk, while playing with Fethry’s stocking cap in her hand.

“What was that for?” Fethry yelped, hanging desperately onto the sides of the garbage can. If he let go, he’d fall in.

The teen shrugged. “You were in my way.”

“In what world, does that qualify as a good reason?!” Della shouted, glaring heatedly at her.

Donald snatched Fethry’s hat from her, then he and Della lifted Fethry out of the trash. Fethry was shaky on his legs, which made Donald’s heart twist in anger. It hurt to see him trembling so badly, he needed to hang onto Della for support.

The bully scoffed, “Relax, it’s not a big deal.”

Relax? No big deal? The back of Donald’s throat burned with a scream that yearned to come out.

Fethry was white as a sheet and there were bright red scratches across his palms, where the sides of the garbage can had dug into his hands.

It was a big deal and Don was about to tell her as such—as well as a few choice words—but Della set a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at her. Della’s face was calm on the outside, but Donald knew her and he knew there was a raging storm on the inside. Her anger wasn’t like Don’s, but it could be just as dangerous. And even at their age, she still hit the hardest out of the two of them on top of a sharp tongue, so Donald stayed put. Whatever Dels was going to do, it’d cut deeper than any insult Donald could ever think of.

“You think you’re hot stuff, huh?” Della said, wrapping her arm around Fethry’s back. She ran a gentle hand through his hair, calming him down. “Newsflash, stupid! Pushing little kids in the trash is only gonna make people hate you even more than they probably already do.”

Della’s words were dipped in ice and full of venom. The bully’s eyes widened, clearly a cord struck somewhere inside her. Della gave her an equally icy glare, making her shiver.

Della did that; she stole the speech and breath out of a person with a single look, made of ice and snowstorms.

She glared harder at the other girl, and the bully finally scampered away.

Donald was impressed. He was pretty sure that was a new record for his sister.

“You okay, Feth?” Della then asked gently, the ice gone from her eyes and replaced with love.

Fethry smiled up at her, face lighting up like the sun after the rain, and it made relief swell up in Don’s chest. He didn’t say anything. Just hugged Della tight and gratefully, burying his smile in her side.

“Good,” she whispered, the tension leaving her shoulders, and she hugged Fethry back.

He hugged Donald too, just as tight and grateful, and Donald’s heart squeezed. Fethry deserved all the love in the universe and if Don had anything to say about it, nothing bad would ever happen to him again.

He told Fethry to hold out his hands, so he could look at the scratches. The redness had died down and they didn’t look so bad anymore. Nothing that some ointment and bandages couldn’t fix.

“There you guys are!” Gladstone called, approaching them, “I’ve been looking all over for you! I would’ve left without you, but I still don’t know the way home off by heart yet.”

Everything went back to normal after that. Gladstone noticed the scratches on Fethry’s hands, but didn’t say anything and just let Fethry hang off of him, like a monkey on the way home. He told cheesy joke after joke, none of which were funny, but Gladstone and Dels laughed at anyways. And Don couldn’t help but watch them with a smile, his chest featherlight and full of love (not that he’d say it out loud).

It was comforting to know that, no matter where they were, they were always the same.

Uncle Scrooge fussed over Fethry when they got back to the mansion, and bandaged up his hands himself.

At dinner, Fethry had trouble picking up his fork.

______________________________________

They end up staying with Uncle Scrooge for a year. It was a year filled with adventure, whacky mishaps, tears, yelling and laughter, and none of them would ever trade it for anything. Their time together was even more precious than gold. The board games, picnics, movie nights and arguments all held a special place in their hearts now and forever. And they knew Scrooge felt the same way.

They didn’t say goodbye because they would see each other again soon. For holidays, birthdays, family gatherings. They’d always be the same. And when they were apart, they’d still be connected under the same sky.

Uncle Scrooge wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon either. No, his spirit was too stubborn. He was keeping his feet planted on the earth for a long, long time.

Moving didn’t feel as strange as the first time, and when they got back to the farm, they fell back into their old routines instantly.

If you asked him, Donald would never admit it, but he missed Uncle Scrooge. A little bit.

Still, it was nice to be home again. With the familiar sound of Grandma in the kitchen, his dad snoring, and his mom yelling at her sister or brother on the telephone. And laying on Grandma’s old couch with the tv on, Della’s head on his shoulder, Fethry curled in his side, and Gladstone’s legs on his lap.

Donald felt at peace.

______________________________________

(Fethry missed the farm and Grandma and everything, but what he missed the most was Abner. He missed talking to Abner, and looking at the stars with him, and gluing rocks together with him. He missed Abner’s silence, and the small smile that lit up his face whenever Fethry was around, and the way Abner listened to everything he said, no matter how ridiculous.

So he was glad that Abner visited him as soon as he was back on the farm.

“You’ve grown,” Abner muttered, fiddling with the pompom on Fethry’s hat.

Fethry hugged his side, grinning up at his brother. “And you got older!”

Abner rolled his eyes. “Gee thanks,” he said sarcastically, but there was a fond look in his eyes, as he pulled off his little brother’s hat and dragged a hand through his unruly hair.)

______________________________________

{2 years later}

Donald wasn’t prepared for the way that his lungs stuttered and his heart shattered when he learned that his parents were killed in a car accident. He wasn’t prepared for the way his throat plugged and his legs trembled. He wasn’t prepared for the way Della sobbed without mercy, shoulders wracking with all the anguish in the world.

He and Della weren’t prepared to live their young lives without their mom and dad. Didn’t even have their drivers’ licenses yet.

“I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t prepared for Grandma to speak, voice wobbling and tears in her own eyes because she just lost her son, the only child she’d had left.

It hurt. That was all Donald knew.

And he was angry too. Angry at the drunk driver for taking his parents’ lives. Angry that two innocent people paid for a stranger’s own stupidity. And angry that the stranger had lived when he didn’t deserve to.

He wanted to storm to the hospital and beat the guy to a pulp, but Gladstone blocked the door.

Donald knew he wasn’t thinking straight. He knew that Gladstone understood how it felt to lose both your parents. He knew Gladstone was stopping him from doing something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

But he was angry and he was grieving, and he needed to lash out. So he lashed out at his cousin, who was only trying to help him. And Gladstone let him. He stayed calm while Donald screamed out his heart and soul, clothed in twisted, ugly rage.

“He killed them!”

“I know, Donnie. I know—“

“No, you don’t! Your parents died! Mine were killed! Killed!”

Somewhere underneath his rage, Donald felt guilty when pain flickered in Gladstone’s eyes. But it was only there for a second, Gladstone swallowing his own hurt for Donald’s sake.

“I know this sucks, Don,” Gladstone said gently, reaching carefully for Donald’s shoulders, “but I need you to come back. Okay?”

Donald’s blood boiled and he saw red. Everything after that was a hazy blur, but he remembered when his fist collided with Gladstone’s face. Gladstone stumbled back, but didn’t move from the door. He didn’t hit back, like he usually did. Instead, he looked at Donald softly.

He looked at Don with all the love in the galaxy, like Donald hadn’t just punched him in the nose and made him bleed. He looked at Don with true understanding. He looked at Don like he was something precious.

Donald’s heart clenched. Exhaustion washed over his body and he fell against Gladstone’s shoulder, biting his tongue and breathing in shaky whimpers, so he wouldn’t scream out his cries.

Gladstone held him tightly and slowly guided him away from the door. He shushed him, his touch gentle.

Donald cried into his shoulder for hours.

______________________________________

Lucky for Gladstone, Donald didn’t break his nose. There was some bruising, but that was it. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t the first shiner he’s ever gotten, and definitely not the last one. Gladstone’s mouth was too smart for his own good.

Donald had cried himself to sleep and Gladstone had laid him down on the sofa, covering him with a blanket. The dried tear tracks under his eyes were a painful sight.

It hurt seeing him like this. Donald was so strong, so brave.

Yet Gladstone had held him, while he broke in his arms.

He’d always thought that nothing could knock Don down. His big cousin was just too tough; nothing could ever snap his strength in half. And Gladstone had always looked up to Donald, wishing he could wield even a little bit of that same strength.

To watch Don fall apart, choking on his tears, made Gladstone’s heart ache.

It wasn’t fair. Don had only ever done right in his sixteen years of life. He didn’t deserve this kind of pain.

And Della. Dear, sweet Della. Stars should be falling from the sky for her.

She hadn’t moved from the porch all evening.

Leaving a glass of water on the table for Don when he woke up, Gladstone went out to check on her. Fethry was sitting on the steps beside her, arm wrapped snuggly around her waist. The little guy wasn’t so little anymore, having gone through a growth spurt. He was still short compared to Gladstone and Donald, but he’d almost caught up to Della. She had to slouch a bit, but she could tuck her head under Feth’s chin now.

Quietly, Gladstone sat down on the other side of her. “Hey,” he said softly, sliding an arm over her shoulders.

Della looked so weak, so small under Fethry’s arm. It made Gladstone ache. He wished he could take her pain away.

“I can’t believe they’re gone,” she mumbled hoarsely, eyes glistening like rain.

Fethry held her a little tighter.

Gladstone squeezed her shoulder. “I know,” he whispered. He knew exactly how she felt. He and Fethry both did.

Della gulped. “When does it stop hurting?” she asked, voice clipped.

Gladstone and Fethry looked at each other.

Gladstone sighed. “It doesn’t,” he answered honestly.

“But it gets easier,” Fethry whispered.

Della began to tremble. “How long?”

Gladstone thought about his own parents and swallowed, blinking rapidly.

“A long time,” Fethry replied, thinking about his mom and squeezing his eyes shut.

They hugged Della as tight and warm as they could when she started to cry.

A really long time.

______________________________________

Gladstone supposed he’d always known to some extent, he’d just ignored it. Whenever he thought that he indulged the idea of disappearing just a little too much, he shrugged it off. Whenever he got the feeling that something might be wrong, he pushed it down and locked it away in a box at the back of his heart.

Being told that there was indeed something wrong, tore a rip inside that box.

Gladstone’s mind wasn’t wired correctly. Wasn’t that just great? Now he could add ‘wrong’ to the list of words that described him.

Selfish
Lazy
Stupid
Worthless.

Gladstone could think of some more words, but he was too tired to. It’d been a long day.

Of course, his mind hated him and didn’t care. More dark thoughts, full of spite and disgust directed at himself, pounded on the inside of his head insistently, ringing inside his ears. That’s not what hurt though.

What hurt was that normal people didn’t think those kinds of things about themselves—or if they did, they had some semblance of control over it. Gladstone didn’t have that control. That wire had been cut.

And wasn’t that just ironic for the luckiest duck-goose in the world? Gladstone couldn’t control his own thoughts. Wasn’t that just the icing on the cake?

It honestly didn’t surprise him. His luck had never given him happiness.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the pantry door.

“Gladstone?” Donald. “Are you in there? How can you still fit in there?”

Gladstone had to laugh at that. He’d shot up like a beanstalk, but had next to no muscle. Dels called him a string, with a thigh gap as wide as Texas.

“What’s wrong?” Don asked.

Gladstone chewed on the inside of his cheek. He’d never told Don about how some nights, he cried himself to sleep because his mind just wouldn’t shut up. Never told Don about how some days, he couldn’t feel happy no matter how hard he tried. Never told anyone.

He almost told Grandma once, but something inside him had said it wasn’t worth it. And Gladstone stopped himself before he could even open his beak.

It was easier not to say anything. So he never did.

He wasn’t about to start either.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just...” Gladstone thought for a moment. “Raiding the sugar.”

“Yeah, right,” Donald said in disbelief. Gladstone practically heard him roll his eyes. “You only go in there when you’re upset.”

Gladstone didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want Don to look at him like he was something fragile. Maybe he wasn’t all that strong in the first place, but he was not fragile.

“Look, Don, I’m fine. I just want to be alone right now.”

“I’ll leave you alone after you tell me what’s wrong.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong. That word rattled around Gladstone’s head. “Nothing’s wrong.” Everything was wrong.

“Gladstone,” Donald said sternly.

Gladstone swallowed.

“Gladdy,” Donald said softly.

That did it. Gladstone exhaled shakily. “You know that test the school counsellor had us do?” he asked, heartbeat picking up.

“Yeah,” Don replied.

Gladstone steeled his nerves as best he could. “I have depression.”

He waited for Don to say something. To yell at him for not telling him sooner. Or to think he was joking and laugh, so Gladstone could laugh along, just let him think that, and never have to speak of this ever again.

None of that happened.

Instead, Donald sighed and said, “I do too.”

Gladstone blinked. He stood up quickly and unlocked the door, opening it up just enough so that he could see Don’s face. “You...” he stammered, tongue dry, “You’re not kidding, right?”

Donald looked him honestly in the eye. “No. I was diagnosed a few months ago.”

Gladstone blinked again because that was all he could think to do.

Don gave him a soft, sad smile. “We’re Symptom Cousins.”

Gladstone’s heart sunk. Because the thought of Don, feeling the same way he did, made him so sad.

“Does Grandma know?” he asked.

Don looked at his feet. “Not yet.” Then he arched an eyebrow at Gladstone. “What about you?”

“No. She doesn’t know about me. Not yet, at least.” Gladstone fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves.

Donald then set a hand on his shoulder. “Come here,” he said, pulling Gladstone all the way out of the pantry and into a one-armed hug. “It’s okay. This isn’t who you are, it’s just a part of you. And that’s okay.”

Gladstone gulped and fought the stinging at the corner of his eyes, because he refused to cry. He allowed himself to lean against Don just a little bit though.

“I just...” he cleared his throat, “I don’t want people thinking I’m weak.” Although, he didn’t feel all that strong right now.

“It doesn’t make you weak,” Donald said immediately, “It doesn’t make you wrong either,” he continued, as if he could read Gladstone’s mind, “You’re still you, Gladdy. Nothing can ever change that.”

Gladstone’s chest felt just a little lighter. It was small, but it made him happy. And with Don’s arm around him, he felt loved. As well as a little braver.

“We should tell Grandma.”

Donald squeezed him closer. “We’ll do it together.”

______________________________________

Della might’ve been short, but she was all muscle and hips and as strong as she looked. So Gladstone avoided getting on her bad side. He’d seen her beat Donald in fights time and time again, and he had no desire to ever be on the receiving end of Della’s headlocks.

Yet he found himself in one at breakfast (when Grandma was away for the weekend). Gladstone couldn’t quite remember how it happened, but he’d been running his mouth earlier, so it was probably his fault.

“Surrender!” Della commanded, digging her knee into Gladstone’s back.

“Ow! I surrender! I surrender!” Gladstone cried, and was glad that Donald and Fethry weren’t in the kitchen to see him like this. (Especially Donald. Don would tease him for weeks).

“Good,” Della said, letting him go and getting off of him.

Gladstone sighed in relief, rolling onto his back on the floor.

Della smirked down at him. “You’re such a wimp.”

Gladstone gave her a look. “I love you too.”

She burst out laughing, and honestly, Gladstone would’ve thrown himself into the sun to preserve that beautiful laugh. She helped him up, kissing his cheek.

“I love you too,” she said with a genuine smile, “but if you ever steal my hair dryer again, I won’t hesitate to snap you like the twig you are.”

______________________________________

{6 years later}

Della’s death hit them even harder than Grandma’s a year prior. It was sudden and unexpected.

And made their hearts sink like bricks.

Her funeral was on a bright, sunny day and the whole family was there. None of them really felt like socializing though. The only person—other than Donald and Gladstone—Fethry had talked to was his brother. (The only person Abner talked to at all was Fethry). Gladstone greeted Uncle Scrooge when he showed up. Donald didn’t want to. He’d been mad at Scrooge for some time now, but he wouldn’t tell Gladstone why.

Other than that, Gladstone and Fethry stuck by Don... and Della’s three baby boys.

Huey, Dewey and Louie were fast asleep in their stroller, snuggled against each other under red, blue and green blankets. They were adorable. Each of them were the spitting image of Della.

Gladstone held back tears when he looked at them.

Donald was going to raise them. He’d said so and you’d be an idiot to tell him he couldn’t.

Gladstone looked at Donald. He looked like the world was slowly crushing him, but was trying so hard not to show it. It hurt, seeing him like this.

It hurt, knowing that Della would never argue with Don ever again. That she’d never mess up Gladstone’s curls ever again. That she’d never kiss the top of Fethry’s head again. That she wouldn’t watch her babies grow up. It hurt so much, and Gladstone felt like there was a hole inside his chest.

He suddenly thought back to when he was little and how Grandma told him that life was infinite. He thought back to when he was fifteen and Della said she was going to touch the sky one day.

Gladstone smiled and nudged Donald. Don looked at him.

“I bet her soul is a star, watching over us.”

Donald smiled at his words, wiping his eyes when they started to water. Gladstone put an arm around him. Donald leaned into him.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do,” he said, gazing at his sister’s babies in the stroller in front of him.

Gladstone was about to speak, but Fethry sat down next to them at that moment, putting a hand on Donald’s forearm.

“Whatever you do, you’re going to be great with those kids,” he said softly. Then he smiled, sad, but full of love. “And if you ever need any help, just call me and Gladdy.”

Gladstone smiled at Fethry and squeezed Don’s shoulder. “That’s right. You call, we’ll come running.”

Donald’s eyes watered again, but for a different reason this time. He sniffled and pulled Gladstone and Fethry close.

“Thanks, guys.”

It felt incomplete without Della. But whenever they looked up at the stars, Gladstone knew she’d be there with them in spirit.

Life was hard, and beautiful, and sad, and happy. Life was made of precious metals. Life was infinite.

And they’d be okay.