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Someone is in the house.
Anthony knows it before he’s even fully awake, recognizing the familiar sound of the front door clicking shut as what had pulled him from sleep in the first place. Reluctantly, he lifts his aching head and squints over at the clock; it’s just past noon, which means it’s too early for anyone to be coming home yet. His mom said she’d be helping out at church until at least three o’clock, and since it’s a Tuesday, everyone else should either be at work or school—
So why is he hearing someone shuffling around downstairs?
He’s too exhausted and achy to move from the puddle of sweat he’d woken up in, so he just frowns at the closed bedroom door and listens to all the noise coming from the other side with mounting confusion. Heavy footsteps creep slowly up the staircase, as if the intruder is trying their best to be quiet; whoever they are, they’re failing miserably. They don’t even bother skipping the third step up from the top, the one that always creaks no matter what Anthony’s dad does to try and fix it: a rookie mistake.
The swear that echoes down the hallway a split second later, however, explains everything— even (maybe especially) the terrible attempt at stealth. There’s not an intruder after all; Anthony knows that voice well. It belongs to just about the only person who could live somewhere for nineteen years and still forget which stair is the creaky one: his older brother, Dennis.
Through half-closed eyes, Anthony watches the doorknob turning agonizingly slowly, and he feels his patience wearing thin with the squealing hinges. Even still, he doesn’t muster up the strength to say anything until Dennis has already spent about a full minute trying to quietly push open the door. “You don’t have to do that,” he croaks. It feels like he’s been gargling gravel; sounds like it, too. “Mom’s not home.”
“Shit!”
Dennis jumps about a foot in the air, nearly slamming the door on himself in the process. The moment he recovers, he stumbles into the room and fixes his younger brother with a look that’s somehow both bewildered and indignant. “What the hell— Anthony ? Why are you here?” he hisses. “Don’t you have school?”
“I’m sick,” Anthony replies simply. He thinks it should be fairly obvious from how terrible he looks and sounds, but as usual, he’s being brushed off. These days, there’s always something more important than whatever’s happening to him.
Dennis rolls his eyes, turning away so he can start rifling through the dresser. “Are you ever not sick?” he retorts.
An injured look passes over Anthony’s face— and for a moment, all he can do is stare at his brother’s back in silence. The words shouldn’t sting as much as they do; he’s pretty sure it’s not even meant to be an insult. It’s just Dennis being Dennis, spitting out a snarky comeback because he only ever speaks in his own special, sharp-tongued language. Anthony’s never had a problem translating before, so why is he getting all cut up now?
It’s not even an inaccurate statement; Anthony is sick a lot. He has frequent headaches, which have been worsening lately, and his stomach always feels like it’s tied in knots. It happens so often, in fact, that his family has grown used to seeing him picking at his dinner and flinching away from loud noises. He’s even started carrying a few Tylenol in his pockets just in case he needs them, because he knows by now that he probably will.
Whatever he’s sick with today, however, is something completely separate from all of that. It’s much worse, not that anyone has cared to notice; Dennis isn’t the first person to brush him off today. His mom was similarly dismissive when he complained to her this morning, more concerned with the fact that he’d be missing school than anything else— but even that lecture had fallen by the wayside once the church carpool arrived. Then, she was in such a hurry to leave that she didn’t so much as pause to say goodbye.
On days like today, Anthony feels like everyone is in a hurry to leave him behind.
He finally forces himself to respond after a few moments, even though he’s almost certain his brother isn’t listening anymore— even though he can feel his family’s apathy like a physical weight on his chest. “This is different,” he grumbles defensively. He punctuates the statement by pulling the blankets up over his head, hiding himself away with his hurt.
This time, when silence settles over the room, Anthony doesn’t break it. Part of him is hoping that the quiet will swallow him whole; another, larger part is horrified by the realization that it might’ve consumed him a long time ago. Mostly, though, he doesn’t say anything because he’s angry — angry that it seems like he has to beg his family to care, and angry at his brother for being a dick. He’s angry with himself, too, for expecting any differently, and because he’s embarrassingly close to crying over a throwaway quip.
Predictably, Dennis doesn’t take kindly to being given the cold shoulder. He continues rummaging through the drawers for just a few moments longer before abruptly stopping, ending their quiet standoff with an irritated sigh. “So what’s wrong with you?” he asks, sounding far more annoyed than he has any right to be. It’s more of a demand than a question, like all of this is an inconvenience for him— like Anthony is an inconvenience.
“Dunno. Flu, I think,” the younger boy mumbles, wishing Dennis didn’t always have to have the last word. He just wants this stupid conversation to be over; he’s absolutely miserable. Arguing with his brother is the last thing he wants to do right now, no matter how angry he is.
But Dennis just won’t let it go; it’s not in his nature. “You think ?” he echoes, and slams the drawer shut. “What did mom say?”
That’s the final straw: an innocent question that just so happens to mention their mom. In the moment, though, it feels like salt in the wound, a reminder of how little his family cares— and Anthony’s had enough. “I said I dunno, Dennis! She left early!” he snaps, voice straining. He might as well be shaving his vocal chords with a chainsaw, but he keeps shouting anyway. “Can you quit it with the third degree?!”
However miserable Anthony was before, it’s nothing compared to how he feels in the wake of his outburst. Shouting like that leaves him dizzy and panting, and his stomach lurches as he tries desperately to regain his composure. It’s so hot under the blankets that he’s practically boiling alive; his face is on fire, bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat— and that’s not even the worst of it.
The worst part is that he’s gotten what he asked for; Dennis isn’t speaking to him anymore.
Guilt sets in immediately, a tiny seed in Anthony’s chest that grows exponentially with every second that passes in deafening silence. He’s never known Dennis to go down without a fight; even when the older boy is storming off, he’s always throwing some last minute insult over his shoulder or finding some other minor way to retaliate. His lack of response can only mean one thing: somehow, Anthony hurt his brother’s feelings.
His stomach twists uneasily at the realization, remorse and panic rising like bile in his throat. It’s suddenly, vitally important that he apologizes to Dennis; he has to fix things, to make sure his brother knows he didn’t mean it. He won’t be able to live with himself otherwise. Forcing his unwilling, achy limbs to move, Anthony emerges from his pile of blankets— and immediately finds himself face-to-face with his furious brother.
Dennis is crouched by the side of the bed, the deep scowl on his face broadcasting all the rage that had been expected from him and then some. If looks could kill, Anthony would be a dead man; instead, he meets his brother’s glare with an odd sense of relief. It sucks to be on the receiving end of Dennis’s ire, but he’d prefer that to the alternative— which reminds him that he needs to apologize.
Before the younger boy can say anything, though, Dennis stands up and shoves a thermometer in his face. “Take your temperature, and I’ll consider not kicking your ass,” he says, eyes narrowing as he stares his brother down.
It’s such a relief to see Dennis acting normally that Anthony doesn’t argue; he just silently takes the thermometer and places it under his tongue. He still feels guilty about yelling, but because Dennis seems alright, it’s not as overwhelming as it was before. In fact, his remorse has faded enough for exhaustion to set in again, making it difficult for Anthony to keep his eyes open as they wait for the thermometer to get a proper reading.
During one especially long blink, Dennis moves to sit on the edge of his own bed, crossing his arms over his chest and bouncing one leg in agitation. The older boy has always hated waiting, even for a short period of time— so of course this is only irritating him further. “God, this is such a drag,” he complains, staring moodily out the window behind Anthony. “I had plans today!”
Anthony can’t say anything because of the thermometer in his mouth, but he shoots his brother a glare, casting a pointed look toward the bookbag still hanging off his desk chair. It’s not like he wanted to be sick today; he’d much rather be in school, taking down notes and counting the hours until baseball practice— which is another thing he’s going to have to skip because of this stupid illness.
He continues to stew in silence for another couple of minutes, waiting until Dennis stands up to spit out the thermometer and a response. “Just leave if you wanna go so bad,” he croaks.
Dennis rolls his eyes, scoffing as he takes the thermometer from his younger brother. “C’mon, man. I’m not that much of a dick,” he says, before he turns his attention to the thermometer in his hand. When he sees how far the little red line has risen, he frowns, clearly uneasy as he squints at the number beside it. “Hey, what temperature means I have to take you to the hospital?”
Alarm bells are going off in the distance, but Anthony barely has the energy to muster up a mild anxiety. “104?”
The frown on Dennis’s face deepens, and he lets out a long sigh. “You’re at 102,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Dammit. Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re gonna stay right there, and I’m gonna go call mom. Got it?”
“Sure.” Anthony’s not sure he could move even if he wanted to— which, for the record, he doesn’t. Going back to bed is sounding better by the second.
Dennis narrows his eyes, trying to gauge if he can trust that answer. “Swear to god, if I have to chase you down…” he warns, jabbing a finger in Anthony’s direction. He never finishes the sentence, though, muttering something about phone books instead as he stalks out into the hall; apparently, he’s forgotten that their mom has the church’s number pinned up on the fridge.
Anthony must fall asleep after that, because the next thing he knows, someone is trying to shake him awake. Probably Dennis, if he had to guess. He lets out a quiet groan and shoves at the hand on his shoulder until it goes away, hoping his brother will let him fall back asleep— but when the shaking starts up again a few seconds later, he finally gives up and reluctantly opens his eyes.
Just like he suspected, it’s Dennis standing over him— but he doesn’t look angry, or even annoyed. He actually looks a little concerned, or maybe just uncertain; whatever it is, it’s not an expression that he sees on his brother’s face very often. It’s gone as soon as Dennis realizes he’s awake, but it’s enough to make Anthony pause, holding back any of his own annoyance at being woken up again.
“Finally. Drink some of that water, will ya?” Dennis says, sticking a thumb toward the bedside table as he turns away.
To his surprise, Anthony glances over to find not only a glass of water, but some ibuprofen, too; maybe Dennis was paying attention, after all. He mumbles his thanks as he sits up to take the medication, and while the pills are hard to swallow, the cold water provides a temporary relief for his sore throat.
“So it looks like you’re stuck with me, cuz mom won’t be home for a while,” Dennis continues. His voice is accompanied by the loud crinkling of paper bags; apparently, he found the time to stop by the store while Anthony was sleeping. The groceries are sitting on top of his bed, and he’s rummaging through them, obviously searching for something specific. “Grabbed a bunch of shit to bring your temperature down; ibuprofen, too, since we were out. Mom said that would help.”
All Anthony can do is stare in dumbstruck silence, still clutching the glass in his hands. It’s half empty, and he keeps thinking about all the complaining Dennis was doing before— keeps thinking about how much his brother doesn’t want to be here.
“This is such a drag,” Dennis said, just a little bit ago. “I had plans today,” he’d lamented— but for some reason, he’s still here. He came back, just so that he can take care of Anthony; how does that make any sense?
It feels like Anthony’s missing something, as if he’s accidentally skipped a page in his novel. He can’t figure out for the life of him what happened to cause such a big change in his brother’s attitude; he’s afraid to ask, just in case it breaks the spell. It might be selfish, but if he’s dreaming, he wants to savor this as long as possible.
“Fucking things. Where the hell…” Dennis mutters, completely unaware of the crisis his younger brother is having. He abruptly lifts the grocery bag up and flips it upside down, dumping all its contents onto his bed haphazardly; that gets Anthony’s attention. “There they are.”
When Dennis grabs the small box off of the bed, Anthony finally catches a glimpse at the label. “Popsicles?” he asks. No wonder his brother was searching so desperately; they’re probably well on their way to melting by now.
“Yeah, figured you’d want some. You sound like shit,” Dennis replies easily as he tears the box open. He pulls two out and checks to make sure they’re still mostly frozen before tossing one to Anthony, keeping the other for himself— but the younger boy doesn’t make any attempt to catch the flying ice treat. It lands neatly on his lap instead, causing Dennis to raise an eyebrow at the lack of effort. “Thought you played baseball,” he quips. “How’d you make varsity when you can’t catch?”
Anthony just rolls his eyes, an action that’s more fond than anything else. Unlike earlier, he knows Dennis doesn’t mean anything by it; after all, his brother would know better than anyone how hard he’s worked to make the team this year because he’s made a point of attending most of Anthony’s games. This is the same stupid, lighthearted teasing that passes frequently between them, and it feels good to have it back— comforting, even. He tries to enjoy it while it lasts.
While Dennis heads downstairs to put the rest of the box in the freezer, Anthony slowly eats his orange popsicle and ponders the likelihood of his brother sneaking out the door. In his mind, it’s almost certain that he’ll ditch him. Once again, though, he’s proven wrong; his brother walks back into the room just a few minutes later.
Anthony blinks, staring at the other boy for a moment before he blurts out exactly what he’s thinking: “You came back.”
Dennis looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “No, I was eaten by the fridge monster. Duh, I came back; I told you, I was just putting shit in the freezer. Didn’t take that long,” he says, shoving the pile of groceries on his bed aside so that he can sit down.
The popsicle has melted just enough to leave Anthony’s fingers sticky, and he frowns to himself as he stares at his hand. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “You said you had things to do,” he tries, but Dennis still doesn’t get it.
“Yeah, that ship’s sailed." Dennis rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his popsicle— cherry flavored, by the looks of it— before continuing. “Was supposed to meet up with the guys like an hour ago. They probably found something else to do by now.”
Ugh.
This isn’t working out. Anthony’s head is too foggy to properly express what he’s trying to say, and he’s just getting more frustrated with every failed attempt at communication. So he tries changing his tactics, staring directly at his brother while he speaks. “Thank you,” he says, slowly and purposefully. “For staying. And taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”
That only seems to confuse Dennis even more; the younger boy might as well be speaking in a foreign language. After a few moments of silence, however, understanding dawns and his eyes narrow. “Y’know, for a nerd, you can be a real dumbass sometimes,” Dennis gripes. “Didn’t have to. What kind of bullshit is that? You’re my brother, stupid. Of course I stayed.”
There’s a part of Anthony that wants to argue— the part that remembers being brushed aside, the one that points out every indication that he’s alone; the one made up of his fears and insecurities, saying he’s the only one who wants their family to stay together. It’s the same ugly emotion that rears its head when he listens to his parents argue, or when Tanya talks about how much she hates this town, and it’s the reason he got so bent out of shape over all this in the first place.
It’s never backed off faster than it does now, in the wake of Dennis’s simple but very Dennis response.
As if sensing that he’s won, the older boy leans back against the headboard and crosses his legs, gesturing to the pile of groceries at his feet with his now-barren popsicle stick. “Plus, mom would be so pissed at me if you died. I’d never see the light of day again.”
Sitting under a pile of blankets, feverish and miserable, Anthony hides the smallest of smiles behind the last bite of his bright orange popsicle. His mom will be home in a couple of hours with Megan in tow, and it’ll be a few more hours still until the rest of his family gets off of work. For now, though, it’s just him and Dennis— and he’s perfectly happy with that.