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The sitting room floor was covered in bits of parchment, string, and what looked suspiciously like parts of Mum’s old clock.
Bill lay on his stomach in the middle of it all, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to line up two pieces just right. Charlie knelt beside him, holding a crooked bit of wire steady with both hands.
They’d already taken it apart twice trying to get it right.
“If you tie it there,” Charlie said, “it’ll swing instead of jam.”
“I know,” Bill muttered. “I’m doing it.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
Bill shot him a look, then grinned. “Yeah, and it worked last time.”
They were still arguing about it when the door creaked open.
Ron padded in, clutching his battered toy dragon under one arm.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, eyes wide.
He crouched beside them immediately, watching Bill’s hands with intense interest.
Charlie glanced up.
“Making something.”
Bill shifted instinctively, trying to block the pieces with his arm. “It’s—just—don’t touch.”
“What is it?” Ron demanded, already moving closer.
“No,” Bill said. “It’s—Ron, don’t—”
Too late.
Ron reached out, trying to grab the dangling bit of string.
His sleeve snagged, tipping the whole thing sideways.
There was a soft snap.
The carefully balanced pieces collapsed in on themselves.
Everyone froze.
Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Bill sucked in a breath, heart dropping. “Ron—”
“I’m sorry,” Ron said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
Bill pushed himself upright, hands lifting in frustrated disbelief. “I asked you not to touch it.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know,” Bill said, voice rising despite himself. “But you always grab things, and it’s—” He stopped, dragged a hand through his hair. “We were nearly done.”
Ron’s shoulders hunched. “I can fix it.”
Bill shook his head, words tumbling out before he could slow them.
“No, it’s too delicate. You’ll just—” The words came out before he could stop them. “You’re a bit little for this, Ron.”
Ron’s face crumpled.
Charlie nodded along. “Yeah. Go play with your dragon or something.”
Ron nodded, lip trembling. He turned and bolted from the room, toy dragon tucked tight under his arm.
For a moment, the room was quiet except for the ticking of the clock.
Charlie let out a breath. “Well. It’s broken.”
Bill stared at the mess on the floor — the string still looped where Ron had touched it, the pieces scattered.
His stomach felt wrong.
Charlie started gathering things up. “Well, let's start trying to fix it.”
Bill nodded, but he didn’t move.
A few minutes passed of Charlie working on his own, then Bill stood abruptly.
“I’m going to the loo,” he muttered.
Charlie shrugged. “Don’t take all day.”
Bill padded down the hall. As he stepped into the bathroom, he heard it — a small, hiccupping sound.
He paused.
He could hear quiet crying. The kind someone made when they were trying very hard not to be heard.
Bill followed the sound to the little cupboard by the stairs. The door was cracked open just enough for him to see inside.
Ron was curled up on the floor, clutching his dragon, shoulders shaking.
Bill’s chest clenched hard.
Ron had hidden himself away to cry and Bill had caused it.
He knocked gently. “Ron?”
Ron scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. “Go ’way.”
Bill swallowed. “Can I come in?”
A pause.
Then, very quietly, “’Kay.”
Bill sank down beside him, cross-legged, careful not to crowd him — the same way their Dad did when one of them was upset.
“I shouldn’t have snapped,” Bill said quietly. “I got frustrated and forgot to think first.”
Ron sniffed, pressing his face into the dragon. “I didn’t mean to break it.”
“I know,” Bill said at once. “I know you didn’t.”
Ron peeked up, eyes red and shiny. “You said I was too little.”
Bill winced.
“Yeah. I did.” He rubbed his thumb along his knee, choosing his words carefully. “What I meant was that it was fragile and I didn’t want it getting wrecked. But that’s not what I said, and that’s on me.”
Ron’s grip on the dragon loosened a bit.
“You’re not too little,” Bill added. “You just… want to help. That’s not a bad thing.”
Ron sniffled again. “Charlie said to go away.”
Bill sighed. “Charlie was being a prat.”
Ron nodded and leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Bill’s arm. Bill took that as permission and slipped an arm around him, pulling him in gently.
They sat like that for a minute, Ron’s breathing slowly evening out, the worst of the crying fading into little hiccups.
After a moment, Ron whispered, “Can I still play?”
Bill’s chest ached.
“Yeah,” he said at once. “Of course you can. We’ll fix it together. Charlie too. He can deal.”
Ron let out a tiny, watery huff of a laugh.
Bill stood and offered his hand. Ron took it, small fingers curling tight around his.
When they went back into the sitting room, Charlie looked up sharply.
“Oh,” he said. “Er.”
Ron hovered, uncertain.
Bill nudged him forward. “Ron’s helping.”
Charlie took in Ron’s face — red-rimmed eyes, blotchy cheeks — and something in his expression shifted. He didn’t comment on it. He just scooted back a bit to make room.
Charlie hesitated, then nudged the pieces aside.
“Here,” he said. “You can hold that part. It keeps slipping when Bill does it.”
Ron hesitated, then looked up to Bill.
Bill nodded. “Yeah. That’d help.”
Ron knelt down carefully and took the loose end of the string, gripping it with both hands. His fingers trembled a little, but he held steady.
Charlie worked around him without fuss, just quiet focus. After a moment, he glanced sideways.
“Exactly like that,” Charlie said. “Yeah. Don’t move.”
Ron nodded seriously.
Charlie tied the knot, tugged it once, then leaned back. “Huh. That actually worked.”
Ron couldn’t quite hide his small smile.
Charlie added, awkward but sincere, “You’ve got good hands for that. Better than Bill’s, anyway.”
“Oi,” Bill protested mildly.
Charlie shrugged. “Just saying.”
Ron ducked his head, pleased.
They finished it together — Ron holding, Charlie adjusting, Bill lining things up. When it was finally done, Bill leaned back and let out a breath.
“See?” he said. “Team effort.”
Charlie adjusted one last piece, testing the movement with careful fingers. Bill steadied the frame, shifting it a fraction at a time. Ron stayed where he was, still holding the string, serious and focused.
After a few minutes, Bill said softly, “Alright. You can let go now.”
Ron did, rubbing his fingers together.
He scooted back a little, blinking heavily.
Then he leaned sideways without thinking — his head coming to rest against Bill’s thigh.
Bill froze.
Then he relaxed, laying a careful hand on Ron’s back.
Ron sighed, the sound long and heavy, the dragon slipping from his grip onto the floor. His eyelids fluttered, then closed, lashes still clumped from crying earlier.
Charlie glanced over, then quickly looked away again, pretending to be very interested in the parchment. “Out cold,” he muttered.
Bill smiled faintly and shifted just enough to make Ron more comfortable, keeping his movements slow so he wouldn’t wake him.
Charlie worked more quietly now. Just small adjustments and murmured comments about whether something would hold or needed tightening.
Every so often, Ron shifted, curling closer, breathing evening out against Bill’s leg.
When they were finished, Charlie leaned back on his hands.
“We should probably move him.”
Bill shook his head gently. “In a minute.”
Charlie nodded, understanding.
They sat there like that for a while — the project complete, the room warm, the clock ticking softly overhead.
Ron slept on, safe and unbothered, exactly where he’d ended up.
Bill smoothed a hand absently through Ron’s hair. Ron shifted slightly in his sleep, curling a little closer without waking.
Bill’s chest warmed.
Maybe getting it wrong the first time didn’t matter as much as knowing how to fix it after.