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The kitchen is quiet, save for the sizzling coming from the pan and the ruffling of pages at the table. In the short span of his life, Courtland has already learned the importance of counting one’s blessings. Meat slowly turning brown in the pan; one blessing. The lack of paternal expectations of a sunday evening; two blessings. An empty house, save for his little brother sitting at the kitchen table; three blessin—
“Ugh,” Ryland mutters, voice nearly inaudible over the sizzling meat. “I don’t get it.”
Court sets down the greasy spatula and wipes his hands on his jeans as he turns away from the stove. His brother hasn’t moved much in the past few minutes, face smushed against one of his palms as his other hand holds an immobile pen over ruffled sheets of paper. “Don’t get what?”
Ryland sets the pen down with a dramatic sigh. “I’m really good at math. What do I even need english for?”
It pulls a smile out of Court. The teenager moves closer to the table, peeks at the half-finished assignment he vaguely remembers struggling through a few years prior. Mrs. Neal has truly never bothered changing anything about her curriculum.
Unlike his brother, though, if Court has never excelled at math, he hasn’t exactly been a prodigy at English either. He squints at the printed words, knows trying to understand them is hopeless if he doesn’t sit down and focus solely on them. The silent struggle only serves to pull his mind back to his own homeworks, still waiting for him in the bag he abandoned in his room on Friday. He’s given up on pretending to be a good pupil a while ago, somewhere between realizing his father cared more about his ability to take a punch and understanding that school work was meant for kids who had the mental space to be just that.
Court was a hopeless case from the start. Ryland, though — Ryland has always had potential. Potential to be something greater than what either of them were ever meant to be.
He ruffles a hand through his younger brother’s blond hair, smirks when Ryland complains. “Because all the great scientists eventually have to write their ideas down, dummy,” he says as he turns back to the counter. “Dinner’s ready in five.”
“Is Dad eating with us?”
Court shrugs, already feeling tension tightening his shoulders at the simple mention of the man. “Don’t think so,” he answers as he pushes the browned beef around the greasy pan. “He’s probably getting pissed with Mike and Bobby again.”
“Can we watch a movie after dinner, then?”
“It’s a school night.”
“But—”
“But do you really want to be sitting in front of the TV on a sunday night when he comes home piss drunk?” The words come out harsher than Court meant them, he realizes too late. He sets the spatula down, sighs. When he glances at Ryland, his brother is staring silently at the cluttered table, eyebrows scrunched over his thick glasses. “Sorry,” Court says. Apologies are a hard thing he’s been trying to teach himself. It still feels strange on his tongue. “I’m sorry, Ry. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Ryland says nothing, and Court bites down on his tongue as he turns to grab a couple of clean plates from the rack. He spends the next couple of minutes plating their meal and resolvedly ignoring the knot in his stomach. It’s not lost on him that someone else should be in charge of making sure his brother is fed and keeping up with his schoolwork; it’s also not lost on him that Court would rather give up his entire life than compromise Ryland’s feeble chance at a normal one.
Safety — a strong word to describe life inside the Grace household, for it can only truly be felt when one third of said household is away. It didn’t use to be like that, back when Court was just old enough for school and Ryland was barely old enough to walk. Their father had never been a good man, but back then Mom was still alive and she could sing all of Court’s worries away. She would make pancakes on Sundays and tuck them in at night.
Court hasn’t felt like much of a child since she died, he ponders as he chucks the greasy empty pan in the sink.
A quiet sniff pulls him out of his spiralling thoughts and Court swears under his breath when turning around reveals Ryland rubbing roughly at his own tear-stained face.
“I’m sorry,” his baby brother says before Court can react, voice wavering almost too much for him to understand the words. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ryland repeats, running hands up and down his face and dislodging his glasses in the process.
“Hey, don’t be sorry,” Court rushes out, abandoning the greasy pan and the steaming plates to crouch next to his brother’s chair. “Don’t be sorry,” he continues and wipes his hands on his jeans before reaching up to take ahold of Ryland’s wrists. “Why are you crying?”
His brother resists Court’s gentle pull against his wrists, presses his palms flat against his face. Another sob causes his entire upper body to jerk, and afterwards he mumbles something that gets lost to the pressure of his hands.
“What?” Court asks, tugging more insistently on his brother’s wrists. “Ry, I can’t hear you.”
Ryland’s hands drop to his knees. His face is reddened and puffy, glasses hanging around his chin, barely holding onto one of his ears. He’s looking down, obviously avoiding Court’s eyes. “I can’t do it,” he says, mouth immediately twisting into a downward grimace.
“Do what?”
“My assignment,” Ryland replies, voice jerky. “I can’t do it, and Mrs. Neal said that if I got another bad grade she would call Dad.” His face crumbles. “I don’t want her to do that.”
Court frowns, reaches up to push Ryland’s hair away from his forehead. “When did you get a bad grade?”
“Last week,” Ryland sniffs, and somehow manages to look even more miserable.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ryland wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Because you were already sad,” he says, then sniffs again. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Court’s brain races back to the past week, to the still-fading bruises on his ribs and to spending most of his evenings hiding in the darkness of his room. He wants to swear again, curse whatever childish instinct made him shut himself off and leave his baby brother to fend for himself.
“You wouldn’t have made it worse,” he says instead, squeezing his brother’s wrist. “You could never make it worse, okay?” When Ryland doesn’t answer, Court reaches up to free his brother’s glasses from their precarious perch and set them on the table. “Hey, look at me.”
It takes a moment for Ryland to finally tear his gaze from his own knees and look at his brother. When he does, Court swallows as shiny blue eyes meet his own.
“I’m always gonna be there for you, okay?” he says, running a knuckle against Ryland’s cheekbone. “I don’t care if I’m sad, I don’t care if I’m hurt, I don’t care if I don’t wanna talk to or see anyone else. I’m always gonna want to see you, and I’m always gonna be there. Got it?”
His brother nods ever-so-slightly, chin wobbling as a wave of fresh tears fill his eyes. Court finds himself pushing his own tears back down before they can reach their final destination.
“And tomorrow I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Neal after school,” he continues, nodding almost unconsciously. “I’ll take care of it. Got it, gremlin?”
The nickname manages to pull a smile out of Ryland, tears mixing with the upward corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, voice still trembling. “Okay.”
Court nods again. “Good,” he says, then wipes the tears off his brother’s face with the sleeve of his sweater. “Now clear the table, food’s getting cold.”
He goes to stand, but two arms wrap around his neck and pull him back to his knees.
“Thank you, Court,” his brother mumbles in his neck.
Ryland’s hair tickle his ear and when Court hugs him back, the movement pulls at his sore ribs and makes him wince.
He doesn’t let go anyway; only tightens his hold and swears to himself that his baby brother will be all right someday. Whatever it takes.