Chapter Text
When things got really loud downstairs, or when their Dad came home upset and looking for something to take his anger out on, Courtland would always turn on music to drown it out. Since he couldn’t play anything on speakers without risking drawing their Dad’s attention, he gave Colt and Ryland his walkman and had them turn it up in their headphones.
The twins would sit, huddled together behind Court’s bed, pretending they were just listening to the music for the fun of it, and not because their elder brother was getting the snot kicked out of him downstairs. They would wait, heads bobbing to the beats as they tried to ignore their Dad’s yells and Court’s cries.
When it was all over, and Court inevitably hobbled his way back to his bedroom, bloodstained but stubbornly refusing to cry, Colt would pull out the little first aid kit that they had compiled years ago. The twins would help Court tend to his bruises and cuts, and Court would make it a valiant five or six minutes before breaking down into tears.
They would all curl up around each other, a tangle of limbs and residual fear, and stay that way until they were sure everything was safe again and the tears stopped.
Then they would wait for the next time their father stormed in, breath smelling of alcohol and eye wild with bloodlust.
Sometimes, on the worse days, the music almost wasn’t enough to drown out the noises.
This was one of those worse days.
The songs did almost nothing to drown out what was happening downstairs, and the twins found themselves pressing further into the corner, Colt’s arms tight around Ryland’s shoulders as they waited for it to end.
Ryland pressed his face into Colt’s shoulder, desperately trying to block out the sounds of his big brother crying out, and Colt held him tightly in turn. They were both trembling, the music turned up to the max to drown it all out.
The beating was lasting a lot longer today for some reason.
A particularly loud cry of pain echoed up from the first floor, perfectly timed over a slight ebb in the song they were listening to. Ryland flinched, pressing further into Colt, and he desperately tried to shove down the vicious thread of hatred that bubbled up inside him.
There were times, when the music faded, and the smell of blood and fear-sweat was still strong in the air, that Ryland hated his father.
There was a part of him that would always love the man who had raised him and his siblings, who still took them fishing on the weekends and taught Ryland how to tie a hook to a line. There was a part of him that would always hope that something could change, that their Dad would stop drinking so much and stop hurting Court.
But there was a deeper part that had hated the man for years. A poisonous part that reared its ugly head whenever he heard Court scream under the pain of a belt, or fist, or boot. There was a deep part of him that wanted to stand up and scream at the man, to demand he stop hurting them—stop tearing our family apart!
That part was especially loud today, as Court let out a strangled howl of anguish, a heavy thud suggesting he had been struck to the ground.
Ryland was only nine, small for his age and wiry, but the anger that bubbled in his chest rose up like fog to cloud his vision and make his ears ring.
He wanted it to stop.
He wanted the beatings to stop, and for their Dad to take them fishing again, and promise to stop hurting Court, and mean it.
Ryland moved before Colt had a chance to stop him.
Small feet ran out of the bedroom and down the hall, racing toward where the sounds were getting ever louder. Colt tried so hard to stop him, to pull him back.
“Ry! Ry, stop—!” His hissed words fell on deaf ears.
Ryland had heard enough.
“Stop it!!” He screamed it before he had even fully entered the room where his Dad stood, looming over Court where he lay curled in on himself on the floor. “Stop hurting him! He didn’t do anything! He never does anything! Just stop it!!”
Later, Ryland would remember the look in his Dad’s eyes when the man looked up, sweat dripping down his forehead and hair matted down. He would remember the fiery light in those eerily blank eyes, the blue clouded by alcohol and nicotine, and he would say that they had been the eyes of a man out of his mind.
In that moment though, they were just the eyes of his Dad—albeit angry, but still his Dad—and he knew no better than to step forward and try to protect his elder brother from more pain. Court dragged himself forward a few inches, clawing at the wood floor with bloodied fingers, panic in his eyes, and Ryland took another step forward toward the man who had put him there.
“Just stop hurting him,” Ryland said again, lifting a little hand toward the man who had always been gentle to him.
Court bore the brunt of their Dad’s rage. Colt had been hit a handful of times before the eldest got in the way and drew the attention to himself. Ryland never suffered harm under the fists of the man he both loved and hated.
Not until now.
Colt’s scream of Ryland’s name was lost under the static filling his ears, and it took Ryland a few long moments to realize that he was on the ground, and his cheek hurt, and his Dad was getting closer. He had no chance to shield himself, or pull away, or beg for mercy.
A boot tossed his small body back like a ragdoll, ribs cracking on impact, and Ryland choked.
Court clawed his way upright with a scream of mixed rage and pain, his eyes wild as he tried to draw their Dad’s attention. Colt lunged forward, trying to throw himself between his little brother and the monster above him, only to be flung back by a backhand that slammed him into the wall and left him in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Ryland managed to draw in a whistling breath around the fist suddenly squeezing his lungs, and then that little bit f air was forced out again as another boot landed in the soft flesh of his unprotected stomach. A strangled wheeze was all he could manage as the pain of it registered.
Court had disappeared, the sight of his baby brother being hurt giving him the strength to run. Colt lay still where he had fallen, blood trickling down over his brow and across his cheek before pooling at the side of his nose and dripping off into a small puddle on the floor.
Ryland finally managed to curl up.
Every kick still landed with brutal force, cracking bone and shedding blood, but at least his stomach was protected. The man above him dragged him upward after a few moments, drawing back to throw a punch. Ryland tasted copper in his mouth.
Breathing felt almost impossible, the fist around his lungs turning to water deep inside them. His head was spinning from that first punch, and Ryland no longer had the strength to shield himself.
The man holding his collar snarled something incomprehensible to Ryland’s disoriented mind, but before that fist could fall, another voice cut through the static and the pain.
“Get your hands off my brother!”
The man wheeled around, madness in his wide eyes, and Court’s finger tightened on the gray trigger.
The hand around his collar loosened, and Ryland blacked out before he hit the ground again, blood rising in his throat.
When he woke up, Colt was curled up beside him on the white, white sheets of the hospital bed and Court was gone, and they were orphans.