Chapter Text
The summer sun beat down cheerfully on the pavement, sending up shimmering heat mirages and baking the front lawn of Dan's mother's house. The Bullworth Bullhorns were all, ostensibly, enjoying their summer break. Practice was a lot more satisfying without having to worry about classes, and they had spare time to plan 'team bonding' activities and fuck around. They were currently gearing up for a trip, a week spent down in DC, catch the Ravens preseason game, hang out, go shopping in an actual city for once. They were going to pile into two cars: half in Ted's, half in Dan's.
But... well.
"Oh, fuck—" Dan's voice was a choked whisper.
The Subaru's front bumper was crumpled around the lamppost on the corner like a discarded soda can. The metallic crunch had echoed down the quiet suburban street, followed by a profound, ringing silence. Now, the Bullworth Bullhorns stood on the curb outside Dan's mother's house, huddled around the wounded vehicle like medics at a grisly accident scene. The summer sun continued to beat down on the pavement, unrelentingly cheerful despite the tableau.
Ted, his hands on his hips, nodded gravely. "Yeah, dude. You wrecked it."
"You wrecked it good." Damon parroted Ted with a nod, his massive frame casting a shadow over the dented hood.
Dan just stared. His face was pale, the usual cocky bravada completely evaporated. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white. The only word he seemed capable of forming was a low, steady stream of "Fuck." It was less a curse and more a mantra of disbelief. "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck."
Kirby, ever the optimist, clapped a hand on Dan's shoulder. "It's not totaled, man! Look, the airbags didn't even go off!"
"That's because he was probably going, like, twelve miles an hour," Bo observed quietly, his voice tinged with pity. He pointed at the shallow skid marks on the asphalt. "Tried to swerve, clipped the curb, kissed the post. Basic physics."
"Thanks, Bo," Dan snapped, "Real helpful." He ran a hand through his bright red hair, a gesture that usually looked at least sort of cool, but now just looked desperate. "Okay. This isn't a pin in the trip. It's not. I can... I can ask my dad if we can take his work truck. It's a beast. We'll just have to all pile in the back."
Casey Harris wrinkled his nose. "Dude, the back of a landscaping truck? For eight hours? We'll get sunburned and smell like fertilizer."
"Got a better idea?" Dan shot back, his temper fraying.
Bo, who had been scanning the driveway with a thoughtful expression, pointed a finger. "Why can't we take that one?"
They all turned. Parked on the other side of the wide driveway, under the shade of a big oak tree, was a car that looked like a burgundy brick on wheels. A 1984 Renault Espace van, boxy, solid, and undeniably nerdy. A bumper sticker proclaimed 'MY OTHER CAR IS A SPACESHIP' next to a faded one for a local public radio station. It looked like it could survive a direct meteor strike.
Dan sighed, a long, suffering sound from deep in his soul. "That's Thad's car. It's his baby. He saved up all summer last year to buy that tank."
"It's roomier than your Subaru," Bo pointed out again, ever pragmatic. "That thing's an 8 seater."
"It's got seatbelts in the back that actually work," Kirby added, trying to sound supportive.
Dan looked from the crumpled Subaru to the (mostly) pristine Renault. The van had a few scratches, but its body was straight, its windows clean. He muttered another "fuck" under his breath. "Alright. Okay. Come on. We're going to go ask him. Just... let me do the talking. And don't touch anything. And be fucking nice or we aren't going to even get through the door before he slams it on us."
He led the troop of jocks back across the driveway, up the porch steps of the neat, two-story house, and through the front door. Dan didn't pause in the living room; he marched straight for the basement door, a heavy wooden one tucked under the stairs with a sign taped to it that read, in messy handwriting, 'THAD'S DOMAIN – ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.'
The descent into the basement was like entering a different ecosystem. The stairs creaked ominously under the weight of eight athletic guys. At the bottom, Dan pushed the door open, and driven by years of honed older brother instincts, barely dodged the nerf gun dart fired at him from across the room.
It plinked off of Damon's chest, instead.
The basement wasn't some dank, unfinished space. It was a proper room, painted a soft yellow. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with electronics components, old game consoles, and stacks of books with titles like 'A History of Standardized Measurement' and 'The Civil War: A Visual History.' A loft bed was pushed against one wall, a ladder leading up to it. In the center of the room, a long table held a disassembled desktop computer, its guts exposed like a patient in surgery, wires snaking everywhere. And there, hunched over the table with a soldering iron next to him, was Thad, still pointing the nerf gun.
"Get the fuck out of my room."
"I need something from you first." Dan said, his voice trying for authority but landing somewhere closer to pleading.
Thad's eyes scanned the group. He saw his brother, then the seven other football players hovering behind him like a wall made out of awkward muscle and Letterman jackets. His expression didn't change. He set the soldering iron down on its stand with a careful click. "What?"
"We need to borrow your car."
Thad blinked. "Absolutely not." His lisp stretched the S sound out into a soft hissed thh.
"It's an emergency."
"Your emergencies are not my emergencies."
Dan stepped closer, his shorter frame trying to loom over the table. "Listen. The summer trip. The Bullhorns are going down to see the Ravens preseason game. My car is... well..." He gestured vaguely back toward the driveway.
"I heard the noise from here," Thad said flatly. "Sounded like a soda can getting stomped. I assumed it was you practicing your tackling on innocent automobiles."
Kirby snorted a laugh and quickly covered it with a cough.
"We need another car," Dan insisted. "Eight of us. Two cars. Now it's one, no one else here has a car. Your van can fit eight comfortably and it's got good cargo space."
"It can," Thad agreed. "But it won't."
"Come on, Thad!"
"No. You have the spatial awareness of a concussed badger. You are not driving my car to the gas station let alone across state lines. The answer is no."
The bargaining began.
"Come on, Thad. I'll do your lawn chores for a week."
"Mom already pays me when you forget to do your half and I like the money more than I hate the chores. Next offer."
Dan gritted his teeth. "I'll stop fucking with Earnest for a month. A month!"
Thad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "That's Earnest's problem, not mine. He's a prick. You being a prick back to him doesn't affect me."
"I'll give you my old gamecube collection."
"You already did last year, jackass, you can't take it back now."
The rest of the jocks watched, fascinated. This wasn't the meek, stammering nerd they occasionally glimpsed fleeing from their pranks. This was a guy with a spine, talking to his brother like they were equals, or maybe like Dan was the annoying one.
Dan was floundering. He glanced back at his teammates, their expectant faces, then back at Thad. "Come on, we've been planning this for months, we've already got a hotel, the trip is all the way down to DC,"
Thad's eyebrows twitched. A flicker of interest. "DC?"
"Yeah. Washington. We're gonna see the game, hang out in the city for a week."
Thad nodded slowly. "The Smithsonian's there. The National Museum of American History. The Air and Space Museum."
"Yeah, sure, whatever."
"And Gettysburg is only about two hours north. Monticello's a few hours south."
Dan groaned. "Don't start with the history crap."
"It's not crap. It's context." Thad tapped his fingers against his own palm. "You want to borrow my car to drive eight hours to a city full of museums and historical sites you're going to ignore."
"Yeah, because we aren't nerds. We're focusing on the game."
"Right." Thad turned, facing Dan fully. "Okay. New offer. You can use my car. If I get to go with."
Dan's face contorted. "What? No, this is a team trip not a god damn history trip—"
"You'll forgive me for my skepticism, oh vanquisher of lamp posts, but I'm not letting you drive my fucking car without some supervision."
“It was one lamp post!”
“And it was unarmed! It’s a disgrace!” Thad shot back, and this time Bo chuckled.
Dan flushed red, matching his hair. "You can't just invite yourself and—"
"I can too. It's my car. The keys are here." Thad reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a key ring. He held it up, high, well out of Dan's reach. Dan, much shorter, couldn't just grab them.
Dan glared. "You're gonna cramp our style."
"Your 'style' is wearing matching jackets and talking about sacks. I think I can tolerate it for a week if I get to see Gettysburg."
"Mom won't let you."
"Mom will be thrilled we're 'bonding' again," Thad countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
He was right. Dan knew it. He deflated, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. Fine. Whatever. You can come."
"I don't care about the game literally at all, so I'll go wander the museums, you won't have to worry about me 'cramping your style'. Everyone pitches in for gas and snacks. And in return..." He paused, a small, victorious smirk playing on his lips. "I get two days to drag you— and anyone else if they inexplicably want to also go— to Gettysburg and Monticello. And you don't get to complain."
"I'll complain."
"You won't if you want my car. You'll suffer in silence. That's the deal."
Dan looked at his friends. Their trip was hanging in the balance. Ted nodded slowly. Damon shrugged. Luis gave a thumbs up. They needed the car.
"Alright," Dan said, the word dragged out like a surrender. "Deal."
Thad lowered the keys. "Good." He tossed them to Dan, who caught them awkwardly. "Don't lose them."
Their mother was, indeed, thrilled. She asked them to take pictures and bring her back something from the Smithsonian gift shop.
At 4 a.m., the world outside on the suburban street was a deep, inky blue. The air was cool, carrying the scent of dew and distant cut grass. The Renault Espace stood in the driveway, its burgundy paint looking almost black under the porch light. Thad leaned against the van's side door, sipping from a huge, black cold brew coffee he'd brewed before anyone else woke up. The cup was a travel mug covered in stickers of obscure bands and bugs.
Dan, looking bleary-eyed and irritated, shoved his duffel bag into the front passenger seat area. "You're driving first," Thad said, not looking at him.
"Why? It's your car, you should drive."
"Because my astigmatism is still shit even with my glasses. I can't see detail in the dark. You have better night vision with your contacts. You drove us to the state championship last year in the fog, you can handle this. I'll take over at sunrise."
Dan grumbled but didn't argue. He knew Thad's vision issues were real. The rest of the jocks piled in. Casey, Bo, and Kirby took the middle row, their bulk making the seats look smaller.
The convoy plan was still intact, just altered. Ted's car— a beat-up but functional Honda Civic— would carry him, Damon, Luis, and Juri. They'd meet at the first planned rest stop, a couple hours down the interstate.
Dan climbed into the driver's seat, the keys feeling alien in his hand. Thad's van had a different feel than his subaru. The steering wheel was thicker, the gearshift clunky. He turned the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life with a deep, diesel-like vibration. "Sounds like a lawnmower," Casey commented from the back.
"It's a four-cylinder diesel. It's efficient," Thad said, climbing into the passenger seat.
The first hour was a study in auditory warfare.
“Can we put on something with a beat? Like, literally any beat?” Dan whined, reaching for the CD eject button.
Thad slapped his hand away without looking. “We are not listening to that repetitive synth-pop garbage. This is a road trip. It requires a soundtrack with texture.”
“This sounds like a cat dying in a trash can!”
“It’s post-rock, you philistine. It’s building atmosphere.”
“It’s building a headache! Kirby, back me up!”
Kirby, from the back, just shrugged. “I kinda like it. It’s… chill.”
Dan groaned and slumped in his seat. The jocks in the back exchanged amused looks. This was better than any in-flight movie.
They stopped at a 24-hour gas station convenience store to get gas and snacks. The fluorescent lights inside were harsh, illuminating shelves of snacks and drinks. The jocks moved like a pack, grabbing bags of Chex Mix, sour gummy worms, chips, and M&Ms. Drinks were chosen. Thad refilled his coffee mug from the station's dispenser, adding more coffee to his already massive supply. Dan, at the counter, paid for everything with a wad of cash collected from the team.
Back in the van, the snack bags were passed around. The sour gummy worms became a focal point. Dan and Thad shared the bag, sitting side-by-side in the front, but it was less sharing and more a silent competition. The brothers bickered over everything. The thermostat. The best route. The merits of sour patch kids versus sour skittles
"You're hogging the red ones," Thad muttered.
"They're the best ones. You know that."
"I like the green."
"The green are shit. Too tart."
"You have a shit palate."
"You have shit taste in music."
The post-rock CD was, under the threat of bodily harm, finally ejected.
The first rest stop appeared around 7 a.m., a sprawling concrete and asphalt area with picnic tables, bathrooms, and a small concession stand. Ted's Honda Civic was already there, parked near the building. Damon, Luis, and Juri were stretching their legs outside, looking bored but awake.
Dan pulled the Renault into a spot nearby. The engine's rumble ceased, and the sudden quiet was noticeable. Thad looked around, and fished a pack of cheap menthol cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Dan immediately pointed a finger.
“No. No way. You are not smoking in here.”
“It’s my car.”
“There are other people in it! It’s disgusting!”
Thad glared. “I’ll crack a window.”
“I’ll tell Mom you smoke.”
The silence was immediate and profound. Thad’s eyes narrowed. Dan’s smirk was triumphant. Without a word, Thad got out of the car, slammed the door, and lit up, pacing angrily by a concrete picnic table.
“He smokes?” Kirby breathed, watching through the window. “Nerds don’t smoke.”
“Thad does,” Dan said, shaking his head. “He’s been trying to quit for a year. Mom doesn't know, she'd make him sleep outside for a month. Don’t any of you dickheads mention it.”
They all nodded.
The other jocks emerged. Casey, Bo, Kirby. Ted and his crew wandered over.
"Made it," Ted said, nodding at Dan. "No problems?"
"None yet, but I might end up killing Thad on the next stretch." Dan responded in a grumble.
The groups mingled for fifteen minutes, grabbing more snacks from the vending machines, using the bathrooms. Thad finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in a sand-filled receptacle. They all piled back in, and the trip continued.
Dan focused on the road, his pop music CD playing— some club track with a heavy bass line. Thad put on his headphones, the cassette adapter feeding him an audiobook about the Civil War. He listened, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his knee, a stim, repetitive and calming. Sometimes he'd adjust his glasses, or run a hand through his hair.
As the road rolled on, flat featureless highway for as far as the eye could track, Thad's tapping slowed. His head leaned against the window, his glasses pressing against the glass. The audiobook droned on in his ears, but his eyes closed. Within minutes, he was asleep, his breathing deep and steady.
Dan noticed. He glanced over, saw his brother asleep, and a weird, almost protective look crossed his face. He reached over and gently pulled the headphones off Thad's ears, letting them rest on the seat. Thad didn't stir.
Dan turned the stereo off. The only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the tires on the asphalt. The silence in the van, now without Thad's audio or Dan's music, felt heavier.
Kirby seized the moment, his voice low but clear. "So... Thad. He's not like the other nerds."
Dan snorted. "Yes he is, he's not normal. He's a freak."
"How come you guys have different last names?" Casey asked.
"Different dads. My dad left when I was two, our mom married his dad. My dad still talks to me, but his dad raised us so it's not a big thing. Or something. I don't know. We don't really talk about it."
"He's tough for a nerd," Bo observed. "I heard about the yardstick thing with Peanut."
Dan's grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. "Yeah. That was... a thing. Peanut was giving him shit, calling him names. Thad just walked up, broke a yardstick over his head. Peanut was so surprised he just stood there. Johnny let it go because... I dunno. Maybe he respected the audacity."
"You taught him to fight?" Kirby pressed.
"I taught him to not take shit. When we were kids, I was into all his nerdy crap too. Grottos and Gremlins, Laser Vikings, all that. I got him into it. Then I got into football, and... it was easier to just be a jock. Thad stayed in the basement. But he never stopped being a little bastard. He'd bite me if I pissed him off. He'd hide my shit. He's... he's just like that."
"So he's not scared of us?" Casey said, almost offended.
Dan laughed, a short, real laugh. "He's probably terrified of you. His fight or flight response is just permanently set to fight."
The conversation lulled for a bit. The van climbed a slight hill, the engine humming. The landscape outside was opening up, fields and trees replacing suburban sprawl.
Bo spoke again, his voice thoughtful. "He's going to drag you to Gettysburg."
Dan groaned. "Yeah. And Monticello. Two days of history. I'm gonna die."
"You could learn something," Bo said.
"I learn enough in school."
"You got a C in English last semester."
"That's because Galloway was drunk half the time."
"Still."
Dan didn't reply. He just drove.
The day warmed up. The sun was high, bright, beating through the van's windows. Thad had to adjust the vents, directing cool air around. Dan drove for three hours, then announced he needed a break. They stopped at another rest area, this one more crowded with families and trucks.
Thad blearily smoked another cigarette outside as he woke back up fully, leaning against a picnic table. Dan joined him, not smoking, just standing there.
"You're gonna hate Gettysburg," Thad said, not looking at Dan.
"I know."
"You might learn something."
"I don't want to learn. I want to watch football and hang out with the team."
"You can do both. The world isn't binary."
Dan looked at his brother. Thad's glasses were reflecting the sun, hiding his eyes. "Why do you care so much about history?"
"Because it's real. It's what happened. It's context for why things are now. You like football because it's a game with rules, history, strategy. History is the same, just bigger."
"It's boring."
"It's not boring if you understand it." Thad took a drag. "You used to read those Laser Vikings comics with me. You liked the lore. How is learning history different than that? History is real life lore."
"That's fiction."
Thad didn't have a reply. He just watched the cars pass on the interstate.
Back in the van, Thad took over driving. The journey continued. The landscape changed, mountains rising in the distance, then flattening into valleys. Signs for Washington, D.C. began to appear.
The mood in the van shifted, a collective anticipation building. Kirby started talking about the game, about the Ravens players they wanted to see. Casey boasted about how they'd probably get autographs. Bo quietly mentioned he hoped the hotel had a pool.
As they crossed into D.C., the skyline appeared— buildings, monuments, the Capitol dome distant but visible. The reality of the trip, the fact that they'd actually made it, hit them all.
The hotel parking lot was a symphony of chaos. Blaring horns, families hauling luggage, and the roar of Ted's car pulling in beside them. Thad watched through the Renault's windshield as the other half of the Bullhorns emerged, stretching and groaning. Damon looked like he'd been folded into a suitcase for eight hours. Luis was already doing lunges on the asphalt, his jeans straining. Juri just stood, blinking at the sun like a bear awakened from hibernation.
Thad turned off the ignition. "We made it."
Dan nodded. "Yeah. We did."
"And my car is intact."
"It is."
Ted slapped the roof of his sedan. "Let's move it team! Check-in's at three, we gotta get our keys and figure out rooms!"
Thad's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm. The social gauntlet was beginning. He'd survived the drive. He'd survived Dan's music. He'd survived the oppressive weight of three jocks' collective curiosity. Now he had to survive room assignments.
He popped the door open and unfolded himself from the driver's seat. The air was humid, thick with the smell of hot asphalt and fast-food grease from the nearby strip. Dan was already out, grabbing his duffel from the trunk. "Come on, basement dweller. Time to enter the real world."
"The real world sucks," Thad muttered, but he grabbed his own bag—a weathered backpack containing essentials: headphones, tape player, a book on Civil War artillery, clean socks.
They convened in a corner of the lobby, a sprawling, maroon-carpeted space with fake plants and a tired-looking concierge. Ted, as unofficial trip captain, held a printout of their reservation.
"Alright," Ted announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "We got three rooms booked. Two doubles, one suite with a pull-out couch. Me, Damon, Luis, and Juri will take the suite. More space for... well, for us." He grinned. "The other two doubles. Who's pairing up?"
Casey immediately slung an arm around Bo's shoulder. "Me and Bo, obviously. Kirby, you wanna room with Dan?"
Kirby looked at Dan, then at Thad, who was standing slightly apart, studying a plaque about the hotel's "historic" founding in 1985. "Uh, sure. If Dan's cool with it."
Dan shook his head, a quick, decisive motion. "Nah. I'm rooming with Thad."
A collective ripple of surprise went through the group, even Ted. Damon raised an eyebrow. "You wanna room with your brother?"
"It's not about wanting," Dan said, his voice flat. "It's about fact. Thad absolutely won't room with any of you. And I'm not letting him have a room to himself because he'll just lock the door and live in there for a week and I'll get blamed for it. So we're together. Kirby, you can room with Casey and Bo if they don't mind a third."
Casey shrugged. "Couch in our room too. Works."
Thad felt a weird mix of relief and annoyance. Dan was right— he wouldn't room with anyone else. The idea of sharing a space with Casey or Bo for days was a recipe for a meltdown. But being assigned to Dan, like a child, grated. Still, it was pragmatic. Dan knew his routines. Dan knew when to leave him alone. It was, ironically, the safest option.
"Fine," Thad said, "But I get the bed furthest from the door."
"You get the bed closest to the AC unit because you're a heat-sensitive freak," Dan countered. "And you don't get to blast your audio book after ten PM."
"Compromise," Ted interjected, clearly wanting to move on. "Great. Keys."
The key distribution was a brief scuffle, but soon they were hauling their bags upstairs. Their room was on the third floor, overlooking the parking lot. It was standard: two queen beds, a TV bolted to a dresser, a desk, and a bathroom with suspect lighting. Thad immediately claimed the bed by the window, dropping his backpack onto it like a territorial marker.
Dan dumped his bag on the other bed and flopped onto it, sighing. "Okay. First mission: food. We're all starving. Ted's scouting for a place."
Thad sat on his bed, pulling his tape player and headphones from his bag. He needed to recalibrate. The drive had been a constant input stream— visual, auditory, social. His brain felt like an over-heated engine. He plugged in the headphones, but didn't put them on yet. He just held them, a tangible lifeline.
Dan watched him for a moment, then sat up. "What's your socials at?"
The question was so mundane, so Dan, that Thad almost smiled. It was their old code, developed years ago when Thad's social battery was even more unpredictable. A scale from zero to ten. Zero meant he was heading toward a shutdown, hiding under a blanket, non-verbal. Ten meant he was chatty, engaged, maybe even annoyingly energetic. Dan was checking the gauge.
Thad considered. The hotel room was a haven, the thought of going back out into a noisy restaurant was... "Four-point-five," he said after the moment dragged out, aiming for accuracy.
Dan nodded, a business-like assessment. "Four-point-five is dinner-worthy. You can bring your headphones and your book and just ignore everyone, but Mom would kill me if I let you starve in here, so you have to come get something. Even if it's just stealing my fries and glaring at everyone."
"I do enjoy stealing your fries," Thad admitted.
"Then get your shit. We're mobilizing."
Downstairs, the group had re-gathered. Ted had found a place: a sports bar called 'The Penalty Box' a few blocks away. "Big screens, burger specials, cheap wings. Perfect."
The walk was short but suffocating. The evening air was still hot, and the sidewalk was crowded with tourists and locals. Thad kept his head down, his headphones now clasped around his neck. He walked slightly behind the group, a shadow in their boisterous wake.
The Penalty Box was exactly what he feared. It was cavernous, dark, and loud. The walls were plastered with neon signs and team logos. Multiple giant screens showed different sports highlights, the colors garish and the commentary a tinny roar. The smell was fried food, beer, and sweat.
They claimed a large table in the back, everyone piling in to the cracked vinyl booth seating. Thad immediately took the seat at the end, closest to the wall. He plugged his headphones into his tape player, slotted the Shelby Foote cassette in, and hit play. The world of 1863 flooded his ears, a distant, orderly universe of troop movements and political machinations. The modern chaos of the sports bar receded, becoming a muted, distant background.
He kept the headphones on, but he didn't close his eyes. He watched.
Dan was across from him, already arguing with Ted about whether to order a platter of wings or individual baskets. Casey was trying to explain the menu to Bo, who was squinting at it like it was a calculus problem. Kirby was bouncing in his seat, excited by the sheer volume of the place. Damon and Luis were discussing the merits of the burgers versus the steak sandwiches, a debate that seemed to involve intense gesticulating.
Thad observed it all like a naturalist watching a peculiar herd of wild animals. The jocks, in their element, were a different species. Their communication was loud, physical, full of sudden eruptions of laughter or mock outrage. They leaned into each other's space, clapped shoulders, stole menus. It was a performance of camaraderie that felt both genuine and intensely performative.
A waitress arrived, a woman in a tight t-shirt with the bar's logo. She smiled brightly at Ted, who immediately launched into a charming, quarterback-worthy ordering spree. Thad watched Dan's face; Dan was trying to look cool, but his eyes kept darting to the waitress's nametag, then away, a classic teenage boy maneuver.
When the food arrived, it was a mountain of grease and color. Thad had ordered a grilled cheese— a safe, non-offensive choice— but his real target was Dan's plate of fries. As soon as Dan's basket landed, Thad's hand snaked out, plucking a few crispy ones.
Dan huffed but didn't stop him. It was part of the ritual.
Thad ate his grilled cheese slowly, methodically, while continuing his fry raids. He listened to Foote's sonorous voice describe the flanking maneuvers at Little Round Top. He watched Luis demonstrate a wrestling hold on Juri in the booth, jostling Casey. He watched Kirby try to balance a wing on his nose. He watched Bo quietly dissect his burger, removing the pickle and placing it neatly on the edge of his plate. He saw Dan relax slightly, saw him engage fully in the debate about the Redskins' defensive line. He saw Ted command the table with an easy authority.
It was almost surreal. The Civil War in his head, a grease-scented bacchanal before his eyes. He was a ghost at the feast, present but insulated.
When they left the Penalty Box, the night air felt cooler. They walked back to the hotel in a looser, more relaxed group. Thad walked no longer behind them, but alongside them, still silent, still with his headphones around his neck, but present.
In the elevator, packed tight with bodies and the smell of wings, Dan looked at Thad. "Socials update?"
Thad thought about it. The food had helped. "Five-point-five," he said.
Dan nodded. "Improvement."
Back in their room, Dan immediately claimed the bathroom for a shower. Thad sat on his bed, restarting Shelby Foote at the chapter on the surrender at Vicksburg. He listened, tapping his fingers lightly on his knee, rebuilding his internal walls.
Dan emerged later, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, his red hair damp. "You showering?"
"Later," Thad said. "When the space stops being contaminated by your sports sweat."
Dan rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He got into his bed, flipping on the TV to a late-night sports recap. The two screens existed in parallel: the TV's brash commentary, the tape's measured history. Neither brother spoke.
But after a while, Dan muted the TV. He looked over at Thad. "You were okay tonight. At the bar."
Thad paused his tape. "I was fine."
"You didn't... you didn't freeze up or anything."
"I don't freeze up. I assess." Thad said it matter-of-factly.
Dan was quiet for a moment. "I know. I just... I wasn't sure, with all of us there, if it'd be different."
Thad understood. Dan was worried about the social pressure, the performative aspect of being with the team a ssomeone who didn't belong there. "It wasn't that different."
Dan laughed, a short, tired sound. "Yeah. You dealt with it." He flipped the TV sound back on, low. "Get some sleep, game's tomorrow, you can go wander the Smithsonian or whatever you want to do while we're gone. Gettysburg's Wednesday and you're gonna be dragging us around all day so try to not be boring."
"I'm gonna be educating you all day," Thad corrected, but he was already lying back, headphones on, letting the tape play until sleep pulled him under. The last thing he heard before drifting off was Dan's soft snore, and the distant, tinny voice of a sports analyst discussing tomorrow's game.