Chapter Text
Ryland
Dreams are an odd place, even more so when they transect with memory. Grace wonders distantly where this memory in particular surfaced from. His memory has always been scattered after Stratt’s serum, but this is excessively long ago he thinks.
Still, he thinks it might be a good dream. His Mother’s face peers down at him, exhausted and sweaty and proud, and Colt is next to him. Colt sleepily coos at her and yawns, wrinkled and red, like Grace has never remembered him being.
That is how he knows it's a dream. Grace doesn't mind, he’s been having odd dreams for a while now, memories surfacing in fractured pieces and nostalgic fragments for a while now, a bastardized form of dementia as he ages on Erid.
Multiple surgeries, and old after effects from the serum, and his Eridean diet have mutated the disease from a horrifying debasing devolvement, one that had Rocky and Adrian in stitches trying to prevent, into a nightly drift down memory lane that still leaves him talking to his Eridean friends to process better from how realistic they seem at the time.
This is the earliest memory-dream he’s ever had though, and his mom had died too young for him to properly remember her face. This was nice. Grace squirms a touch and draws in a deep breath.
He trills out his words as best he can, it may be a dream but this is important still. Love, love, love, he warbles, then, adore, love, family, miss, miss, miss, love.
It sounds wrong in the dream, thick in his human throat unmodified for Eridean singing. Grace doesn’t care though. His mom laughs, joyful and delighted.
“Such a little songbird!” She says, and Grace recognizes it as English but it's been a long time, and he’s not sure what she said, “Oh, what a little chatterbox we have here.”
Grace trills again, then warbles distress as she hands him off. His father’s face peers down at him, younger than Grace ever remembered him before. Grace purses his lips and whistles as warningly as he can without teeth.
Various people in the softly lit hospital room laugh, and another set of arms takes him. His grandfather grins wryly at him, reeking of cigarettes like always. Ryland and Colt had always looked like their grandfather, their mom’s dad; Court had too, but not as distinctly as the twins. Court had more of dad’s looks to him, less of the March look, always a touch more Gentry.
“Aww, Holly, the kid is such a precious fucker, ya did good on these two,” the man grumbled, and Grace stared at him shamelessly. His grandfather had died when he and Colt had been four, his last memory was of the man yelling at their father protectively. Liver cancer had claimed Holland March, a year after Holly Gentry né March’s death. Grace hadn’t remembered his face either until this dream.
Rocky was going to tease him about being a leaky space blob when he got around to discussing this one.
Grace didn’t get to mourn his grandfather when he died the first time, their father descending into true cruelty when the last barrier had fallen with him. This time Grace is determined, and he pours his tiny baby lungs into the Eridean lament for fallen elders, using his dream as an excuse to squeak and trill through notes he can’t quite hit.
His grandfather huffs a laugh at him and holds him close for a moment. Then he kneels to hold Grace out to another set of arms. Grace huffs and tries to finish his verse.
His breath catches and he trails off into silence instead. He stares at a face he knows, has always known, one he last saw in person when he was eleven, then again on the news, and lastly in a dry report from Eva Stratt’s files, one he has always, always, associated with safety.
Court.
Best dream memory ever.
Grace trills love as loud as he can, curls close, and goes to sleep in his brother’s arms.
It takes nearly a month of these odd awakenings for Grace to conclude that something has gone terribly wrong when the Eridians had attempted to extend his memory again. In the space of that month Grace has had to relearn a great many things.
It is horribly embarrassing to breastfeed when he’s aware of it, even if he’s having trouble grasping onto why it’s embarrassing. He has been born again, remembering far too much for an infant brain to process, and he still thinks in Eridean.
Grace is called Ryland now, when it had been so long that he’d nearly forgotten it was his name before Grace was. He tunes out of the world often, simply watching as best he can and drifting into memory. Colt is an excellent example of typical infant behavior beside him, reaching for the mobiles and toys and gurgling happily.
Grace tried gurgling like Colt once, the happy little baby giggle that always makes Mom laugh and coo. He choked on his own spit. Grace didn’t try again.
Grace’s favorite part of whatever this is remains Court. His older brother is seven, in second grade, so he’s gone most of the day. Then he comes back though, and after whatever homework he has to work through, he comes to their room to play with Grace and Colt.
He has been trying to sing at his brothers as often as he could. Court trills back often, more imitation than comprehension. Colt just listens and giggles. That’s fine, Colt wasn’t dumb in his memories of before, he won’t be this time.
Theoretically he has plenty of time. A lifetime of it, or at least three decades before he has a chance to try to get back to Erid. Grace turns to look at Colt. His dumbass twin had broken his back then exploded two years later in his memories, and Grace had already been caught up in his own life and had lost touch at that point.
Foster care was a wrench.
Grace trills love-love-love at Colt, and then starts trilling through name options for his twin. He settles on the Eridean whistle-chirp-warble that means heart-song-sibling.
Court reaches into the crib and trills at him again, a clumsy imitation of Grace’s own clumsy love-love-love. He’s put the twins together in the same crib again, even though mom keeps saying things at him sternly when he does.
Grace catches his finger and wiggles it, trilling it up at him correctly. They do it back and forth until Grace is satisfied with his pronunciation. Then Grace warbles good-good-good at him. Court takes longer on this one. Grace scowls at him.
Then he yawns. Babies need a lot of sleep. It is remarkably frustrating.
Grace is learning to crawl. Colt wiggles after him like a worm as Grace grabs fistfuls of the carpet and drags himself forward after Court’s receding footsteps. Grace’s legs still refuse to cooperate, but he determinedly drags one knee up to use as a fulcrum to shove himself forward, then the other.
Colt trills behind him, not a proper word in Eridean at all, but Grace still waits for Colt to squirm up beside him and begin reaching to grab carpet as well. Colt does not crawl forward like Grace does, instead he reaches as far as he can and grabs carpet. Then, like a demented caterpillar, he inches up until his butt is in the air, and when he lays down again his handfuls of carpet are by his hips.
His feet don’t move at all, and his legs never separate. Grace tries not to watch.
Grace has started having trouble remembering things. Apparently whatever the Erideans tried to preserve his mind not only failed and resulted in this, but was also wearing off. He had to get on his feet and to a lab, or scanner. Grace wasn’t sure how yet, but walking was a good start, and he might as well bring Colt with him for as long as he could.
There is yelling again from outside the room and Court’s footsteps come running back. There’s always yelling now. Grace gets another little bit closer to the door.
It is futile. Court steps back in and laughs. Then he takes first Colt, then Grace back to the little blanket with a fence around it. Grace had worked so hard to knock that fence down. Grace shrieks his displeasure to the world, then, because he’s trying to teach his brothers, he chirps a decisive bad-bad-bad instead.
Court laughs at him and chirps it back badly instead of being supportive about Grace’s need to escape. Colt laughs too, and chirps out a perfect bad-bad-bad.
Grace trills and sings with glee, compliments and ecstatic exclamations turning into a celebration song easily and he wiggles to stare at his twin. Eridean pours out of him faster than he has since the hospital, he’s not trying to teach, he’s just happy.
Colt giggles along and repeats his perfect warble of bad-bad-bad, and occasionally trills the first two notes of love. Court just laughs and ruffles Grace’s hair gently.
The twins are turning one. Banners and streamers are everywhere. Mom is directing as dad brings a cake in and they are talking together. Court is holding Grace, pops is holding Colt.
Colt is laughing and clapping, and Grace watches as his eyes catch on the bright streamers and he yanks on Pops’ mustache enthusiastically. Grace just sniffles miserably and sucks on his fingers. His memories are foggy today, but he can still remember the parties Rocky and Adrian did when they figured out his birthday.
He misses them and then he feels terrible because he’s having so much trouble remembering them at all. He doesn’t want cake and streamers, he wants his fog to glow different colors as they adjust his biodome settings, and the bean cakes that he only gets on special occasions since the beans are hard to grow on Erid.
A slice of cake is set down in front of each twin, and bigger plates around the table for all the other adults and Court. Pops puts a small bite in Colt’s mouth and he screams in utter glee and grabs for the plate. Pops is too slow. There’s frosting everywhere now, and laughter all around.
Colt is still screaming and shoving cake in his mouth. Court tries to give Grace a bite. Grace turns his head away and hides his face in Court’s shoulder.
“Come on, Ryland, it’s just cake,” Court says, shifting Grace’s face out of his shoulder, and Grace knows some of the words now, though he still doesn’t want it.
He gets the bite into Grace’s mouth. Grace freezes.
It tastes so much better than the bean cakes.
He wants another bite. It feels like a betrayal to Rocky and Adrian and Erid’s efforts at all. Court gives him another bite while he’s distracted, and Pops’ partner snaps a picture of him.
The camera flashes and startles him.
Grace starts crying without fully meaning to. Little sobs at first, mostly hiccuping tears, then he wails outright and doesn’t stop.
Court panics, shushing him and rocking him, and Grace can’t stop crying anyways. Mom takes him away from Court and Grace screams louder, wailing, and crying, and mourning his fading memories, his lost life, his brothers, and his mom and his Pops, and the students that he’d never gotten to mourn the first time around.
Colt’s screams have turned from joy to startled fear and distress. Court is crying now too, little sobs and choked wails as he twists in dad’s grip as dad tries to hug him stiffly, and holds him back from where mom is holding Grace.
Grace is still crying. He realizes this is the first time he really remembers crying since waking up not on Erid. He cries harder.
Ryland is two now. He thinks in whale song, in words he only knows in his dreams. He doesn’t speak, except sometimes in that language, but only to his brothers.
His dreams scare him sometimes. Sometimes there’s a woman and she tells him she’s sorry. Sometimes he’s held down to the grass and he’s crying. Sometimes there’s a spider thing, and it speaks his language of not-song, and he loves when he dreams of them.
Ryland is two, and his brothers call him Ryland, and Rylie, and sometimes they call him the name of whistles and trills that he goes by in his dreams.
Hail-Mary-Full-of-Grace-who-came-from-stars-and-hope.
He calls them by their song-names too, Heart-song-sibling-who-learns-bravery-and-danger, and Elder-sibling-who-protects-and-loves.
Ryland is two now, and English is hard, but his dreams are harder. Ryland is two, and he wants to be in his dreams, with Armando the arm, and Rocky the spider, and he doesn’t want to be with mom who cries in the bathroom or dad who yells and hits mom.
Ryland is two now, and his dreams are hard, but mostly because he wants to be where his dreams are instead of where Court is tucking him and Colt in their room and flinching as dad yells.
Ryland presses his hands over his ears and hums to himself as he rocks in place, as close to the triplicate hum that indicates safety as he can.
Courtland
His little brothers are the most important thing in his life, Court thinks to himself often. He’d thought it first when they were born, when Colt was a tiny wrinkled thing that grinned gummily and giggled whenever he wasn’t sleeping, and when Ryland had blinked awake for the first time, refused to cry for the doctor and scared everyone, then just started trilling and baby-singing instead.
Ryland adored him, slept best when Court was watching, and he talked to him the most in his little musical baby language, aside from Colt. Colt loved him too, but Colt slept a lot more.
Court watched Doctor Who sometimes when his parents were asleep and thought he was too, on discs that he checked out from the library with his little baby computer that only ran DVDs. There was an episode with the eleventh doctor where he talks to a baby.
Baby Stormageddon, also known as Alfie, wanted to be a dictator, but Court wasn’t going to judge that. Court also occasionally wanted to rule the world, mostly just in order to own all the toys and libraries and playgrounds ever though.
The point was that Court was pretty sure that all babies had their own language, and he was determinedly learning Ryland and Colt’s language, which was probably a special twin variant of baby language, since his classmates’ little siblings apparently never whistled or sang.
Court had never met other twins though, much less twin babies, to know for sure. He didn’t need to, his twin baby brothers were the best ones ever, obviously, he didn’t need to meet other twins.
What was unfair was the fact that he still had to go to school. Super uncool of mom and dad, he had brothers now, brothers were totally more important than school. He could be learning Ry’s weird whistles or preventing Colt from turning into an inchworm abomination.
They were learning about grammar. Grammar was useless. Court did not need it. He sank down in his seat and tried not to groan out loud.
He paid attention anyways, dad yelled when his grades were bad. Besides, it sometimes helped him decipher Ryland’s song language, the one that Colt was increasingly fluent in. Court was falling behind, he wasn’t spending enough time with the twins. He didn’t need school. He could be with the twins.
Court sank in his seat and worked on his worksheet grumpily.
It was the twins' birthday today, and Court was excited. He’d worked really hard on planning and setting up for their party, even though mama and Pops and Uncle Jack laughed at him, and dad had called him stupid since the twins wouldn’t remember when they got bigger.
They’d remember for now though, and Court thought maybe they’d remember when they were big anyways, they were smart. They had streamers and balloons in the twins’ favorite colors around the room, red for Colt who grabbed blankets and blocks in that first, and bright teal for Ryland who hoarded a little pile of that specific shade.
There was cake, and pops and Uncle Jack had flown down to Florida for the weekend. Court had permission to do his homework later, and he got to feed Ryland his first cake. This was going to be the best day.
Colt was having fun, giggling madly and squirming on pops’ lap as Uncle Jack held the camera. Ryland was stiff on his own lap, and Court was trying to be extra cheerful for him, Summer from his class had a little brother that was scared of balloons, Court was pretty sure that might’ve been it, and he was going to make sure Ryland wasn’t scared.
He failed. Ryland got two bites into his cake and cried for the first time Court had ever heard. Colt had gotten scared and was crying too, but Colt cried all the time, and Pops was comforting him fine. Ryland never cried, not ever, and now he's crying hard enough to cough and Court is trying so hard, and he won’t stop.
Mama takes him away to the kitchen, and Ryland’s still crying, and dad’s hugging him, for the first time that Court remembers, but dad won’t let him go to Ryland, and he just wants his littlest brother back.
He’s crying too he realizes, Ryland is screaming, and Colt is hiccuping behind him, and Court is crying too, snot making it hard to breath as he chokes on his breath and twists in dad’s grip. Dad grumbles and hauls Court back, and shifts from a hug to a careful hold on his shoulders. Court stomps on his foot to try to escape his grip.
His dad turns him roughly around and slaps him hard. Court stops crying, stops breathing, shocked. A sharp, “Jim!” comes from Pops and Uncle Jack at once.
Court stares at dad. His dad looks as shocked as him, and neither move, then dad says, calmly and low, “Let your mother calm him down. You need to get yourself together, Court, Ryland and Colton are babies, babies cry.”
Court steps back, tearing himself from his father’s grip on his shoulders. He steps back again, then once more and he takes Colt away from Pops. Then he steps back again until he’s behind Pops and Uncle Jack. His dad sighs loudly and goes upstairs.
Colt stops crying, and Court still holds him close, letting Colt fall asleep on his shoulder, smearing frosting and baby drool on his shirt. Court watches the kitchen door, occasionally glancing towards the stairs. He doesn’t sit down.
Uncle Jack and Pops are talking in front of him in low tones and frantic gestures. Court steps back again, and again, and again, until he hits the dining room wall, and he slides down to sit on the floor, curled around Colt.
Ryland is still crying.
Court is awake sitting against the bedroom door, much later than he’s supposed to. Mama and dad are arguing again. Dad is convinced that Ryland is slow, not developing properly. Court thinks that’s stupid, Ryland is super smart, he just isn’t talking yet, not in English. He song speaks all the time though, dad just isn’t smart enough for that one.
Colt knows some words in English, food, Court, mama, no, and Rylie, and he knows lots of words in song speak. Court knows song speak too, even if he has more trouble with it than Colt. Rylie doesn’t have to know english to be smart, he watches and listens to everything, Court knows he’s smart. Court sniffles a little as dad’s voice gets louder, talking about assessments and doctors. He looks up and meets Ryland’s eyes through the crib slats.
Ryland heaves a long baby sigh and sticks his arm through the crib slats, and wiggles his hand at the bottom. He grips the latch and the side swings down. Court stares open mouthed as Ryland wiggles in his sleep sack until the other arm frees itself from the neck of the sack and several snaps come undone. Then Ryland wiggles out and flops out of the crib onto the floor. He toddles over to Court and curls up by his hip.
Court whistle chirps love down to Ryland, and Ryland whistles it back.
Dad is stupid. Ryland is definitely smart.
Mama died.
There was a funeral, and Court and the twins had to wear little tuxedos that itch, and he holds their hands through the whole thing so they don’t wander. Colt sniffles through the whole thing, crying quietly, and trying to choke the tears down whenever dad glares at him. Ryland just looks numb and tired. Court feels numb and tired too, he’ll cry later when the twins are asleep.
Mama had been hit by a car, a drunk driver. Court resolves to never, ever drink. They couldn’t even see her to say goodbye because it hit her too hard for her face to be there anymore. Pops sits with them at the funeral. He tries to hold the twins.
Court doesn’t let him. Mama is gone, the twins are his responsibility now. Pops looks sad when Court says that though, so instead of clarifying he just tugs each twin into his sides a little more.
They are his responsibility though, he has to make sure dad doesn’t scare them when he yells, that he hits Court not them, because Court might earn it but the twins never will. He has to feed them, and dress them, and make sure they sleep on time and in pjs, and give them baths, and play with them all by himself now since mama can’t anymore.
They’re his twins, mama helped, but mama isn’t coming back, so now they’re not mama and Court’s twins, just his. Dad doesn’t love them, dad doesn’t love Court either. Dad had loved mama, and mama had loved them, so dad put up with them for mama’s sake. Dad doesn’t have to pretend to love them to make mama happy anymore.
Court doesn’t need dad to pretend to love him, he’s a big boy, and mama called him her strong little brother bear, and everyone knows that brother bear was the best at protecting little bear, so Court will have to be just as good. The twins need it though, not dad pretending, but love at all. They’re going to get half of what they’re used to, because Pops and Uncle Jack live in California, and mama is gone.
Court eyes dad hard. Dad is fiddling with his old flask from before Court was born, the one he got from somewhere called Iraq. It was full when they left. It doesn’t sound full anymore. Court wonders if there’ll be time for him to hide the twins before dad starts screaming when they get home.
Ryland shifts next to him, and Court hums safety down to him as quietly as he could. Ryland looks up at him and opens his mouth.
For a split second Court thinks he’s going to answer in song speak and make dad mad, or say his first word when mama isn’t even there to hear it. Instead Ryland sneezes hard, and Colt starts giggling through his tears. They’re two and a half now, and still so small. Both twins think that sneezes and farts are inexplicably hilarious though, but Court only understands the second one.
“Court, Court, Rylie sneezed,” Colt whispers, loudly because Colt does not know how to whisper.
Court grins down at him, catches sight of his dad’s glare, and shushes him gently, “Yeah bud, I saw, it's a quiet time now though.”
Colt nods rapidly, then he leans over Court’s lap, until his face was directly beside Ryland’s ear and his ribs were digging into Court’s legs, “Hey, Ry-“
Then he descended into quiet chirps and whistles, actually quiet unlike his attempt at whispering, and chatters away at Ryland about which goodwill bin movie they want to watch when they go home. Colt still has red eyes, and he keeps sniffling back tears, but hearing Court reassure Ryland has apparently reminded him that Ryland is upset too.
Ryland very softly hums back a desire to watch Treasure Planet, for the umpteenth time. Court groans quietly in the back of his throat, resigning himself to fully memorizing the script by the time Ry grows out of it.
Colt goodnaturedly, argues for his own favorite, the equally watched Karate Kid. Court knows they’ll end up watching both, huddled on his bed around the video player. He settles a hand in each twins’ hair and sways back and forth until Ry is snoozing into his side and Colt is dozing off, still splayed across his lap.
Court glances up and catches dad's glare. He flinches back and curls each twin closer. Dad’s lip curls into a sneer, and he hisses back to Court, “Keep them silent. This is your mother’s funeral. I don’t want to hear the slow one’s idiot songs just because he’s too dumb to speak and you’re too dumb to teach him.”
Court nodded silently, and pressed his hand harder into Ryland’s hair, earning himself a tiny, content hum from his brother. Pops leaned in, uncle Jackson glaring at the back of dad’s head beside him, “Don’t listen to him kiddo, he’s stressed and sad now, I was the same when your nan died, he’ll go back to normal soon.”
Court tried to smile at Pops. He and Uncle Jackson would go back to California soon. Pops looked sicker than usual, and Uncle Jackson was gripping his hand tightly. Mama had told him that Pops was sick, really sick, months ago. Pops didn’t need to know that this was normal, better than normal since people were looking.
Colt sighs wetly into Court’s hip, and Court tries to wait patiently to go home.
Ryland
Ryland’s head hurt most of the time now. He had too many memories, too many years that he hadn’t lived stuffed between his ears. Ryland knew that he’d been born wrong somehow, and his head hurting was normal for him. It made other things harder though, and that wasn’t fun.
Court and Colt helped with that though too, and Ryland loved-loved-loved his brothers so much. Colt always knew what Ryland needed or wanted, and he’d talk for him since no one else but his brothers spoke the way Ryland did, and he’d talk for himself too. Colt never stopped talking sometimes, which worked for Colt.
Court was just the best period, and he always remembered everything. He remembered that neither Colt or Ryland liked tags in their clothes, but he also remembered that Ryland didn’t like sergered seams but Colt could wear them, and that Ryland could wear long sleeves but Colt hated them. Court remembered that Ryland would always spit out ham or turkey, but he’d eat salami, that peanut butter made his teeth stick together and he’d cry, that he always bit plastic cutlery too hard and broke it.
Court remembered that both twins hated socks and shoes, but hated socks more, that Colt would climb things and jump off, but hated small places, that Colt would run and run and run whenever Court wasn’t holding his hand, but he’d always come back, that Ryland always wandered off after interesting things and forgot to come back and sometimes cried when he couldn't find Court.
Court knew that sometimes Ryland’s head hurt too much for him to walk straight, stand straight, that sometimes he’d dance-walk, a skittering sort of motion, to keep his balance when his not-dream-memories were too loud and noise hurt and light hurt and smells and taste were too much. Court was good on those days. He’d wrap Ryland up tight in his soft blanket and hold him tight in a tight hug, arms and legs wrapped around him, and he’d hum.
If Colt wasn’t too fidgety on those days then Court would lean back and Colt would lay on top of them both until Ryland felt like he could breathe around the vice grip of too heavy not-memories and fear of dad and the world’s loudness.
Some days the not-memories were less loud, more settled and Ryland’s head didn’t hurt so much. Those days were nicest, and Court would take them places. It wasn’t like the places they’d go when mama was around to take them away, Court held their hands now, and they walked instead of driving, and it was always accompanied by a pinch between Court’s eyebrows and him mouthing numbers as he counted coins and bills.
In Ryland’s not-memories Court had gotten increasingly bitter and mad as they’d grown up. It had gotten worse and worse until he’d shot dad, and gone off to jail, and he’d died. He hadn’t actually, Ryland thinks, but he’d never come back either. Ryland fidgeted with the sleeve of his sweater, a gray one he and Colt had scribbled crayola marker jellyfish all over, as he tried to remember what had happened in his not-memories.
...-“Dr. Grace,” Stratt says, folding her hands under her chin, “Given your distress in regards to the thought of a security team I will offer you the illusion of a choice.”
“So kind of you. I don’t need a security team. That’s stupid, and I think there’s a better use of resources. For literally anything else.” Ryland had stood to leave, and Carl of all people shoved him back into his seat.
“I need help man. I’m security for you sure, but I'm also making sure you remember to eat and crap. Look at the options for me, please.”
Ryland sighs and reaches for the thick folder of dossiers Stratt pushes his way. Three files in and he’s reading a file on a Sierra Six. A picture of a grim, scarred, jaded man stares back at him, and his eyes burn. He flips to the retracted data page desperately, Stratt always gets thorough, but she stores that info at the back of any file she hoards. Sure enough the retracted data lists the operative’s birth name as Courtland Gentry.
He reads the file obsessively for a few minutes. A CIA black ops agent, part of a program that recruited long term violent inmates, forcibly retired after the program’s dismantlement after an international incident, listed as a liability. He apparently works in security now, supposedly off the grid under an assumed identity, though clearly not a good one, with an adopted daughter, with no relevant file.
Carl leans in, “You want that one? He’s a wild card, but very good at his job, and professional, I've worked with him before. He kind of looks like you, I bet we could scare a couple people with that.”
Ryland had stared at the file, his eyes still burning. He throws it onto his pile of rejections stiffly, a small stack of files for people who’d looked too stiff, too strict, or too violent.
In the end he’d picked one at random and fled to try and fail not to cry in his quarters. He’d lost Colt, and he’d lost Court, and they were both still alive, they just wanted nothing to do with him or each other.
No one ever wanted Ryland or needed him, not really. Even Stratt could find a better pet scientist if she really wanted to. ...-
Ryland had stopped walking. Court is peering down at him, Colt hopping up and down on his other side. “You okay, Rylie?” he asks, and Ryland stares at him blankly.
“You have no immediate family. You don’t even have a dog,” echoes between his ears. Ryland shakes his head hard, his hair whipping his cheeks and stinging. Then he nods and smiles up at Court. Pops had sent birthday cards, and Court had gotten to the mail before dad, which meant birthday money for them all.
Court was taking them to get new clothes, and they each got to pick out a new toy and movie while they were at the goodwill. They’d been waiting for three Saturdays for this, for Dad to have left to go to work, instead of not working the weekend to drink, so that he wouldn’t notice them gone.
Ryland tightened his grip on Court’s hand. He wouldn’t let Court be mad and sad until he shot dad and hated them so much he never came back, not like in the not-memories, he refused. He chirped, “Safety-love-love-love,” at Court, and Court chuckled and chirped it back, squeezing Ryland’s hand.
Colt, in the safety of no dad around, tipped his head back as he bounced, and chirp-whistled, as loud as he could, a trilling, “Love-love-love safe yes-yes-yes go-go fun-fun-go!”
Court laughed between the twins, and he took off running, slow enough that both of them could keep up as he still held their hands, and Ryland tipped his own head back as they ran, trilling his own glee out.
The phone in the kitchen rings and rings. Ryland stretches onto his tiptoes and pokes the bottom of the phone until it falls and dangles by its cord. He puts it to his ear and trills a greeting cheerfully.
“Rylie? That you, kiddo?” Uncle Jack’s voice says, and Ryland chirps. Uncle Jack sighs heavily, “Alright buddy, can you go get Courtland or your dad for me?”
Ryland nods and drops the phone again. He runs for the stairs, tripping up them as he trills Court’s name. The door to their room cracks and Court peeks out sleepily, Ryland and Colt have been up for a while.
Court squints at him sleepily, then he stiffens rapidly, and looks alarmed. The other door opens too. Ryland snaps his mouth shut, whining in the back of his throat as dad catches the back of his collar. Court scrambles out of their room with an alarmed cry as dad shakes Ryland hard. Ryland’s teeth clack together and his neck hurts.
Dad throws him at Court, and Court catches him, he always does, “Shut him up, Courtland. I don’t want to hear his idiot sounds. You’re meant to keep your brothers out of the way and quiet, does he sound quiet to you?”
“No, sir,” Court whispers, clutching Ryland closer.
“Speak up, boy. You are not some namby pamby sissy, you can damn well use your voice,” Dad snaps, and Ryland squeezes his eyes shut at the sound of swishing air and a crack as Court reels backwards with Ryland, “Are you doing your job, Courtland? Is he quiet?”
“No, sir, I’ll do better,” Court replies, and dad huffs and stomps down the stairs. A moment later the front door slams shut behind him. Dad had been in his uniform, he’s not coming back until later.
Ryland reaches up and pokes Court’s cheek. Then he purses his lips and whistles quietly, “Apology-many-apology. Talk-brick ring-ring-ring. Mother-father-friend call. Mother-father-friend want-you.”
Court sighs, and heaves Ryland up, and he carries Ryland downstairs, Colt dashing from the kitchen as he does.
“Hey, Court, hey, hey,” Colt starts, holding the phone with the cord trailing after him, “Uncle Jack called, he wants to talk to you, dad was really mad just then, hey, can we go to the park later, please, oh, here.”
Court takes the phone and lets Ryland down. Ryland immediately abandons him in favor of chasing Colt into the kitchen. Colt is already climbing onto the counter to rummage through the cupboards. A box of cereal, strawberry cheerios, is tossed down to Ryland, who sets it on the floor and readies himself to catch whatever else Colt finds.
In the not-dreams this is probably the call that means Pops died. Ryland will miss him. He shoves a handful of dry cereal into his mouth and crunches it anyways. Colt is digging through the fridge now, balanced on the handle to the freezer. Two bottles of chocolate yoohoos get held up triumphantly and Ryland hums back as he climbs the counters himself to fetch bowls and spoons. It’s Colt’s turn to catch, and he only fumbles one of the bowls.
They shove the shards in a corner quietly, under the edge of a cabinet, and with bloody fingers Ryland solemnly pours cereal into the bowl. Colt takes the box from him and passes the bag of mini marshmallows over for Ryland to sprinkle a handful over his strawberry cheerios. They each pick up a yoohoo and clink the tops gently together.
Colt pours the yoohoo over his cheerios first, then reaches for Ryland’s to twist the top off. Ryland dumps his own in the bowl, much less smoothly than Colt had and sets the bottle aside for later. He considers his bloody fingers for a moment, then he rubs his hands together until there's blood everywhere.
Ryland slowly reaches forward and presses his hand to Colt’s face and drags down just slightly. Colt stares at him, spoon frozen in his mouth, and Ryland does his own face with his other hand. Ryland grins around the blood red handprint on his face, already flaking around his smile and shoves a bite of cereal in his mouth. Colt blinks slowly at him and eats another bite.
Court comes back into the kitchen looking heavy and stressed. Sad. Ryland considers for a moment. He wonders idly if he wants the old can of root beer that Colt and him had found last week. Ryland shoves his bowl at Colt for safe keeping and scrambles over to the cabinet that they hide things in, it was too low to the ground and dusty for dad to care.
Ryland presents the dusty, dented can of root beer to Court proudly with a chirped, “happy-happy-treasure!”
Court’s face goes from distracted devastation, to fond confusion, and almost immediately falls into sheer alarm. He reaches for Ryland’s face slowly. Ryland smiles again and lifts the can of root beer again, then he frowns. He’s gotten blood smeared on the side of the can. Ryland tries to wipe it off with his wrist. He offers the can again.
“What the fuck,” Court breathes out, “No, I-, kiddo that’s very neat, I-, Rylie why are you bleeding? Where are you bleeding? I- how the fuck, buddy.”
Ryland shrugs and sets the can down by Court’s feet and goes back to his cereal. He doesn’t think they have much longer where Uncle Jack will send them cases of yoohoos in mama’s memory. In the not-memories he’d died after Pops, and they’d been buried together. Nan, then Pops, then Uncle Jack. Dad had been furious in the not-memories.
He tries to go back to eat his cereal and Court ambushes him with a wet dishcloth instead. He is entirely indifferent to Ryland’s shrill whines of protest. Colt laughs at him, and quickly stops when Court goes after him next.
They sit in silence for a long minute then, as Court watches them eat and snacks on a carrot himself. Court starts talking after a minute, and Ryland knows he’s telling them about Pops, he listens, he really does, it just doesn’t seem that important to him. Pops was sick. Uncle Jack died last time because he missed Pops, so he went to join him. That was logical. people died, and you missed them. it hurt less than people leaving you behind.
Colt is crying, and he shoves his bowl away from him to hug Court, who is crying too. Ryland watches them, then he steals Colt’s abandoned cereal and finishes it. Court watches him for a second with a weird look on his face.
“Rylie, do you want a hug too?” he asks slowly. Ryland tips the dregs of Colt’s cereal into his mouth and considers.
“Hug-good-like-like-like,” he decides, “Mother-father-friend, go-join mother-father, soon. Sad-sad-sad, will-miss-little, happy-that-go-happy. Mother-father-friend, will, miss-miss-miss, mother-father. Glad-glad-glad, together-again-together, soon. Better-better-better.”
He goes to hug Court then, who is crying now as well as he reels both twins in tightly, “That’s a good way to look at it Rylie, that’s right. Uncle Jack will go to be with Pops eventually, and we’ll miss him, but he’s probably happier there, so pops won’t be alone forever.”
Court tries to throw the empty yoohoo bottles away later. Ryland doesn’t let him. Instead he makes Court drink one, and wash all three bottles. They go and pick flowers and put them in the yoohoo bottles and leave them on the windowsill of their room.
Ryland’s been trying to teach himself letters from Court’s schoolbooks when Court’s at school recently. It only works a little, it’s enough for Ryland to steal a sharpie from the kitchen and drawls a big, sloppy Uncle Jack on Court’s, a Pops on Colt’s, and a Mama on his. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t get all his letters straight.
Court writes them again neater below his and it looks a little different. Court digs out their bin of craft supplies from school and fifty-cent bins and lets the twins put stickers and glue pompoms on the bottles.
They change the flowers out every week.
Colt
Money is hard. Court does his best, but dad only leaves twenty dollars on the counter a week for them. Court supplements by doing yard work for the neighbors for cash. He has to feed the twins, make sure there's food for dad so he doesn't eat theirs, buy clothes, even if he can mostly save his clothes to pass down to the twins, get lunch at school, and toys, and he has to watch the house bills. Sometimes dad doesn’t pay them and then Court has to, which means mailing the bill back with cash and less food that week.
The twins go with Court when he does the yardwork for the neighbors, with a little wagon from goodwill that he duct taped three umbrellas to for shade for them to sit in. He packs snacks for them, and Colt runs around, sometimes Ryland runs with him, and sometimes Ryland sits in the wagon with pilfered books to puzzle through.
Court only does the yardwork stuff on Saturdays and Sundays, and he works all day then, on school nights he spends time with the twins and takes care of the house. Sometimes he makes the twins stay in their room and takes the bills downstairs to dad. There’s yelling and he comes back sniffling and hurt. Ryland hates those days.
Erid had a money system in his not-memories, Ryland knows, but it was not exploitative, not like this. Erid’s money system was a standby for when favors or a trade of skills or objects wasn’t enough. It was much better.
Colt is the one who first thinks of helping Court out with money or housework. He’s away at school all the time, and dad is at work until really late at night, so they have plenty of time. The broom and mop are still too tall for them, and so is the vacuum. Ryland is abruptly really angry about the height disadvantage of only being three and a half.
The goodwill is only two blocks away. Ryland sneaks into dad’s room one day while they are alone and Colt stands at the door keeping watch. He holds a frying pan.
In the closet are three boxes labeled H-o-l-l-y.
Ryland puts the letters together in his head. Mama’s name was Holly. He carefully opens the first box, and sneezes from the dust that puffs up from the top. Most of it is clothes, and one photo album, filled with baby Court and the twins right at the end. Ryland opens the second box. This one has shoes, a box with jewelry, which Ryland presses his hand to reverently, and some more clothes.
Ryland huffs in aggravation. Mama had sewed. Not always, but she had needles, and thread, and a machine somewhere, but Ryland’s pretty sure dad had sold that one, and she’d had whole jars of buttons and stuff. She used to patch clothes, and she’d occasionally earned money at the tailors shop doing zippers and dresses.
Court had said so, and he had been grumpy about it because he’d never learned and he wished he had.
Ryland opens the last box and trills in victory. Mama’s sewing box sits sideways right on top, three jars beside it, with clothes underneath, and another bag with pieces of fabric. Ryland pulls them all out carefully, and grabs a few of the prettier pieces of mama’s old clothes, and carefully stacks them all up again.
Then he piles it all into his arms and scuffs his feet over the dust on the carpet until it's rubbed in. Colt shuts the door behind him and they run back to their room giggling. They unload it all in their closet carefully. Fabrics in one pile, clothes stuffed into an old tote bag Court had forgotten about, thread all lined up in a row, and needles stacked carefully in a pile.
“We need stuff to practice on that won’t make Court sad if we mess up,” Colt whistles, defaulting to song as he always does with Ryland. Ryland nods in response. He grins at Colt then.
“Wanna see what I’ve been doing? When you’re climbing fences and stuff?”
Colt stares at his twin, and nods rapidly. Ryland scrambles up and runs for the kitchen, grabbing an old spaghetti jar and one of Court’s old pencil pouches out. Colt chases him as he tears for the back door next. Ryland’s fast when he wants to be.
Ryland stands in the middle of the yard and trills loudly to the sky. Colt stands there staring at him as Ryland calls in song, “Food! Food-food-food!”
Ryland crouches down, twists the top off the jar and tosses a handful of peanuts and croutons out the small army of crows that begins to gather around him. Each crow drops something, croaks, and takes a snack. Ryland does this a couple times, before he trills out a cheerful, “All-gone, come-back-tomorrow.”
The crows hang out for a few minutes, eating and chattering, and Ryland starts walking around, still crouched down and walking like he is a crow himself, and picking things up. Colt is still frozen halfway between Ryland and the door. He doesn’t know if the crows will peck him.
Colt creeps closer and the crows scatter, shrieking and nearly bashing his head with their wings. Colt shrieks back, just for good measure, and Ryland laughs at him. Colt crouches down and squeaks as one of the crows hops threateningly towards him. He looks pleadingly at Ryland.
Ryland grabs one more handful of something from the grass, shoves it in the pencil pouch before he zips it up. Then he stands straight up, arms spread wide to the sky as his back arches slightly as he lifts to his tiptoes. Colt stares from his crouched position as Ryland trills loudly to the sky, “Go! Go my minion-friend-bird-helpers, go far, go free, murder!”
Colt vaguely recalls watching Ryland’s animal show on his turn to pick the cable channel while Court was at school and dad at work a few weeks ago. It talked about crows, they were smart, and a group was called a murder. Ryland was probably not asking the birds to kill people and rob them.
Ryland drops his arms, grins at Colt, and tears for the kitchen, opening their cupboard and stashing the jar in favor of grabbing a book and tissue box of all things from the back of the cupboard.
Colt watches as Ryland dumps the pencil case on the ground. Wads of crumpled cash spill out mixed in a pile of random things. Ryland opens the book, revealing that it's hollow and filled with cash instead of words, and points to the tissue box triumphantly, “Treasures go there, money there.”
Ryland drops a handful of screws and bottle caps in the tissue box, and several coins into the book. Colt reaches out, scoops up a broken bracelet, drops it in the tissue box, and thinks. Ryland is helping Court, kind of, by bribing birds to do his bidding. Ryland is kind of like Snow White when she asked the birds to help her do chores, except better, because he’s not going to eat poisoned things from a witch.
Ryland might be a magic princess. Prince. Colt thinks that he doesn’t know any magic princes actually, Ryland has to be a princess.
“You need a crown,” he informs Ryland solemnly, “and a pretty dress. Because of the birds. Also, a knife. In case of witches, or eels.”
Ryland blinks and then nods in agreement, “You need knife too, and Court. Because of eels, and witches, and gremlins.”
Colt’s eyes widen as he remembers the newest movie that Court had found, and the furby they’d all collectively murdered. It was necessary, they didn’t have a clock to know when midnight was, the furby was a sacrifice to make sure the gremlins never came. He chirps his own agreement rapidly.
Colt gets caught up in the trip to Goodwill, Ryland always gets distracted with Court and wanders, so they hold hands, Colt’s older, he’s got to make sure not to lose Ryland. They walk three blocks down, and Colt plays rock-paper-scissors with Ryland, and loses, so Ryland stretches up to push the walk now button, then they cross the street.
The red hand was glowing to tell the cars to stop, Colt’s proud that they were big enough to remember that.
The goodwill is big, and three stores down from where they crossed the street, and they find plenty of interesting clothes to practice with. There’s even a jacket, a soft one that looks like it might fit Court, and it's red, so they can make it a surprise in his favorite color.
Colt finds a crown, like princess Jasmine’s, and puts it in. Ryland finds a dress he likes, even though it is super big for him, in his favorite blue and he drops it into the cart too. Neither of them find knives, but they do find fun pens, which is still cool.
The lady at the checkout helps them count the money, and calls them adorable, and Colt knows he’s not, he’s the older twin, he’s tough and big. Ryland is though, he’s the baby, all babies are cute. Ryland doesn’t talk though, so Colt says thank you for both of them, and chirps it for good measure.
Ryland scrunches his face at Colt in a scowl and sticks his tongue out. The lady looks confused, but she tells them to have a good day anyways. Ryland twists to wave goodbye to her, and Colt takes his hand when he’s done. They go back the way they came, and Colt drags the bags up the stairs as Ryland hides the money book away again.
Ryland stuck more things in the cart.
Colt frowns at the small pile of things he didn’t remember seeing, they're pretty, shiny and colorful, but weird clippy things that dangle and hurt Colt’s finger when they're shut are weird. Ryland scrambles in beside him and immediately trips on his feet. Colt laughs and Ryland hisses at him. In the end they shove most of it in the closet, but Colt passes the crown to Ryland, and Ryland grabs two of the matching clippy things.
The clippy things go on Ryland’s ears, and Colt plunks his crown on. Ryland shoves the cape they’d grabbed at Colt, and Colt grabs a pair of Court’s shoes. They go downstairs and get kitchen knives.
They’ve got to go witch hunting. Court can help them gremlin hunt when he’s back from school, witches are less scary. Colt trips over Court’s shoes a couple times, and Ryland keeps shaking his head for the earrings to jingle.
It’s fun, Colt likes this, when dad isn’t there, and it's even more fun when Court’s home, even if he takes the knives away.
Colt and Ryland teach themselves to sew while Court is at school for a while. It’s fun, but still a lot. Ryland’s better at it than Colt is, sitting on their bed and pulling the needle through, over and over and over.
Colt is still okay at it, he can sew straighter than Ryland, and he can see the extra threads to snip off, and he never stabs his face with needles by holding it too close to his face. Colt’s also really good at ideas.
It was his idea to take little pieces of one of mama’s old favorite shirts and put them on Court’s jacket. It was also his idea to put little animals on the front for them all. A fox for Ryland, mama had called him her songbird but he’d always been Court’s little fox; a coyote for Colt, since they were social and loud according to Court, and a wolf for Court.
They’d found a book of animals at goodwill and traced them onto paper, then Colt had cut the right colors out for on top of the tracings. Ryland sewed them down, so all the animals had little black lines holding them down, and sometimes a little black border of X’s, and the ear on Colt’s coyote was backwards, but they still looked cool.
By the time the jacket is done and they’re doing other things Colt is really pleased with how it turned out. Its fuzzy red base now has big triangles of mama’s old favorite pink shirt, the one with little purple vines. There are three animals on the front for the three of them, and little black X’s have repaired all the little tears and outline the sleeve cuffs and hem and zipper.
The only part Colt isn’t sure about is where Ryland had found a necklace from his crows and taken it apart to stitch them along the hood edge. They’re pretty beads, shiny and blue, and a little jangly, but Court isn’t a jangle-y pretty beads person, even if Ryland definitely is, and neither is Colt.
They give it to Court anyway. He adores it. He wears it all the time, even tied around his waist when it's hot out. He starts collecting extra just for fun things for them, threads and patches, and fabric scraps along with the papers and markers he’d always gotten.
For their fourth birthday, Court takes them all the way into Tallahassee proper to a craft store. It’s so big, and Colt and Ryland run all over the JoAnns looking at everything while Court laughs at them. Uncle Jack had died last month, which was sad, but he’d also sent their birthday money early, and Court had told them to go wild.
Colt liked going wild. It was fun.
It was also exhausting. They had bags and bags of fabric, and thread, and brand new scissors, and all the things on their laps, but Colt and Ryland were both leaning into Court and yawning on the bus ride back. Colt was still awake, he was sleepy and humming quietly, but Ryland was much more awake, and he was turning one of his picks over and over in his hands, a soft shimmery gold fabric that felt watery to Colt.
He was definitely awake when Court suddenly jerked upright and twisted to look at Ryland, fast enough that Colt lost his balance and slid onto the floor with a whine.
“What, Rylie, could you-” he paused and lifted Colt back onto the seat, “Sorry about that kiddo, Rylie could you say that again, please?”
Ryland heaved a sigh, and Colt blinked blearily. He hadn’t heard Ryland chirp or whistle or even hum anything.
“I said, I think I need glasses or something. Everything's blurry all the time. Where do you get glasses, Court? Can we go to Goodwill?”
That was English. Ryland had talked, actually talked. Colt whooped ecstatically and Court laughed a bit, “Eye doctor, buddy, let me see what I can do. Nevermind first words, huh buddy? Skipping straight to first sentences there.”
Ryland shrugged, “I dunno. I don’t think I needed to until now.”
Colt shrieked with laughter, and Court sighed loudly. Dad was gone the whole weekend, for something about a school, and Ryland was talking now, and they had fabrics, and Court. Colt wouldn’t change a thing.