Perched on the antiquated, over-loved sofa, Roger's attention was lazily held by a dog-eared comic book, a welcome distraction from the mundanity of middle school life. The hushed lull of the afternoon was punctured when the front door creaked open. An autumnal gust, mischievous and crisp, barged its way in, scattering an array of leaves and depositing his rotund little brother, Gabe, in the hallway.

Gabe wrestled his oversized backpack off his sturdy shoulders, its thump against the threadbare carpet echoing in the silence. His gait as he shuffled towards the living room was uncharacteristically leaden, the usually lively and rambunctious schoolboy burdened by an unseen weight. His uniform was in disarray, the starched white shirt bearing telltale smudges and his blue tie hanging askew. Yet it was the smattering of violet bruises on his plump arms and dried tear tracks on his cherubic cheeks that pulled Roger's focus.

"What the hell happened, Gabe?" Roger demanded, discarding his comic book, familial concern flaring. He rose from the sofa, looming protectively over the younger boy.

Gabe's brown eyes remained trained on the worn-out carpet, his pudgy fingers clenching and unclenching in a nervous dance. When he finally summoned the courage to reply, his voice was a timid whisper, hardly audible.

"I tripped... at the playground," he said, each word hesitantly staggering off his tongue as if hoping their softness could somehow alter the reality they represented.

Roger didn't buy it for a second. His three years of additional life experience told him playground accidents didn't account for raw knuckles, swollen eyes, or suspiciously grip-shaped arm bruises. Gabe was hiding something, a bitter truth lurking beneath the surface of his feeble fib.

"Cut the shit, Gabe," Roger spat.

He knelt to Gabe's height, his gaze steely and determined as it sought the honesty concealed behind the younger boy’s reluctance.

"Who did it?"

His question echoed in the room, its intensity tugging at the fading wallpaper and dust-coated picture frames. It wasn't merely a question. It was an oath.

Roger's flinty gaze was intense as he patiently waited for Gabe's confession, a silence only interrupted by the occasional ticking of the antique clock hanging crookedly on the wall next to the picture of Jesus praying.

Gabe fumbled with the worn-out hem of his shirt, a boy grappling with words that didn’t want to be said. After an eternity, he heaved a deep sigh and began.

"Me and Nick were playing a game," he began, his voice still shaky. "We were trying to beam Lincoln’s mole with a dodgeball. See who could hit it more times."

A half-hearted smile crossed his face as he recalled the innocent game they’d invented using the huge mural of Abraham Lincoln painted on the wall outside the cafeteria, a stark contrast to the brutality that followed.

His features turned serious again as he continued.

"...Then Trent Marshall and some of his friends showed up. They started making fun of us—not like, to our faces, but sorta…as they walked by.”

Roger's grip tightened on the back of the sofa. He knew Trent Marshall—the boy was a grade ahead of Roger himself. As he listened, the conjured image of those cruel sneers was more than he could bear. But Gabe wasn't finished.

"I may have said some things back," he admitted a guilty crimson rising on his cheeks. "Which they didn’t like. Nick started talking—to calm ‘em down. It worked, and they…started to leave."

Gabe paused, the fresh sting of humiliation mixing with the remnants of dried tears.

"But then, I couldn’t help it," he confessed, his eyes flickering regretfully. "I shouted, 'Yeah, that's right! You better run!' And they… they turned around."

Roger's blood thrummed as he envisaged the scene: Gabe, small and round but defiant, versus Trent, an eighth-grader with a height and power advantage. The unfairness of it all stirred a seething fury within him.

"They pinned me down," Gabe's voice was barely a whisper now. "Twisted my arms behind my back and bounced the dodgeball against my head... over and over again."

Silence fell again, the imagined echoes of the dodgeball thudding, a chilling soundtrack to the unsaid. Roger clenched his fists, his nails biting into the flesh of his palms. He could almost see Trent standing over Gabe with that smug grin, a scene that sent a surge of righteous indignation through his veins.

"An eighth-grader picking on a fourth-grader? That piece of fucking sh—" Roger spat, his fury barely contained, but he stopped himself, realizing his words were only adding to Gabe's distress. "It's okay, Gabe. We'll handle this."

—

In the uneasy silence of their living room, Gabe found himself alone—his mother was pulling yet another late shift. She wouldn’t be home ‘til almost midnight at the earliest. His eyes, still red-rimmed, were glued to the flickering images on the old boxy television, the only source of light in the dimly lit room casting long, eerie shadows on the worn-out wallpaper.

The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold. Roger was back, and the storm in his eyes was unmistakable, the set of his jaw hard and unyielding. A bruise formed on his cheek, the angry blemish standing out strongly against his skin. Dried blood crusted his split knuckles and under his nose, and he limped slightly as he crossed the room, but his shoulders were thrown back, his posture radiating success.

Without a word, he sank into the busted-down couch next to Gabe, his eyes locked on the scene on TV. Time seemed to slow, the only sounds being the muffled voices from the television and the occasional shift of fabric as one of them moved.

Finally, Gabe's eyes drifted over to him. Roger could feel his gaze but didn't turn to meet it. Instead, he simply gave a single, confident nod, his gaze never leaving the television. His voice was firm, steady as he broke the silence.

"They won't be messing with you anymore."

The silence stretched between them for a long moment before Gabe finally voiced the question bubbling up inside him.

"What happened?"

Still staring forward, Roger allowed a thin, satisfied smile to curve his lips. He began recounting the event, a tale of swift retribution.

"I found Trent and his dumbass friends—Derrick, David, and Brett—loitering outside Zippy's on Thirty-Third. Couldn't have them walkin’ around thinking they got away with it, could I?"

His fingers flexed, the dried blood on his knuckles flaking off as he continued, a note of relish in his voice.

"So I explained a few things to them. Made sure they understood why what they did was so fucked up."

The screen cast flickering shadows over his face as he recounted the brawl, his tone casual but his words painting a vivid picture. He described the way he had stood his ground against four boys. Each dodge, each defiant glare, each landed punch aimed at teaching them a lesson they wouldn't forget.

His smile widened, his dark eyes gleaming in the television's light.

"By the time I was done, they got the message. They won't be laying a finger on you again."

The room fell silent once more, save for the background noise from the TV. But this silence was different; impressive.

Gabe's eyes widened.

"You took on all of them? By yourself?" He asked.

Roger shrugged and nodded.

"Tried to get Danny help, but he's still on lockdown after…what we did to Dr. Foster’s house last week. So, yeah, I went solo."

Gabe's smile grew, a shine in his eyes that hinted at tears.

"You're so cool, Roger," he said, his voice choked with emotion. He looked up at him, his hero, and asked, "How come you’re so good at fighting?"

Roger looked away from the TV for the first time, meeting Gabe's gaze. He hesitated for a moment before replying softly.

"I had a lot of practice..." His voice trailed off, and Gabe felt a pang of guilt. There was a hidden history there, their past, something that made Roger so fiercely protective.

Roger broke the silence after a moment, his voice angry and resigned.

"I just can't help it, you know? I get so mad sometimes, you know? And when that happens, I feel... like, I dunno—out of control? Unstoppable."

There was something almost haunted in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse into a side of Roger that Gabe rarely saw. The side that took on older bullies and came home bruised but victorious. The side that carried the weight of their world on his shoulders so that Gabe didn't have to. The side that fought, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because he was a big brother, and that's what big brothers did.

—

The smell of grease and oil was heavy in the air as the nondescript, gray building of JobEd came into view. An industrial sprawl nestled in the outskirts of the city, it was a place primarily designed to transform rebellious teenagers into moderate adults, forced to trade childhood dreams for practical skills and early mornings. Gabe, now fourteen, found himself in the passenger seat of their mother's old beat-up Ford, the stiff silence in the car hanging like a curtain between them.

His mother was a portrait of resilience, a gentle soul hardened by life’s hardships. Her hair, once vibrant, now bore streaks of gray and her eyes, a softer shade of Gabe's own, were tired. Her frailty was not a result of age or sickness but to the countless battles she had silently fought and won.

They pulled into the parking lot, a canvas of cracked concrete lined with dented pickups and rundown sedans. As Gabe stepped out of the car, his gaze instinctively searched for his brother. Amid the sea of sullen faces and faded uniforms, he spotted Roger, leaner now and somehow more exhausted looking that he had been. There was an familiar anger in his expression, a veneer of discontent that seemed to have settled in the creases of his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

"Roger!" Gabe called out, his voice echoing in the grim surroundings.

Roger turned, his face softening as he recognized the voice, his eyes lingering on the woman standing beside Gabe before settling on his younger brother. There was a sense of quiet relief in his gaze, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of frustration that seemed to run just beneath the surface. His time at JobEd had aged him, the harsh reality of the world molding him into a figure that was more man than boy.

"Hey, Gabe. Mom," he greeted, his voice gruff yet filled with a warmth that only came when he was around his family.

His mother stepped forward, a frail hand reaching up to gently caress his cheek, her eyes brimming with both pride and sorrow. Roger leaned into her touch, a simple gesture that conveyed a lifetime's worth of unspoken love.

"Glad to see you, Roger," she murmured, her voice choked with emotion. "How are you holding up? How does it feel to be done?"

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

"It's alright," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I learned... stuff."

His vague reply did little to ease their concerns, but they understood his reluctance to share. Roger had always been a private person, his emotions and thoughts locked behind a wall only a few had ever been able to scale.

The silence hung heavy between them, the hum of distant machinery the only thing breaking the quiet. The world seemed to hold its breath as Gabe looked at his brother, the weight of the past months pressing down on his chest.

Roger had become an unspoken hero in his eyes, the defender of his childhood, the bulwark against the storms that raged in their lives. Seeing him here, his spirit visibly dampened, Gabe felt a pang of sadness. A feeling of loss for the brother he once knew, and a deep-set unease for the man he was becoming. He resolved to try to cheer him up.

As they stood in the greasy shadow of the JobEd building, they were a tableau of survival, the weary mother and her two sons. In the silence, they each bore their pain, a familiar yet poignant reminder of the battles they fought and the resilience they embodied.

Roger’s eyes finally met Gabe’s, the spark of familial love and understanding still very much alive. "How's school?" he asked, his tone deliberately casual as he tried to steer the conversation away from his own struggles.

Gabe shrugged.

"Same old. Miss Hartley's still a pain. She keeps accidentally calling me Roger.”

They shared a knowing glance. Gabe felt a sense of comfort at this, a small yet significant reassurance that even though things had changed, some things remained the same.

Their mother watched the exchange with a soft, sad smile. She reached out, her hands enveloping theirs, the worn creases and calluses on her skin a testament to her unwavering love and determination.

"Let's go home," she suggested, her voice breaking the silence. Her eyes were on Roger, the silent question hanging in the air. Could they still call it home?

Roger glanced at her, then at Gabe. A strange mixture of emotions played on his face, a blend of relief, trepidation, and something else Gabe couldn't quite place. Eventually, he nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice raw. "Home."

As they drove away from the JobEd compound, the building shrinking in the rearview mirror, the atmosphere in the car was tense. The silence that lingered was punctuated only by the low hum of the engine.

After a few minutes, their mother broke the quiet, her voice tentative.

"How about we go out for dinner? A little celebration for your homecoming?"

Roger didn’t answer for a moment, just kept staring out of the window at the passing scenery, a far-off look in his eyes.

“Where do you want to go, Roger?” She asked again, more insistently this time.

Roger shrugged, tearing his gaze away from the window to glance at Gabe.

“Wherever Gabe wants,” he replied nonchalantly.

Their mother frowned, noticing the deflection.

"Come on, Roger. You must have missed some place while you were at JobEd. It’s your welcome home dinner, you should choose."

Roger’s expression hardened, and for a moment, a flicker of anger flashed in his eyes.

“I don’t want you to spend money on me, Mom. Not after—”

“Roger, that’s not—” Their mother began, but he cut her off.

“No. I mean it.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the car, the tension almost palpable. After a moment, Roger sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if to smooth away the irritation.

“Fine. Bancini's then, I guess,” he muttered, settling back into his seat.

A ghost of a smile twitched on Gabe’s lips, and he turned towards his brother, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oh, man. Not going to happen,” he said, trying to hide his amusement.

Roger arched an eyebrow at him.

“What? Why?”

Gabe’s grin grew wider.

“Because Bancini’s is temporarily closed.”

“What? I’ve only been gone eight months! Jesus! Why did—”

“Watch your language, Rodge,” their mother said.

“Ah, sorry,” he said. “Why's it closed - did they say?"

“They fuckin’ bombed—”

“Language…” their mother warned.

“Uh, failed a health inspector rating. Like, real bad.”

Roger snorted, shaking his head.

“How bad is real bad?”

“Like, walking into class the day of a midterm and not realizing it—especially because you’ve been skipping school all year—bad!” Gabe exclaimed, his voice breaking as he tried to contain the lid on the forthcoming fit of laughter.

“Apparently, their meatball sub was an actual biohazard! Pay—Payton..." he struggled against the humor. "Payton Lasek and his whole family went—they went there for dinner like a week before they shut down and they all got meatball subs—Payton got extra meatballs! Extra! They started puking at the fuckin’ table!”

“Language!”

Gabe waved a hand of apology as his body threatened an explosion of mirth.

“Mason Peterson got it on video and posted it to his Snap Story,” the heavy set boy said, reaching for his pocket. “I saved it!”

He pulled out his phone. After a few quick swipes he had the video pulled up and shoved it into Roger’s face. The older boy watched as the scene was already mid-chaos inside the dated Italian restaurant; with the recognizable figure of their high school’s class president, Payton, doubling over and purging a wave of puke into the aisle between his family’s booth and the ones on the other side. Several other people—presumably his family members—were also in various states of sickness. People around them were screaming and others seemed to be trying not to laugh as Payton crawled out of the booth, still vomiting. In the background of the video, whoever was recording—Mason, assumedly, Roger thought—kept periodically chanting, “WorldStar! WorldStar!”

When the scene finally ended, both Gabe and Roger had tears streaming down their faces from laughing so hard.

“Holy sh…crap,” Roger said, giving his mom a quick glance from his near slip of the tongue. “That was amazing. I cannot believe that actually happened. Payton looked like one of those fountain gargoyles but, like, directed by David Mickey Evans.”

“Oh yeah,” Gabe agreed, wiping his face. “I watch it almost every day. Really starts my morning out right, you know? Figured you’d get a kick out of it too—since toilet humor is your favorite kind.”

“What? No it’s not,” Roger said. “That’s you. You’re always cracking dumb jokes about body parts and stuff.”

“Only when I’m talking to you,” Gabe explained. “Cuz that’s the only thing that makes you laugh. Also…who’s David Mickey Evans?”

“He directed the Sandlot,” Roger clarified.

“What’s the Sandlot?” Gabe wondered. “It sounds like a movie about a desert.”

“Shit, Gabe, I have to—”

“Seriously, Roger, language!”

“Sorry!” Roger cleared his throat. “You and I are gonna watch the Sandlot. To. Night.”

“Would you boys like to choose another place to eat before you go off planning the remainder of your evening?” Their mother asked.

“Ah, crap. Great point, motha-mine,” Gabe said. “Where you tryna eat, Rodgie-boy?”

Roger considered this.

“What’s that Mexican restaurant that has the birria tacos?”

“Oh, shit, Senorita Sabrosa!” Gabe declared. “Birria tacos slap!”

“One more swear out of either of you and you’re going to wait in the car while I go get dinner,” their mother said. “You’ll just have to watch me from the window.”

“Come on, mom,” Roger said. “I know you grew up during the Great Depression, or whatever—”

“What? How old do you think I am?”

Roger didn’t take the bait.

“That’s not the point,” he said. “All I’m saying is you can’t leave us in the car like a couple of neglected dogs. Remember? That’s why they arrested Mrs. Carrington from our old Sunday school—she left her miniature schnauzer in the back of that bright red jalopy she used to drive around.”

“No,” their mother said leadingly. “They arrested Mrs. Carrington because she attacked her husband with a belt sander.”

“Clearly she was unhinged,” Gabe said. “But, I mean, come on Mr. Carrington—how you gonna get hit by that little lady? Those things are unwieldy. Just take a few steps back.”

“He was asleep,” their mother said.

“Oof,” Gabe and Roger said simultaneously, before breaking into laughter.

“Can you imagine, you’re all dreamin’ peacefully about like, money, or naked ladies, or having a face and—”

“Okay, okay!” Roger interrupted, laughing despite himself. “I get the picture, Gabe! Let’s just table this for now and grab some dippable grub.”

“I fuckin’ love dippables,” Gabe moaned, before opening his eyes wide and glancing to his mother. “Sorry.”

She pretended to be focused on driving.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Gabe announced. “You’ve been outta the loop, but guess which band is coming to The Avenue next month?”

“Who?”

“I said you have to guess,” Gabe continued.

“Just tell me…”

Their mother, watching the exchange from the corner of her eye, smiled. It was a small thing, a fleeting moment of levity. But it was enough.