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“You broke it! I can’t believe you broke it!”
Ford’s yelling at you when you come up the stairs from the pop shop down the street, Coke bottle in hand. He’s got the broken pieces of his half-used chemistry set spread across the desk in front of him, gathered up from where you swept them guiltily under the bed, and he’s red-faced and mad in a way you’re not used to him aiming at you. But hey, it was an accident. You glare back and get ready to defend yourself – and he socks you square in the jaw.
You’re so surprised that Ford bowls you over in one hit and climbs on top of you, fists sharp and flailing, spitting out hurt noises with every punch. Didn’t expect him to be this mad, you think with dull surprise, and then Sixer’s sharp knuckles are digging into your eye and you yell. Sharp bursts of light flare in your head. You get your fists up over your face like you’ve been taught, get in an awkward uppercut - knock your brother off of you. You sit up, ears roaring in pain and shock. He HIT you, your brother HIT you- Ford’s doubled over across your knees, breathing hard and creaky as he swipes at his face, holding back tears like he wasn’t the one who started punching.
“Stanford, I-” you stutter, flash of anger fading . “Sorry. I didn’t know that old junk meant that much to you -“
And he’s on you again in an angry snarl, sending your shoulders thudding into the carpet, and you shout and hit back, sympathy forgotten. You fight each other in a teenage scramble of angry limbs, his sharp knees in your ribcage, his teeth cutting your knuckles. You hear the crunch of his glasses when your fist breaks them across his nose. There’s a sick satisfaction building inside you, rising up just behind your teeth – the choked noises he makes when you hit him, the way it hurts when he digs his fists into your sides – a hard scary satisfaction that horrifies and thrills you, fizzing on your insides like a shaken pop bursting its bottle. You can see it in your brother’s eyes too. They’re wild behind his broken glasses when Ford sits on your hips, furious and warm, something too hot rising between the two of you, and you roll over together, scrabbling angrily, clicking awkward teeth in a kiss, tongue touching your brother’s, tasting blood and spittle. Your fists are screwed hard into his elbows to pin him under you and his knee’s between your knees, both of you shoving at each other in an adrenaline frenzy -
You roll off, panting, and thud onto your shared grubby carpet. Stanford’s got the wind knocked out of him for the moment, nose bleeding sluggishly as he stares openmouthed and redfaced at the ceiling. You awkwardly stretch your aching jaw, feeling loosened teeth in there, and squint at your twin through an eye that’s swelling shut.
“…. Sorry about your thing,” you say sheepishly.
Ford wheezes, swallowing your blood on his lips with a swipe of tongue. “It’s okay,” he says, sitting up. He looks at you. Swallows, flushed up to his ears, glances at the hall door, then puts his hand on your knee. It makes your stomach flip. “I’m sorry about your eye,” he says, eyes intense on yours. “Let me help.”
He leans in. You let him. You want him to.