A/N: warnings for implied rape, child abuse, and implied drug use.

(***)

Footsteps echoed down the hall and Carlos burrowed deeper under the blankets. He lay silent, listening, hoping that they would pass right by.

The doorknob twitched and light spilled into the room.

"Hey boys," Dad said, smiling. His eyes were bloodshot and tinged an angry shade of pink. There was dried blood under his nose and white powdered along his upper lip. It almost looked like he'd just finished a glass of milk, only Carlos knew there wasn't any milk left in the fridge and there hadn't been any milk for days. "I'm a little short on cash."

Juan got out of bed and Carlos squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see what would happen next. He would have to hear it. That would be enough.

Dad didn't take Juan and leave like usual. He came and sat down on the end of Carlos' bed. Carlos was careful not to flinch when Dad's hand slowly traveled up the covers and gently cupped the curve of his ass, fingers kneading and stroking, sliding down to try and press between his thighs.

He kept his legs tightly closed. "I need your help tonight, Carlitos."

"I'll help you," Juan offered himself like always. Juan never let Carlos take his place, no matter what. "Carlos is only twelve. He's too young. You know I'm better."

Juan never choked around their father's dick, no matter how deep their dad would go. Juan never cried, he never said no, all Juan could ever say was yesyesyes in a convincing voice. Juan had talent, everyone said so. He was the special one.

There was laughter in the living room and the low rumble of male voices.

"Young," Dad laughed, high on a bizarre, chemical energy, and dragged Carlos out from beneath the sheets. "Is exactly what I need."

"No!" Juan yelled, yelled like Dad hated, and so he got a knee to the belly and an elbow to the face. His nose gushed blood all over the rug. Their mom would be mad about that. She hated having to steam clean the rugs.

"Go to sleep, Juan." Dad pulled Carlos along and shut the bedroom door. The lights were on in the living room. There were four men sitting together on the couch.

"Oooh," The biggest man sighed; grinning. "I think you were right Garcia, he is better than money."

"I can't believe something so sweet looking is related to you." The second one, a skinny man with short blond hair, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. Inside it was filled with white dust that could be sugar, only it wasn't. If it were only sugar Carlos would still be in bed.

"Do we have a deal?" Dad was trembling, twitching, shifting his weight from the balls to the heels of his feet.

"Deal." The blond man tossed his dad the bag. His dad caught it in both hands and cradled it close to his chest. "Now get that ass over here, boy."

Carlos looked up at his dad.

"You heard him, Carlos. Fair is fair."

After they were finished, the couch was soaked with spunk and blood and tears. Dad was going to have to get the couch cleaned before Mom came home. The couch was a gift from their grandmother. She'd be furious if it was ruined.

Dad watched him limp down the hall, way off in his drug and fantasy land. Carlos thought it had to be pretty good there if Dad was willing to trade him and Juan for a few grams of coke or meth. It must be nice to float out among imaginary stars way above the earth where nothing and no one could hurt you.

The lights in his room were on and Juan was sitting cross legged on the floor, his back against the wall. Carlos limped past him and crawled into bed.

"I'm sorry," Juan whispered and his voice was flat. Juan didn't sound like himself. He didn't sound like anything. "I'm sorry."

(***)