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Winter 1987.

Thomas slinked around the corner. His tucked his knees high against his chest, just like the shifty villains in his favorite comic books. His footed pajamas made his feet quiet against the hardwood floor. He loved and hated them for the same reason— his brother Mike. Big Brother Mike was always a good source of entertainment when the sky outside grew grey and dreary, when there was nothing good on television, or when his mother wouldn't give him an extra quarter for the comic store.

You've had your allowance this week, she would say. He was sure of it.

The other side of the orange and green footed pajamas wasn't an innocent game of chase played indoors.

Cry baby, Thomas imagined Mike's harsh words among his friends, He's such a baby.

Thomas knew deep down what Mike was really all about. He loved precision. He loved his legos; he sat for hours many Saturday afternoons constructing his master pieces. He understood that Mike was a loner, but not by choice.

His brain just works different than ours, Thomas remembered his mother saying, He was born that way. He can't interact that same way you and I can with other people.

Too much of Michael's brain is used up in those legos, his father William would explain.

Thomas paused in the hall way with the thought of his father's words. His mother would always present a steep frown at his father's explanation. Thomas considered asking his mother about it, but he figured one day he would understand without seeming silly in his parent's eyes.

"It's grown up stuff, anyway," Thomas mumbled to himself as he edged to his brother's bedroom.

Thomas held his ear to the door. He twisted the door knob, when silence met his eardrums. He adjusted the pale green bedsheet he tied around his neck. He cupped his hand around his smile to stifle his giggling. He creaked the door open.

Mike was there, like always with his back turned to the door. He was lost, drifting away in his own world full of construction deadlines and wealthy property investors.

"We have to use Roman arches to hold the building up," Mike mumbled to himself, completely oblivious to his brother's presence.

The eleven year old sat on the constellation rug decorating his bedroom floor. His knees began to ache from the pressure placed on them, but he paid it no mind. His task at hand was more important. It always was. A colossal contraption of Legos laid before him. It was his own private Buckingham palace he built in his bedroom. Mike was never interested in actually going and seeing the places he built. There were too many people there, too many eyes bearing down on him. William made it clear that the rest of the family would not miss out because of Mike's 'antics'. Mike didn't mind. The baby sitters were usually kind, and he could recreate the great feats of architecture there in his bedroom.

Thomas leaned onto the door. It creaked as it swung forward with his weight. He snickered at his mistake. He knew he would be given away. Mike dropped the white blocks in his hands. He looked over his shoulder. Thomas' silhouette lingered in the doorway. The little boy's curly black hair left at shadow against his adjacent wall. Mike took a deep breath and turned to the palace in front of his lap.

"I know you're there Tom," Mike said, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of his own speech.

Thomas giggled at his brother's back. Mike whipped his head around at the sound, partially angry and amused. He couldn't see the boy's face, but he knew Thomas' green eyes were drilling into him from the door, from his own private space. Thomas invaded his sanctuary. It didn't matter that he couldn't see his brother's face. He knew he was there, looking at him. It was enough.

"Go away!," Mike groaned with his eyes closed at the shadow in the door.

"Do it Mike, do it!," Thomas giggled.

"You talk too much!"

Mike's shoulders slumped. His blue eyes popped open and he sucked in his cheeks. His heart galloped inside of his chest, threatening to flee from the bone prison of his rib cage. His frown softened. Thomas didn't understand, and he knew it.

I don't think anyone does, Michael thought.

Mike raised from his seat on the floor. He ripped a wadded up blanket from the top of his full sized bed. He stood and looked at Thomas who was laughing uncontrollably at this point.

"Just do it!"

Mike closed his eyes to speak, "Oh, no. You don't get to decide when it happens," he laughed.

Thomas clang to the door knob and tried to catch his breath when he wasn't snorting with laughter. Before Thomas could bat an eye. Mike hoisted the corners of the blanket high above his head. He charged as fast as he could with both of his hands waded up into the knitted quit. Thomas broke and run. Their footsteps were like roaring thunder in the hall. Mike's snarling growl was drowned out by Thomas' howling scream. Their blankets sailed in the air behind their backs.

They turned the corner at breath neck speed. Thomas' pajama's betrayed him causing him to slide into a wall. Wooden pictured frames cascaded to the floor. Their glass faces shattered over the hard wood floor. Mike stopped abruptly. He slammed into his father's back causing him to fall on his rear. Mike didn't make eye contact. He never did. Something inside never let him. He didn't need to. He could hear it all in his father's voice.

"Michael, are you stupid?"

Mike shuddered in his skin. His head sagged. He stared at William's shoes.

"Michael!"

"Dad, we were just playin'—," Thomas interrupted.

"I don't care," William cut him off.

"Answer me Michael."

"No," Mike said squeezing his eyes.

"What did you say?"

Mike's eyes popped open, and he continued to stare at his father's loafers. It was all he needed to know that William was looming over him.

"Don't you ignore me," his indignant voice boomed.

"I don't know," Mike blurted

"Open your eyes. Look at me!"

Mike tilted his chin up and tried to force his eyes open. His chest heaved with frightened breath. His jaw fell agape as he tried to focus. His nose crinkled above his mouth.

"I don't care what they say is wrong with you. I know you can do it. You're just a disrespectful little—"

"William!," their mother barged in.

Afton turned around to see his wife standing at the other end of the hall.

"Boys go to your rooms," she ordered them.

Thomas scurried away, careful not to get a piece of glass in his foot with Mike hot on his heels. Thomas turned his head to see Mike rubbing his red eyes.

"Sorry," Thomas mouthed before they separated into their own rooms.

Mike closed the door and kneeled in the floor in front of his palace, like nothing happened.

"Will he's your son, you should be ashamed!"

"I don't care. You didn't see it. He chased Tom right into a wall!," his father's voice echoed.

"You know he didn't mean to. They do this all the time."

"Kid wouldn't even look at me!"

"He can't help it and you know it."

"It's disrespectful and you know it. I don't care if he's retarded!"

"You take that back," she fumed.

"No."

Mike ignores the distinct sound of flesh swatting flesh. He was too preoccupied sticking a flag on a steeple of his palace.

"He's not and you know it. You were there when they said they weren't sure what it is. His IQ is above average for christ's sake! It's a processing disorder, you ass."