No Happiness: You're right, I do write Lincoln as a "super empathetic faggot" a lot, but I only do it because I personally think empathy is a wonderful thing to have and that our world would be a lot better off with more of it going around. I don't always write him that way - see An American Tragedy, The 'Cest Kids, No Way Home, 11 Kids and Counting, 11 Kids and Counting: The Lost Tapes, Frenzy, The Legend of Liver Eating Loud, Falling in the Forest, The Living and the Dead, Reeling in the Years, After School Special, Siblings With Benefits, The Big Daddy stories, Not So Beautiful Corruption, and American History Loud.

As for the normal eleven-year-old boy thing: No, I don't write him as a normal eleven-year-old boy because normal eleven-year-old boys are lame (no offense to any reading this). Plus, the show itself routinely depicts Lincoln and the sisters displaying insight and self-awareness that I, personally, rarely see in adults, let alone children. The Louds have never struck me as "normal" children and my writing reflects that.

I also age them up mentally to make them more interesting...and also because if I demanded exacting realism from myself, a story like this would be pretty fucked up. Maybe that's my way of adding a layer of separation between the myself and the events of my Loudcest stories - if I visualized them as real children, I wouldn't want to write it.

Guest: I do plan to one day write sequels for Drunk on You and Pageant of Hearts. Right now I'm working on an aged up Lilycoln story tentatively titled The One I Adore.

Saturday morning, Lisa went straight to the lavatory on waking, locking the door behind her - it was just past 7am, and her siblings had yet to stir. Apparently, or so she heard, there was an altercation over something trivial, as always, and father confined them to their rooms for the remainder of the day. There were injuries, she was told (by Dad): Lana sustained a concussion, Lori's wrist was sprained, and Lincoln's olfactory organ (street name nose) suffered an abrasion that led to the expulsion of blood.

That angered her.

Greatly.

After their discussion the previous day, Lisa had been unable to think of little else aside from her brother, pausing again and again in her work to savor the memory of being held in his arms, and to linger over his soft, encouraging words. She was aware, of course, that he was not stupid, but she was surprised by his insights and by the depth of his thoughts. He was more profound than he looked at first glance, and Lisa found that very attractive, his blood relation to her notwithstanding. In fact, as she slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her pajama bottoms and slid them down her legs, she recalled dreaming of him in the night, the type of dream that resulted in what is commonly known as nocturnal emissions.

A "wet dream." In it, she lay back on her bed while Lincoln made love to her, his eyes filled with endless love and tenderness. She couldn't remember much of it, only that meeting his gaze and holding his hand awoke such intense feelings in her that they lingered long after she roused. Even now, she ached to experience it again...this time for real.

Naked from the waist down, she gripped the string dangling from the tampon and pulled it out slowly, wincing at the alien sensation of it sliding against her vaginal walls. When it was out, she held it up to the light; save for a tiny spot of rust-colored blood, it was clean. Hope blossomed in her chest like a spring flower - aside from the arousal still pulsating between her legs, she felt like her conventional self: The irritability was gone (or rather reduced to normal levels), as, too, were the mood swings: She'd been awake for nearly an hour gathering the courage to come in here and check the tampon, and in that time her emotional state remained stable. It seemed that the antidote, for lack of a better term, was working.

She let out a pent-up breath and bowed her head. Thank the heavens, she was beginning to genuinely worry.

The arousal, however, was cause for concern, though she imagined it would filter out of her system like a toxin, probably within 24 to 48 hours. For now, though, it crashed against her loins like an angry tide, so strong that she pressed her knees together and gritted her teeth. Lincoln would be in his room at present, clad in only his underwear, his body warm from the covers, his flesh smooth, creamy, like fresh linens. She imagined splaying her fingers on his chest and rubbing slowly across its width, her palms kissing his skin, rising and falling as they molded to his dips and ridges. She saw herself placing soft, wet kisses to his stomach, saw his erection stirring and beginning to swell tight against the inside of his cotton briefs like a mythological colossus waking from an eternal slumber. Ooooh, mother of mercy, she wanted to touch it - rub it like a magic lamp and squeeze it through his underwear, to trace it with her fingers and then release it from its prison, whereupon she would straddle him and allow him ingress to the deepest chambers of her body.

Sickly heat radiated from between her legs in waves and natural lubricant trickled down the insides of her thighs like rivers of lava.

The only thing stopping her from going to him was the near certainty that he would reject her owing not only to their shared lineage but also to her diminutive age. The first one had never been a problem, but the second was a constant source of grief, and currently, she drew a sad sigh and let it out in a steady rush. The prospect of him turning her away twisted in her stomach like a knife, and for the first time she was forced to consider the possibility that she was not simply lusting for him while also finding him agreeable, but was instead, perhaps, in love with him.

A sharp pang tore through her stomach like an exclamation point to her previous train of thought.

Hm.

She had never been in love prior, so it was uncharted territory. She'd found males aesthetically pleasing (Hugh the tutor was a fine looking man), but she had not, as far as she could recall, felt for them as she felt now for Lincoln. Calling up an image of his face made her heart race, and remembering the warmth he exuded as he consoled her the day before, the gentle timbre of his voice, the feeling of hs fingers running through her hair…

Where was she again?

Oh, right - those things made her feel like a bubbling liquid in a beaker and brought a slow, lazy smile to her usually neutral lips. Those things were divorced from sexual desire, though his holding her was a turn on. Had her fantasies, as they were, been strictly confined to physical matters, she could have passed them off as pure, dumb, biological urges, but they were not. Since waking, and indeed before retiring the previous night, she had observed a strange and unsettling phenomena in her cardiac organ accompanied by gastrointestinal distress, sleeplessness, and a general breakdown in mental faculties, all of which were exacerbated by Lincoln's presence. She didn't know exactly what being in love felt like, but from what she'd heard second hand, it was very much like this.

Something, maybe the superstitious "morality" inborn in all people, told her that she should be alarmed and disgusted with herself, but she was not, as she understood that genetics mean very little until you combine them. She and Lincoln were two different people with two different genetic make-ups that were similar given their relation, but not identical. If they were to attempt to procreate, there would be an issue, but otherwise...what difference did it make?

To her, none. To Lincoln, however, it would probably make all the difference. And even if that pratfall was removed from the equation, there was still that fact that she was only four, a literal toddler. She glanced at the mirror over the sink, but could not see her reflection - she grabbed the pink plastic step stool from next to the toilet, dragged it over, and climbed on: Even then, she barely reached. What she saw was not what she felt, a child, barely old enough to not be considered a baby. The disodience between her exterior and interior always made her dizzy, which is why she rarely ever looked at herself for long.

How can one person be so blamed conflicted?

She sighed and looked away from the mirror. Of course Lincoln wouldn't be interested in her even when setting aside their relation. She couldn't say she blamed him, though it was hard not to resent the fact that he, like everyone else, still only saw her as a child and not as the..being...she really was. She wouldn't go so far as to say she was an adult, but for all intents and purposes, was she not?

Her heart beat a throbbing rhythm and her stomach rumbled with nerves. She wasn't exaggerating when she said that sometimes she didn't like being herself; there were moments she wished with keen earnesty that she was someone else, anyone else - fully adult, fully child, it didn't matter, just someone other than Lisa Loud. And now was one of those moments. If she was, say, Sam, Luna's associate, or Carol Pingrey, Lori's, she would be able to collect the prize that was Lincoln was nary a worry. Even if she was still a close relation, Lynn perhaps, she would stand something of a chance. As it stood now, however, she had not a one.

Though her mood swings were past, she suddenly felt the neigh irresistible urge to cry. Lincoln was a beautiful individual - everything one could want in a potential partner - and owing to who she was, she would be forever denied him. If that doesn't make you want to cry, nothing will.

An idea struck her then, analogous to a sniper's bullet, and she jerked a harried glance at her reflection - its eyes were wide and its lips parted, lending it a mad air that sent a shiver down her spine.

That idea was to drug him.

With Zyclandizo.

Not much, mind you, just enough to stimulate the increase of sexual hormones in his body. That way, he would, as they say, think more with his small head than his large one. He would, thereby, be aroused to the point that his inhibitions would be lessened, and engaging in intercourse with his four-year-old sister wouldn't seem the great evil it would otherwise. She knew from personal experience that it's difficult to be firm in one's morals when one is excessively "horny."

That seemed...unethical, though. In fact, it seemed downright wrong. Thinking on it, she suddenly found that she didn't want Lincoln to "want" her through chemical induction, she wanted him to want her on his own, because he saw in her favorable traits. In essence, you could say that she wanted something real, not something artificially manufactured in a laboratory. She wanted to win him on her own, to earn his love and affection the way a normal woman would win and earn the feelings of a normal man. Science had been her life entire, and of science she had grown bored...even, perhaps, a tad disdainful. Science was, in a way, like a disease, and Lincoln - the happiness he woke inside of her as well, and the peace - was the cure. Using scientific methods to secure him would serve only to pervert the matter, to corrupt what she wanted most.

Sigh.

Matters of the heart are quite vexing, are they not?

She favored her reflection with hangdog eyes, then looked away, the roiling emotions she saw therein too raw, too frank, to meet. If she made a vy for Lincoln's hand, as it were, she would only be content to do it the old fashioned way.

Therein lie the problem. There was no way he would fall for her as she had fallen for him. She was not a fan of baseball, but living with Lynn, she'd picked up a few errant bits of information regarding the game, and she knew, roundabout, that three strikes eliminated a batter. Three strikes and you're out, as the kids say. Unfortunately, she had three strikes against her now: She was Lincoln's close co-specific; she was a practically still a baby; and she was unattractive. Her features were plain, her hair a matted mess, and her face consumed almost entirely by Coke bottle glasses that she once found charming, but now loathed. Lincoln was a heartfelt individual, and thus was not the type of boy to be "hung up" on appearance. If her homely face was the primary obstacle, she would be far, far better off.

It was not, though, and, pragmatically speaking, she would not even consider it. Being four and related to him were, in that exact order, the major speed bumps on the road to her happiness with Lincoln...and yes, the more she mulled the matter over, the more assured she became that she was indeed in love with her only brother. Could she act on it, though, or would she be damned to pine from afar like an eighteenth century poet adoring his love from the shadows?

Commonsense told her to forget the topic - to focus her time and efforts on something worthwhile, and not a pretty pipe dream spun inside a celestial castle. Her heart, however, took precedence - for once in her life, it was louder than her brain, and at the present moment, it screamed at her to make a move on Lincoln, like a chessmaster closing in on the young, full-of-himself upstart. That was all fine and well, but how? Setting aside her flaws for the moment, she knew nothing about that peculiar ritual called courtship. She was not known for being forthright with her emotions, but she had always found it easiest to speak one's mind frankly. If she was hungry, she said so. If she wanted to go outside for fresh air, she said so. Clear and direct communication is the key, she believed, to harmonious human relationships. The thought of sitting Lincoln down and telling him how she felt, as though she were simply telling him that she was tired and explaining why, however, filled her stomach with cold, clutching dread. From what little she knew, one does not simply state their romantic intentions for another, at least not outright, and at least not at first. It is supposed to be implicit. She did not do well with sublty, thus she did not think she could pull off a conventional pursuit.

Of course, backing up for a moment, she and Lincoln were already familiar with each other, unlike, for example, two not-related lovers. A boy sees a girl from across the room, finds her attractive, then approaches her and begins to talk to her so that he may learn more about her and thereby determine if she is worth pursuing. Lisa did not have the closest relationship with Lincoln, or her other siblings for that matter, but they were certainly not strangers, even though it felt that way sometimes. There were underlying affections and feelings of fondness, tenderness, etc. They did not, then, have to build from the ground up, as there was already a fairly solid foundation on which to erect a romantic discourse.

Then you factor in her age and blood relation again, and it all falls apart, like a house of cards.

That, of course, could be argued to be a defeatist mindset, and one cannot succeed in such a mental state. If she wanted to win Lincoln's heart (and yes, his warm, erect, beautiful penis) she would have to think positively, and conduct herself not as a little girl who is assured of losing, but as a little girl who is assured of winning.

How should she go about it, though? She scrunched her lips to the side and regarded her reflection as though it would supply an answer, but it only stared back at her, as though it expected the same of her.

I'm four years old and have no experience whatsoever with sex, romance, or the male species. Don't look at me.

She was stumped, and when one is stumped, the only viable course of action is to seek the assistance of someone more well-versed than you. She doubted her mother would be of much help, as she would most likely find the idea of Lisa "dating" abhorrent (she would, of course, ask advice under the pretense of being interested in a boy who was not Lincoln). She could hear Mom now: You're far too young for that sort of thing, honey. Well, yes, if she were a normal four year old, she would absolutely agree. She was not normal, however, and should be given special consideration.

Sudden indignation filled her chest and her hand curled into a fist. Our society is too goddamn set on using a one size fits all approach. People are not the same across the board, something that laws often do not take into consideration. Take...say….age of consent laws. They vary state by state, but generally eighteen is the standard - one who is eighteen is, in the eyes of the government, able to consent to sexual congress. Eighteen, however, is an arbitrary line in the sand that was drawn because, realistically, it had to be drawn somewhere. What differentiates an eighteen year old from a seventeen year old? Or a sixteen year old? Not damn much. Age, as they say, is a number, it all boils down to mental and emotional maturity - the summit of which can be reached at fifteen or twenty five or never at all. In layman's terms: There are those who are mature enough to make monumental decisions at sixteen, and those who are not mature enough at twenty or even later. She, Lisa felt, was old enough to give a man (or woman) her consent now, whether they were Lincoln or not. If she wanted to sleep with, say, Luna's roadie Chunk, she should damn well be able to.

Her numerical age, however, took precedence over everything else, and that struck her as so wrongheaded that it legitimately angered her. Yes, she realized she was a child, but God above, did they really have to treat her as such?

She took a deep breath and exhaled in a rush.

Anyway, back to matter at hand - and no more digressions. If she sought help from her mother, she would simply reprimand her. She needed someone else.

Someone like Lori.

Lori was, as far as Lisa was aware, the only one of her siblings with experience in the field of men. None of the others had ever so much as had a boyfriend; Lori not only did, but was sexually active with him. Granted, Lori made dubious choices, such as clinging to Bobby and conducting herself in a so-called "crazy girlfriend" manner, but beggars cannot be choosers.

There was, however, the matter of her recent hostility toward Lori, which would probably incline Lori away from helping her. She needed advice, though.

Sparing one last look at her reflection, she jumped down from the stool, returned it to its station betwixt the toilet and sink, and returned to her room. Glancing at Lily's crib, she was not surprised to find the infant awake and on her knees, face pressed to the bars. She cocked her head and smiled widely. "Leee-sa," she said.

"Good morning, Lily," Lisa said and crossed to her dresser, "I trust you slept well."

Lisa did not use gibberish when speaking to Lily - she employed complete sentences and words longer than one syllable. Child learn by observing the world around them and by mimicking the sounds they heard, and if you want one to speak well, you must first speak well to them. She selected a pair of plain green underwear from her top drawer and a pair of red corduroy pants from the one beneath, then crossed to the closet and took out a green sweater. As she dressed, Lily pulled herself to a standing position and peered over the rail. "Leee-sa."

Pulling the sweater over her head, Lisa went over to the crib and offered her little sister a smile. "Lily."

Lily returned Lisa's smile with one of her own. "Leee-sa."

Lisa leaned in a little and tapped Lily's nose. "Lily."

Gripping the rail, Lily bounced up and down. What must it be like to be her? She had not a care in the world, and lacked the self-awareness to know what her station was in life - to know that she had no rights, as a child. Too young to worry about things like love, rejection, and melancholia.

Too young to realize what an amazing person their brother was; too young to appreciate him.

Hm.

Perhaps the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence.

Reaching into the crib, she picked her sister up and grimaced at the strain of her weight. "You're getting cumbersome," she said and sat her down. "Are you hungry?"

Lily laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes. Let's go get some breakfast."

Holding the infant's hand, Lisa led her downstairs.

Lincoln Loud usually slept late on Saturdays, but today he was up before the dawn, sitting in be with an Ace Savvy comic open in his lap and the lamp on the nightstand casting warm amber light across the bed. His eyes were grainy and a twinge over his left eye threatened to turn into a full-blown headache if left unchecked. He wore only his underwear, and a slight frown as he stared absently at the panel in front of him, seeing but not registering, the last vestiges of the nightmare still lingering in his mind like morning fog. He sighed, looked at the closed door, and considered going to check on Lisa, but decided against it - he looked in on her when he first woke, and she was sleeping peacefully, not a sign that anything was wrong in sight. She would be up in an hour or so; he'd see her then.

He looked at the comic once more and pursed his lips - Ace and One Eye Jack were battling The Thompson Twins, a pair of Nazis conjoined at the hip and deformed by generations of inbreeding. They looked weak as hell, but they were actually the most powerful foes Ace had. Far more powerful than Taco, Murray Head, Falco, and The Human League. He disinterestedly flipped ahead and spoiled the issue for himself: The Thompson Twins lay in a twitch heap on the ground, Ace and One Eyed Jack standing over them to gloat.

Oh well. He didn't really care about this crap right now anyway; he was worried about Lisa - especially after the dream. In it, he stood helplessly at her bedside as she thrashed and writhed in agony, her face beet red and her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes, filled with coming death. He remembered looking into them the day before as he held her in his arms, and a strange feeling clutched at the lining of his stomach, like hooked talons. He also remembered the soul withering horror he felt as, in the nightmare, he watched Lisa dying from that stuff she injected, and the stinging tears he came awake with.

For some reason he couldn't explain, he kept going back to the previous afternoon, to the insecurities she revealed and the pain she shared, to the sadness in her eyes, then the glowing warmth as his words sank in and took effect. He wished now that he'd held her a little longer, and maybe peppered her forehead with tender kisses.

He contented himself with the fact that she obviously felt better by the time he left - he didn't feel like he did much, but he did enough, and for now that would have to do.

An itch snaked up the side of his nose, and he mindlessly scratched it, the touch sending red pain into the center of his skull and tearing a gasp from his throat. When Lynn tackled him that last time yesterday, his face became very intimate with the floor, leading to a sticky situation. Get it?

He busted his nose, is what I'm saying. He wasn't mad at Lynn, though; when she saw what she did - that oh, shit, I went too far moment - her face went white and remorseful tears welled in her eyes, which was enough to satisfy him that she was truly sorry. Things just got out of hand, the way they're wont to do. No big.

He'd just get her back the next time they played football - throw the ball at her chest or something. Oh, I'm so sorry, Lynn, I didn't mean to drill you so hard you flew back and smacked your head off the ground. Here, let me help you up. Oops, forgot I was wearing Luan's joy buzzer.

Bloody noses sucked, but Lori got it worse: She sprained her wrist and twisted her ankle. Her hand dangled like a gay man's. Heeeey.

A wan smile touched his lips and he took a deep breath through his nose. Don't worry about Lisa, she's fine, and stop thinking about kissing her. She's your sister and it's not weird, but dwelling on it kind of is.

Even so, he envisioned himself smothering her in kisses. It's okay, Lisa; I love you for who you are.

That was true, he did, and he didn't want her to dislike herself, but can we walk back the kissing stuff, please?

He looked at the comic, figured he might as well give up, then closed it and sat it on the nightstand. Maybe he should check on Lisa anyway - God knows a lot can happen in an hour. Since he last peeked in, she could have grown to twice her normal size and spiked a 700 degree fever and he wouldn't know because he was in here pussyfooting around, thinking about how he wished he kissed her and played with her hair.

Ew, dude, really? You need to go back to bed and wake up right this time.

Have a Snickers, you're not you when you're hungry.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand - it was just after 6:30 and the first rays of the morning sun were creeping across Franklin Avenue like clinging vines.

Alright, I'll go check on her.

Getting up, he went to the door and eased it open - the hinges squeaked and stealhily opening it came second nature. He poked his head out, a rabbit emerging from its burrow and scouting for danger, then slipped out and crept to Lisa's room, his heart racing and the back of his neck tingling as though he were doing something wrong.

At her door, he paused, listened, then wrapped his fingers around the knob and turned, pushing it open and sticking his head in - the room was dark, Lisa's lab, computer, chair, and Lily's crib vague and indistinct shapes. He slid in and tiptoed to Lisa's bed. In the spill of a nightlight, her face was smooth and at peace, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Warm affection flooded his chest, and a slow smile spread across his lips. He pressed his hand lightly to her forehead to check her temperature and nodded to himself - normal.

For a moment he lingered, staring down at her and feeling a strange and powerful mix of emotions - love, longing, and sadness. She didn't know it, but she really was great. An acquired taste, maybe, and not for everyone, but great nonetheless.

He turned away and forced himself into the hall when the urge to crawl into bed with her and hold her in his arms came upon him like a tidal wave. For some reason, it bothered him, even though there was nothing wrong with hugging your little sister when she was feeling sad. He'd done it to Lola, Lana, and Lucy a million times in the past, but right now…

Cutting that thought off, he shook his head and went into the bathroom - since he was already up, he might as well catch a shower.

In the bathroom, he shut the door (leaving in unlocked in case someone absolutely had to go while he was indisposed), stripped out of his undies, and turned the water on, fiddling with the knobs until the temp was perfect - not blisteringly hot, but not bitch-warm either. That meant lukewarm. Cucks take lukewarm showers.

For the first time that morning, he noticed his erection - it was tall and proud, like the masthead of a ship at sail. A boner's kind of a hard thing to overlook, but when you're in the middle of puberty and pop one every time a breeze rolls in, you tend to tune them out. Morning, Log, he thought sarcastically and patted it. That's what he called it when it first started getting hard (like, a year ago or whatever). Get it? Lincoln? Log? He stopped when he realized how dumb it was. I mean, the word 'log' is slang for poop. Damn it, Washington, you left your log in the toilet again. His dick wasn't shit, so…

Then again, he'd never really tested it out. It did its job in regards to waste expulsion, but it was still unvetted when it came to sex with a girl. Being a normal boy, he was naturally a little...anxious about his equipment, so he did an exhaustive Google search and was pretty sure that he was about average for his age: The median length of an erect adult penis is 5.5 inches - he was packing a solid 3.5 fully sprung...and he hadn't even fully gone through puberty yet.

Of course when he was with his friends he fronted like he had nine inches - because all of the boys he knew had nine *eyeroll* Poppa Wheelie's dick was "just over twelve inches." Sure it is, buddy, you got a bridge you wanna sell me too?

Under the spray, he grabbed the family bodywash, squirted some into his hands (he had a loofa in his room, he just forgot it), and lathered up. One of the sucky things about living with ten sisters (nine, since Lily was too young to have a say) was that everything in the house was girl-specific. Take this body wash. Lavender-lilac scent. Of course it's going to be girly because they rule the roost. He was the only guy (Dad didn't count; he'd been around women so long he practically was one), so when it came time to get a big bottle of communal body wash, it was always going to be some girl smelling stuff.

Same goes with snacks. He liked Cheese Nips, but everyone else like Cheese-Its, so guess whose opinion got overruled? Actually, Lynn liked Cheese Nips too, but still, two people vs eight - it's not a matter of gender so much as it is majority. On the other hand, Luan liked glazed doughnuts and everyone else, him included, like chocolate - guess who got the shaft on that one? Hey, Luan, doughtnots, get it? Because you do not get your favorite brand? Hahahahahaha.

What was that stuff with Lisa earlier?

That thought struck him like a speeding Mac truck with big ass spikes on the grill.

Nothing, it was nothing - he was thinking of how poorly she felt and wishing he'd done a little more to console her. That's all. Maybe it was his being, you know, sexually aware, but he was making this unnecessarily weird. Take...Lynn for instance. When they were younger, they bathed together because why not? Saves water and makes for cute photo ops. Now that they were older and both...awakened...that didn't happen. Ooooh, a better analogy would be Adam and Eve. Before Satan tricked them into eating that apple or whatever, they were innocent and blissfully unaware of their own nakedness. Two bites later - oh, shit, gurl, your tits are showing. When you're six, cuddling with your sister's just...cuddling with your sister. When you get older, it's like - she's my sister and a girl and you don't cuddle with sister-girls.

Or maybe his overall philosophy was weird.

Hm.

Anyway, it felt weird to want to kiss and snuggle his little sister...even though it really shouldn't.

Deep down, though, it didn't feel quite so innocent. There was a depth to it, something beyond hey, my sis is hurting, lemme put my arm around her shoulder. He wanted to make her better and…

He couldn't articulate it. He was usually pretty good at expressing his feelings, but right now he found himself fumbling, his emotions building in his chest like steam in engine with no release valve.

Whatever, he was being dumb, which wasn't new. Hey, everyone gets stupid every now and then. Like Lynn with her superstitious crap. Oh, my lucky underwear, can't spots ball without those. Shiver. She literally wore the same crusty pair of underwear for weeks on end. To be fair, he was pretty sure she washed them every other day - standing by the dryer in nothing but an oversized jersey and a pair of socks because idk, if any panties touched her that weren't those she'd die or something.

Done, he cut the water, grabbed the towel, and dried off, then wrapped it around himself and went to the sink. In the mirror, his face was pale and haggard, reminding him of a fresh corpse. Give me your brains *shoves Leni out of the way to get to Lori* He wiped the condensation from the glass, grabbed his toothbrush, and squeezed some Crest onto the bristles. In the Loud house, hand-me-downs are a fact of life; his toothbrush used to belong to Lori - in fact, sometimes he could still taste her lunch from eighth grade. So it's true, the middle school does do Taco Tuesdays.

That was a joke - some things you just don't hand down. Like dental hygiene products. Or tampons.

Speaking of tampons, he wondered again if Lisa's antidote worked - the last he texted her, she said she'd just taken it and was going to sit up for a while in case of adverse effects. Was her period...over? Or did the drug not work?

He'd have to wait until she woke up to see.

Sigh.

He spat, rinsed with mouthwash, then went back to his room, the cold air raking goosebumps across his skin. He dressed in a pair of jeans and an orange polo shirt. The sun was fully up now, and by the time he was done, the house was coming awake - someone closed the bathroom door and the overhead fan kicked on.

Pulling on his shoes, he got up and went downstairs - surprisingly, Lori was already at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of her and her phone in her hand. She looked up when he came passed on his way to the kitchen, "Hey, Linc."

His eyes went to her left hand - it rested upon the table, her wrist puffy and light pink. "Hey," he said, "how're you feeling?"

She shrugged. "Eh. Walking kind of hurts. How's your nose?"

"Sniffing hurts."

She looked at him strangely, then laughed. "Does it really?"

"Nah. Touching it does, though."

"Don't touch it."

Lincoln favored her with a blank stare. "I hadn't thought of that."

Before she could reply, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, and crossed to the island, where a box of generic Raisin Bran waited. Morning, Linc-enstein, ready for a healthy, well-balanced breakfast? I'd rather Cocoa Puffs. Fuck you then, kid.

He poured some in, added milk, took a spoon from the drying rack, and went into the dining room, sitting across from Lori. "Bobby says Ronnie Anne misses you," she said and took a bite of cereal. "You should text her."

Lincoln snorted. "The last time I texted her, she ignored me. She still hasn't responded."

Three months ago, Ronnie Anne and her familia (that's Spanish for family, which is appropriate, considering she's Mexican or something) struck out for the big city - Detroit. Before, he and Ronnie Anne were kind of boyfriend/girlfriend apparent. You know how someone's an heir apparent? Like...the dictator's still alive but everyone kind of knows that he just looooves the propaganda minister and he's probably going to succeed him. Yeah, he and RA weren't really bf-gf, but it was kind of heading in that direction. They hung out, played games and stuff, and really liked each other.

Then she moved and suddenly she didn't have time for him - she was too worried about her new friends, who were a bunch of assholes, by the way. He went to visit her once and she acted like she was ashamed of him or something. Yeah, that's *gag* Lincoln. In a polo shirt. What a lame-ass whiteboy, huh, guys? It kind of hurt, but then he got over it. If that's how she wanted to be, fine. He wasn't going to torture himself over some a-hole like her - he'd find someone who wasn't ashamed to be seen with him.

"She's just busy," Lori said. Since RA was the Bobbster's sister, and Lori loooooved Bobby, she kind of took her side a lot, making excuses for her and stuff. Just like she did for Bobby himself. That was her problem, not his.

Dipping his spoon in the bowl, he said, "I might text her later."

She nodded then went back to scrolling - Facebook, probably, or Snapchat (?) He didn't know, social media was dumb. The only thing he used was Discord (it's for gamers, ya know) but that was dumb too.

Was Lisa up yet? He really wanted to touch base with her. And speaking of Lise, did Lori know about Lisa's...premature visit from Aunt Flo? Lori was basically an honorary parent at this point, so it was possible Mom or Dad told her. Then again, maybe they didn't. Lisa specifically told him not to tell, but, ya know, she kind of tore Lori apart a couple times, and as far as he knew, Lori was still (as of yesterday) mad at her. She had every right, of course, but maybe knowing what Lisa was dealing with would soften the blow a little and take the edge off her anger. "So," he ventured, "you heard about Lisa, right?"

Lori flicked her eyes up from her phone and lifted her brows. "No," she said, "what'd she do this time?"

Well, that answers that question. Now he wasn't so sure he should proceed, but Lori was looking at him expectantly. He started it now he had to keep going. It was for the best, though. "She started her period yesterday"

Lincoln couldn't honestly remember if he had ever seen anyone's jaw actually drop, but Lori's sure did. "What?"

He nodded. "Yeah. She told me. That's why Dad picked her up at school early...and why she's been really emotional."

Lori nodded slowly. "Yeah, that'll do it." She didn't sound overly sympathetic. "Did she do it herself?"

"No," Lincoln said quickly.

She hummed. "Well, four's really early. Like...abnormally early. Girls usually start -'

"I know," Lincoln said and held up a hand, "no need to give me the talk. Dad and health class already did that."

Lori shrugged. "Whatever. It's really strange, though."

"Yeah, I guess," he said, and was silently grateful when she dropped the subject and went back to scrolling through her phone. Hopefully Lisa wouldn't be mad that he said something...better yet, hopefully Lori didn't say anything but instead took Lisa's mood swings into account when thinking about yesterday's epic smackdown.

He grinned to himself; it was mean as hell, but funny, too. Lisa really roasted her and Luna, and did it in such a dry, technical way - it was strange, unique, surreal, and beautiful.

Just like Lisa herself.

That gave him pause.

Thinking of your sister as beautiful is okay, dude, so why does it feel...wrong?

Because you're a dumbass, that's why.

Can't argue there.

Before he was done with breakfast, the others started to filter in like shell-shocked refugees from a Third World war zone: Luna with messy hair and blinking eyes; Leni with her head hung and her shoulders slumped; Luan looking like she hadn't slept in a month; and…

Lincoln sputtered.

Lisa.

The little girl marched behind Luan with her eyes forward and her hands behind her back, her expression strained - ie, normal. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and her lips twitched almost like they were trying to smile but she wouldn't let them. "Hey, Lise," he said, "how are you feeling?"

"Good," she said simply, and he knew from that that the antidote worked. Whew. That was a load off.

Now he could chill and go about his day.

He tried, he really did, but he kept thinking about Lisa…