"The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us."

- Robert Louis Stevenson

"My parents kicked it first, y'know."

Peter sat in the passenger side of Berwald's unremarkable four-door car, staring out the window at rainy streets, talking to no one in particular. His 'father' was driving slowly, well below the speed limit, and had, up until that moment, been doing something similar to what the boy had been doing all along – staring out into nothing. Taking no sudden changes of subject or swerves into ditches as a positive sign, Peter continued.

"You probably figured that, since the paperwork said my brother was my last related guardian, but they did die, actually. They didn't just run off."

Berwald didn't say anything, but he was listening.

"My brother had a boyfriend. His name was Alfred. Cocky, sure of himself. He made my brother feel like he was worth something."

Peter shifted, leaning on the car door, twisted in his seat to be facing as far away from Berwald as possible. His words had to be vulnerable. His body did not.

"He went to Iraq to be a hero. He was my hero, my brother's hero. He came home in a box."

Berwald's hands clenched the steering wheel a little tighter. He couldn't put his finger on why. Foreboding, maybe.

"My brother threw himself into working harder. Wanted to put money towards my education, so I wouldn't want to go into the army. He left me at daycare while he picked up an extra shift."

Peter spoke tonelessly. He might as well have been reading out of the phone book.

"A man there touched me. Repeatedly. I didn't know how to tell my brother. I was scared. But one day I did tell him. The man had left by then."

Scenery shifted outside the car's windows. Drab colors running into more drab colors.

"My brother left. Not physically. Mentally. He went away. He went through the motions, but there was no there there. He didn't mean to. Just too much for him to handle."

They braked and accelerated in time with traffic lights. Berwald felt cold.

"He wasn't paying attention. He stepped off onto the subway tracks and touched the third rail. Goodbye, Arthur. I think it was a relief. He wasn't really here anymore."

Peter turned away from the window.

"Are you here, Berwald?"

Berwald's throat felt dry, his eyes burned, his lips twitched and moved as if trying to make an expression, or say something. The car came to a stop, and idled. Berwald looked at his foster son. Really looked at him.

"No," he finally said. "But... I could be."

Peter stared back for what felt like a long time. Then he got out and walked to the front doors of his school, slipping in among the crowd of other students hurrying to class. Just another kid.

Or he should've been.

Berwald sat in the drop-off lane and didn't look away from where Peter's back had been until someone honked behind him, startling him into motion.

Berwald got home and sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands and thought. About a lot of things. But two things in particular.

Peter. Tino.

He really didn't want to have to choose. Maybe he wouldn't have had to, if he'd been more rational about things. He was usually rational by nature. But... He didn't want to let go of Tino. He knew Peter didn't understand – hell, Tino didn't understand completely – but he also knew that Peter didn't care.

Tino didn't factor into his world. Berwald did.

And that made Berwald feel... well, what he'd wanted to feel – what he'd hoped to feel – when he applied to be a foster parent. When he fostered Peter.

He was needed. Really needed by another human being.

Berwald got up and went into his workshop. He drew a stool up to his desk and pulled a sheaf of blank paper to him. He took up a knife-sharpened carpenter's pencil, and began to write a letter. Not to anyone in particular. Maybe to himself.

He didn't have to keep falling down. He couldn't, now. He'd told Peter he wouldn't.

When he finished, two hours later, he looked up at the clock. Then he went to make a phone call.

Clean and quick. It has to be done.

When you have a child, you don't get to just check out.

"G'mornin'."

"...hi, Berwald."

There was a pause, as if neither party knew what to say.

"Um... was there any particular reason you called?"

"Yeah."

There was another pause as Tino waited for Berwald to add something. He didn't.

"Uh... which is...?"

"Want'd t'hear y'r voice."

"Berwald—"

"Might... uh... s'gonna be awhile. 'Fore I call aga'n."

"Thank goodn—you're getting some help?"

"Nnh. No. There's... someone I need t'spend time w'th."

"Oh. Oh. You— Oh."

"M'sorry, T'no. Gotta go."

"Oh. Uh. Good. Okay. Bye, Berwald."

"Bye."