A/N: As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. *hugs*

Well, I bailed Christian out of the jug. He's been slapped with a hefty fine that he could never afford, looks like I'll be paying that too. His piece of shit car has been impounded and his license suspended so at least he can't try to run me over in it again. I have a feeling he wouldn't mind seeing me pancaked in his driveway sometimes. Last but not least, my brother is now sporting a pretty new piece of jewelry, note sarcasm. He's been shackled with an ankle bracelet and put on home detention. I was surprised the judge didn't toss him into AA classes or something but I guess this particular gavel banger is more concerned with retribution rather than rehabilitation. I guess that is going to be more up to me, if I could ever hope to wrangle my brother into a rehab session. I try to be optimistic, but he makes it hard.

I have declared the house a 'dry' zone which did not go over well to say the least. He flew into a rage, tearing things up, and then locking himself in the room where Adam had died. I think I should be at my wits end, but I'm still pretty calm, just trailing around the house picking up the things he's messed up in his tantrum. I guess I'm just used to such things, not a lot surprises me I suppose. I've seen a lot, some things that would give people nightmares, some things that still haunt my dreams some times when I close my eyes.

I can hear my brother as I straighten things up and then go into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator and pulling out can after can of beer. He's still pitching fits, his yelling muffled by his locked door. I pop tab after tab, turning the things upside down in the sink and watching as the amber liquid foams and swirls down the drain where it belongs, the kitchen flooding with the smell of barley and hops. It makes me want to gag. I open up a window hoping it'll air out soon and go to wash my hands and change, the smell and wetness dripping from my hands and soaking my shirt.

I pass Christians' bedroom on the way out of the bathroom, bringing the towel with me to dry my hands. I tap lightly at the door, having heard something shatter.

"Are you alive in there?"

"Fuck off!" He snarls back at me, followed by more crashing. Alive he is.

I let him be and head back into the kitchen, the smell from the sink more overwhelming that before. I can only wonder why he's going to do when he finally does decide to come out and finds both sides of the sink full of drained cans. He'll probably throw them out of the way and lick the metal basin just to get a taste. Maybe I should bag them up and get them out of the house.

After that's taken care of, I decide the cans aren't the only things that need out of this house. I notice the air unit has broken again. Foley sold us a real prize there. I need out of here myself, a long walk on a couple hours of sleep would do me good. I walk out, stopping on the porch to peek in the window that goes to Christians' bedroom. I can see him sprawled on his bed, the floor a catch-all for all the things he's thrown around the room. His foot twitches, somehow making me smile despite everything else that's gone on. His jeans are riding up, his black socks peaking out, that state-of-the-art fashion accessory looking back at me with a blinking little light that would change red if Christian broke the boundaries of his detention.

I headed down the steps and started on a trek that my feet were eternally familiar with. This was the way I always walked to school. The craggy sidewalk beneath my feet now is not so different from then, maybe more broken with age, the cracks violated with grown up weeds, some of the split pieces still wearing a trace of pastel chalk from creative children…I tilt my head look at the scribbled pictures and note with a sad smile that one of them is a blue penis. Is nothing sacred? Not here.

My eyes scan the houses as I pass them, siding askew and molded, sagging roofs and porches, shingles mossed over, gutters full of sprouting trees, seeming more like mini forests than anything else. Windows are broken, faded sheets and curtains drawn tight to keep out prying eyes, shrubs and grass grown up like jungles, trash and junk strewn over porches and yards, yapping, half-starved dogs chained up or penned up, enraged pit-bulls clamoring over each other in a frenzy of barred teeth and flying foam as I walk by. Some of them look wounded from here, they're probably used for fighting. I hate how this place looks, how it feels. You don't have to be trashy just because you're poor—I've never seen the correlation—but apparently there is one because nothing around this neighborhood seems very fit to live in, let alone to look at. Blocks pass me by as I keep going, walking past an old, boarded up Methodist church. I suppose God even got tired of looking at the decay, I can't say that I blame Him, but then again isn't that what He's there for? If He is anywhere at all.

On another corner is the elementary school I went to. It's vacant too, condemned. It's just growing up in a bunch of weeds, sometimes kids hang out on the swings, but more than not it's just a place for drug deals, the bricks used as practice for budding graffiti artists and gang bangers.

Down a ways further is the Community Center, at least it's still alive and well, somehow managing to hang on through gracious donations of those who deem the street kids worthwhile, perhaps saveable from the dark things around them. I lean on the fence and watch, it's a bit rusted and creaks. A smile upturns my lips as my eyes track the children in various forms of play: running over pavement, making a circle, playing dodge-ball, small feet dashing through loose gravel, climbing over the dome-like jungle gym, kid-legs pumping swings higher and higher, probably wishing they could fly so high this place would be far behind them.

They seem to be having a contest, the two boys on the swings. One has mocha skin with wide, glimmering dark eyes, as he pumps the swing higher his lips stretch back in a happy grin. The boy on the other swing tries harder to outdo his friend, swinging his legs for all he's worth, his main of fiery red hair whoosing back from his pale face as he reaches his goal: just slightly outdoing the other boy. They remind me of Matt and I, when we were children we used to do such things. Nearly at the same time, both boys launched from the swings, feet planting hard into the gravel, looking to see who had jumped the farthest. Jeff used to do that all the time, one summer he snapped his wrist when he landed face-first instead of on his feet—something you would have never believed possible for him—he was always climbing and flying like a cat and you would think like a cat, that he always landed on his feet.

Soon the children had drained away leaving the playground deserted, a swing gently rocking back and forth, chains jangling softly. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and walked towards the swing set, my shoes crunching against gravel. I reached out to the swing and wrapped my hands around the chains, steadying it so I could sit. It seemed a bit smaller than I remembered, or maybe my ass has just gotten larger. Not that I have a large ass, I'd like to think it's perfect. Matty certainly liked it. That makes me smile, though he's not here anymore to swing with me or sneak peeks at my backside. Maybe if I look hard enough I could see an opaque, ghostly figure leaning against the slide puffing on a cigarette or sitting in the swing next to mine, just dragging his toes in the dirt and dust, coating his shoes with gray.

Gray like the sky was the day he broke, and told me about Gil.

"Happy seventeenth Chris." Matt smiled as we walked down the sidewalk towards the Community Center. This time of evening, it would be empty, especially when the sky was heavy with thick, overcast clouds. It looked like rain at any moment, but a little water wouldn't hurt us should we get caught in it. He handed me a birthday card with a joke on it, a wish for a happy birthday, and his name scrawled inside.

It made me a bit sad, remembering how Ma Hardy used to make a to-do out of our birthdays. Now a little more than a year had passed since she had left us, and to all of us who had known her, our world felt a bit emptier, a bit grayer. I wrapped my arm around Matt's shoulders and pulled him close for a hug.

"Thanks Matt."

We crossed over to where the Community Center was and vaulted over the locked gate. The cold, late autumn wind picked up and rattled the naked tree branches, making me shiver and shove my hands into the pouch on my sweatshirt. Matt sank into one of the swings and pursed his lips tight in thought, looking downwards, raking his toe in the dust. I sat down in the one next to him, straddling it as though it was a horse, and I peered at his face watching as his dark eyes churned deep in thought.

"You okay?" I shoved his arm playfully and he returned a small smile that didn't really seem genuine. I was right because it quickly faded and his face was set hard again. I hated when he looked that way, his young brow creased, it made him look like an adult rather than a kid. I wondered if that was how I looked growing up, having to take on that role for my family. "Earth to Matthew!" I teased, waving my hand in front of his face, he blinked and looked over at me.

"I'm okay." He said lowly, not even trying to be convincing. I didn't push him, I looked away and watched as a swirl of dead, brown, leaves kicked up into a mini-whirlwind before dying down and catching themselves in the net of the rusted fencing.

"Chris…we're best friends, right?" He asked quietly, his eyes still downwards as he kicked up dirt. I rolled my eyes and kicked he foot.

"What kind of question is that clown! You don't see anyone else hanging out with your sorry ass do ya?"

"Shut up." He laughed a little, sniffling back his tears.

"Alright Hardy, spill it."

"I-I'm scared." He whimpered, his cheeks red with embarrassment. He chewed his lip as big, slow, tears rolled down his face. "I'm afraid that I—that I might be—a f-fa-fa-fag. You-you probably won't wanna hang out with me anymore if I am!" He sobbed out, scrubbing his wet eyes on the backs of his hands.

"Matt, what makes you think you're gay? And if you are, why would that change our friendship?" I squeezed his shoulder, smiling. "It's okay. I get it."

"I…I don't know. I had…a dream." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the inside of his shirt collar. "I feel stupid telling you it's just, I never liked what he did to me before! I hate it! Why, how—why would I have a dream like that!" He started to cry harder, his words bending and wavering on his voice. I slipped from the swing and knelt in front of him, taking his hands and tilting his chin up. His tearful eyes were pleading, drops dripping from his chin and the cute little upturned end of nose. His lips were puffy from chewing them and they quivered.

My heart lurched painfully in my chest, I suspected I knew who 'he' was. Around this time a couple years ago Matt had explained 'HIS' dislike of me which over those two years had only grown stronger and stronger, mine flaring back at him because I knew what he was doing even though Matt never outright said it. Just like now, the 'he' Matt was speaking of could have been anyone, it could have been a boyfriend I didn't know of, although as close as we were Matt would have told me. There were very few secrets we kept from each other unless they were just too deep and too dark for us to barely even admit to ourselves. But even without him speaking the word 'father' I knew he was speaking of Gil, and it fucking pissed me off, to put it very lightly.

"You're glaring." Matt said, wincing. I must have really had a 'drop dead and rot in hell bastard' look on my face because he literally looked as though it hurt him. "Are you…mad at me?"

"What!" I blinked at him, shocked as to why he would think such a thing. "Are you crazy? Why the hell would I be mad at you its—its—that goddamn fucking scumbag!" I griped his shoulders and held his gaze, making sure he did not break from it. "Matt, what he's doing is not your fault."

"But why…why did I…why did it…I don't like what he does." He ended, confused.

"You're fourteen now, it's only normal. Your dick is acting up 'cause your body is changing and shit. It doesn't mean you um…like it, it's just a natural response to…the…y'know the stimulus."

"It's not just the dream. It's happened before when he…" He trailed off, weeping quietly, his shoulders trembling beneath my hands. "He said I'm disgusting, he said I'm a fa-fag!"

"He doesn't know anything, it's like I said, it's a reaction Matt, you can't help it. You're gonna get boners for no reason, at weird times, it just happens until your body gets itself under control." I already had this talk with Christian when I walked in on him masturbating…calling out Adams name. It wasn't like I didn't know, it's just that, you really don't need to see your brother taking care of such things. Really don't.

"I wanna tell him no." Matt whispered through his tears. "I should have made him stop a long time ago when Mom was alive. I couldn't though, she never knew. He'd take me out in the garage and she thought, she thought that we were 'bonding' that he was showing me how to fix things, build things, I don't know, man stuff. There were lots of time I wanted to tell someone to make it stop…but I…couldn't do it. She loved Dad too much, and he used to tell me how much it would hurt her, how it would kill her to see him off to prison, and did I want that? Did I want to hurt my mother, and leave Jeff without a father just because I talked? Then, after she died, he just used Jeff. He hangs Jeff over my head all the time—if I don't…then Dad will just…he's little my brother! I-I can't let him get hurt. I promised Mom to take care of him before she died. I promised her!" He dissolved into a weeping mess and I pulled him into my arms. I was shaking with rage, tears pricking my own eyes.

I wanted to march up to Gil fucking Hardy and beat him as close to death as possible. I wanted to do something, but I couldn't do much. I understood Matt wanting to protect his brother. I was afflicted with the same situation, Big Brother Syndrome. It was just our nature I suppose. If Matt wanted it to end, then he needed to tell the proper authorities, which I knew he wouldn't, for the risk that he and Jeff might get separated into foster homes, or maybe just to protect Jeff from knowing the way his father really was.

As for me, well, Matt had trusted me enough to tell me even two years ago, and I wasn't going to violate his trust, he was my best friend, and I was loyal to him as he would be to me. I understood him completely, our mutual understanding was the same as Ma Hardy, looking into my eyes, and making the decision that she would never go to the authorites about my mother. I did what I could do, I listened to Matt and I held him, giving him what comfort I could.

We just stayed that way for a long time. The clouds moved slowly, laboriously overhead, thunder rumbling within their roiling depths. I glanced up at them a couple times, heavy, dark, streaked with sickening purples and yellow swirls. They passed over, leaving no more than a few thick drops of rain in my hair. The wind picked up, howling with a last angry gust as it ushered the waiting thunderheads out. I pulled away from Matt, his tears had stopped, and the hard wind was quickly drying the streaks on his face.

"I…I love you Chris." He said, swallowing hard and hacking up a wad of snot. He turned his head and spat, shuddering. He wiped his lips against his sleeve and looked back at me. "I don't mean in a nasty way, I uh, I just mean like…y'know…best friends. Always. You mean a lot to me."

I laughed, and pulled him in for another quick hug.

"You don't have to explain, I get it. You're kind of loveable yourself." I broke the hug and pushed him back onto his ass and we both laughed. I got up and held out my hand to help him up, he reached for it and I jerked it away, braying at him like a donkey.

"Ha!"

"Asshole!" He shouted, scrambling to his feet to chase me.

The hot, summer, rain snapped me out of my memories. It was a downright down pour, and laughing I bolted from the swing leaving it wagging as though a childish apparition was playing on it through the torrents of water. I hauled ass home, by the time I was there I was thoroughly soaked and a wind had picked up. The house was still quiet, and I figured Christian was still sleeping. I ran my hand through my hair watching as beads of water sprayed off, and then decided shaking like a dog was more fun. I left my slushy shoes at the door and padded through the house, peeling off my drenched clothes as I went. I stopped before going into my room and backtracked, noticing the door to Christians' was open. He wasn't in there. I leaned on the door frame and cursed, ready to bang my head against the post. His ankle monitor was lying in the middle of the bed, cut. Where the fuck was he?

I retraced my steps picking up each piece of my discarded clothing and re-dressing. He was probably at the Rattlesnake or some sleazy place trying to bum a drink or—do God knows what to get one. I paced, debating on what to do, and finally grabbed my keys. Outside the bright summer daylight had been usurped, the storm blackening everything like an evil plague, as though a great, flapping, raven had opened its wings to blot out the sun. Empty trash cans rolled down the street, garbage, newspapers, all being caught up in the wind and the rain. Taking a deep breath, I went out in it, running to my car and yelping when a bolt of lightning shot down from the clouds, shattering the rotten tree in Glens' front yard to shards of scorched wood. Maybe I should have left Christian in jail, maybe he would have learned something…but I sadly doubt it.