After Dad goes to bed, Sean sits up, drinking beer in the light of the Christmas tree without the television on.
It's quiet. Peaceful. And, even though he has spent hours in airports today and crossed four time zones, this is the first time he hasn't felt exhausted in years.
It's almost 1:00 when the kitchen light flickers on, and Sean hears the faucet. It's Daniel, in a t-shirt and boxers, taking some Tylenol with a glass of water.
"Why are you sitting in the dark like a weirdo?" Daniel asks. It's the most words the kid has said to him all night.
Sean's a little tipsy, so he stumbles to their kitchen counter and sits down because his legs don't want to support him. "I just missed being home. Like Dad said, you'll understand once you're away for a while." His words come out slurred. "Hey! You wanna drink a beer with me?"
"Wow, you are so drunk right now."
"Maybe a little bit, but I am also being so serious right now." Sean holds out his beer. Shakes the can. "Come on, man. I'm home. It's Christmas. I want to drink a beer with my little bro."
The eyebrow over Daniel's bruised eye rises. "Won't Dad be mad?"
"Not if he doesn't know about it. Jeeze, don't you know anything about getting away with shit?"
Daniel glances towards Dad's bedroom door, double-checking that it's closed, grins slyly, and takes the beer from Sean's hand. When Daniel tips it back, he realizes there are no more than a few drops. "Dude, that was a dick move."
"You're only fifteen," Sean says. "Don't they teach you at school that underage drinking is bad? I can't buh-leave you tried to get me to let you drink. Do you know how pissed Dad would be if I let his youngest son drink? Dad adores you. You're, like, so his favorite."
Daniel tries not to, but he laughs. Just a little bit. "So Dad said you are going to work for Adult Swim? Or Nickelodeon?"
"Uh, Dad exaggerates. I'm trying to. But I would probably just be getting coffee for the people who actually work for Adult Swim or Nickelodeon. Or, best case, they might let me draw the can of beans Lincoln Loud picks up on a random episode of Loud House. If anything even comes of it."
"That's still pretty cool, though."
"Yeah, it's a lot cooler than what I was doing before," Sean says. And when Daniel looks at him, confused, he moves on. "Dad said that school was kind of rough for you this year. Bullies or something?"
"Dad is exaggerating that too," Daniel says. "There was a senior kid in my Spanish class who was like, 'Duuuh, you must be a real stupid Mexican if you're only in first-year Spanish, duh.' But he's a senior in, like, half of my sophomore-level classes—including English—so I don't really take him that seriously."
"It still sucks that you have to put up with that. Hey, you want me to 'deal' with him? We could roll up to his house right now and 'Jolly-Ol'-Saint-KICK-His-Ass.'"
"Please," Daniel scoffs. "Like you could ever be in a fight. You would probably just piss your pants."
"You might be surprised at how tough your hermano actually is." Sean hits himself in the chest. But his inebriation makes him uncoordinated. He misjudges his swing, hits himself too hard. Ends up knocking the air out of his lungs, which just makes Daniel laugh at him.
And, for while, their conversation snaps like Lego bricks back into their easy and familiar back and forth. Sean tells Daniel about posing for his life-drawing class, and Daniel says he doesn't have a Twitch channel because he doesn't think anyone would follow it, but he is pretty good at Fortnite, and maybe he should show Sean his skills sometime. They make fun of Mr. Stutzman, who was also Sean's math teacher when he was in tenth grade. And it just feels good for Sean to have his little brother talking to him again.
"Hey, do you still talk to that one kid?" Sean snaps his fingers, trying to think of that chubby nine-year-old Daniel played Minecraft with all the time. "Noah! Do you still hang out with Noah?"
"No," Daniel sighs.
"Did . . . something happen?"
"We don't hang out anymore." Daniel says. "I . . . don't really want to talk about it."
"Aw, man, I'm sorry," Sean says. "It sucks, though, not being as close to someone that you used to be close to."
"Yeah . . ." Daniel leans on the kitchen counter, spins the empty beer can on his finger. He knocks the can into the recycling bin—with his hands, Sean notices, not with his mind.
"So," Sean says, "is there something up with you? Maybe something you feel like you can't tell Dad about?"
Daniel looks like a deer in the headlights of a car. "Why did you ask that?"
"I don't know. Sometimes things happen when you're fifteen. You, for example, have a black eye you got under 'mysterious' circumstances. I just want you to know that I'll listen and believe anything you tell me. Like, anything."
"There's just some shit going on," Daniel says. "It's not a big deal. It's not worth talking about."
"You can talk about it, though."
"I don't want to talk about it," Daniel says, crossing his arms. "You just started calling Dad every day out of nowhere, and he says you seem sad or like you've fucked something up. Do you want to talk about that?"
"Not really," Sean says, and he leans back. Daniel's words have a sharpness to them. Sean's brain is heavy with alcohol, and he has no idea where this is coming from, what nerve he stepped on to make Daniel so defensive. But it feels like the Lego bricks of their conversation have suddenly snapped apart.
"I'm sorry," Daniel says. "That was a dick thing for me to say. It's just been a shitty week. And kind of a shitty school year."
"Hey, I get it, enano. Tenth grade fucking suuucks. Hell, growing up fucking sucks."
"Yeah," Daniel sighs. "So anyway. . . do you think we should wrap Dad's Christmas present?"
"Sure, dude, let's do it," Sean says.
"Cool." Daniel drums his hands on the counter. "So . . . where is it? Like in your bag or . . . ?"
Sean's head is pretty hazy, his body buzzing with alcohol. So he smiles dumbly for a bit before he realizes he hasn't said anything. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Suddenly Daniel's shoulders fall. "You did get Dad's Christmas present, right?"
"Was I supposed to . . . ?"
"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god," Daniel mutters. Daniel runs his hands back and forth through his hair, messing it up as he paces the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the vinyl. "How could you fuck this up, dude?"
"I'm sorry, bro," Sean stammers. "I guess it . . . slipped my mind."
"That's fan-fucking-tastic. Classic Sean. Just classic," Daniel says. "Dude, we talked about this way back in October, and you said you would order Dad's gift with your credit card because I don't have one. When you didn't come home for Thanksgiving, I even texted you, reminded you, and you told me you were on it."
"Daniel, I'm sorry," Sean says. "I've had a lot going on. Just a lot on my mind."
"Really?" Daniel says, re-crossing his arms. "What have you had going on, Sean?"
"Um . . ." It's hard to think, but he knows he can't tell Daniel the truth. Just like with Dad, all of that time travel, telekinetic, I-was-in-prison-in-a-different-timeline shit will sound insane. So Sean just stammers, unable to come up with something believable.
"You know what? It doesn't fucking matter," Daniel snaps. "You're always 'busy.' You always have 'stuff' going on. You know, Dad makes excuses for you. 'Oh, Daniel, your hermano, he is working so hard, mijo.' And lately, he's been like, 'Daniel, your hermano, he is really making an effort now, mijo. You should give him a chance, mijo.' And you know what? I almost bought it. I really wanted to believe you had changed." Daniel sighs. And suddenly, his voice doesn't sound angry. It just sounds tired. "But you're still the same-ol' Sean, who just cannot think of people besides of himself. My same older brother who is just the least dependable person I know."
"I'm sorry, Daniel," Sean says. "Come on, dude. Give me a chance to make this right. Maybe we can do some overnight shipping or—"
"It's too late. Christmas is two days away, man." Daniel finally stops pacing. He leans with his back on the fridge. "You know, I'm used to you letting me down. But this is our dad, Sean. Our dad who, I don't know if you get this, but his life hasn't been easy. And he takes on a lot, so we can have a less shitty life than he did growing up. I just really thought you would come through this time, but instead you drop the ball, and I . . . I feel so fucking stupid for thinking anything different would happen. Do you even remember what we were going to get him?"
Sean watches as his hand runs up and down his arm, pushing up his shirtsleeve, revealing the tattoo of the boy walking alone. Because all he can do is stammer. Because he doesn't know what the gift was supposed to be. That's in the part of his life that's still buried in the fog.
"You know, if you really cared, you would come through once in a while," Daniel says. "You would make someone other than yourself a priority sometimes. You would find a way to fit things in. It's not that hard to click the link I emailed you and type in your credit card number, you know?"
Daniel starts to head back to his bedroom. "Wait," Sean says. And Daniel stops, expecting Sean to say something, but Sean has no idea what to say. He's already said he was sorry. And he doesn't really know how to make this right. He feels like, in this timeline, he has maybe never made anything right with Daniel. "I know I let you down. I promise I will make this up to you. And Dad. The two of you, nothing is more important to me than you and Dad, enano."
And Daniel closes his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them again, they look sad. So sad. "Go to bed, Sean. It's late, and you're drunk."