Sometime later, after losing himself in back episodes of The Angry Video Game Nerd (love this guy), a knock came at the door, and his blood froze, certain it was Lily, the first person in the world he wanted to see but the last person he should. "Yeah?" he called out, then winced like a man expecting to be struck.

Lisa poked her head in. "Male sibling, the evening repast is currently being distributed in the dining facilities."

Oh, dinner's ready.

Why couldn't she just say that? She was so goddamn superfluous, using twenty words instead of two. It drove him up the wall. Like the others, Lisa was an enigma to him; they lived their entire lives in the same house and, indeed, in the same family, yet she was little more than a silhouette, an undefined outline in which lurked mystery. Lana, Lola, and Lucy were similar (he couldn't really say he knew them), but Lisa had always been aloof and guarded, with not only him but with the others as well. He always suspected it had to do with her feeling locked in her own epic genius and effectively cut off from those around her, but maybe she was just an anti-social bitch, who knew?

"Alright," he sighed. He closed his laptop and started to get up, but hesitated. Dinner in the Loud house, like in most normal families, was attended by everyone unless otherwise specified. In short, Lily would be there, and the prospect of being in her presence filled him with fear and jubilation, both vying for dominance in a gruelling tug of war that threatened to split him in two. His first thought was to lie and hide - can't eat, I'm dead, see you tomorrow. He opened his mouth to beg off, but snapped his closed again, so torn he could barely tell up from down. Ducking a problem was exactly the kind of thing a slack-off POS kid would do. Wasn't the theme of the day self-improvement? A man, which Lincoln could not comfortably call himself excepting biologically, gets up, goes out, and deals with shit, he doesn't cower in his bedroom because he got hard for his little sister. Suck it up, buttercup, shit happens.

Shit like that though?

Yes, now go eat your fuckng dinner.

Lincoln sighed. Yes, Sgt. Hellman.

He got up and went downstairs, his stomach writhing like a nest of worms. In the dining room, everyone sat at the table, Dad at the head and Mom at his right, an arrangement that always reminded him of the Last Supper.

Heh. This might very well wind up being his last supper before Mom and Dad killed him. Hopefully it's pizza. He sat between Lola and Lana and glanced at the covered dish in the middle of the table; something told him it wasn't pizza. Great. Guess I'll just pass on an empty stomach. Lily sat next to Mom, and it took everything Lincoln had in him to keep from turning his eyes to her. In his periphery, she stared down at her plate with an inscrutable, tight-lipped expression; she could have been angry, deep in thought, or frightened, and he couldn't tell. She - She wasn't the latter, was she? He remembered the panic in her eyes when he held her hand, but now that he contemplated it, he didn't think it was mortal fear, but rather the shock an adolescent feels when their crush makes a move on them. He recalled the way she'd been looking at him, the way she giggled and blushed when he was around, the dreamy way she said Hi, Lincoln, when she got into the car earlier.

Did she feel the same thing he did?

A jolt streaked into the center of his heart. She did, didn't she? In hindsight, it was so obvious he could have smacked himself for failing to see it - not only her starry-eyed looks, but also how she followed him around, taking any excuse she could to be with him; her overwrought maternal instincts (take your coat, Wincoln, I wuv you and don't want you to get cold~); how she always seemed to be there when he left his room or came through the door, like a loyal puppy awaiting the return of her beloved master. How did he miss it?

Now, he couldn't control himself; he turned his head and fixed his gaze on her blonde head, her little horselick standing tall and proud like the masthead of a ship. Was he imagining things, or did color creep into her cheeks? She kept her eyes trained unfalteringly on her plate, her hands resting in her lap. He didn't know whether to be happy or appalled, so he was both (happalled?).

Tonight it was Lola's turn to say grace. She tossed her bangs out of her eyes, parked her elbows on the edge of the table, and folded her hands; she always did that when it fell to her, making as big a show of it as possible. Saying that she enjoyed being the center of attention was a massive understatement (Hitler was a little racist) - she never walked into a room, she swept in like a haughty royal, and everything she did whilst in it was specifically formulated to draw every eye. It annoyed the ever loving shit out of Lincoln; just bow your head like a normal person!

Instead, she shifted in her seat, tossed her hair one more time, and closed her eyes. She cleared her throat and shifted again.

"Come on, I'm starving here," Lucy spat.

"Me too, just say the prayer," Lana added.

Lily looked up, and her eyes locked with Lincoln's; his heart missed a beat and his throat closed. She offered a quick, closed mouth smile that was bewitching despite its brevity, and Lincoln returned it.

"God is great," Lola started, "God is good."

Neither Lily or Lincoln made any move to break away from the other. A smile crossed Lincoln's lips, and Lily's eyes twinkled. She wetted her lips, and Lincoln couldn't help wondering what they might taste like...her cherry Chaptstick?

"Let us thank Him for our food."

Lily took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly, her shoulders rising and falling. Her smile widened and she tried to swallow it but failed.

"Amen."

Mom took the lid off the dish, and the warm effervescence swirling in Lincoln's chest blew away like a puff of smoke on a cold gust of wind.

"Oh, God," Lola moaned.

A dark shadow flickered across Lisa's face and her nostrils flared ever so slightly, betraying her disgust.

One of Dad's signature dishes lately was sardine surprise: Van Camp's pork and beans topped with dime store comes-in-a-metal-tin sardines. He stumbled across the recipe one day when the cupboard was bare and the food stamp card was fifty cents from bankruptcy. He grabbed cans and boxes at random, and created the foulest, most stomach churning casserole to ever be spawned: A layer of cornbread, a layer of noodles, a layer of beans, and the gut wrenching topper drizzled in a horse-raddish/mustard sauce that Dad added probably just out of spite.

Lincoln held his plate out and allowed Mom to spoon some on, then sat it down and favored it with a sneer, the fishy scent of the sardines wafting into his nose like the pungent stench of an unwashed truck stop hooker's privates. He knew what he was talking about when he said that: Hookers (called lot lizards in the trucking industry) used to hang around the truck stop he worked at. One, an older white woman with wrinkles, a perpetual cold sore on her upper lip, and scraggly grayish black hair kept trying to get him to take a ride, honey. Her name was Cocaine Katie and you could smell her as soon as she walked through the door; she'd sit at the end of the counter in the evening until close then do her rounds of the parking lot, knocking on truck windows and soliciting the men inside. Whenever Lincoln passed, she flashed a toothless grin and nodded her appreciation. You're really cute, kid. I'll give it to ya half price.

Every time he smelled this stuff, he thought of her.

He picked up his fork and glanced at Lily as she took her plate back from Mom with a polite "Thank you." No matter the circumstance, Lily never lost her upbeat attitude. Give her crap like this, and she ate without complaint; get mad and snap at her, and she came back a couple hours later to make sure you were okay and cooled down. She was kindness personified, and while he always admired that about her, right now, it occurred to him that he loved it. He dipped the fork into the casserole and lifted it to his lips. The surreality of it all struck him and it was all he could do to keep from laughing - was he really fucking flirting with his eleven year old sister? And enjoying it? What the fuck is wrong with you?

A lot, apparently; a lot.

Mom asked how everyone's day was and each replied with some variation of "Good." It was kind of odd that no one ever said anything else - it was always good and never great or rotten. It wasn't that peculiar, he reckoned; he never felt like discussing the finer points of his daily life, so it stood to reason that the others wouldn't' either. When Mom looked expectantly at him, he nodded and echoed his sisters. What else could he say? You know, Ma, I think I have a thing for Lily now. That's how my day was.

Putting it into so many words made him shudder. Maybe he should just go to bed and sleep it off. Things would look different in the morning.

Only he didn't believe that. Not entirely.

When dinner was over, he offered to wash the dishes, much to the delight of Mom. Yeah, just wait until you find out why I'm doing it. Got kicked out of college, but here, I did the dishes. That makes up for it, right? He collected them, carried them into the kitchen, and sat them in the sink. Turning on the water and adjusting the temperature, he squirted in some soap (ew, green apple scent) and grabbed the sponge. His stomach was a seething mass of suspense and as he worked, his heartbeat increased with every passing moment until he was wracked with gnawing dread. He couldn't say he'd ever had a running chainsaw jammed into his guts and revved, but if this wasn't close, his name was Shitstains McGee.

Done, he emptied the sink, laid his hands on the edge, and bent over like he was going to hurl, which he actually felt like doing, come to think of it. Now, uh, to let those dishes air dry. Yep. That should kill some time. Every minute counts when you're on death row. He looked at the drying rack and drew a burdensome breath through constrained lungs.

Quit delaying, will you? Be a man and take responsibility.

I don't wanna be a man right now. Can I start tomorrow?

Damn it, Loud, that's an order.

Sigh. Since when did my brain turn into a drill sergeant? Where were you when I was letting my academic life crash down around me?

No answer.

Didn't think so.

The asshole in the campaign hat was right, though. He needed to march out there, look his parents in the eye, and tell them what happened. If he was really trying to be a man, he'd offer to pay back all the money they sank into his education while promising to get back in school next semester.

Yeah. If. Standing there in front of an empty sink and waiting for plates to dry that were already dry, he felt more like a scared little boy who just smashed his baseball through the kitchen window, and oh boy, Daddy's already drinking, he gets extra mad when he's drinking. He didn't expect his parents to beat him, but he did anticipate them being (rightfully) angry...and yelling...lecturing, maybe even name calling all while he sat there with his head hung in contrition, each word tearing through his fragile psyche like hot shrapnel.

Eh, maybe he was being a drama queen, but he really didn't like being reprimanded by his parents. It made him feel like a child...and a failure.

He grabbed a stack of plates and realized his hands were shaking. Clutching them tight so he didn't drop them, he opened the cabinet and laid them on top of the others, then put the silverware away one piece at a time. TV sounds drifted in from the living room, and Dad laughed. Lincoln pulled a spoon out of the tray and stared at his distorted reflection in the flat end. Go on, Linc, it said, do it now.

But -

Now.

Alright. Yes. Right now. As long as Mom and Dad were alone - he didn't wash the dishes to butter them up, he did it to buy himself time. He figured the girls were all in their rooms, but Lily was hard to pin down. She liked peace and solitude, but she also liked sitting on the couch between Mom and Dad and watching TV. Or reading. Or drawing. What she did didn't matter as much as who she did it with. Lincoln was the same way when he was her age: On rainy days, he and his sisters would gather in the living room and hang out, everyone occupied by their own pursuit but occupied together. That didn't happen anymore, but Lily carried the torch as best she could.

Okay. Here goes. He took a deep breath and went into the living room.

Mom and Dad sat beside each other on the couch, Dad with his arms crossed over the front of his rumpled green sweater and Mom with her legs under her. A rerun of Impractical Jokers played on TV and a lamp on the end table cast a warm circle of amber light that did little to hold back the shadows. Lincoln paused by the end of the dining room table, his hand coming to rest on its scuffed oaken surface and his heart racing: If he closed his eyes, he could envision it in his chest, throbbing quicker and quicker, its thunderous palpitations echoing through the chambers of his body and growing steadily louder as his anxiety increased. A knot formed in his stomach and he grimaced in pain.

You're being melodramatic, Lincoln. That's what a child does. You're not a child. You're a grown ass man. Act like it.

Right. Swallowing thickly, he went into the living room on heavy feet. Mom and Dad both looked up at him, and for a second he was a deer in the headlights, his mind blank with dumb, animal panic and his muscles paralyzed. "Hey," he said, and his voice, surprisingly, sounded steady to his own ears, "uh, I need to talk to you guys about something."

"Sure," Mom said, her brow knitting in concern. After raising ten girls and a boy. she was uncannily adept at reading her children; sometimes all he or one of the others had to do was walk into the room and she would know something was wrong. Or right, for that matter. She patted the spot between her and Dad, and Lincoln hesitated, loathe to box himself in - that would make it hard to beat a hasty retreat. They were both looking at him, leaving him with no choice but to walk over and sit, back stiff and hands clamping his knees. "What's the matter, sweetie? Are you feeling sick?"

Lincoln shook his head. Yes, he was feeling kind of sick, but that was beside the point. Nervously rubbing his knees, he said, "I...I just need to tell you something."

Mom and Dad were both staring at him intently, matching expressions of worry on their faces. The weight of their gazes made Lincoln squirm, and he started to rub the back of his neck but stopped himself. Mom laid her hand on his shoulder, and the base of his spine tingled with the urge to cringe. "What's wrong?" Mom asked, a demanding inflection in her voice.

"I got an email from the dean yesterday," he started, his eyes darting to his lap; he could barely hear himself over the crashing of his own heart. "He wanted to see me. That morning." He told them everything, lingering on every detail like a man shuffling his feet on his way to the gallows. In his periphery, Mom's brow gradually lowered until she was glaring, her lips tight. Dad sighed and shook his head in disappointment; Lincoln flinched and stumbled over his words, his hands unconsciously picking at his jeans and his stomach tossing back and forth like a fearsome storm surge. Mom cut him off. "Tell me you didn't get yourself kicked out," she spat venomously. "Lincoln, tell me you didn't get thrown out of that school."

Staring sourly and pointedly at the TV, Dad threw back his beer and drained it as if to fortify himself for his fuck-up son's answer.

"Lincoln," Mom admonished.

Blinking back a rush of tears, Lincoln nodded.

The atmosphere instantly darkened. "I can not believe this," she said. "Lincoln, do you have any idea how much we paid for you to go there? Do you have any clue?"

Dad burped. "A lot."

"I know," Lincoln muttered. Four years at RWCC cost 40,000 dollars. Student loans covered almost half; he didn't know the exact figure, but -

"Twenty-five thousand dollars, Lincoln," Mom said, and Lincoln winced. He thought it was less. He bowed his head and swallowed. "Money we don't have." Her voice rose with passion as she spoke, her face tinging red and her eyes blazing with gathering fury. "This is why we eat fish from a can. This is why we had to take out a second mortgage on our home."

Lincoln nodded. "I know."

"No, I don't think you do," Mom snapped. "Your father and I have sacrificed so much for you and your sisters, but none of you appreciate it. You asked us to help you through college and we agreed….a-and this is how you repay us?"

Having eleven kids, Mom and Dad weren't able to save much for each one's college expenses, but they did save a little. Lincoln could have gotten through on that and student loans, but he didn't want to be up to his cowlick in debt when he left school. Mom and Dad agreed to help even though they couldn't really afford to. He knew that before he asked, but what was he supposed to do? Pay off student loans until he was sixty?

The fact that he came to them made flunking out all the more painful. "I-I'll pay you guys back," he said, "I -"

"You're damn right you're paying us back," Dad grumbled to the TV, too disgusted, it seemed, to even look at him. "And you're gonna start paying your way around here too."

Before he went to college, Mom and Dad decided that as long as he was in school and furthering his education, they wouldn't ask him to put any money toward household bills. He helped out with groceries here and there, but most of what he earned at the pizza shop went to car payments, text books, gas (five dollars a gallon now, :weary face:), and personal upkeep - deodorant, socks, a new shirt or pair of shoes every so often. By the end of the week, he was broke and sometimes he spent his check just as soon as he got it. Right this moment, working part time, he couldn't afford to pay his way. "I'm gonna talk to my boss," he said, "and-and see if I can get full time hours."

That was a delaying tactic meant to molify them; he was already certain he wouldn't get more hours. Autumn and winter were slow seasons at the shop, and some days he worked three hours before being sent home early. Place is a cemetery, kid, get outta here. Last night, as he lie awake in bed, he scrolled through the classified ads on his phone, his hope slowly dwindling as every posting lead to a position that required either experience or a degree, neither of which he had - painting, drywalling, siding and gutters, must have own tools, on and on and on. One listing was for a roofing company, and while it clearly said no previous experience necessary, he passed it without a second thought; roofing, from what he knew, was hard and physically exhausting. He wanted a job, but not one that was going to leave him dead at the end of every day. He did have a life, as geeky and pitiful as it may be, and fucking around on a roof would majorly cut into it. He would have time to draw, or share his headcanon on Discord, or anything, and the prospect of that squeezed his chest in a cold, steely grip. Art was his life, his passion, his escape, if he didn't have it, he didn't have anything.

The main employer in Royal County was Tyson Foods, who owned a sprawling meatpacking plant on US 10 south of Mount Clinton. He could get a job there, but he absolutely did not want to work with chicken, their primary export. Chickens stink, and you could smell the choking stench three miles out. Another big one was Mercy General Hospital in Chippewa Falls - they were always hiring orderlies, security guards, and groundskeepers. Lincoln knew next to nothing about lawn maintenance, didn't think he could handle working with bodily fluids (if someone puked or bled on him, he'd probably pass out), and the security position was overnight - he didn't want the graveyard shift, he slept at night.

He had to find something, though.

Mom sighed deeply and shook her head. Lincoln opened his mouth to add getting back in next semester, but she crossed her arms and turned away. "No. Just go. I have nothing to say to you right now. You let your grades go into the toilet, Lincoln; not turning in your work? You knew damn well that paper had to be in before midnight but you let yourself get sidetracked. This has been a constant problem with you...forever. Just...go to your room or something."

She injected so much poison into the last six words that Lincoln cringed. Dad let out a humorless snort, his eyes locked on the television like crosshairs. Lincoln got to his feet and dragged himself up the stairs like a broken man crawling away from an epic beatdown. Behind him, Mom barked a bitter laugh. "His last year of college, too," she said.

"I know," Dad agreed.

In his room, Lincoln closed the door and sat heavily at his desk. That wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the shame and indignity of failing his parents, especially after all they'd done to help him, all they'd given up, sat easily in the pit of his stomach like sludge, and the uncertainty of his future awoke abiding disquiet in his heart. He brought his thumb to his lips and worriedly chewed, his teeth chipping the nail; first order of business was getting a better job. Everything else, even his art, had to take a backseat. He despised the idea of working on roofs, in the hospital, or at the meatpacking plant, but he would if he had to. He wouldn't like it and he probably wouldn't last very long, but…

He threw back his head and sighed. He didn't wanna do any of that stuff. He wanted to draw for a living, instead he had to go out and get some dumb job that he was going to hate just to make money so he could keep going to said dumb job. It wasn't fair. Professor Jordan could have taken mercy on him, but he didn't - he was a hateful old bastard and got him kicked out over a paper being literally sixty seconds late.

That's not taking responsibility, Linc. Listen to yourself. You sound like a child.

Fuck you, no I don't! I understand it was my fault but look at my life now! It's fucking ruined over sixty seconds! How petty!

Suddenly, the fight ran out of him, leaving cold exhaustion in its wake. Fleeing into the warm embrace of sleep, where none of this mattered, appeared to him like food to a starving man. He tried to get up, but didn't have the energy, so he stayed where he was, head back, eyes open, arms dangling limp at his side, a perfect picture of dejection. Sixty seconds...he chuckled bitterly.

It wasn't just that, though, it was all the classes he missed, the times he came in late, the other work he didn't turn in on time, the times he got so involved in his art that he didn't study and failed an important next-day test. If he was more dedicated and less of an escapism-seeking loser, he wouldn't be in this predicament; he'd still be in school and next year, he'd graduate.

Even so, that brings back to art degrees being fundamentally useless. What did he really expect post-graduation? To have fame, money, and prestige right out of the gate? The majority of artists, like the majority of writers, barely eek by on their work if they're lucky. For every Stephen King or Jackson Pollock, there are a thousand no-names toiling in obscurity, their stories and paintings seen by next to no one if not no one at all. A liberal arts degree can open doors just like any other, but not very many. Restaurants and retailers across the country are staffed by people just like Lincoln - psych majors, philosophy majors, art majors, and English majors who graduated with great expectations only to realize (far too late) that in the real world, their knowledge, and their certification proving they possessed it, didn't amount to much.

Twenty-five thousand dollars. His parents paid twenty-five thousand dollars just for him to flunk.

His stomach clamped painfully when he realized something. Having to pay them back effectively meant he was saddled with the full cost of his collegiate misadventure.

40,000 dollars.

Horror flooded his stomach like cold water, and a moan of misery burst from his lips. With interest, the actual figure would be much, much higher; if the future was kind to him, he'd be able to make the last payment with his first social security check, if it wasn't, his grandkids would still be paying it in the year 2093. Now he really felt like crying.

Why was living so goddamn expensive? Why does everything have to cost so much? He didn't think he had what it took to survive in a hunter-gatherer culture like the one that dominated North America before the advent of white men, but it was sure as hell a lot cheaper than today's world. You built your own shelter, grew and or killed your own food, and made your own clothes. Staying alive was a full time job in of itself, but at least your work really meant something. At the end of the day, you had something to show for all those hours of labor. Today all you got was a relative few pieces of green paper then, ahem, it's me, Uncle Sam, your wallet looks like it could use some freedom. Fork over a percentage of that dough and I won't send your ass to jail. Taxes? Ha, extortion was more like it.

He uttered a hrash, sardonic laugh and swiped his fingers through his hair. Well, that's all, folks, my life is ruined. Literally ruined. I'll be crushed under mounting debt until I'm dead, and everything that comes along hereafter - rent, medical bills, my own kids' college expenses - will just be another brick in the wall...the suffocating, ever growing fucking wall. He let out a pent-up breath and struggled to his feet, the day weighing heavy upon him. He pulled off his shirt and flung it aside, not seeing or caring where it landed. He fumbled at his belt, got it, and wiggled out of his pants, kicking them roughly aside; change spilled from the pockets and trailed across the unvacuumed carpet like stepping stones. He glanced at them, and for the first time noticed what a mess his room really was: Clothes tossed casually about, hanging from open dresser drawers and bedposts like the melted clocks in Dali's The Persistence of Memory, crumpled balls of paper strewn across the floor and resembling hailstones, crumbs from snacks past, dirty socks...his mood sank even more and he exhaled through his nose. Pulling himself away from his art was hard - when he wasn't working or making a pretense at working, he felt restless and out of sorts, like a fish out of water - so he rarely cleaned his room. Or did anything else that required time and focus.

Like studying.

In just his briefs, blue with white trim, he went to the bed, an unmade tangle of rarely washed sheets, and sat down, his shoulders slouched and his head bowed, eyes drifting to one of the coins. This wasn't the end of the world, he cautioned himself, he would just have to work a little harder to get ahead, that's all. A little hard work never killed anyone, right? How many jobs would he need to pay off his debts and have enough left over to live on? Two? Three? His stomach turned and he winced in pain - three jobs with no time to relax or draw...or to do anything but work.

The injustice of it all hit him like a brisk slap and he gave up for the day; toppling to his side, he pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly. He was cold but didn't have the energy to get the blanket. His face, on the other hand, burned, and before he knew it, the world took on a blurry sheen as tears filled his eyes. He sniffed and blotted them away with the heel of his palm. Man up, Linc, you're pathetic.

I know, I'm an all around fucking loser. He released his knees and rolled onto his back, jerking in startelement when someone knocked on the door.

His first thought - nay, his first fear - was that it was either Mom or Dad come to chew him out some more. For a moment he debated with himself over whether or not to fegin sleeping, but quickly decided to face it head on, like a man. Some things in life come if we want them too or not, it's best to face them as soon as they rear their ugly heads and it is to hide. "Yeah?" he croaked, hating the timid quality of his own voice.

A tense second passed, then the knob rattled, and when he saw who it was, he breathed a sigh of relief. Lily, barefoot and clad in the dress she wore to dinner, slipped in and shit the door behind her, her head down as though she were afraid to look at him. In all of the excitement surrounding the confession to his parents, he completely forgot about her. Not that she existed, but that, you know.

She lifted her head and froze, her eyes widening and her breath catching with an audible sound. Lincoln's brow furrowed and he started to ask what was wrong, then it hit him: He was practically naked, a thin layer of cotton all that stood between him...and his little sister. A red blush touched his cheeks and his throat went dry. Lily flicked her gaze quickly up and down his body and her face gradually reddened. Their eyes met, and for a long second, neither of them spoke. Lily opened her mouth and tried to form words, but clamped her bottom lip between her teeth and averted her attention, but not before Lincoln glimpsed in them the unmistakable glimmer of raw, girlish hunger.

His heart seized and his dick twitched like a sleeping animal catching the scent of blood. Horror blossomed in his chest and he shot up to a sitting position to hide it. Lily, staring at the floor, licked her lips and failed to contain a sly little grin. He's in his underwear, it said, omg, that's so hot.

God, no, she is not thinking that! Stop being a perv!

"H-How are you doing?" she asked her feet, a slight tremor in her voice.

He was barely aware of the question, his eyes caressing slowly up and down her bare legs like two perverts, from the tips of her purple polished toes up her delicate ankles and calves to her knobby knees, half covered by the hem. They looked so soft, so smooth; he fantasized running his hands along their length, his thumbs kissing the ridge of her femur, the pads his fingers skimming her warm flesh; she looked down at him, face completely red, eyes smoldering, her teeth brushing her bottom lip. He reached the hem of her dress, then slowly moved back down, savoring her body and the soft sound of her panting as she responded to his touch - heart racing, knees shaking, center fuming with rising desire. He kneaded her shapely foot, brought it to his lips, and placed a sizzling kiss on her big toe. She shifted, whined needily in the back of her throat, and -

"Linc?"

The vision shattered like a pane of glass and he blinked like a man coming out a daze. Lily stared at him, her arms crossed coyly over her chest and a bemused smile on her lips. She asked him something, didn't she? "You alright?" she asked cautiously, then giggled. "You kinda went space cadet there."

He shifted, and noted, with a thunder clap of alarm, that he was fully erect. He reflexively covered his lap with his hands, and Lily followed his movements with a quizzical brow arch that told him she didn't see, thank God. He flashed a nervous smile and shrugged, looking away from her shimmering eyes. "I-I'm fine," he stammered, "just...hanging out." He resisted the urge to reach for the sheet and cover himself. That would look weird - he'd been around her in his underwear a thousand times before. She was his sister, after all, and if you can't be comfortable around your sisters...where can you be comfortable?

Lily hesitated, then came over, her eyes flicking to the floor. Lincoln's stomach pinched in something like gleeful expectation and for a fraction of a second, he was sure she would climb into his lap, cage his legs between her knees, and...it didn't matter what he expected, what he got was her sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping lightly under her diminutive figure. She put her hands on her knees and looked down at the floor again. Lincoln swallowed around a lump in his throat and drew his feet away from her, as though the thought of her touching him was sickening.

It wasn't.

The fact that he wanted her to, on the other hand, was.

She didn't immediately speak, and when she did, her voice was low and sober. "You told Mom and Dad." There was a trace of accusation, as though he had betrayed her somehow. The last time they talked about his situation, he told her he was going to wait a week before dropping the news. He changed his mind, however.

"Yeah," he admitted, "I told them."

What did she want, for him to have consulted her? This was his mess and it fell to him to clean it up. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her. "How'd you know?"

"They're talking about it," she said.

Oh. "They are?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Well, Mom is. Dad's just listening and agreeing."

That sounded like Dad. He worked long hours, and when he got home he parked his ass on the couch and didn't move except to make dinner, since cooking was, he figured, cooking was to him what art was to Lincoln. In every other respect, Mom was the de facto head of household. He might be upset, he might even be angry, but he wouldn't physically lift a finger...or raise his voice; he'd let Mom do that for him.

A ripple of nausea went through his stomach and he sighed. "How did they take it?" Lily asked.

"Better than I expected," he replied at length. "I don't know, when I'm nervous I make mountains out of mole hills or something." He chuckled. "I was kind of afraid they'd beat my ass.'

Lily frowned at the thought of his ass being beaten and darted her eyes to the bed. "How did you take it?"

Good question, how did he take it? He did a quick self-inventory. He was depressed, up to his eyes in debt, self-loathing, and had reached the conclusion that he was both cheated by Professor Jordan and a childish piece of shit.

I mean, look at my room. It's a pigsty because I can't stop playing long enough to clean it. Something normal that most people my age have under control, and I can't do it - I sit in filth, unable to pull myself away from artfagging and fandom politics to have a fucking life.

Lily must have seen the torment in his eyes, for her frown deepened and she scooted closer, her hand lifting then quickly dropping to her lap again, as though she wanted to touch him but thought better of it. "I'm fine," he lied.

"What did they say?" she asked.

Out in the hall, Lola let out a frustrated cry, and Lana cackled laughter, their voices muffled. "Fuck you, Lana," Lola hissed. Lincoln didn't know what the tomboy did, but did it matter? Lola was notoriously short-tempered, and all it took was someone breathing on her to send her into a frenzy. As soon as Leni left and hers and Lori's old room became vacant, Lola insisted on moving in ahead of Luna or Luan, both of whom had priority. All three of them wanted it, then Lynn, Lucy, and Lana got involved and it turned into a giant clusterfuck. It eventually went to Luna, and Lola barely spoke to her even now over it.

A fucking room.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad.

"They just...they were mad and that's it." He remembered Mom's bitter tone and Dad's grumpy glare, and the slick, heavy weight in the pit of his stomach shifted.

Lily searched his eyes for traces of deception, and finding them, she sighed. "How do you feel?" she asked in lieu of pressing further.

Like shit. That's the only description he could come up with, he just generally felt like shit: Tired, lethargic, drained of life. It was almost akin to the weak, icky feeling that comes with the flu. Dark emotions swirled in his chest like smoke and pushed against his ribs in an attempt to escape like bile. He remembered a scene in a movie he saw once where a girl possessed by a demon spews green vomit at a priest; if he wasn't careful, he'd do the same thing to Lily. "Alright," he lied.

She looked at him for a second, reading his face and his heart, then frowned. "No you're not. You look sad." Her voice caught on the last word, and her eyes sparkled with sadness of her own.

"I'm not," he said, longing but not allowing himself to reach out and cup her cheek. "I'm fine, really."

She sighed and turned away. "Please don't lie," she whispered woundedly.

Lincoln's heart dropped. "I-I'm not lying, I'm fine. It's not like it's the end of the world."

No, it wasn't, but he wasn't fine either. In fact, he was the farthest from fine he had ever been. "I'm sorry," he heard himself say - sorry for lying to her, sorry for feeling about her the way he did, for flunking, for letting his parents down...he was sorry for a lot of things.

All of the angst and self-hatred locked in his breast threatened to break loose in a steaming torrent, and he fought it back down. He didn't want to unload on her...didn't want to point out his every flaw to the only person in this world who looked at him as more than a screw-up. He didn't want to overwhelm her, didn't want to worry her, didnt want her to realize what a loser he was.

He didn't want to lose her.

Cold fear sloshed through his stomach like oil at the thought of Lily turning her back on him. She was one of the few things outside of art that he cared about, one of the few bright spots in his life. Drawing with her, talking to her, or even sitting in complete silence with her was one thing he could pull himself away for. He wanted to let it all out, for someone to listen...to give into his feelings for her, but all of those things, in one way or another, would jeopardize what they had now. He couldn't risk that.

Worrying at the hem of her dress with her fingers like a Catholic praying the rosary, she turned her head, and her big, sorrowful eyes fell upon him, beseeching, begging for him to open his soul to her, to let her in.

And he wanted to...God, how he wanted someone to tell all his secrets with, someone to know him in a way no one never had before, and never would again. He wanted someone to love, and someone to love in turn. His resolve started to crumble under him like loose earth, and his heart jolted as he pitched forward, teetering over the edge of an abyss from which he could never come back. This wasn't just talking to his little sister...this was something more, something deeper, something he could barely grasp, the enormity of it intimidating at the same time it was exhilarating.

He tried, half-heartedly, to pull himself back at the last moment, to stop himself from making perhaps the biggest mistake in a life littered with mistakes. Gazing deeply into his little sister's eyes, however, his spirit stirring at the tender love and sincerity he saw, he thought that maybe...just maybe this wasn't another misstep...maybe it was the opposite. His heart told him to bare her his soul, to tell her everything and his head told him to hold still, to send her away.

Every gaffe he'd ever made began, in essence, with him listening to his heart.

But he did it anyway.

Just like now.

"I feel like I hate myself," he said lowly. Lily flinched as though his words were fists, and the hurt he saw in her eyes stopped him, but the dam was breaking and all of the water behind it was starting to spill out. "I feel like my life is burning down around me and I'm not man enough to do anything about it. I hide in my art and in a fandom because my worst day there is better than my best day out here. I feel like a fucking loser. I have no friends, no girlfriend, I don't go anywhere, I don't do anything, I barely have a job; I draw to forget and I play fandom politics because even though it's stupid, and even though I hate it and it gets on my nerves, at least there, doing that, I can be something other than Lincoln Loud. I can forget what a piece of shit I am, but that leads me to be an even bigger piece of shit. Look at my room."

He lifted one hand to indicate the space around them. Lily slowly took it in, her gaze travelling in a semi-circle. The clothes and trash heaped on the floor, the empty cans and dirty plates on top of the dresser, the inexplicably grimy walls.

"Look at my life. Dean Howard said I act like a child, and he's right. I'm a stunted little dwarf of a man. I can't handle my problems like everyone else. I have to run away from them. I'm everything people say is wrong with my generation. Lazy, entitled, selfish, dumb, immature…"

Each word came harder than the last, bricks piling up on the proverbial camel's back until he could no longer sit upright. He laid back and stared up at the ceiling like a patient on a psychiatrist's couch, his chest crushing under the mounting pressure. Talking was supposed to help, but now he felt even worse. "I don't even have a reason to be like this," he said and laughed mirthlessly. "Nothing horrible's ever happened to me, I have a good family, my childhood was great, I...I just don't know."

The bed moved, and he turned his head to find Lily stretched out next to him on her side, water standing unshed in her eyes and her trembling lips pressed tightly together. A single teardrop streaked down the side of her face, and Lincoln's heart clenched like an angry fist. "Hey," he said and rolled onto his side, not realizing that their faces were mere inches apart now, or that they were breathing the same air, blind to everything but his little sister's pain...pain that he caused. "It's okay, I -"

"No, it's not,' she said in a mournful whine, "you're not any of those things. You're not a loser or screwed up or lazy. You're smart and kind and...and the best person I know." She reached out, and Lincoln's spine tingled when her fingertips grazed the side of his face. For the first time he was conscious of how close they were, and of her hot breath puffing against his lips, its sweet fragrance filling his nose and intoxicating his senses. His mouth went dry and he tensed, but she didn't seem to notice, or to care. She ran her fingers slowly and reverently down his cheek, another tear joining the first. "You're really great," she said, "no matter what you think. You're wrong."

Her tears fell faster now, and Lincoln ached to brush them away. His fingers jittered, and he started to fight, but his head took control and he cupped the side of her face instead, her silken flesh slick under his touch. His fingers threaded through her blonde hair and his thumb stroked the faint ridge of her cheek. Her breath hitched and her lips parted slightly as she sucked in a shocked intake of breath. A voice in the back of Lincoln's head screamed at him to stop, to pull back before it was too later, but she was soft and warm, her shape so right, as though she were crafted for him and him alone.

"You're not a loser, Lincoln," Lily said firmly. Gazing into her limpid eyes, losing himself in them and not caring, he believed her. She ghosted her fingers over his cheek and scooted closer. Lincoln unconsciously did the same, the tips of their noses glancing and their humid breaths passing from one mouth to the other. Lincoln knew what was happening - every nerve ending in his body crackled and his stomach rumbled sickly - and, on some level, knew how wrong it was, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to.

Lily's hand pressed against his chest, her fingers splaying and kneading his fevered flesh like a curious kitten, lingering over his pounding heart. Ther faces blushed matching shades of red and they both panted for air, her giving, him taking. Her toes curled against his leg and she shifted just a little closer. "You're amazing," she said, closer still, her eyes filled with devotion, "and I love you."

Something deep inside Lincoln broke and passion swept through him like fire. He moved in the rest of the way and their lips skimmed. Lily's fingers bit into his skin as she breathed him in, her eyes locking with his and pooling with slurry desire. Her clean scent overwhelmed him, and he gave himself completely over to feeling, pressing his lips flush to hers and kissing her deeply, his hand clutching her shoulder. For a shocked moment, she simply lay there, then she kissed back, her tongue skidding clumsily over his and her fingernails digging into his flesh as if to keep from falling. He slipped his fingers into her hair and swirled his tongue around hers, tasting her and exploring the inside of her mouth. She hooked leg over his and drew herself flat against his body, his throbbing erection prodding between her legs; she gasped into his mouth at the sensation, and her tongue fell slack.

Butterfly wings beat lightly against the inside of her stomach and the hot lead swelled in her depths. Lincoln's tongue hungrilly lapped hers and his fingernails grazed her scalp, sending shivers down her spine. Lincoln's hand slid absently over the swell of her hip and her center twinged deeply, drawing a gasp from her throat. She was hotter than she'd ever been in her life, her heart slammed so hard it felt like it would rip loose of its moorings and go tumbling away, and the taste of her brother's mouth made her lightheaded and drunk. She rocked her hips slowly forward and moaned at the breathtaking feeling his bulge struck into her depths. She ran her fingers down his defined chest, his muscles quivering beneath her touch as they had in all her fantasies, and then hooked them into the waistband of his underwear. Sick, primal heat soaked through the fabric and bathed tantalized her throbbing core. Lincoln slipped his hand under her dress and she parted her thighs as best she could to give him easier access, exposing her most secret and vulnerable place to him, giving her faith to Lincoln now and forevermore.

Shaking with need, Lincoln pushed her onto her back and mounted her, their tongues making frantic love as his knees planted on either side of her hips. The kiss broke, and Lily sucked great gulps of air into her bursting lungs. Lincoln laid one hand on her breast and massaged it through the rough denim of her dress as he peppered urgent kisses across her cheek and down into the crook of her neck. She ran her hands up and down his powerful arms and arched her back, grinding herself against his erection and grunting into his ear. She was vaguely aware of his pulling her panties down, the caress of cool air against her burning girlhood driving her deeper into mindless lust. They scraped over her knees, dragged down her calves, and slipped over her ankles; now she was bared before her brother, her body offered to him like a sacrificial lamb. He drew away from her lips, slapped his hands on either side of her head, and stared down at her with lovedrunk eyes. Blushing and dazed, he had never been more beautiful, and her body cried out to be joined with his.

She pressed her hands to his chest and lifted her legs in a V, her tacky lips spreading apart and her heat rolling from between her thighs in perfume waves.

Lincoln kissed her lips and rocked his hips dumbly forward, his tip poking just above her entrance. She kissed him back, and, trembling violently, he thrusted again, his dick pushing against her middle and making both of them moan.

Lily bit her lower lip and purred. He thrusted again, and this time, his head prodded her opening. He drew back, then drove forward, his member sinking into her. Skull cracking pain exploded in the center of Lily's skull and she let out a shocked gasp at the unexpected sting of her big brother's penetration; he filled her to the point of splitting, straining against her walls and spreading her pelvis apart. Her heart rapidly thumped against her ribs and her eyes squeezed closed against a rush of tears. She could feel every inch of him, every bump and ridge, could feel him pulsing hotly, throbbing, aching, pulling back and rushing forward again, his tip battring the entrance to her womb and knocking gasps from her mouth. Sharp agony flooded her stomach and she gritted her teeth, whorls of stars dancing across the backs of her eyelids with each one of Lincoln's thrusts. It hurt, but it felt good too, and gradually, as her body relaxed, the pain subsided, leaving in its place came the most intense pleasure she had ever known; his head raked her rippling walls like a poker stirring the embers of a fire, and each kiss of his tip against her cervix made her a little hotter, a little weaker.

She fluttered her eyes open, and Lincoln filled her world like an apparition from on high. He went faster, the bed shaking and the metal frame squeaking, and deep inside,something began to form, a ball of super heated energy gathering like the remnants of a hurricane. It was almost like having to pee. "L-Lincoln," she whispered, more in alarm than anything else.

Bowing his head, he went faster, his movements taking on a desperate quality. The ball in her middle grew higher, hotter, brighter, expanding and getting stronger. She flt the saame thing when she touched herself, but never this intense, this pressing, this fucking good.

Suddenly, Lincoln swelled inside of her, making her wince, then boiling heat flooded her body. The ball of gas detonated, and white hot pleasure rip spread through her like the shockwaves of a bomb. Lincoln grunted and fell still, another blast spurting against the back of her limit. She trembled as fire swept her being, then rode it out on a warm tide of bliss, lifting her hips and taking him to the hilt, walls clamping around him to drain every last drop.

For a long time afterward, Lincoln lay limpy on top of her, his body shaking in time with hers. He rolled off and they lay side by side staring at the ceiling, both fighting to catch their breath; Lily felt him start to ooze out of her, and closed her thighs to trap him inside.

"What did we just do?" he finally asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

Lily tried to spek, but another aftershock coursed through her. Rolling onto her side, she kissed his chest. "Had sex," she said. She snuggled up to him like a cat, and he put his arm around her shoulder. She rested her head over his heart and started dow at his penis; it stood tall and proud, its crowned tip and fluid slathered shaft so inviting. She took it in her hand and examined it with childlike wonder. "Did you like it?"

"Yes," he said at length.

"Good."

Warm in the afterglow of giving her virginity to the man she loved, Lily Loud cuddled her older brother and fell shortly to sleep. Lincoln, on the other hand, lay awake for a very long time staring into space.

What did I do?

God, what did I do?