"Hey, you, wake up!"

Shrugging his shoulders and drawing his jacket around himself tighter, Arson totally ignored his father. He could see that his brother was in his uncle's lap, still sleeping soundly. His uncle had two of his six arms around him, holding him close, and another of his hands was checking his leg. There were tissues on the table and a half empty box of tissues sitting beside his uncle, he thought that his brother had gotten the sneezes, their coach wasn't the warmest one in the train and air leaked in through the window. His father was standing beside him, his hand on his shoulder.

"Wake up!" his father yelled.

Four Way Shot shot up from his father's shoulder and would have fallen if his father hadn't of had two of his arms around him. Looking up at his father he felt a slight smile tug at his mouth, he had gotten a case of the sneezes a few hours ago and had started crying because the pain medication had worn out on his leg. It had hurt, he had had to be pulled up on his father's lap. After a few minutes he had calmed down, all the way his uncle had been eying him, still angry at him for running away and angry at his father for softening up.

"I'm up," he yelled. "sheesh can't a boy get some sleep around here!"

His father pulled his hand off of his shoulder, pulling the jacket with him almost all the way off of his body. He had surprised him by saying that he had brought a bag of clothes with him and had told him to get the rags off of his body and to get in them. He had had to tear the jacket away from his father when he had gotten him to the hotel.

"No dad!" he had said. "I've grown rather fond of my attire and you aren't going to deprive me of it!"

"You'll either take what you are wearing off on your own or I'll tear it off of you." his father had said, his hand in a fist.

"Come on dad!" he yelled. "For once in my life, let yourself go, let me have what I am wearing."

"Remove what you are wearing," his father had said. "go take a shower or bath or whatever you do to get clean and the clothes will be here when you get back."

He had taken a bath, his usual, he was a little too short to take a shower like his father did, and when he had gotten out his father had been sitting in a chair drinking an orange drink and two sets of clothing had been set on the bed. Once he had set foot in the room, his chest and shoulders exposed, all burned, his father had hit the roof.

"What the hell happened to you?" he had asked.

"Nothing that you should know." Arson growled.

"I think I should," his father had said, sliding forward in the chair. "what happened to you?"

"I had an accident," he had growled. "nothing to warrant a reaction from you."

"Young man!" his father yelled, pushing himself from the chair hard enough for it to fall back. "Let me see your shoulders."

He had turned around and had opened the towel around him then had closed it, his father had opened his mouth, surprised, then had rushed forward and had grabbed him. He had fought him a little, not much as his father had wrapped his hand around his arm. A few seconds of fighting then he had been pulled around facing his father, who had pulled the towel down to his waist, tying it around his waist. His father's red eyes had shown brightly and he had started wheezing and growling at the same time.

"You say it was nothing but an accident. "his father had said. "Looks to me like you've burned a good lot of your body."

"Why do you care?" Arson spat. "You never have!"

"Unbeknown to you I do care son!" his father had said into the side of his head.

His father had checked him all over and had applied some medicine to the still unhealed wounds and the bruises and scrapes to his legs. Then he had helped him get dressed, something he had never done, only it had been the other set of clothes, the ones that he had been wearing the day he had left home. The brown jacket, gray long sleeve button up shirt, blood red almost black pants and boots. He had gone for the second set of clothes, the clothes that he had worn when his father found him. The black leather jacket with the red leather interior, the red shirt, black pants and the black boots with the chains on the side.

"You can wear the jacket," his father had said. "the rest you cannot."

"And exactly why the hell can I not wear what I was wearing before?" he had screamed.

"Boy, let me ask you one question." his father had said, almost calm. "Are you stupid or just plain stubborn?"

"I'm neither!" he had yelled.

"Then you and I both know that that set of clothes is dirty and needs to be cleaned."

His father preferred to call him boy or just plain kid, he really wondered if he knew his name. He had given him it but not once had he called him it in almost three years. He had placed the clothes his father had set out for him on then had climbed into bed, like his father had told him, only he had dragged the jacket with him, fearful of what his father would do to it, he had broken his flamethrower and he didn't want to wake up to see his new jacket in shreds on the floor.

"I think four hours is enough." his father said.

"I was asleep for four hours?" Arson asked, yawning a little. "The usual is eight."

"When you are asleep at night," his father said, leaning low over him. "the sleep you just had was equal to two naps."

"Oh like you know!" he screamed, throwing his jacket to the side and pushing his father.

"Arson!"

Pulling his head to the side, Arson saw that his uncle was up, his brother was on the seat with his leg up. His uncle walked towards him and placed his arm between his father and he. A few seconds later he was pulling his father away. His uncle was wearing a white long sleeve button up shirt, a brown vest over it housed two holisters and two Colt .64's, and a pair of blue jeans, a black belt held them up and it housed four more holisters and four more Colt .64's, he had black cowboy boots on his feet, gold spurs behind them, and a black cowboy hat, a red kerchief was tied around his neck. He and his uncle had a good relationship, he'd hang around his uncle a lot more than his own father because he didn't yell at him or put him down. One time when he had walked in on his uncle playing baseball with his brother he had been allowed to join, he had had to be taught how to swing a bat the right way since the method he had used was what his uncle had called the chopping wood style.

"I think ye should leave yer young un' alone." his uncle said.

"Do you not remember our little agreement about leaving the responsibility of ones son to his own father?" his father said.

"I do yes," his uncle said. "an' I a-think this is good enuff time fer me to a-step in."

"In other words," his father said, balling his hand into a fist. "you are breaking our agreement."

"Yes," his uncle said, stepping between Arson and his father. "I is."

His father and his uncle were brothers, not of blood but brothers nonetheless. He had seen his father and uncle fight once before, it hadn't been pretty but it had been interesting to watch, that was until his muscular uncle picked him up and relocated him to a different room. His father lunged at his uncle and grabbed him by the wrist, twisting it behind his back. His uncle yelled in pain and swiped at his father with one of his free hands, catching him in the jaw and in the stomach. His brother was sitting up tall and was asking for them, begging for them, to stop. Turning his head slightly, intending to tell his brother to shut up, he didn't see the fist heading for him.

Four Way Shot sat up straight, his leg hurt and he felt like crying again. Opening his mouth he started screaming for his father and uncle to stop. He didn't like seeing his father fight, especially when it was his fire uncle that he was fighting against. Feeling his shirt tug he turned half of his body around, the nail by the window had snagged his sleeve. Pulling it out and turning around he saw his uncle swing a fist at his father. Screaming at the top of his lungs for his father to duck, he slipped and fell off of the seat, when he hit the ground he screamed even louder.

Arson wasn't quick enough, once his brother screamed out his uncle turned towards him, opening an area for his father to punch not himself but to swing his fist at his son. It hit him in the shoulder, right where one of his still unhealed burns was. Doubling over, screaming and crying himself, he saw his father back up a step, his flamethrower raised a little and his eyes flashing on and off.

"Ye see whut ye do!" his uncle was saying. "Ye git the young un's all worked up an' they a-git hurt!"

"Oh shut up!" his fiery father said. "They'll be fine in a few minutes."

Sliding into his seat, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a cigar and a magazine about forest fires, Arson saw that his father showed no remorse or care for what he had done. His shoulder seemed to be doing more screaming for him, his father had a really hard punch and it felt like he had done more damage to his shoulder. He wished he had use of his flamethrower, he'd of flamed the cigar and the magazine from his father's hand if he did.