"Edgar, where are you?"

He looked up from the book he was reading and stared at the closed door to his room. A quick estimate of where the call came from and his grandmother must have been downstairs.

"I'm upstairs, Granma!"

"Well, hurry down! We only have a few minutes before the sermon begins and it does no one any good to be late!"

A few minutes meant an hour, most likely. His grandmother often said that it was better to be fifteen minutes early rather than five minutes late, and in their case, that often meant half an hour early, just to make sure. That caution gave him a bit more leeway but not a lot. The actual drive took time as well, and as far as his grandmother was concerned...

Edgar looked around the room, poked through the drawer of his dresser for his Sunday clothes. It took a while but he was able to find his pants, although...

"Scriabin, where's my shirt?"

"What shirt're we talking about?" Scriabin was on his back on the bed, his head hanging over the side. He was currently wearing a large T-shirt and no pants, which had become Scriabin's latest, and only, fashion choice. It was extremely difficult to even get him to wear his jeans to school. His grandmother said it was one of those phases children went through. At home both Edgar and his grandmother had generally given it up for lost. You couldn't make Scriabin do anything he didn't want to do.

Mostly.

"My good shirt and why aren't you dressed yet? You know we have to go soon." Edgar pulled on his pants, watched as his brother refused to move in the least.

"I don't know where your shirt could have gone," Scriabin said in a singsong-type tone. "Maybe it fell out the window."

"You didn't- Scriabin!" For a moment he doubted him, then he remembered who he was dealing with. Edgar darted over to the windowsill, looked down and there, he could see the cloth caught on a bush outside. Thankfully the wind hadn't carried it very far away. "Scriabin, what the-, why did you-, we're going to get in trouble!"

Scriabin made a long humming noise, as if he was giving this very deep thought. "Hmm, no...no, I think you'll get in trouble. I think I'll be fine."

"I can't believe you- God, why do you always do this to me!" Edgar ran a hand through his hair nervously and looked back at the door. "You have no reason-, I didn't do anything to you-"

"'Cause it's fun. Or 'cause I can? Maybe both." Scriabin smiled.

"Edgar, are you ready? Get your brother!"

"I'm coming!" Edgar called out, shuffled his feet for a few seconds in thought, then turned back to the dresser. He couldn't get past his grandmother to get his shirt without at least having Scriabin somewhat ready. Getting himself dressed wasn't difficult or time-consuming and his grandmother knew that, but Scriabin... "Why aren't you dressed yet? You aren't even trying. Where's that shirt Granma gave you for church?"

Scriabin was quiet for a while, and when he spoke again his voice was dismissive. "I don't care for buttons."

Edgar looked back at the open window with a note of despair in his voice. "You didn't throw it out, tell me you didn't-"

"Too complicated." Scriabin tried to look as serious as one could manage upside down. "Not fond of buttons."

He only saw his own shirt outside, so that meant that Scriabin's shirt had to be inside the room somewhere...he just had to find it. Knowing Scriabin, he probably hid it where he put everything that he didn't like. For some reason Scriabin apparently believed that hiding things in a particular place made things he didn't like disappear. This had been rather problematic when Scriabin got his first homework assignment.

"Here it is-" Edgar found it hidden beneath the dresser and behind some other articles of supposedly discarded clothing, just as he expected. He pulled the shirt out and found to his dismay that it was covered with dust and was severely wrinkled. "God, she is going to kill you when she finds out about this. You were supposed to take care of this shirt."

"No, I don't think so." Scriabin folded his hands on his chest, still serenely amused. Only he could pull that off as a seven-year-old. "I think she's going to kill you."

"How can she- you're the one who- you can't blame everything on me!" Edgar shouted, despite the fact he didn't intend to, and tried to brush off the shirt as best he could. "This isn't my fault, everything isn't my fault all the time. You know, one of these days, one of these days you're going to do something really stupid and I won't be there to cover for you. I won't be there to be your scapegoat, then you'll really be in trouble."

"Oh, I'm real scared." He knew Scriabin was rolling his eyes.

"Edgar!" She sounded more annoyed now.

"I'm coming!" Edgar called, stared at Scriabin. Scriabin started humming a tune to himself, fully aware that Edgar expected him to care somewhat and therefore making it as obvious as possible that he didn't care at all. Edgar narrowed his eyes and shouted, "Scriabin's being a pest!"

"Hey!" Scriabin jerked at this enough so that he fell off the bed entirely.

"Scriabin, you listen to your brother!"

"No fair!" Scriabin was too disoriented from the sudden change in position and could only act indignant from his vantage point on the floor. "You can't do that, you can't tell on me, I didn't even do anything wrong-"

"You didn't do anything wrong?!" Edgar stared at Scriabin in complete disbelief as he knelt down beside him. "You threw my shirt out the window! You're going to make us late, again! Deliberately! You just said so yourself! You admitted you were being bad and you're still backing out of it now?"

"I'm not a pest!" Scriabin sounded deeply offended and Edgar knew that once Scriabin decided what side he was on, he wasn't going to budge. Edgar decided to give the argument up for lost and reached out for Scriabin's shirt, but Scriabin pushed his hands away huffily and curled up into a ball.

"Give me your hands-, come on! We're going to BOTH get in trouble at this rate if you don't get ready-, give me your hands!"

Edgar was stronger and older, so Scriabin could only ward him off so long.

"I don't want to-, that shirt's ugly, it's itchy and there are too many buttons-, I don't want to-!"

"It doesn't matter if you want to or not!" Edgar managed to wrestle the T-shirt off of Scriabin, who kicked at him halfheartedly. Edgar was familiar enough with this and managed to avoid getting hit, mostly. "We have to go and that's that."

"I don't know why we have to go. It's dumb." Scriabin pouted, and Edgar sharply slapped his arm. Scriabin yelped in surprise, perhaps more at the sudden sound than the pain, and stared at him in relative shock. Edgar took the opportunity to grab his wrists to thread them through the shirt.

"Don't say that! You know Gran would have a fit if she heard you say that."

"Why'd you hit me?" Scriabin sounded alternately hurt and extremely offended. "You didn't have to hit me, I was just saying-"

"Stay still-!"

"Ooow!"

"You see? If you weren't being such a pest you wouldn't get hurt!" There, he managed to get both his arms through. Scriabin rubbed at his wrist with that same kind of wounded dignity. "If you listened, this would go much faster and you wouldn't end up getting your wrist twisted."

"I don't wanna!" Scriabin had now moved into full-fledged high-pitched whining. Edgar could hear his grandmother coming up the stairs and he felt a slight sense of panic encroaching on his growing lack of patience. "I don't wanna go, I don't like it there! It's boring and I don't like it! I don't wanna go! I wanna stay here!"

"Well you can't!" Edgar snapped, his temper running short, and pushed Scriabin's hands away from his body so he could fasten the tiny buttons down the front of his shirt. Young as he was, Scriabin was still too uncoordinated to fasten the buttons himself. Edgar's piano lessons, however, had given him some dexterity, and this wasn't the first time Scriabin hadn't wanted to go to church. "You're part of this family and you have to come with us. You can't stay here by yourself."

"Why not?" Scriabin clenched his fists and glared at Edgar. "Why can't I? I can take care of myself. I don't need anyone to watch me."

Edgar shook his head, annoyed that Scriabin was even bringing this up. He was sure he was doing this deliberately. "You're only seven. You can't take care of yourself."

"I can too!"

"You can not."

"I can too!" Scriabin's voice increasing in volume.

"You can not! Where are your pants?"

"I can too!" Furious and refusing to let it go, as usual. Edgar sighed in irritation and went back to the dresser again to look. He heard the sound of Scriabin standing behind him and Edgar knew that, while Scriabin could potentially just run out of the room and hide somewhere, at least the shirt would stay on for now. Scriabin couldn't put it on by himself, and likewise, he couldn't take it off. "I can too, Edgar!"

"What is going on in here? Do you know what time it is?" Edgar's grandmother opened the door, and Edgar froze instinctually, tried to suppress the shudder. He was in trouble, he was sure of it. "We're going to be late!"

"Scriabin's being difficult!" Edgar normally wouldn't have been so quick to blame his younger brother, but he was annoyed and a little frightened.

"I am not!" Scriabin shouted as loudly as he possibly could, then, apparently overcome with the intensity of his own emotions, burst into tears. At the sound Edgar pressed a hand to his forehead and winced. He didn't mean to do that, and, knowing how this always went...

"Edgar, come now!" God, the disappointment in her voice stung. "You could be a little more patient. Come here, Scri honey. Shh, calm down."

Scriabin was apparently past the point of coherent words and just wailed. Edgar tried to mentally and emotionally prepare himself for what would come next, because, just as Scriabin said, he was sure that this would soon be all his fault.

"Scri, calm down. You're a big boy, you don't have any reason to be crying like this." Her tone was gentle, as it always was with him whenever he did something like this, but still somewhat admonishing, and Scriabin managed to tone it down to the occasional unhappy sob. "That's right, just calm down. Edgar, what on earth happened?"

"He threw my shirt out the window!" Edgar didn't turn around, busying himself with searching for Scriabin's missing pants. "He knew we had to go soon but he did it anyway! He even said he did it. He just wanted to get me in trouble."

"I did not," Scriabin gasped out between sobs.

"You did too! You just told me that you did! You're such a liar!" Edgar gritted his teeth, knew that he shouldn't be losing his temper like this but Scriabin was being so, so...

so Scriabin!

"Edgar! Calm down, goodness. Are you sure he did it?"

"He said he did!"

"I didn't." His voice was pathetic and weak and Edgar knew that was just how he wanted it to sound. "I didn't, I promise."

Edgar felt furious, felt trapped, and mostly just felt overwhelmed by how terribly unfair this was. Scriabin was lying, they both knew he was lying, but he still refused to own up, he still refused to take any kind of responsibility.

"Scriabin, did you?" A very serious tone, and Scriabin was silent for a few seconds. In the meantime Edgar located Scriabin's missing article of clothing, and knew he'd have to turn around now. He saw Scriabin staring fixedly at his feet beside his kneeling grandmother.

"No."

"You did." Edgar didn't hide the contempt in his voice, and his grandmother turned to look at him. At her look he immediately tried to hide how angry he felt. "He did, Granma, you can look outside and see for yourself."

"Edgar hurt my wrist, Granma." Scriabin tugged at her sleeve, eager to change the subject. "He did, he did and he didn't even say he was sorry."

Edgar wanted to respond and fully intended to say something that was coherent, and instead just made an angry, frustrated sound.

His grandmother looked between the two of them, was quiet for a few seconds.

"We're going to be late if you two aren't ready soon. Edgar, why don't you go downstairs and get your shirt? I'll deal with Scriabin here."

"Really?" Edgar blinked. From how that sounded, that meant she believed that Scriabin really had thrown his shirt out the window, and that for once he was going to suffer the consequences for it.

"Yes, just give me that, please." Edgar looked down at his hand, remembered the pants and handed them to her quickly. After that, he darted out the door and down the stairs.

God, that was a refreshing change! Sure, Scriabin had been caught in the midst of lies before and had actually been punished for it, but it happened far too infrequently, in Edgar's opinion.

Edgar could at least tolerate it when both of them avoided any kind of repercussions, but it was just so unfair when he suffered for Scriabin's mistakes. Scriabin shouldn't have had that power, to hurt him like that, indirectly or directly. Why was Edgar so often held responsible for what Scriabin did? It made him so angry sometimes, but he couldn't tell anyone. His grandmother wouldn't understand, and Scriabin was too young and would just make him angry again.

Well, God listened at least.

The screen door creaked as he went outside, found his shirt caught up in the bush. Just high enough so he could grab it if he stood as tall as he could and stretched. The window to their room was open...he couldn't hear Scriabin crying anymore. Maybe he wasn't being punished after all. Figures.

Well, if Edgar could avoid punishment that was rightly Scriabin's for once, then he'd be okay with it.

He used the downstairs bathroom to change his shirt, hoping that already having it on when he went upstairs might earn him some leniency from his grandmother if, and he sadly had a feeling that it was fairly likely, she did blame him for what happened. There were some small stains on the fabric, but otherwise it wasn't damaged.

Edgar went upstairs, opened the door and found that Scriabin was almost dressed and extremely unhappy about it. He didn't scratch or hit when his grandmother dressed him though, and Edgar took that as proof that Scriabin at least understood that he had some limits.

"Edgar, I don't suppose you've seen that other sock, have you?"

It looked like she didn't notice that Edgar was wearing his shirt and, therefore, Scriabin had been lying.

Edgar wanted to bring that up.

"Which one?"

"The white one." She gestured to Scriabin's one uncovered foot.

"I'll look for it downstairs, if you want."

"That'd be great, thank you."

He could hear Scriabin muttering faintly but couldn't make out any words. Scriabin wouldn't dare say what he said earlier in front of her. When she wasn't present it was so much easier.

He eventually found the sock in the fridge for reasons that he blamed on Scriabin being himself. He heard some commotion from upstairs and, sure that Scriabin had somehow gotten himself into more trouble, decided to take his time going to investigate.

His grandmother walked down the stairs before he got all the way up, grumbling at first but speaking a bit more clearly when she saw Edgar present.

"Don't have time for this- I just can't understand him, he's so contrary at times. That child, I swear, he'll be the death of me...thank goodness you're so much more pleasant, Edgar. I don't think I could take two of him."

Edgar wasn't sure how to respond to that, instead just accepting the compliment with a vaguely guilty contented feeling. He continued upstairs, assuming that he'd be the one to put on Scriabin's missing sock.

He opened the door and couldn't see Scriabin immediately.

"Scriabin, are you hiding? You've got Gran mad enough at you already, do you really want to make it worse?"

"I don't want to go," Scriabin whined from somewhere in the room, and Edgar still wasn't sure exactly where.

"Where are you? You've still got this sock and your shoes to put on."

"I don't wanna gooooo-"

"I know you don't but you are anyway." There, the whining was coming from beneath a blanket. He walked over and whipped it off. "Every week it's the same thing..."

Scriabin looked up at him, surprised that his hiding place had been found, and immediately put his hands over his head. Not fast enough to hide the two pigtails in his hair though, each tied with a bit of pink yarn. Edgar tried to hide his instinctual reaction, to laugh, and ended up snorting somewhat painfully.

"It's not funny!" Scriabin yelled and tried to grab the blanket back from Edgar. Edgar held it above his head and Scriabin struggled to reach. "It's not funny!"

"What happened?"

"Shut up!"

"You better not let Gran hear you say that, you know you'll get in trouble." Edgar tossed the blanket on the bed, then grabbed Scriabin before he could go after it. The boy struggled in his arms when he sat down, but without the same amount of energy he had before. His earlier tantrum had apparently tired him out a little. With Scriabin trapped on his lap, Edgar tried to get the remaining sock on.

"I don't care!"

"You will when you're in trouble. Gah, hold still."

"You don't even care!" Scriabin continued with his unsuccessful resistance. "You don't care about me, you just want to go to your precious church and talk to your precious God and eat your precious locusts!"

"Eucharist, Scri."

"Don't call me that!" Scriabin found a burst of rage that was almost enough for him to break free, but Edgar just managed to hold onto his shirt and wrestle him back down. "I hate it when you call me that!"

"I know. That's why I do it." Edgar smirked and Scriabin panted, unable to break free and now exhausted. At least now that he had quieted down getting the last sock on was simpler. "What happened to your hair?"

Scriabin made an angry pouting sound.

"What, did you do it?"

"No!" Scriabin responded instantly, deeply offended. "I didn't do it!"

"Then what happened?"

"Gran wanted to brush my hair but I didn't want her to." Scriabin kept his arms crossed.

Edgar waited for a few seconds.

"And...?"

"She said that if I wanted to look like a scruffy girl then fine, and she put my hair up like this. So there, you happy?"

"Oh, Scriabin." Edgar sighed with a faint smile, and he set to work untying one of the little pink bows. "You know that your hair drives her crazy."

"She's just mean," Scriabin said without much conviction, and he sniffled.

"And you're not, throwing my shirt out the window? I don't know what gets into you sometimes." Edgar ran his fingers through Scriabin's hair, let it fluff out again. He pocketed the bit of yarn and set to work on the other bow. "I don't know how you get away without getting your hair cut. She always cuts mine."

"Yeah, well maybe you just suck."

"Scriabin, language."

"You say it all the time!"

"I'm older than you." The other bow out, and he fluffed the rest of Scriabin's hair gently. "There you go. Where's the brush?"

"No! I don't want my hair brushed!" Whining again. Edgar sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Edgar!"

"Coming!" Edgar saw it lying on the floor and leaned over to grab it, keeping one arm around Scriabin in the process. "You know she'll just get mad at you again if it's not brushed."

"No! No, I don't want it brushed!" Scriabin trying to get away again. "It hurts!"

"Sometimes things hurt, okay? If you want long hair, you're going to have to suffer the consequences."

"I don't want to! No!" Scriabin still struggling to get away, and Edgar tightened his grip around his upper body. Scriabin wriggled and kicked to try and get free, but Edgar kept a tight hold on him. Maybe realizing he was trapped and this was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not, Scriabin decided to try for one last-ditch pleading whine. "Eeeedgaaaaar!"

"This would go a million times faster if you weren't such a baby about things." One stroke of the brush through and Scriabin wailed as if he'd been stabbed. "Gran's right, you are mel...melondramatic."

He was pretty sure that's how you said it.

"Edgar, what are you doing up there?"

"Brushing Scri's hair!" Or at least trying to.

Scriabin kicked and pushed at Edgar's arm but he refused to let go. He knew if he let him go now Scriabin would immediately run and hide somewhere and he wouldn't find him for hours. He was probably going to have to carry him down at this rate.

"No, let me go, let me go, it hurts, I don't want to, stop it," Scriabin managed to say between incoherent yells and sobs. "It hurts it hurts it huuu-uuu-uurts-"

"Maybe if you brushed your own hair once in a while-" He could feel the catch of the brush on a tangle. "If you calmed down and stopped thrashing around I could make this easier on you, but nooo, you have to make things difficult."

"It hurts, you're pulling out my hair-"

"If you stayed still I wouldn't be doing that! Just calm down for once!"

But Scriabin didn't trust him, and he kept fighting. He never trusted him about anything, even if it was for his own benefit. Scriabin always had to be right, period. Granma said that was a phase he would grow out of eventually, hopefully soon.

Scriabin kicked his ankle hard and Edgar hissed, tightened his grip on him enough so that Scriabin gave a short gasp in response.

"Will you stop it?" From between gritted teeth, but Scriabin didn't. Although it was rather petty and somewhat mean in retrospect, Edgar couldn't help himself. He ran the brush through where he had felt the tangle before and felt it catch, and he just pulled rather than worked it out. Scriabin howled and thrashed in his arms, but Edgar kept his grip tight.

"Edgar, it sounds like you're killing him up there!" He could hear his grandmother's voice from downstairs.

"You know how it is!"

Scriabin still making vague incoherent pained sounds, but eventually lapsed back into words. "Stop it, stop it, you're doing it on purpose-"

"If you'd stop being such a pest this wouldn't hurt so much-"

"I hate you." Scriabin sobbed and stopped struggling for those few seconds, and Edgar took the opportunity to get the brush through the last section of his long hair. "I hate you, I hate you, I wish I was never born."

"There." Edgar tossed the brush to one side. "There, you're done."

"Really?" Scriabin stopped his tears and sniffled, and for a moment was entirely still.

"Yes, so if you'll just go put on your shoes, we'll go before you get in any more trouble."

"But I don't wanna go." Right back into the petulant whine again. Edgar sighed, his momentary sympathy lost. He grabbed Scriabin and stood up. Scriabin struggled the entire way, kicking and shouting, but Edgar had done this before and Scriabin couldn't break free. "No! I don't want to! Stop it! Let me go! Put me down!"

"Scriabin, I can't believe you're still acting like this! After all of this, you're still not satisfied! God, Granma is going to be so mad at you. You are in so much trouble when we get home again."

A reminder of this did nothing to calm Scriabin down and in fact may have sent him into further hysterics.

"No no no, let me go, I want to stay home, I want to stay home, let me go, I hate you, I hate you, I wish you were dead-"

"Scriabin!" Scriabin didn't notice that they were at the top of the stairs and within earshot of his grandmother, who was putting on her coat. "Did I just hear you say what I thought you said?"

Scriabin stopped struggling completely, frozen and terrified. Edgar knew how that felt.

"I tried to warn you," he whispered, but he wasn't sure if Scriabin could hear him.

"Edgar, you bring him down here this instant. Scriabin, did you say what I thought you said?"

It was much easier to carry him when he wasn't fighting. Scriabin remained fairly limp except for the last step, where he made one last effort to grab on to the banister, as if that would save him from the entire mess.

"Scriabin, come on!" Edgar pulled, but Scriabin had set his fingers tight and, while he wasn't screaming for a change, he was making a rather resolute unhappy sound.

"Scriabin Vargas, I cannot believe you!" He was in serious trouble now. She never used their full names unless they had done something really bad. Well, it wasn't Scriabin's full name...she never used their middle names at all, but that was because as far as she was concerned, they didn't have any. To be honest, they were rather embarrassing anyway. "You should be ashamed of yourself! Acting this way at your age. You are in such trouble when we get home, young man! You let go of that banister right now, put your shoes on, and behave!"

Scriabin did let go, and it was only because Edgar thought he would that they both didn't topple over. He set Scriabin down and he stayed where he was. Edgar was sure that Scriabin wanted to run and hide somewhere where they couldn't find him, but he stayed put. Apparently only now had consequences really occurred to him.

"And apologize to your brother! Saying such horrible things to him, honestly! I don't know why he puts up with you. There are lots of people who wouldn't, you know, and you say such things, hmph. To think that you could be so selfish and inconsiderate and difficult to the people who are just trying to look out for you. You weren't even being hurt and you're carrying on and making such a big fuss over nothing. You ought to be ashamed. I've half a mind to deal with you now, but we're going to be late as it is."

It wasn't even directed at him, but Edgar still felt deep pangs of fear and regret, unintentional and unwanted empathy. He'd been dressed down much the same way before, and he had hated and feared the experience. He never knew when the disappointment would end, or where it would end. Whether it would end at all and maybe this was his last chance and he ruined it, and she had a way of making her tone, the way she said her words, made everything so serious, so final. It hurt, it hurt more than he wanted it to when she said she was disappointed in him, and Edgar could not imagine that Scriabin felt differently. He could see him shaking.

Scriabin stared at the floor, and didn't look up when he spoke.

"'M sorry."

He didn't sound at all sincere, but Edgar never expected him to when he was forced to apologize like this.

"It's okay," he said softly so his grandmother wouldn't hear, because he knew that that might start her lecturing again, and they were running late now for sure. Edgar slipped on his own shoes and turned to his brother, who stood there sniffling and occasionally rubbing his nose. Her patience long lost, his grandmother rapped him sternly when she caught him doing so.

"Scriabin, tissues! We use tissues for that, not our sleeves!"

Scriabin made an unhappy sound, but still didn't try to run. Apparently the threat of making this worse finally outweighed the potential of escaping it entirely. Edgar put Scriabin's shoes on without further incident while his grandmother looked outside. Scriabin couldn't tie his own shoes just yet and had, several times, tripped on his shoelaces and injured himself somehow. Edgar, as usual, was held responsible for it, so now he just tied Scriabin's shoes without being asked. Another thing he just had to do for him, until he got older and could do it himself. Another minor way he had to take care of Scriabin.

He tried to teach Scriabin how, but he never paid attention.

He looked up to try and meet Scriabin's eyes after his shoes were on.

"You okay?" He mouthed the words, afraid of somehow incurring his grandmother's ire if he made it any more blatant. Scriabin's face was red and his mouth set in a solid frown, and Edgar knew that was because he was trying hard not to cry.

Scriabin didn't respond to his question, and Edgar guessed the answer from his silence.

His grandmother still sounded annoyed, but not quite so much as when she was yelling at Scriabin just a few minutes ago. "It might get chilly, so why don't you two grab your coats? It may rain while we're out. Cha, the time..."

"Yes, Granma." Nothing felt more natural coming out of his mouth than that, and Edgar was sure it was simply because of how often he said it.

He looked around in the closet and felt Scriabin hovering close behind him. Scriabin probably wanted to wear Edgar's dad's coat. That coat was forbidden to them normally, though Scriabin rarely listened to the rules, and after how Scriabin had been acting, there was no way he could even think of touching it now. Edgar had a feeling though that somehow, that coat would have made Scriabin feel better.

As usual, his anger with Scriabin didn't last very long, and he found that somehow, he had some sympathy. Pity maybe would have been more accurate. Scriabin was in huge trouble and it was hard not to feel sorry for him for it, even if it was his fault. He was only seven, after all, and this definitely had not been his day.

He found a soft loose coat for Scriabin and a more fitted one for himself. He handed it to Scriabin, who put it on without a word, although he was still sniffling.

"Are we ready? We don't have a lot of time. Let's get moving, boys." His grandmother held open the screen door. Edgar felt something touch his hand, thin and cold, and he looked to see Scriabin staring at the ground, still sniffling with a determined look on his face. He waited to make sure that Scriabin wouldn't move away, then he returned the gesture.

It was rare that Scriabin wanted him to hold his hand, and Edgar couldn't deny it to him now.

They sat together in the back-seat. His grandmother approved because that meant Edgar could keep an eye on Scriabin, and Edgar was willing to do it just to make sure that Scriabin was okay.

He didn't intend for his earlier threat to come true...God, Scriabin had a way of making him feel guilty for everything. As if somehow this was his fault for having pushed Scriabin to act as he did, although, on further introspection, he realized he had done no such thing. He still felt responsible though, somehow, for Scriabin being in this mess, and seeing him so quiet and subdued worried him. He could tell that Scriabin was afraid of what would happen to him after church, and frankly, Edgar wouldn't have been looking forward to it either if he was in the same position.

Scriabin held onto his hand tightly, and Edgar did the same. Scriabin had to be pushed past a certain point to seek refuge with someone, and he wasn't past that point now. Edgar was sure he would be later, and then his pride would be too much to maintain and he would go to Edgar, trusting that he could fix it somehow. Make him feel better. Or maybe he'd take out his anger or hurt on Edgar. That was far more common. Scriabin was younger than him and therefore he could never really hurt Edgar that badly, so he didn't see any harm to it. Scriabin always felt better afterwards, and he guessed that was what counted.

His brother drove him crazy, but still, in the car, despite the fact that Scriabin brought all of his current troubles on himself, Edgar wanted to take it away from him and wanted to make him feel better. He was sure he learned that from his grandmother or maybe the Bible, or maybe both. He wasn't sure which.

They were only a few minutes late, but that was embarrassing enough. His grandmother smoothed down Edgar's hair (or attempted to do so and failed) and ran a hand over Scriabin's, straightened their coats, gave them the last minute glare that told them to do as they were told until this was over, and they went in.

Scriabin was relatively quiet and well-behaved for the first part of the sermon, but his attention span was short and he began to slouch, resting his feet on the pew in front of him until he got his leg swatted and he put them back down. After that, he took the tiny pencil and the small index cards and started drawing all over them, an activity that, while his grandmother did not exactly approve, was relatively harmless.

"I hate it here," Scriabin said at one point in a voice that Edgar hoped only he could hear. "It's dumb."

"Don't say that, do you want to get in more trouble?"

Scriabin sulked and returned to his index card drawings.

After the sermon, his grandmother often spent some time chatting with some of the other parishioners, and this was Edgar's opportunity to have some fun at the playground. Scriabin had become so bored during the service that he had taken off his shoes and tied his socks around his ankles. Edgar managed to catch this before his grandmother did, thankfully, and his shoes and socks were put back on with a minimum of fuss.

Scriabin might as well enjoy some of the free time before they had to head back home. Once on the playground, Scriabin ran over to the swings and threw himself stomach first on the seat, although without his typical high-pitched giggling. Edgar sighed, went over to sit beside him. Scriabin swung slowly back and forth, his hands and feet dangling near the sand.

"You really did it today." Edgar nudged himself off the ground, began shifting his weight back and forth to get the swing going. "Why do you do that? You know you're just going to get in trouble."

"I don't like church," Scriabin mumbled, his voice hidden by his arms and the swing seat.

"I know you don't, but can't you just...I don't know, be quiet about it sometimes? You don't always have to make a scene. It just makes it harder for everyone."

"I don't care about everyone!" Scriabin yelled as best he could with his voice damped and swung with a bit more force. "I don't care what anyone else thinks, I don't like it here and I don't want to come here."

"You can't be selfish your whole life, Scriabin." Edgar was tempted to use the nickname, but he didn't think Scriabin would appreciate it. "You've got to learn to think about others. That's what the priest was talking about today."

"I wasn't listening."

"I know."

"I bet you're gonna go for that...altered boy thing right?"

Edgar smiled for a second, looked up at the gray sky. "Altar. And I don't think so...I don't know any of the other boys. It'd be awkward."

"I bet Gran'll make you go anyway." Scriabin kicked at the ground as best he could in his current position, which wasn't very effectively at all. "She doesn't care."

"Oh she does too." Edgar was getting some good height now, but it was making it hard to listen to Scriabin. He slowed himself down a little. "You know she does."

"Nuh uh." Scriabin turned his head away from him, twisted his body a little in the seat. Edgar rolled his eyes. "At least that girl isn't here today so you don't have to talk to her."

Edgar stopped his swing and stared at the ground a bit awkwardly. "She's...c'mon Scriabin, she's nice."

"Gran wants you to marry her." Scriabin kicked at the ground again.

"She does not."

"Does too. You don't even like her."

"I do too, it's just..." Edgar brushed off some of the rust from his palms.

"You don't even like her."

Maybe he was right, but... "She's nice though, and Gran..."

"I don't like her." Scriabin's voice lowered a little, more conspiratorial. "She's mean to me."

"She was not. You were bugging her."

"I don't like her."

Edgar started swinging again.

"She's a nice person..."

"Nuh uh, and just 'cause she's nice doesn't mean you got to marry her."

Another twist, the clink of chains, then Edgar jumped from the swing so fast that he rolled a few times and scraped up his hands.

"Scriabin!"

"What?" Annoyed and instinctively rebellious.

"Your shirt! Your shirt, stand up!"

Scriabin blinked at him, and Edgar rushed over once he found his balance and pulled Scriabin from the swing seat. Sure enough, a black bar now spread across his rather rumpled shirt. It hadn't occurred to Edgar to clean off the swing before Scriabin decided to use it...

The two of them stared at this with dismay for a few seconds.

"Oh no."

"Can you clean it? Can you fix it? I didn't mean to, I just forgot-" and for once Scriabin sounded genuinely sincere.

"I don't know, I'm not...I don't know if we'll have time." Edgar looked up near the church door but didn't see anyone. He brushed at the black bar and only found it smearing under his fingers. "This is so bad, Scriabin, she was already mad at you."

"Can't, can't you, can't you say you'll clean it? I can't, I don't know how, but you can." Scriabin looked at him desperately.

The last thing Edgar wanted was to add this on top of all the things Scriabin had done. This was a genuine accident. He thought for a few seconds.

"If you hadn't gotten her so upset before, she'd probably blame this on me like usual...I don't think she'll be nice to you now. Um, let's try that drinking fountain."

They did, and ended up merely smearing the black bar more and getting Scriabin soaking wet. At this point, Scriabin's face was flushed and his lip quivering, and Edgar could see the faint shine of tears on his brother's cheek. This made him feel completely awful and again, somehow responsible. Not only for his failure to fix the problem, but somehow as if the problem's existence was also his fault.

"What am I going to do?" Scriabin's voice was shaky and weak and he was trying very hard not to cry, which only made it easier. Edgar was still working on perfecting that skill. "What am I going to do, she's going to think I did it on purpose, I didn't mean to..."

"Look..." Edgar put a hand on Scriabin's head. "Look, I'll tell her what happened, and I'll try to make it my fault. I'll tell her I'll clean it up later when we get home, all right? Maybe that way it won't be so bad."

Normally, if faced with someone doing this to salvage a bad decision, one would be flattered, perhaps a little resistant, or at the least openly thankful. Considering the foundation of their relationship, Scriabin did none of these and only sniffled, still gamely trying to stop crying.

"Thank you" was out of the question. That was one of those things that Scriabin either never learned or just didn't like. That and "sorry."

Although, to no surprise, according to his grandmother Scriabin's first word was "no."

He couldn't take away everything Scriabin had done (and that voice in his head tried valiantly to remind him that Scriabin had earned every punishment he would receive later), but at least he could soften this blow. To suffer for others...that was mentioned in the sermon, but every sermon involved Jesus and his suffering for others in some way. It was a rule or something.

"I'm cold." Scriabin could have said this in a pleading way, asking for Edgar to find him someplace warm, but instead he said in an insulting tone that blamed Edgar for it. This wasn't unusual.

"You're wet, that's why. Where'd you put your coat? If you lost it, I swear to God..."

"I left it on the bench over there." He gulped, his crying now mostly under control. "I didn't lose it."

"Good. I guess we'll see if I can dry you off a bit with it, and then you can just wear it, okay?"

Drying with the coat was mildly successful and was one thing that did not smudge the black bar across Scriabin's stomach and chest. After the addition of the coat Scriabin still complained of being cold, so Edgar managed to cajole him into a game of Tag in hopes that the activity would keep him warm. Sure enough, Scriabin quickly forgot all of his complaints and problems and went after Edgar with gusto.

An hour later, his grandmother called for him and that snapped reality back into focus abruptly. Scriabin jerked and Edgar grabbed his hand before he bolted, although where he was planning to go was anyone's guess.

"You can't always run away from things, Scriabin!"

Scriabin tried to pull away from him for a few minutes, but apparently remembered how much trouble he was already in and decided to give in.

They came close enough for her to see but before his grandmother could start about Scriabin's shirt, Edgar cut her off.

"Granma, it was an accident. He didn't mean to, and I should have been watching him more carefully. I'm sorry. I'll wash the shirt when I get home, I promise."

"Sorry," on the other hand, was a word that Edgar learned early and fast.

She looked at the two of them skeptically, then held out her hand. Edgar took hers, and Scriabin took Edgar's.

"Well, all right." She didn't sound very soothed. "But this doesn't erase what happened earlier today, Scriabin, so don't get your hopes up."

Scriabin made a miserable sound at this, and Edgar squeezed his hand gently.

They sat together in the back-seat again. Scriabin usually would be chattering about this and that, but now he stayed silent. Edgar and his grandmother sat in what he hoped was amiable silence until...

"Edgar, did you know they're looking for altar boys?"

Edgar turned his eyes down to his hands, and he rubbed the edge of his free hand against his pants. His skin itched all of a sudden.

"Yeah..."

"What do you think? Would you be interested? You know, the Wolfs are thinking about it, and they're very nice people. I bet you could make some friends."

Edgar looked over at Scriabin, even though he didn't want to, and he found his brother staring at him. If he hadn't been in so much trouble, he was sure Scriabin would have said something, but as it was...

"I don't know...I don't know anyone. It'd be awkward."

"All the more reason for you to go. You need to get over this awkwardness, Edgar, or you'll never make it on your own. It's an important skill, socializing. You should learn while you can."

"I...I don't know. I mean..."

"Well, we'll think about it, all right?" Meaning that she would think about it and later pass the verdict of the decision down to him. "Just keep it in mind."

Scriabin stared at him, but Edgar wasn't sure for how long since he turned his eyes to his hands and didn't look up for the rest of the drive.

They came home, went inside, and hung up their coats. His grandmother took hold of Scriabin's hand, and Edgar let go.

"Edgar, why don't you go upstairs?"

"Do you need something?"

She turned and looked down at Scriabin, who was biting one of his fingers.

"No, not really. Just go upstairs, all right honey?"

Edgar didn't want to go upstairs.

"Yes, Granma."

If they were other people, perhaps Scriabin would have felt betrayed. Instead, this barely registered at all. It was expected by both of them.

He headed upstairs, but lingered and leaned over the banister. He watched his grandmother lead Scriabin to the knitting room, and was sure that the lecture he was going to receive would be long, painful, and draining.

He'd been on the receiving end of them many times, mostly due to Scriabin's behavior rather than his own.

He went into their shared room, but left the door open. He did his homework and listened. He could hear her talking, something happening, minor shouting from both sides, and the faint sound of Scriabin crying. It was horrible to hear from far away and know that there was nothing he could really do. It was horrible to hear in general.

Scriabin came into their room about an hour later. His face was puffy and red and he was sniffling again. Edgar looked up from the book he was reading on his bed.

"So?"

Scriabin turned to look at him, then wordlessly crawled up onto his bed and curled up beside him. Edgar put an arm around him, found Scriabin pressing closer and tighter to him if he could.

"Got yelled at." His voice was shaky and hurt. Edgar didn't say anything, although he watched his brother for a few more minutes. He was sure there was more. She used his full name.

"And?"

"Got spanked."

"Hmm." Edgar nodded, felt Scriabin bury his face in his chest. "I thought you would be. You really pushed it today."

"'S not fair." Scriabin's default response after any punishment, and Edgar sighed softly and turned back to his book.

"It's perfectly fair."

"Nuh uh."

"You were being a pest."

"Nuh uh." Scriabin shivered for a few seconds, maybe from residual anger. Edgar couldn't tell.

"And a brat."

"Nuh uh."

"Uh huh, you were."

Scriabin made a sound somewhere between angry and sad and held onto Edgar tighter. Edgar shook his head.

"You did, you brought this on yourself. You just don't know how to behave. I told you you'd get punished for it eventually. You can't always blame me."

Scriabin made a whining whimpering sound that eventually broke into words. "'M not a pest."

Edgar paused, smiled a little and rubbed Scriabin's back.

"Don't care for buttons indeed."

"Shu' up."

Scriabin ended up falling asleep that way, curled up against his side, and Edgar ended up with the difficult task of getting him dressed and ready for bed without waking him up. After he'd finally gotten that over with, he lay down beside Scriabin again and closed his eyes, and he found Scriabin pressing up against him immediately, as if trying to steal his body heat somehow.

Another Sunday come and gone.