EBONY'S STARK FEATURES ARE CARVED into a grimace that overtakes his entire face when the light from the TV touches my skin.
I usually cower away from this look of his, but with Archer behind me, it feels alien. Ebony knows nothing of the night's events and only saves that look for Rebel permanently hovering beside me; challenging his unchanging scowl with her own.
The two have never gotten along, but maybe without Rebel in my life, I will finally be able to look my little brother in the eyes.
"I'm home," I say, fighting not to get bowled over by the mere reproach in his eyes as he drinks in the emptiness beside me—Archer still hovering in the doorway. "I'm sorry if you were waiting up for me,"
"I was." His eyes are a mirror of my own, grey and unresponsive, giving nothing away of the stirring of emotions inside. "Where's Rebel?"
"Uh." I shoot a glance back to Archer, wetting my lips. He takes the opportunity to step into the room, his presence faintly strengthening mine. "Don't be too happy, but...we're not exactly friends anymore."
"Oh." His response is toneless, eyebrows a mile up his forehead. Other than that, he's unconcerned, and it's a harsh yank back to reality—as long as it benefits him, he couldn't care less. "Okay. So, why's Archer here?"
Stung, I refrain from saying anything, while Archer murmurs something about coffee and rough nights, his eyes grazing mine in sympathy all the while. Perhaps he can sense my vulnerability—while he may attribute it to the night I've escaped; it's my brother's apathy that stings.
He continues to converse with Archer, and I don't know whether it's intentional that I'm being pushed to the outside.
"I'll go make that coffee," I say, in desperate need for an excuse, slipping out of the living-room and into the kitchen, slamming the lights on and taking the time to breathe.
I don't even know how Archer wants his coffee, but the thought of going back in there doesn't settle well in my stomach. Even detached from Rebel's poison, my brother's disapproval runs deep, like cold lead icing my blood, and maybe we'll never mend what we once had.
My hands shake as I tip the kettle, a steady flow of scalding water opening shower into the chipped black mug. They grip the searing drink for support—the red flush welting on my palms somewhat consoling—as I trudge back into the room with Ebony and Archer, setting the mug down onto the coffee table.
Archer's sat in front of it, elbows braced on his knees and head propped up in his palms. His legs are so long they rise above the height of the table, even bent, but the rest of his body is scrunched, his head so low that his dark hair tumbles over his forehead in waves.
"Here." I find my voice lodged in the recesses of my throat, avoiding eye-contact with my brother. Maybe we'll talk when Archer leaves. Maybe we won't.
"Thanks." Archer tilts his head up in acknowledgement of me.
"You're welcome." I debate sitting with them, then decide against it. "I'm going to go up now, see you later."
And though, every other night, I would be scolding my little brother—going so far as to drag him along with me when he refuses to sleep for one reason or another—I go up alone, without uttering a word.
Maybe that's the way things are supposed to be. Maybe it's better this way.
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