Foul Up | A Home Before Dark Entry

Foul Up

Rhys pressed his palms to the skin of his nape, leaning his head back in frustration. "I don't know what you want me to do," he said finally. His eyes met his brother's squinted ones. "She came in claiming she could help. I couldn't risk turning her away."

Slade flicked his hand in a commanding gesture, wanting Rhys to step closer. When Rhys didn't move, Slade rested his head against the bars that separated them in disdain. Rhys had always hated the way his brother prolonged his responses by ordering others around, like he wanted to remind Rhys of the power he held without speaking it. It was evident in the confidence of his posture, the way his eyes swept the room, the elegance of his voice. Authority was braided with the muscles in his flesh, ripe and deft and irreversibly interwoven. Rhys was supposed to be the same way.

Slade's lips were tight, like he was trying to keep water in his mouth. The line that had formed between his eyebrows communicated annoyance. "Did you even take a second to consider having my back?"

Rhys stood as if his combat instructor stood before him, because he did. Slade and Rhys had many relationships, and brother-brother was hardly one of them.

Rhys tsked. "Foul up, brother."

"Maybe the kaisar was lying."

"Was he?" They met eyes, just briefly, before Rhys leaned his shoulder against the bars and stared at the cellar door.

"No."

Rhys' fingers pinched together at his sides. "He is of noble blood." His words hung in the stale air. Slade sighed. "His case was irrefutable."

"Only because you played witness."

"Because you wouldn't speak to me!"

Slade slid to the cold flooring and sat with his head on his knees, facing away from Rhys. Slade had become a master at nonverbal communication, making one's chest ache in guilt without saying a word. Rhys hated that, too.

Rhys followed suit. Someone whistled a harmony to the siren that sounded from above ground. Rhys imagined piercing the skin of their neck with a dart to kill the sound.

"Why did you burn the letter?"

An awkward, surprised cough fell from Slade's lips. He glanced back at Rhys, hair grazing his forehead, and turned forward again. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

Rhys frowned. "No."

Slade's hands found his hair. "I didn't want to tell you this here."

"I didn't want you incarcerated for defacing a legal document, but here we are." Rhys' voice came across as distressed, impatient--not the lovingly joking tone he had wanted. He flicked Slade through the bars instead.

"Remember how, when we were kids, we would pretend we were superheros? And then that article surfaced about a hereditary supernatural ability, and we pestered mom until she said we had it?"

Rhys smirked. "Yes."

"The letter--it was your results."

Rhys' body grew tense. He continued looking forward.

"You have the gene, brother. And they would have killed you for it."