Chapter 1: Sibling Shit
The fire popped and hissed in the fireplace, casting a warm, dancing light over the living room. It was the kind of deep, contented quiet that only settles in a house when everyone is truly at ease. The air smelled faintly of the cedar logs and the vanilla candle burning on the mantel, next to a chaotic, happy lineup of family photos.
Angel was stretched across the main sofa like a contented cat, a blanket of soft pink fleece tucked around his legs. He wore matching pink sweatpants and a faded hoodie with a bedazzled unicorn on the chest, the cuffs of the sleeves pulled over his hands. His long, white curls were piled in a messy bun on top of his head, a few strands escaping to frame his face as he stared, utterly absorbed, at the television.
On the screen, two women were screaming at each other in a lavish kitchen while dramatic music swelled.
“He is a lying dog, and you are a pathetic, wilted salad!” one shrieked, throwing what looked like a glass of champagne.
Angel gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh, she did not just say that.”
From the other, larger sofa, a deep, rumbling laugh echoed. Dominic was sprawled with one arm draped around Avery, his feet propped on a worn ottoman covered in mechanic’s magazine. He wore a simple black t-shirt that strained over his shoulders, his tattoos a tapestry of dark ink down his arms. “A wilted salad? Mio Dio, that’s a new one. Your mother called Coach Henderson a ‘limp dishrag’ once. More effective, I think.”
Avery, her muscular frame a solid, comforting presence against her husband, smirked without taking her eyes off her book—a dense history of boxing techniques. “A limp dishrag can still choke you if you wring it out right. A wilted salad is just tragic.” She turned a page. “This is garbage, Angel. Your brain is melting.”
“It’s art, Mommy,” Angel sighed dramatically, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions. “It’s about human emotion.”
“It’s about bad plastic surgery and worse decisions,” Avery countered, but her tone was soft, fond.
The front door opened and closed with a solid thud, followed by the heavy tread of boots being kicked off. Elijah wandered into the living room, filling the doorway. He wore a pair of loose gray pajama pants and a tight white t-shirt that showed off the defined muscles of his chest and arms. His dark green eyes scanned the room, landing on the sofa where Angel lay.
“Move your feet, midget,” Elijah said, his voice a familiar, cocky baritone.
Angel didn’t even look away from the TV. “You have a whole other couch, Elijah.”
“I want this one.”
And without any further ceremony, Elijah dropped his weight onto the sofa, shoving Angel’s legs off to make space. Angel yelped, a high, irritated sound, as his legs tumbled to the floor.
“You’re a brute!” Angel complained, kicking at his brother’s thigh half-heartedly. “A neanderthal. Daddy, tell him.”
Dominic just grinned, sipping his beer. “You two figure it out.”
With a great, put-upon sigh, Angel wriggled around, then deliberately lifted his legs and plopped them squarely into Elijah’s lap, his fuzzy pink-socked feet demanding attention. Elijah looked down at them, then back at his brother’s defiant, profile—Angel was pretending to be deeply invested in the television again, chin held high.
Elijah snorted. “Comfy, Princess?”
“Quite, thank you,” Angel said primly, wiggling his toes for emphasis.
The room lapsed back into a comfortable silence, broken only by the manufactured drama on TV and the crackle of the fire. Elijah pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Angel’s attention slowly drifted from the show, his eyes tracing the familiar, beloved contours of the room: the bookshelf overflowing with titles, a framed picture of him at five, holding his first tiny pair of skates, the well-worn dent in the armchair where Dominic always sat to tie his work boots.
“Practice run good today, baby?” Avery asked, finally setting her book down. Her dark blue eyes, so like Angel’s yet so different in their intensity, found his.
Angel’s face lit up, a sweet, genuine smile replacing his earlier theatrical pout. “It was okay. The triple salchow is being a brat. I keep two-footing the landing. Coach says I’m thinking too much.”
“You always think too much,” Elijah said, not looking up from his phone. “Just do it. It’s just jumping and spinning. How hard can it be?”
Angel kicked him, a little harder this time. “Says the man who gets to run in a straight line and smash into people. It’s ballet on ice, you ogre. It requires finesse.”
“It requires a costume with sequins,” Elijah shot back, finally looking over, his grin wide and teasing.
“And you look gorgeous in them,” Dominic chimed in, his voice warm with pride. “Saw the video your mom took last week. That spin at the end? Looked like a top humming. Beautiful.”
A soft pink blush, deeper than his hoodie, crept up Angel’s neck. Praise from his daddy always did that. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“What about you, capitano?” Dominic turned his gaze to Elijah. “Ready to crush State next week?”
Elijah’s chest puffed out just a little. “They’re toast. Their offensive line is slower than grandma Ricciardi’s pasta sauce. We’re gonna run right over them.”
“Confident,” Avery said, a note of warning and pride mixed in her tone. “Just don’t get arrogant. Arrogant players make stupid mistakes.”
“Yes, Mom,” Elijah said, the picture of dutiful assurance, though the cocky gleam in his eye remained.
Angel had gone quiet, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his blanket. The reality show was a blur of color now, not registering. He was thinking about the ice, the specific chill of the rink, the sound of his blades carving into the surface. The constant, nagging pressure to be perfect, to be light, to be strong all at once. It was a different kind of pressure than Elijah’s, but it weighed on him just the same sometimes, in the quiet moments.
“You’re thinking again,” Elijah said, his voice lower, just for them. He dropped his phone on his chest and put a large, heavy hand on Angel’s shin, giving it a brief, clumsy squeeze. It was as close to “are you okay?” as he ever got.
“Am not,” Angel mumbled.
“You are. Your face does this thing. Looks like you’re trying to solve the world’s problems.” Elijah paused. “Wanna watch that dumb baking show instead? The one with the guy who cries all the time?”
It was a peace offering. A secret handshake. Angel felt a knot in his stomach loosen. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dominic found the remote and switched channels. The room was filled with the serene, plinky music of a pastry competition. Avery got up, the muscles in her back visibly shifting under her shirt, and padded to the kitchen. They heard the clink of glasses, the running of water.
“Your mother’s getting water. Anyone else?” Dominic called out.
“I’m good, Dad,” Elijah said.
“No, thank you, Daddy,” Angel murmured, now mesmerized by the meticulous construction of a spun sugar dome.
Avery returned, handing Dominic a fresh glass. She didn’t sit back down immediately. Instead, she came around behind the sofa where her sons were. She leaned over, placing a quick, rough kiss on the top of Elijah’s head. He grimaced but didn’t pull away. “Love you, knucklehead.”
“Love you, Mom.”
Then she turned to Angel. Her large, calloused hands, hands that could wrap a fist and tape it for a fight, came down and cupped his face. She tilted his head back and kissed his forehead, the gesture lingering, infinitely tender. “My sweet boy,” she whispered, the words just for him. “Stop thinking. Just be here.”
Tears, sudden and stupid, pricked at the back of Angel’s eyes. He nodded, nuzzling his cheek against her hand for a second before she straightened up and returned to her spot beside Dominic, who wordlessly wrapped his arm around her again.
The moment settled. The sugar dome on screen collapsed to the sound of a contestant’s sob. Elijah chuckled. “Told you. Dude cries more than you did when you wiped out trying to learn that axel thing.”
“It was a double axel, and I was eleven, and I bruised my tailbone!” Angel retorted, but he was smiling now, pressing his cold feet against Elijah’s warm stomach, making his brother grunt.
“Ice feet! Warn a guy!”
“You shoved my legs onto the floor. This is vengeance.”
They bickered softly, back and forth, a comfortable, familiar rhythm under the narration of the television. The fire burned lower. Dominic’s eyelids grew heavy. Avery traced the lines of ink on her husband’s forearm with a contented finger.
Here, in this warm, cluttered room, with the people who knew every single version of him—the sweet son, the sassy brat, the determined athlete, the anxious over-thinker—Angel felt truly, completely at home. The world outside, with its expectations and its judges and its relentless pace, ceased to exist. There was only this: the weight of his brother’s hand on his ankle, the sound of his father’s steady breathing, the protective, loving gaze of his mother from across the room.
“Practice at seven tomorrow,” Angel mumbled after a while, his own eyes getting heavy. “Don’t let me sleep in.”
“I’ll drop you,” Dominic murmured, his voice thick with near-sleep. “Your mother has her early sparring class.”
“M’kay.”
Elijah shifted, extracting himself from under Angel’s legs. “I’m hitting the sack. Big lift tomorrow before film study.” He stood, stretching, his body a testament to his discipline. He looked down at Angel, a softer version of his usual cocky smirk on his face. “G’night, twinkle toes.”
“Goodnight, meathead,” Angel whispered back, smiling.
Elijah ruffled his brother’s hair, messing up the bun entirely, and ambled out of the room.
Soon after, Avery and Dominic stood, stretching out the stiffness of a long evening at rest. “Come on, baby,” Avery said, her voice a gentle command. “Don’t fall asleep there, you’ll wreck your neck.”
Angel grumbled but sat up, bundling his blanket into his arms. He shuffled over to them, accepting a final, crushing hug from Dominic and another, softer kiss from Avery.
“Night, my angels,” Dominic said, his accent softening the words.
Angel trailed behind them up the stairs, the old wood creaking under their collective weight. At his door, he paused, watching his parents disappear into their own room at the end of the hall. The light from the living room fireplace still glowed faintly downstairs, pushing back the dark.
He changed into his pajamas, the events of the day—the frustrating practice, the easy comfort of the evening—swirling in his head. As he climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, he replayed his mother’s words. Just be here.
He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around him: the distant hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the radiator, the muffled sound of his father’s laugh through the wall. For now, here was enough. More than enough. It was everything. And as sleep began to pull him under, the only thought that remained was a grateful, quiet warmth, a knowledge deep in his bones that he was, irrevocably and unconditionally, loved. The morning, with its ice and its pressure, would come soon enough. But tonight, he was just Angel, their Angel, safe and soft