March 1, 1980

Noah shut the bedroom door behind them, letting the latch click softly into place.

Caleb had already dropped his backpack by the desk and perched on the edge of the bed, like he always did. Like nothing was different. But there was something in the way his shoulders curled inward, tense like a coiled spring, that told Noah otherwise.

He half-closed the blinds. The sunlight filtering in felt too bright, too revealing.

"You want anything?" Noah asked, turning toward the small shelf cluttered with soda cans and half-stale chips.

"I'm good," Caleb replied.

Noah sat beside him. The bed creaked slightly under their weight, the mattress dipping between them. Caleb reached out and grabbed the Rubik’s cube from the nightstand, turning it in quick, practiced motions—more out of habit than attention.

Then Noah saw it.

Just for a second, as Caleb leaned forward. A shadow beneath his shirt. The bruising was deeper than usual, ugly with purple and black tones blooming across his back.

Noah’s stomach sank.

"Caleb."

"Hm?" Caleb didn’t look up.

"Your back."

That made him pause. "What about it?"

"Lift your shirt."

The Rubik’s cube stilled in his hands. He blinked, not meeting Noah’s gaze. "It’s nothing."

"It doesn’t look like nothing."

“I just tripped. I’m fine.”

"You said that last time. And the time before that." Noah's voice stayed quiet, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Caleb gave a half-laugh, dry and too tight. “I tripped down the stairs.”

"You don’t have stairs."

That shut him up.

Noah shifted slightly. His hand hovered near the hem of Caleb’s shirt, slow, not touching—offering a choice. "Please," he said. "Let me see."

Caleb didn’t move for a moment. Then:
“No.”

He pulled back.

“Noah, I said it’s fine.”

"You’re lying."

“I’m not.”

"You always say that."

Caleb stood, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t angry—he was tired. Tired of being asked. Tired of having to answer.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, pacing. “This is just… how it is. I deal with it. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Noah said.

That made Caleb stop. He turned, looking at him for the first time, and the look in his eyes was unreadable. Not anger. Not fear. Something heavier.

“I don’t need saving,” Caleb said, his voice low.

“I’m not trying to save you.” Noah met his eyes. “I just don’t want to keep pretending.”

Caleb sat back down, this time closer. Their knees brushed.

“I know,” he said. Then after a beat: “But we don’t talk about that stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Because once we do… it’s real.”

“It’s already real,” Noah said.

Caleb didn’t respond.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, as if silence could make the whole conversation disappear.

Noah didn’t push again. He just stayed beside him, quiet.

Caleb didn’t say anything for a long time.

He stayed there, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed like he could press the world away behind his eyelids. The Rubik’s cube sat forgotten beside him, the silence stretching out like a held breath.

Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifted.

He leaned sideways—gently, cautiously—until his shoulder touched Noah’s. Then more. Until his weight rested against him. Not heavy, just… there. Like he needed to know someone was real beside him.

Noah didn’t move.

He just let Caleb rest there, the warmth of him settling through the fabric of his sleeve. The spring air hummed faintly outside the window. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower started up, distant and out of place.

Caleb's voice came soft.

Not breaking the silence—just joining it.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

Noah turned his head slightly but didn’t speak.

“Of my life. Of… all the broken parts,” Caleb continued.

His voice wasn’t shaking, but it held something rawer—like he wasn’t used to saying the words out loud. Like they came from someplace too deep to cover up anymore.

Noah looked down at him, but Caleb didn’t lift his eyes.

He whispered back, "I’m not disappointed."

Caleb gave a soft exhale, the kind that wasn’t quite a sigh.

"I know you’re not now," he said. "But maybe one day you will be. When it gets harder. When it gets worse."

"It already is hard," Noah said. "And I’m still here."

Caleb closed his eyes again.

Caleb doesn’t move for a long time.

He stays against Noah’s shoulder, his eyes closed, his breathing slow — not steady, but quieter now. Like just existing there, beside someone who hasn’t left, is enough to keep him together. For now.

Then, slowly, he shifts again, carefully, like testing the weight of a fragile moment, and lies down across the bed, resting his head in Noah’s lap.

Noah freezes.

Not because he’s surprised, but because he doesn’t want to ruin it. Caleb’s cheek is warm through the fabric of his jeans. His hair brushes Noah’s hand where it rests uncertainly at his side.

So he moves his hand carefully, gently, and lets it settle on Caleb’s head. Just resting there, fingers threaded lightly through dark strands. Caleb doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away. In fact, after a beat, he leans into it, just a little.

For a while, they don’t say anything.

The shadows from the window stretch across the floor, slanting gold. Somewhere down the block, a kid shouts, followed by the thud of a basketball on pavement. The world continues, oblivious.

And in this room, in this small space of quiet warmth, something unspoken begins to settle between them. Something that doesn’t need to be named yet.

Then Caleb speaks again. Quietly. Like the words are old and worn from being kept inside too long.

“I don’t know when Mom and Dad started fighting all the time.”

Noah looks down at him, but Caleb doesn’t meet his gaze. His eyes are on the ceiling now, unfocused.

“I think it was when Lulu was born. They stopped talking first. Then they started yelling. All the time. About money. About nothing. About each other.”

His voice is flat, almost distant — like he’s telling someone else’s story.

“There was this one night… she just left. Packed a bag, took Lulu, walked out during a storm. I remember the thunder. I remember her not even slamming the door.”

Noah doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he presses them into the blanket.

Caleb keeps going, his eyes still on some invisible spot above.

“And then Dad started getting worse. I tried to stay out of his way at first. But it didn’t matter. When he got angry… it didn’t matter.”

He says it simply.

No dramatics. No details.

But Noah’s throat closes up anyway. There’s something in the way Caleb speaks — not emotionless, but worn down, like the sharp edges of the memory have dulled from being carried too long.

“I used to think if I was better… quieter, smarter, faster at doing chores, he’d stop. That I’d earn… peace. Or something.”

Caleb lets out a slow breath, eyelids fluttering closed. “But that’s not how it works. And eventually, you just stop hoping.”

Noah wants to say something. Anything. But every word feels too small.

Caleb glances up at him — just a little — and sees the tears falling. Quiet, steady.

He frowns softly. Reaches up with one hand and brushes Noah’s cheek with his thumb, wiping a tear away. Then another. And another.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t cry, okay?”

Noah can’t answer.

Caleb gives him a crooked, tired smile. It doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft but nudging. “Come on now. If you cry, I’m gonna cry. And that’s just embarrassing.”

Noah laughs — barely — a hiccup of breath through tears.

Caleb pinches his cheek, gently. “There it is. That smile.”

“I’m not smiling,” Noah says thickly.

“You almost are,” Caleb teases. “That counts.”

He closes his eyes again, cheek still resting on Noah’s thigh.

“If you smile,” he murmurs, almost too faint to hear, “I’ll be fine.”

And Noah knows it isn’t true. Not entirely.

But he smiles anyway.

Caleb doesn’t lift his head.

His voice is small — the kind of small that makes something in Noah’s chest ache.

“Please,” he murmurs, “don’t ask about that again.”

Noah stays still, hand hovering just barely over Caleb’s hair, uncertain if he should move it — if touching would make it better or worse.

“I don’t want you to see that,” Caleb goes on, the words catching slightly in his throat. “I don’t want you to see… my self.”

He says it like it’s something shameful. Like he’s afraid that if Noah looks too closely, he’ll flinch — or worse, walk away.

Noah exhales softly through his nose, the breath trembling as it leaves him.

“Okay,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “I won’t ask again.”

And he means it.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does. Because he understands now that some things don’t need to be spoken to be shared — that some pain needs space, not questions.

The silence returns, thick but not heavy. Just full.

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

Then, without lifting his head, Caleb whispers, “Thank you.”

Noah doesn’t respond. He just lets his fingers trail once through Caleb’s hair — a soft, careful gesture — and keeps them there, steady and warm.

Outside, the breeze shifts, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and spring dust through the cracked window. The shadows on the floor are longer now, stretching toward the doorway like they’re trying to listen in.

But inside this small room, nothing moves.

Just two boys, older now. Still learning how to hold each other without words.

Still trying to believe they’re worth being held at all.