Like Brother, Like Son

Seth had been eating breakfast at his kitchen counter when the apartment intercom buzzed, a crackling whine piercing through the stale apartment air. He sighed, abandoning his Fruit Loops and approaching the intercom. The system was as old as the building, which probably predated the dinosaurs, so he could only try to guess who it was based on the tinny voice that garbled through the speakers.

“Um, I’m looking for Sara Sennhauer?”

Seth grimaced, pressing his forehead against the wall. What a way to start the morning.

“Who is this?”

“It’s, um, Matthew. I’m her brother.”

He paused, stunned. Should he say hello? Should he apologize? Should he pretend he wasn’t here? Unable to decide, Seth instead resigned himself to whatever horrific (or at the very least uncomfortable) fate awaited him, buzzing Matthew in.

“Come on up.”

By the time there was a knock at his apartment door, Seth had finished his Fruit Loops and added his dirty bowl to the pile of dishes slowly accumulating in the sink–dinosaurs didn’t have dishwashers, and Seth didn’t have time to wash them by hand. He opened the door to a lanky young man looking down at him. It was silent as they stared at each other, and Seth noticed a pale purple bruise blossoming across Matthew’s left cheek, just under his eye. Then he noticed the overstuffed backpack on his shoulders and the carry-on at his side, and everything clicked.

“You grew,” Seth managed, backing up to welcome Matthew in. Last time he’d seen him, he was 4’4” and starting braces. Now he towered over Seth, and…he couldn’t see his teeth right now but he could only assume they were ramrod straight.

“Yeah,” Matthew mumbled, still staring at him. Seth could feel him trying to figure it out. He could always tell when someone was trying to figure it out.

“So. Long time no see. How the hell’d you find me?” Seth asked, voice lilting, nudging his brother to move on. Matthew seemed to snap out of it, looking away to idly examine the apartment.

“When you…I don’t know if you remember. When you left, you left me a note with your new address. I didn’t–I was hoping it was still correct.”

Seth felt guilt wrack his chest, a machine excavator carving into his ribs. Nine years ago, he wrote a letter to a little boy. And nine years later, Matthew followed it to him with a bruise on his cheek.

“I mean. I did try to find you on social media. I’m not, like, ancient. And I figured out that you were here, in New York, but obviously you never posted your actual address anywhere, ‘cause that’s–uh. Stupid.”

“Right.”

“And I tried to, y’know, DM you. But you didn’t respond.”

“Oh. Shit, my bad. I’m sorr–”

“No, it’s not–I just mean–I was kind of in a hurry, it’s not your fault. I sent it like two hours before I got here. I was already on the plane. So. I mean–I’m just saying I didn’t only use the letter, that’s–that would be dumb,” Matthew stammered, avoiding Seth’s eyes.

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Seth offered, reaching out and patting Matthew’s arm awkwardly. “It’s a good thing I never moved out, huh?”

Matthew blinked at him, and Seth burned with the misstep. Nine years of distance had really done a number on them, and it was all Seth’s fault.

“Yeah,” Matthew smiled lopsidedly, and Seth glimpsed perfectly straight pearly whites before his eyes were drawn back to the bruised side of Matthew’s face, which could only twitch upwards. Seth cleared his throat.

“Yeah, this was s’posed to be kind of a…in-between place. Just like a, y’know, ‘until I get back on my feet’ sorta thing. Famous last words, right?” He laughed nervously.

“I think it’s nice,” Matthew said softly. As if on cue, a gnat flew into Matthew’s face and he batted at it.

“Thanks,” Seth said quietly, watching him. Broad shoulders, angular jaw, long arms and legs. Tall, probably used to looking down, leaning over, bending his knees, ducking under cabinets. The funny thing is that Matthew actually resembled their mother, albeit a little ganglier–Seth looked like a shorter version of their dad. He wondered if they went outside together, if strangers would think they looked like brothers.

“So, look, I know this is really, uh, rude of me. I just–I was in a hurry, I didn’t–I kind of just left on impulse. But–I mean, I was hoping I could…stay here. For–I don’t know. Just for some time, I guess. Until–until I–”

“Until you get back on your feet?” Seth asked. Matthew grimaced.

“I didn’t want to say it like that,” he mumbled. Seth was suddenly thrown back to when he was eighteen, sleeping on the couch, the third wheel to an understanding lesbian couple while he figured out how to get a job, all of his worldly possessions packed into a duffel bag and his mom’s hand-me-down suitcase. Sarita and Mel have since moved out, but Seth remains, still chugging along. Matthew avoided his eyes.

“If that’s not–you don’t want to, or you can’t, I can totally–”

“You don’t have a backup plan.”

It wasn’t a question. Matthew shook his head.

“I figured. You, uh, you weren’t supposed to take after me, y’know.”

Seth smiled at Matthew in a way he hoped was comforting. Matthew’s mouth twitched again, but he continued to stare at the floor.

“Did you leave anything behind?” He asked quietly. Matthew shook his head.

“Nothing I need, I don’t think. I mean–I don’t really remember.”

“Well, that’s fine. We can figure it out. You’re cool to crash here for a while, but if you’re planning to stay, I’m charging rent,” Seth said matter-of-factly, only half joking.

“Thanks.”

Matthew looked up, still smiling with only the right side of his face. Seth wanted to hug him, to talk to him and assure him that everything was going to be okay, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to come up with the right words. So instead, he grabbed a bag of frozen peas from his fridge and held it out. Right now, they just needed to bring down the swelling.

After Matthew fell asleep on Seth’s couch, a bag of peas resting on his face, Seth took the opportunity to do some cleaning up and mentally rehearse the inevitable Conversation. While washing the dishes, he thought about natural and respectful segues. While scrubbing down the bathroom, he thought about how to fill in their nine-year gap of time. While clearing the coffee table to make room for Matthew’s sparse belongings, he thought about how to bring up the bruise on his face, the person who put it there. Every time, he came up empty, awkward, stilted. There was really no way to say it without somebody getting hurt.

Matthew woke up about an hour later, the bag of peas falling into his lap as he sat up on the couch. Seth was no closer to a painless solution, but his kitchen counters were getting a nice shine.

“Long trip?” Seth asked.

“Early flight. Only like two hours though,” Matthew yawned, blinking. He reached up to rub his left eye, before thinking better of it.

“Need something to eat?”

Matthew held up the bag of peas. Seth snorted, taking the bag from Matthew and placing it back in the freezer.

“Absolutely not, that’s not a meal. Besides, those are my designated Injury Peas.”

“What’s an injury pea?” Matthew asked, standing and stretching. Seth shrugged.

“Like literally, I only keep them in the freezer for injuries. I don’t eat them.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes.

“Buy an ice pack, dude.”

“Those aren’t as pliable as Injury Peas. They’re like a solid block. Imagine trying to fit that over your cheek. Pain in the ass, right?” Seth argued. Matthew seemed to consider it, tilting his head. “Look, let’s go out and grab you something. My treat.”

“You sure?” Matthew asked.

“It’s the least I can do. You can unpack when you get back.”

He avoided Seth’s eyes again, but nodded. After their treacherous journey down four flights of slightly moldy stairs and through the primitive re-creation of an apartment lobby, Seth and Matthew escaped into the fresh New York City air, in all its tangy, noisy, smoky, chaotic glory. Matthew seemed immediately overwhelmed by the energy, the way it swamped every sense, how everything around them demanded attention. Seth still wasn’t quite used to it, if he was being honest, though he pretended to be a local for Matthew’s sake.

“C’mon, I know a quiet place nearby.”

He wondered if he should have offered his hand, but Matthew naturally fell into step next to him. To Seth’s chagrin, Matthew’s longer legs made it so he had to slow down so Seth could lead the way. As they walked, he could feel it again—Matthew was trying to figure him out. A lot had changed in nine years in both directions, but this was a pretty low priority (on Seth’s list, at least).

“What’s—so what, uh, what do I—what’s your pronouns?” Matthew stammered. Seth almost rolled his eyes at the awkwardness, before remembering where Matthew was coming from—literally, bumfuck nowhere out in the Midwest. Any of the etiquette he’d picked up could only have come from the Internet, and even then only from whatever corners he was brave enough to explore knowing his searches were tracked. Seth remembered when he dared to look up the Trevor Project for a high school research paper and was locked out of the school computer and sent to the principal’s office. In short, maybe Matthew deserved a little grace.

“He, him.”

“Okay. That’s cool. So I’ll…I’ll use those. And your—do you have the same name?”

“No. I go by Seth.”

“Like. Rogen?”

Seth paused, frowning.

“Sorry.”

“No, yeah, you’re right, I just. I like to forget he exists.”

Matthew laughed. They reached the diner shortly, a greasy hole-in-the-wall place that could barely fit ten people in it, staff included. But nobody was there, save for the ever-cheerful line cook Tabitha. She waved at Seth as they entered, her already bright expression glowing like a swarm of fireflies, or a heavy-duty flashlight. It was impossible to hang out with her when he was hungover.

“Been a while! I didn’t get a chance to tell you right after the show but you were great!” She beamed. Seth chuckled.

“Yeah, sorry I haven’t been in. The usual for me, but give this guy a minute to order,” Seth jabbed his thumb at Matthew, who was staring up at the cluttered menu boards dangling on the wall.

“They have funnel cakes?” Matthew asked quietly, gaping. Seth nodded. “They have candy apples?”

“They got whatever’s up there, dude.”

“But that’s like. Fair food,” Matthew breathed, seemingly floored by the information that fair food could exist outside of fairs. Seth snorted.

“It’s actually not that hard to do funnel cakes and candy apples without the big fair carts! Sure, the kitchen isn’t customized to only make funnel cakes, but they still turn out decent!” Tabitha piped up, watching them. Matthew turned to face Seth, stars of hope in his eyes.

“Look, man, I’m not in charge of you, get a fuckin’ funnel cake if you want,” Seth laughed. Matthew nodded towards Tabitha, and she gave him a proud thumbs-up.

“On it!” She chirped. After a brief pause, Seth realized that while he wasn’t Matthew’s legal ward, he still probably had an obligation as his older brother to keep him somewhat on track, given his sudden lack of parental guidance.

“Hey, Tab. Can you make him some eggs, too?”

“For sure!” Tabitha called from the kitchen. Matthew chuckled nervously.

“Sorry. I got carried away,” he said quietly. Seth shook his head.

“You’re good. Just gotta make sure you get some protein or whatever the fuck in you, too. Eat healthy or something.”

“Thanks. That’s real responsible,” Matthew mumbled, and Seth didn’t realize it was meant to be a dig at him until they’d sat down at a small table. He took a deep breath. It was as good a time as any to air out their dirty laundry, all nine years of it.

“…alright. We gettin’ into it, then?”

Matthew shook his head, face red.

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I was just—I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, we probably need to. If we’re going to live together, even for a bit, we should figure all this out,” Seth argued. Matthew grimaced, staring down at the table. He didn’t seem to like looking up much. Must be his height, Seth thought dryly.

“There’s nothing to figure out. I’m—I don’t have any right to be angry.”

“Doesn’t really matter if you’ve got a right or not. ‘Cause you are angry, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” Matthew said sharply, as if offended that Seth even had to ask. He paused, taking a deep breath and calming down. “I mean, when you left, I was nine. I woke up one morning and you were gone. You left me a note and that’s it. You were just gone, forever. That–that’s gonna fuck up a nine-year-old.”

Seth with long hair in a flowery dress, smiling awkwardly for the Easter brunch photo, his father’s hand on his shoulder. He changed out of it as soon as the photo was taken, his father shaking his head.

“What happened to my beautiful baby girl? You used to love dresses.”

“My legs get cold,” Seth shrugged.

Seth stuffing all his shit into a bag at one in the morning, leaving the dresses to hang in the closet, breathing hard, tapping at his piggy bank with a hammer in the dark. Scribbling on scratch paper, words bleeding over each other, crowding together, but he made sure the address was clear as day. Leaving it in the hidey-hole that only he and Matthew knew about, the loose tile in the bathroom that, if positioned correctly, looked perfectly in place.

“And of course I understand why you left. I know you couldn’t stay there. And I also know you couldn’t take me with you. I get it. I think, back then, even if you’d asked, I probably wouldn’t have gone.”

Seth looking up the Trevor Project in sophomore year of high school to “write a research paper” for the one teacher that everyone else hated. The one teacher that complimented him when he chopped off all his hair, that dared to argue that human beings held equal value, that believed people were allowed to change. Seth in the principal’s office, avoiding the eyes of the one teacher who gave him a phone number, who told him, quietly, that maybe it would help him with what he was going through. But he’d forgotten the number. He’d needed to look it up again. The teacher told nobody the truth, and was dismissed shortly after.

Seth hopping on a Greyhound bus, a stranger’s phone number in his contact list, someone he met online in a forum he never should’ve been able to access, but he’d gotten sneakier after the Trevor Project Incident. He called it, panicked whispering, head against the window. A woman’s voice on the end of the line, soothing him. He’d have a place to stay when he got there. She and her girlfriend would meet him at the station.

“And nobody would have predicted it would get…worse. The world was like, making progress, right? And I thought we’d keep up with it.”

Seth kissing a girl behind the high school track. The rumor spreading like the flu in the fall, vitriol spewing from the lips of his classmates in the hallway, nausea on their faces as he passed. His father pretending he didn’t exist. That was his way of showing mercy—most parents probably would’ve killed their heretical children with their own two hands. Fixing their mistakes. Though mercy probably wasn’t the right word–it’s more like he was just waiting for Seth to die on his own, to sink into shame and self-hatred, to give up.

He didn’t.

“So I stayed. And as I got older, I thought I would be fine with staying. But I also can’t help but feel like I was…left behind. I know that’s unfair, but I was nine when you left, and it hurt. My s—my sibling leaving me behind out of nowhere, no intention of coming back, not for me, not for anything. I stayed, alone.”

Seth in New York, working pizza delivery to eke out a living, biking furiously through the city, writing standup comedy routines in his free time. Seth going to underground gay clubs, drag bars, everywhere Mel and Sarita felt like taking him. Seth drinking too much and then swearing it off and then drinking too much again. Seth at an open mic, utterly mediocre but having a blast. Seth starting T, slowly getting over his fear of needles, Sarita mimicking his newly crunchy voice. Seth trying to forget where he came from because he didn’t want to carry it with him anymore. Seth, alone.

“And I mean, you were the test case, the warning. But after nine years, I…forgot. And I thought—like I said, I thought things had gotten better. Y’know, gay marriage and stuff. But I mean, he never brought you up. He got rid of all your pictures. He made me play soccer, run cross country, took me out hunting. And honestly, I didn’t, like, have a problem with it. Because I didn’t get it–like, why he was doing it. It had been nine years since I’d seen you, and I forgot why. Why you left.”

Matthew paused, reaching up to touch the bruise on his cheek. He snorted derisively, shaking his head.

“That’s why I got carried away.”

Matthew trying out for the basketball team, not making it but deciding to be a manager because the captain begged him and he couldn’t refuse. The captain looking after him more than the other way around–more like looking up at him. Oliver was shorter than he was, but he could jump like there were trampolines attached to his worn-out thrift store tennis shoes. Matthew signing up for Intro to Comp Sci because Oliver said he was taking it next semester, Oliver staying after school to help him with his coding assignments. The dusty library in the winter, spiders skittering along bookshelves, broken heater, Oliver and Matthew squished together, sharing a chair, breath visible in pale streams through the air, saying nothing but understanding everything.

Matthew in his room on a summer night, recently graduated, listless, Oliver knocking at his window like he’d seen so many times in romantic comedies, dancing lightly on his carpeted floor, his father hearing noise and opening the door, caught red-handed because good boys don’t dance like they do, holding hands, standing close. Oliver escorted out silently, because Matthew’s dad owned a gun but he wasn’t going to use it, not on the star of the East Meridian high school basketball team. Matthew taking a blow to the face so fast he didn’t see it coming, still silent, stumbling but staring down at his father, his father staring up at him, saying nothing but understanding everything. His father had no children. There would be no more photos on the wall.

Matthew stuffing all his shit into a bag at one in the morning, grabbing the stash of bills he kept hidden under his bookshelf, finding the letter Seth had written to him almost a decade ago stashed in his desk drawer, that he’d kept out of some bitter sentimentality. Matthew pausing, staring at the letter, transfixed by a memory of someone taller than him and kinder than his father. Matthew praying to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in and booking a flight to New York.

When Matthew spoke, it was dry, matter-of-fact, at most maybe a little frustrated. Like he’d already done all of his grieving on that two-hour flight.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. And I know that. I’m just…I wish it hadn’t ended up like this. I wish we hadn’t ended up like this.”

“What are the odds, right?” Seth said quietly. He reached out and held Matthew’s hand on top of the table.

“I know…I haven’t been there for you. And I regret it. Even if I couldn’t come back, I should’ve kept in touch. I should have tried, at least. I didn’t. But I promise, I’m here now. Whatever you need, I’ll be here to help you, and we’ll figure it out together. I won’t leave you alone again. You’re gonna be fine. We’re both gonna be fine.”

Matthew managed a weak grin. Seth ruffled his hair, the same way he used to nine years ago, though now he had to reach up instead of down.

“Now let’s get some fuckin’ food in ya, okay?”

Almost as if on cue, Tabitha scurried out of the kitchen holding their plates. She silently set them down on the table before darting back to the kitchen. Seth narrowed his eyes.

“Tab.”

She peeked her head out over the counter, saying nothing.

“How long have you been waiting with the food?”

“…it seemed like you guys were having an important conversation and I didn’t want to interrupt. Don’t worry, I kept everything on the griddle so it’s still warm!”

Seth snorted. Matthew looked mortified.

“I guess that’s my bad for getting into it right after we ordered,” Seth shrugged, watching Matthew silently devour his plate of eggs and funnel cake. It was funny—you couldn’t tell from his demeanor that he was hungry, but the food was rapidly disappearing in front of Seth’s eyes. Thankfully, the rest of the meal went smoothly, just because they were both too busy eating to talk. He knew a confessional conversation and some diner food didn’t even begin to make up for the nine years of absence, of distance, of forgetting. But it was a start, maybe. A restart? A reunion, or a revival of something that had been not-quite-dead, but long asleep.

Their eyes met briefly, and Seth realized the swelling had gone down.

Eli Holloway is a junior majoring in Creative Writing, and is also minoring in 2D Studies and Theater, if that tells you anything about them. When not occupied with writing one thing or another, they can be found scootering through campus with reckless abandon or trying to make themselves sound more interesting in author biographies.