“You’re a fucking—fucking gay basher, then?” Tristan’s voice was strained.

“Fuck you! Fuck you to hell, Trist! Fuck you, no!” Byron shouted, his voice a snarl. “You don’t get to play that card when I have backed you up! I have gotten in fights for you because they kept saying shit! Gaylord, gaylord, gaylord, back in seventh and eighth! Gaylord, gaylord fucking faggot gaylord!’

“Shut up!”

“Sucks to hear, doesn’t it!? But you know I was shutting them up, back then! I took the harder path so you’d have it easier and it doesn’t matter! You don’t care! It never counted for anything and you even used it against me! You were the one who called me a pussy after I told them to shut it on the ‘sissy’ shit! You just take! You have to win, you make this a competition! Except when I win, if you can call it that, I don’t get anything except normal, and when I lose I lose people that I care about!”

He pushed Tristan onto his back, and in the moment Tristan put his hand back to push himself to a standing position, Byron moved forward, pinning the arm under one knee.

Both of his free hands fought with Tristan’s free one. He hit and deflected.

“I. Lose! Katie laughs at me! Rob and Jem call me weak! Mama and Papa talk to you more than they talk to me!”

“Stop!”

“You first! Back the fuck off! Stop taking!”

“I’m not taking!”

“You are! Why can’t you listen? Stop talking and listen to me for the first time in your shallow, selfish life!”

“It’s not on purpose, you moron! It’s life! You’re quiet, I’m loud! You’re lazy, I’m actually out there talking to people! So they listen to me more! Nature and school fucking politics and fucking logic favor those who do and say stuff! Now stop fucking hitting me or I’m going to hit you back!”

“I’m saying give me a chance,” Byron said. The volume was going out of his voice as the emotion shifted to something else. “You don’t have to speak up, you don’t have to butt in!”

“Give yourself a chance!”

“Shut up and listen!” Byron couldn’t get anywhere with the arm, but Tristan was lifting up his head. With a shove, Tristan’s head cracked against the floor in the basement. Seizing the opportunity, Byron gripped his brother around the throat, still kneeling on one of his arms.

Tristan’s reply was choked, a non-word. His one free hand groped, while Byron hunched over, denying him anything he could get much of a grip on.

“Shut up for one fucking minute,” Byron said, calmer than he’d been, though his voice was warped by the effort.

Tristan made a longer, strained sound, trying to get a word out and failing.