Chapter Text
Tommy used to complain about how Simon Riley would flip-flop. Some nights, he was kind and patient and soft—a good older brother. Other nights, he was suddenly cold, uncaring if Tommy had a bloody nose or if their father was mad at him.
Tommy called him “Riley” when he was like that—their father’s last name, their last name—because in those moments, his older brother was the image of their father. Shoving Tommy aside for being in his way. Shoving him into the wall if he was irritating. Anger that could snap into a punch if Tommy pushed him. He didn’t care if their mother had just come home from a 12-hour shift, not relinquishing his spot on the sofa. Not caring as she bandaged herself in the washroom after their father’s anger ran its course.
It was a stark contrast to the other person Simon Riley could be—helping Tommy with homework, telling his bullies to fuck off, gently wrapping Tommy’s split knuckles after a fight. Getting up to carry in the groceries for their mother, setting up the sofa for her to sit on after a long day, bringing her food so she didn’t have to get up.
Tommy never understood why his brother flip-flopped like that, but he learned to read it in the slope of Simon’s shoulders—whether it was Simon or “Riley” today. He knew when to stay out from underfoot, and when he could crawl into the other’s bed after a nightmare or when his stomach cramped, empty because the cupboards were bare.
Sometimes, sometimes Simon seemed so young. Tommy sat crouched by the bedroom door, knees pulled to his chest, fingers curled around a hole in the knee of his jeans. He could still hear the echo of fists hitting flesh from minutes ago. The slam of the door when their father finally left.
And now, Simon hadn’t moved.
He was on the floor, back against the dresser, shoulders hunched like something had broken and hadn’t been put back right.
Tommy watched. He knew not to get too close, not yet.
Simon’s arms were wrapped around his middle, his knuckles scraped raw. A bruise was blooming on his jaw, but he didn’t seem to notice it.
“Is he gone?” Simon whispered. His voice was smaller. Higher. He rocked slightly, pressing himself tighter to the dresser like he could melt into it. “I was quiet. I tried.”
Tommy's heart stuttered.
This version of his brother didn’t show up often, and when he did, Tommy never knew what to do with the mix of fear and protectiveness it stirred in him.
“Yeah,” Tommy said softly, moving forward on hands and knees. “He’s gone.”
Simon blinked. His lip trembled. “You sure?”
Tommy nodded, voice dropping to a hush. “I’m sure. You’re safe now, okay?”
He reached out slowly, gently, like approaching a wounded animal.
Simon didn’t flinch from his touch. He leaned in instead—pressed his head to Tommy’s chest and began to cry.
Big, messy sobs. Snot and hiccups.
Tommy held him tight, running a hand over the back of his head. “Shhh. It’s okay, Simmy. You’re okay.”
That name always seemed to soothe him. Whoever this was—this little version hiding behind Simon’s bruised skin—he liked being called Simmy.
And eventually, the crying slowed. The hiccups faded.
Simon went quiet. Breathing evened out.
Then, too fast, he stiffened. His body jerked, and Riley pulled away sharply, blinking. His mouth twisted into a scowl.
“The fuck are you doing?” he snapped, shoving Tommy hard enough to knock him backward. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, huh? You think I’m a baby or something?”
Tommy scrambled back, hands up. “No—no, I—”
“Get the fuck outta here.” Riley’s voice, now. Solid. Cold. “Don’t fucking touch me again.”
Tommy didn’t argue. He just backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he could.
He pressed his back to the wall outside, biting his lip. He could never fucking understand his brother.
The other rare one was when his brother stood up.
Some days, their father would get angry—at Tommy, or their mother—and his brother would get between them. It was so rare. But it was the same part of his brother that punched bullies, taught Tommy to throw a proper punch, and once crossed the street to threaten a man who’d been harassing a call girl.
He’d get protective, and didn’t care if he lost the fight.
Sometimes, later, Tommy would try to thank him—when he was Simon—and Simon would squint at him, confused, saying he’d never be stupid enough to piss off their father. What was Tommy talking about? He wouldn’t get in a fight like that with their dad. He’d lose.
And he did.
He never seemed to remember. But Tommy memorized the protective glint that sometimes rose in his brother’s eyes.
It meant he was safe.
Also that he should move—because Riley tended to be around right after.
Tommy knew it wasn't normal, when he described his brother to his friends once. They were sitting in Tommy’s bedroom, surrounded by half-finished poster boards and empty chip bags. Lucas was cross-legged on the floor, chewing the end of a marker.
“I don’t get this part,” Lucas muttered. “Didn’t your brother help with the water cycle diagram last time?”
Tommy didn’t look up. “Yeah. But that was Simon.”
Lucas blinked. “Isn’t that your brother’s name?”
Tommy paused. “Sometimes.”
“…Sometimes?”
“That’s not Simon right now,” Tommy said quietly, glancing at the closed door down the hall. “That’s Riley.”
Lucas frowned. “But Riley’s your last name, right?”
“No. I mean—yeah. But when he’s like that, he’s Riley. You don’t wanna ask Riley for help.”
Lucas looked genuinely confused now. “But he was cool last time. He even drove us to the corner store and let us pick candy.”
“That was Simon,” Tommy said again, more firmly. His voice dropped lower. “Riley’s the one who doesn’t like being bothered. We should go. He gets mad real fast.”
Lucas opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He followed Tommy’s eyes to the hallway.
There was a tension in the air—something sharp, like glass on the verge of shattering.
“Okay,” Lucas said, slowly getting up. “Yeah. Let’s… come back later.”
Tommy nodded, already gathering his books.
As they left, he didn’t look back at the door.