He had expected more yelling. He had found the most comfortable way to lean against the wall for a long session of senseless plus loud. He was used to that.

He was not certain whether fear of the unknown or dread of the usual weighed heavier.

“Language, Uriel,” he chastised out of habit, then glanced away with a guilty look.

Had he contributed to this pipedream? Pushed Uriel so far with his expectations that he fled afar to retreat into some fictional bosom? Was he seeing ladies of the night? Oh God. Did he fall in love with some strumpet like Zechariah had at his age? Was this a family curse their father neglected to tell them about?

God.

When Uriel mentioned being of like mind, Zechariah drew a breath through his nose … then coughed and cleared his throat, waving smoke from his face. The time to say something was now. The time to keep his brother from making the same mistakes was now, and he just needed to find the right words that did not implicate too much –

and with that thought, Uriel launched into a tale of love.

“Uriel,” he said, turning to him with a pained look. “I have no doubt she is a lovely woman. A woman who makes you feel alive – as if there might be something more to life than smog and work and disappointment. And there is! I wish I had not been so blind to not see it before. But listen to me, Uriel.” 

He beckoned him to listen, and then the words caught in his throat. He held up his hand to try and halt him long enough to grit it out.

“There are other men.” Never had he looked so bitter to speak – not even when their nasty grandmother harped on how much they resembled their ‘goyish’ father. “There are always other men.”