"Those must have all been important to me once. What I am now grew from that. A former self is a fool, an insufferable ass, but he's still human, you'd no more turn him out than you'd turn out any kind of cripple, would you?"

Sleeplessness he considered an advantage and not an ailment. Vanya did not like sleep, and he needed far less than most people did. Those dark quiet hours of late night fading into early morning he considered the finest moments of each day, and he did not want to lose them. They were his time. He liked to look out his window and see an empty street; the sight was comforting, and from the other rooms of the apartment came no sound but silence; his brothers, lacking his beneficent insomnia, were asleep.

His brothers. He felt a sense of contentment emanating from their rooms--but it was his contentment, not theirs. It had been his idea to reunite them once they'd all come of age, when Mitya and Pasha were free of the orphanage and he and Alyosha were at last emancipated from their foster parents, the Davises. All the time they'd been separated, he had suffered for it, wondering how his lost brothers were faring, worrying about them--Pasha and Mitya, he'd known, had been the two least able to take care of themselves. He'd fretted over who would take care of them in the orphanage. It had been unfair that the four of them had been been split up. Though they were not all full brothers by blood, they had been raised together, shared a biological father; they were family. Yet when their father had died, social services had divided them as though it were nothing, setting the two dark brothers to one side and the two fair brothers to the other side, as though brothers were like laundry, to be separated by color.

Mitya and Pasha had been irreparably altered by their time in the orphanage, without Vanya to look after them. He had always looked after them before, when they'd been a family; Vanya was not the eldest, but he acted it, he knew. Their father, even when he had been alive, had been a poor parent when he'd been a parent at all, and Vanya had taken it upon himself to care for his brothers, to make sure they were fed and clothed and protected. Yet two of his brothers had been taken from him, in spite of his protests. Mitya and Pasha rarely spoke of those days and what had happened there, but something had grown up between them in that time: a tall, black flower giving off the scent of resentfulness.

At least he'd been kept together with Alyosha. That was something. His little brother. His best friend. He only wished--sometimes he wished they'd been given into the care of different people. People, he called them, because the Davises hadn't been parents, in his estimation. He could still picture them very well: the tall Mr. Davis with his almost abnormally straight posture, his neatly trimmed mustache, his short, sandy hair and ruddy complexion, his severe blue eyes; the shorter Mrs. Davis with her dark hair and eyes, her unexpectedly strong arms.

Sitting at his desk, gazing out the window at the gray, quiet city street as the sun came up and began to light the world with its first pale light, Vanya gave a strange smile--strange for a smile, as there was no pleasure in it, no emotion of any kind. His pale eyes were blank, his expression drawn inward, reflecting, remembering.

"Vanya, do you believe in God?" Alyosha's voice was soft in his ear, Alyosha's body a warmth beside him. They shared a room, and his younger brother had slipped into bed with him as he so often did, late at night, in secret. Mr. and Mrs. Davis wouldn't have liked it.

The question had woken him from the light doze Alyosha's nearness had brought him up into, out of a true, deep sleep. It took him a moment to reply, his voice a whisper, because it was the kind of thing it was unwise to say in the house, although he was sure the Davises couldn't be listening now. "No, I don't, Lyosha."

Vanya couldn't see his face clearly in the dark, but he knew from the tone of Alyosha's voice that his eyes must be wide. "Why not?"

"Because of what He's done to us." Then, realizing what an absurd statement that was--but he was still sleepy, after all--he amended it. "Because God's a logical fallacy."

"Is He?"

"He's just made up." He wasn't awake enough yet to give a more coherent answer than that. "He's a story people tell themselves to feel better. They don't want to think they're alone."

"Oh, I see." Alyosha's tone gave no sign as to whether he agreed with Vanya. "I was wondering what you thought."

"And what do you think?" Vanya reached out in the dark to ruffle his younger brother's hair, soft and fine beneath his fingers.

"I don't know. I used to believe in God, but the way they act make me think he can't be real."

They, Vanya knew, meant the Davises. They were hard on Alyosha, harder even than they were on Vanya himself. Because Alyosha was different. He was slender, his features delicate, more beautiful than handsome. He looked like his mother. That all would have been forgiven, Vanya was sure, but for the fact of his thoughts. They weren't the usual thoughts of a boy his age--he acted at once much older and much younger than he was. Though he was already a teenager, there was a childlike air to him, an unshakable innocence, yet he concerned himself with subjects that were not usually a child's concern: philosophy, art, religion. He had little interest in more usual things for a boy his age: sports, cars, girls, games. What was more, he hadn't the ability to hide his differences, no skill at dissembling. He was always himself, always honest, even when honesty wasn't what was needed. The Davises didn't want honesty. They wanted obedience. "Don't let them change how you think," said Vanya quickly. "They don't have anything to do with God."

Vanya felt rather than saw Alyosha nod, his head moving on the pillow. Changing the subject, Alyosha asked, "What do you think Mitya and Pasha are doing now?"

He asked this question often, as if asking for a bedtime story and Vanya, as always, felt a pang upon hearing it. "Probably they're fast asleep. Although Mitya always did like to stay up late. Maybe he's keeping Pasha awake right now."

"Like I am with you."

Vanya laughed, ruffling his brother's hair again. "Exactly."

"I miss them. Do you think we'll ever see them again?"

"Yes, we will. I promise we will. No one can stop us."

He'd kept his promise to Alyosha. For good or ill he had kept it. A family should stay together, in his opinion, even if it should hurt to do so. Vanya turned away from the window, taking in the features of his bedroom, beginning to emerge from the gloom of night as the sun rose. It was a well appointed apartment. For the most part, he'd seen to the furnishings himself. He'd done everything for the family: he'd gathered them together and kept them together. He'd organized them into a band, kept them practicing, tried to get them exposure. Their success had been a happy accident, but it wouldn't have happened if not for his work.

He wondered why that fact didn't bring him any satisfaction. He'd done what he set out to do. This very moment, his three brothers were asleep in their beds, so close to him. He knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. But where am I? he asked himself, smiling again, this time wryly, at himself. What am I doing? He didn't know the answers to those questions, except in the literal sense, which was meaningless: sitting in his bedroom and thinking too much. He sighed to himself, rising to his feet, glancing towards the window again, through which he saw a few pedestrians, dawn-struck, making their weary way down the sidewalks. It was a cold morning, and the walkers all seemed to be wearing dark coats, which made the day seem more gray.

Vanya knew he wanted more, but he wasn't sure of what he wanted. He had tried so hard to be the responsible one, keeping the books, dealing with their manager, their record company, keeping Mitya's expenditures and various bad habits under control, keeping Pasha sane, and looking out for Alyosha, who could still be innocent about certain things. He'd done what he had to. He didn't know what else to do. What was he, besides the responsible one? Nothing, he supposed. Or perhaps nothing he wanted to face, which was very nearly the same thing. Very nearly, but not quite.

He was awakened by Alyosha screaming. He'd gone back to his own bed during the night, so the screams came from across the room instead of beside him, but they were no less close to his heart for all that. He opened his eyes, sat upright, fully awake in a moment's time, but by then, the screams had turned to sobs, and he was greeted by the sight of Alyosha sitting in bed weeping, covering his face with his hands. Mr. Davis was standing over him with a large bowl in his hand. "You filthy thing. Maybe now you'll learn to behave yourself."

Alyosha didn't say anything, continuing to sob into his hands.

"Stop that," said Mr. Davis.

Alyosha didn't stop, though he made a visible effort, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself.

Coolly setting his bowl down on the edge of the bed, Mr. Davis reached forward, grabbed Alyosha's wrists, and pulled his hands away from his face. With his free hand, he slapped the boy's face. "Stop it, Alex." The Davises called them Alex and Ivan, disapproving of the diminutive versions of their names they had always called each other by, as that's what their father (and their mother, before she had died) had called them when they'd still lived in Russia.

Alyosha shed no more tears, simply stared up at Mr. Davis, his expression a mixture of fear and confusion. No anger, no resentment. Mr. Davis let his wrists go, giving a grim smile of approval. A smile void of kindness. "No sense crying, Alex," he said. "You'll have to deal with that until you learn to behave."

That, Vanya knew, was a bowlful of ice water thrown on him, because he'd had an erection. It didn't happen every morning, but Mr. Davis checked now and again. He had never done it to Vanya, only Alyosha. Vanya knew why. They'd told him. Mr. and Mrs. Davis had taken him aside one day to have a "talk" with him.

"We think you're old enough to hear about these things, Ivan," Mrs. Davis had said with a smile, patting the cushion beside her on the couch. It was a sign for him to sit, so he sat next to her. Mr. Davis remained standing in the middle of the room.

"I know this won't be pleasant for you to hear, but we're fairly certain your brother has homosexual tendencies," he said, not a man to mince words. "As Christians, it's our duty to help rid him of these tendencies. We might have to be hard on him, but I'm sure you'll understand it's for his own good."

Vanya stared at him. He didn't know what to say.

"I know you might find it hard to believe something so unpleasant about your brother, but we've encountered it before, and we know the signs." He gave one of his thin smiles. "It was God that delivered you two into our hands, I know. And with your help, we can save him."

"My help?"

"Talk to him. If he shows any signs, does anything that seems unusual, talk to him about it. Be stern with him, if you must, tell him such things are wrong. Don't allow him to fall into thoughts of wickedness. He's still young, so there may still be time to cure him of his illness."

Gazing up at Mr. Davis, conscious of Mrs. Davis smiling next to him, Vanya felt a slow anger beginning to rise inside him. There wasn't anything wrong with Alyosha. He was a good boy. He always had been. He didn't need anyone to be hard on him. He was wonderful, just as he was. Watching Mr. Davis, inwardly burning, he thought to himself, I hate you. I hate you more than anyone else. I wish you were dead. And then, finally, with unmatched vehemence, the unspoken words shivering up his spine and making his stomach churn, I want to kill you. But he kept his anger inside him. All he said was, "Yes, sir."

Now, sitting in his own bed, watching Alyosha shiver because of the water that had been poured over him, his smooth face tearstained, he glanced at Mr. Davis, whose back was to him and thought as hard as he could, I'll kill you. His younger brother hadn't done anything wrong. He'd only been sleeping. He couldn't help what his body had done while he was asleep. Even if he'd been dreaming about another boy, Vanya didn't care. What did it matter? There was no God, so there was no one to say what was wrong and what was right. They'd made it all up, he was sure of it; they'd made it up to suit themselves, to support their own petty-mindedness, their prejudices. "I hate you," he said, this time aloud, though under his breath.

Mr. Davis turned towards him. Vanya could tell from his expression, which was simply curious, that he hadn't actually heard. "What was that, Ivan?"

He should have said what he was thinking. He should have told the man to leave Alyosha alone, to stop hurting him. But what good would it do? It would only get them both in trouble, and then what would happen? Maybe they'd be sent to orphanages or to different foster homes. Maybe they'd be split up. He couldn't let that happen. As bad as things were now, they were together. That was the most important thing. To stay with his brother. He'd have run away with Alyosha, but there was nowhere they could go. "Nothing, sir."

When Mr. Davis had gone, Alyosha came to sit beside Vanya on his bed. Vanya put an arm around him. "I didn't mean to do it," Alyosha said.

"I know you didn't." It wasn't Alyosha's fault. Yet he found himself wishing Alyosha could pretend, at least a little, could pretend to be someone else, if only when the Davises were present; they wouldn't be too difficult to deceive. They might be cruel, but they were stupid. If Alyosha did that, they might leave him alone. But Alyosha, he knew, wasn't capable of it. He felt a surge of frustration with the other boy. It was such a small thing to ask of him. Yet he didn't bother asking, knowing Alyosha wouldn't even understand what he meant by it; it would only confuse him, make him feel like he was doing something wrong after all. If only he acted less like a child, they would probably leave him alone. They didn't bother Vanya, and all he had to do was pretend...

In his bedroom, Vanya walked across the slowly brightening room to his door. He had been angry with Alyosha. Not so much as he had been with the Davises, but the fact remained. He'd been a fool to think that. He'd thought Alyosha weak, but in the end, Alyosha had been stronger. He had remained himself in the face of their brutality: a passive defiance, but a defiance nonetheless. He, Vanya had been the one deserving of scorn. He'd said nothing. He'd let them do it. He'd failed to protect his brother as he should. It had gone on and on; Alyosha hadn't responded to their "treatment" because he hadn't been aware of what he was doing. He'd woken in the morning doused in cold water at least twice a week. At last, he'd stopped crying when it happened, but that hadn't made things better, because he was still himself. Things had gotten worse, not better, as Alyosha had grown older.

Vanya couldn't help despising himself a little, the self he'd been. He thought of that man. lifting his brother's covers to check for an erection. Disgusting. Mr. Davis had been the pervert, not Alyosha. He would never make the mistake of blaming one of his brothers again for harm that was done to them. His family was his responsibility. He had been their protector since Father had died; though he hadn't always protected them as well as he should have, though he'd failed sometimes, he'd protected them as much as he'd been able at the time. His former self had been less able than he was now. Vanya turned the knob of his door, opened it.

"Vanya?"

"Yes, Alyosha?" He was never surprised when he was awakened like this, his brother's light weight on the mattress beside him, his brother's warmth, the soft voice, the breath on his ear.

"I can't sleep."

At that time, it had been Alyosha who had insomnia. He'd become afraid of falling asleep, never knowing when he'd be woken up by the shock of cold and ice and Mr. Davis' shaming words. Vanya reached out, his hand passing over his brother's soft hair. He smiled, though a smile was pointless in the dark. "I'll stay up with you."

"Vanya."

"Yes?"

Alyosha was silent. It was a suggestive silence, as if there was something he wanted to say, but he was hesitant to say it.

"What is it? You can say anything to me, Lyosha, you know that."

Alyosha never held it against him, the fact that he didn't stand up to Mr. Davis. He never said anything about it, nor seemed to trust him any less for it. He trusted Vanya now. "Do you think I am--what Mr. Davis says I am?"

Vanya frowned. He felt himself go cold. Though Mr. Davis had said some cruel things to Alyosha in his hearing, there had never been anything specific. To his knowledge, it had only been to him that the Davises had said what they had about Alyosha's homosexual tendencies. "What did he call you?"

There was another hesitation from Alyosha, but this time he needed no added prompting. "A faggot," he said.

"Do you know what that is?" Vanya asked him. Under ordinary circumstances, in an ordinary home, Alyosha would probably have known what that word meant, from having heard it at school, but the Davises had had them taken out of school, claiming the other children and the humanist teachers had a negative influence on the boys. They were home schooled. The only real contact they had with boys and girls their own age was at church and in Bible study classes. There was no danger of them encountering other children when playing outside; the Davises house was far out of town, isolated. Neither of them had any friend save the other.

"No," said Alyosha.

"It's nothing bad," said Vanya, with vehemence. "It just means a boy who likes another boy." He would think the opposite of whatever they thought. No matter what it was they thought.

"Then why is he so mad at me?"

"He doesn't like it, that's all. There's no good reason."

Alyosha was quiet for a few moments, considering this. Then he asked, "What do you mean, a boy who likes another boy? I like you."

"That's different. It's a boy who likes another boy romantically. Or sexually."

"Sex is bad," said Alyosha, automatically.

"No, it isn't. You shouldn't listen to anything they say, you know that."

"Yes, I know." Alyosha didn't seem too certain.

"Look--you know how he does that to you just because you're hard in the morning?"

Alyosha was silent, this time from embarrassment, Vanya knew. At last, he murmured, "Yes."

"Well, it happens to me, too. All the time. It happens to most men. It's not wrong--that's just something else they made up. So don't listen to them."

"All right, Vanya. I won't."

Vanya began to stroke his brother's hair again. He could hear the unshed tears in Alyosha's voice, wanted to comfort him. "He shouldn't have called you that."

"Vanya--"

His name sounded strange, spoken like that, almost as though it was caught in Alyosha's throat. "What is it?"

"I--I think he's right. Mr. Davis, I mean."

For a minute, or was it two minutes--or three?--Vanya didn't know what to say. He had never thought about whether the Davises were right, had only been outraged by the way they treated Alyosha. He could feel his fingers curl in Alyosha's hair; he grasped a lock of it, soft as silk in his hand, though he didn't know why. Finally, he realized he had to say something, or Alyosha would think he was upset by what he said. "That's fine. That's fine with me. I still love you."

"You do?" There was relief rather than doubt in Alyosha's voice. Alyosha trusted him.

"I love you more than anything." He knew the words were true once he'd said them. "I would die for you." He knew the words sounded foolish, like something out of a movie, but it didn't stop him from saying them.

"I love you too, Vanya."

Not for the first time, Vanya felt himself reacting in just the way Mr. Davis so tormented Alyosha for, aroused by his brother's closeness, the feel of his hair. As always when it happened, he felt a sharp stab of guilt; sex might not be wrong, but this was wrong. This time, however, unlike all those other times, he found himself sliding his arms around his brother's waist, in spite of the guilt that was knotting his stomach. Alyosha was already close; Vanya held him closer. He kissed his brother's forehead, kissed his brother's cheeks, slid his hands over the other boy's back, caressing him from his shoulders to his waist. Alyosha lay very still next to him, saying nothing, though Vanya could hear and feel how fast he was breathing.

He didn't want to frighten Alyosha. He didn't want to hurt him. What was he doing? He froze, his hands stilling on Alyosha's back. "I'm sorry. Should I--should I stop?" he asked.

For a span of time, there was no sound in the room but the quickness of Alyosha's breath. "You don't have to," he said finally.

It was wrong, Vanya knew, but in that moment, he was beyond caring about what was wrong or right. Wrong and right were just some things someone had made up, long ago. They didn't mean anything. The were logical fallacies, like God. He kissed Alyosha's mouth, gently. He'd never kissed anyone before. He'd never done anything like this. Who would he have done it with? Only Alyosha. Sweet, lovely Alyosha. "I love you so much," he breathed, speaking as if he was overcome by fever, which he might have been, he felt so warm. Without any clear idea of what he was doing, he started to move his hips against Alyosha's, knowing only that he felt desire and wanted pressure there, movement. It felt so good. He wanted to keep doing it. He never wanted to stop.

Yet it wasn't long before he was overcome by a surge of warmth and pleasure that unknotted all the guilt in his belly. He clutched at Alyosha, pressing hard against him, his hips shaking, biting at his lip to stop the moan he felt forming in his throat. It wasn't wrong. It was fine. They couldn't tell him what was wrong. He let Alyosha go for the moment, rolling over onto his back, trying to catch his breath. He stared up at the dark ceiling. With one hand, he sought out Alyosha's hand, held it tight. "Are you angry with me?"

"No, I'm not angry," said Alyosha, squeezing his hand.

As he stepped out into the hallway, Vanya found himself despising that self just as much as the one that had felt frustration with Alyosha. Just a horny teenage boy doing what had felt good, for all his rationalizations about wrong and right, his spur of the moment amoral philosophy. What had Alyosha felt about it? He still wasn't sure. Their time at the Davis house, though it had not managed to truly change what Alyosha was, had certainly made what he was a more private affair. He was more introverted than he had been as a child, but Vanya supposed that was true of himself as well.

It was interesting, how the two brothers who had gone to the orphanage had turned out so differently. Mitya and Pasha were both so much more outwardly emotional, though the emotions they displayed were often unpleasant ones. Vanya wondered how they would have fared with the Davises, and decided they had probably been better off where they had been, although there were things he still didn't know about their lives at the orphanage. He and Alyosha rarely spoke about what had happened to them; Mitya and Pasha shared a similar silence. In that, all four brothers were the same.

Vanya walked down the hall to a certain door and knocked on it, softly but not too soft, so that the person inside the room could hear it, but no one asleep in one of the other rooms would be disturbed. He waited until he heard a muffled voice from inside. "Yes? I'm awake."

He opened the door, closing it after himself as he stepped inside. "Alyosha? It's me."

"Good morning." Alyosha's curtains were closed, and his room was dark, no sign of the sun rising outside. He laughed. "That is, I assume it's morning?"

"It's morning," Vanya agreed lightly, laughing himself. "Did I wake you?" The question was more a formality than anything else.

Alyosha did not treat it as such, after a pause replying, "Not really."

Vanya laughed again, fondly. "You don't have to lie to be polite, silly ass--I'm sorry I woke you. I couldn't sleep."

There was movement from Alyosha's bed. He was sitting up. "I'll stay up with you. You can turn on the light, if you want."

"No," said Vanya. "Let's leave it off." He crossed the room and slipped into his brother's bed. It was warm. His own bed, he knew, was cold from a night unslept in. "I like the dark."

"Are you all right?" Alyosha asked, perhaps struck by something in Vanya's voice.

"I'm fine. Just the usual sleeplessness, you know."

"Yes, I know." A pause. "Have you ever thought of seeing a doctor?"

"Oh, no. No, I don't need as much sleep as ordinary people, you know that."

"Yes, of course." Alyosha's tone was gently teasing. "Our Vanya is not ordinary people."

Vanya leaned towards Alyosha, hesitantly, as if unsure of whether he would move away. Alyosha did not move away, and Vanya, very carefully, as though his brother was made of glass, slid his arms around him. "You're always so warm," he said.

"Are you cold, Vanya?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm cold." Vanya was still, he thought, the same person he had always been. The same person who had blamed his brother, if only a little bit, who had wanted his brother. Who had done other things as well, things that were neither right nor wrong, for those were merely concepts someone had made up once, long ago.

"We can't have that, can we?" Alyosha reached up to ruffle his brother's hair.

It was what had happened. There was no changing it. It had already happened.

"Vanya," he remembered his brother saying in a voice so faint he later was to wonder whether he'd heard it in a nightmare, "something happened."

Vanya, something happened. He would never stop hearing those words. He heard them when he tried to go to sleep. It was because he'd been asleep that it had happened. He had been fast asleep, and Alyosha had woken up early, had gone outside to look at the flowers growing in the yard. Vanya, something happened.

Mrs. Davis had been gone, visiting her sister in town. No one had been there to see either of the things that had happened that day. There was an accident. That was what he'd told the police. It had been an accident. Mr. Davis had fallen. The police had been dubious, Mrs. Davis had been hysterical, Alyosha mute, but in the end, Vanya's story was accepted. There was no conflicting evidence.