Mitya did not speak a word, his bladder forgotten. He simply stared in a kind of amazement, as though this were not his brother, as though they did not share an apartment and see each other on a regular basis.

"Excuse me," said Pasha stiffly and made to walk past him, out of the bathroom and into the hall beyond. Mitya could not resist. Against his will, it seemed to him, his arm snaked out to block Pasha's passage. He planted his hand firmly on the wall, forming a barrier.

Pasha drew up short. He stared at Mitya's arm in a quiet kind of horror. He spoke again, somewhat less harshly, a trace of entreaty in the words. "May I pass?"

Mitya smiled. Inwardly, he told himself, Just let him go, but he could not seem to translate his own inner request into outward action. "Where are you going in such a hurry? Can't you stay and talk to your brother?"

"This is the bathroom." Pasha's voice was flat. He still scowled. "I'm not accustomed to stopping and chatting here. It's hardly the place."

Mitya studied Pasha's shoulder-length, unbrushed dark brown hair, flecked with one or two tiny white flakes of dandruff, Pasha's sallow skin stretched tightly over a highly pronounced skeleton; Mitya imagined he could count all of Pasha's bones with his eyes, if he had the time. "Are you avoiding me?"

Pasha noticed Mitya's scrutiny and looked away. "I just want to go."

Mitya did not know why it was Pasha's presence did this to him. He felt suddenly wild, cruel, powerful, capable of anything-- was it a kind of madness? "That's no way to talk to me, is it?"

"I can talk to you however I want," Pasha growled.

With a sudden movement, Mitya pushed Pasha up against the bathroom's tile wall. "No, you can't, Pavlusha, darling." Pasha shuddered in revulsion, turning his head away, but he did not resist, did not attempt to escape. "Try to be a little nicer to your big brother."

"All right," said Pasha, and his voice was no longer harsh at all, but soft. "I'm sorry. May I go?"

Pasha's submission excited Mitya. He had encountered it again and again, but he never tired of it. No one else had ever reacted to him like this. No one else ever put up with his bullshit. "No, I don't want you to go." He paused, watching his younger brother avidly, but Pasha remained absolutely still, staring at nothing. "Look at me," Mitya said.

Pasha turned his head towards Mitya, obedient though unwilling.

"Though you can't really look at anything, can you? You can only half-look with those crossed eyes of yours." He could do or say anything to Pasha. Pasha would not fight back.

"That's true," Pasha quietly replied.

Mitya leaned in and brushed his lips against Pasha's own. Pasha colored. "Do you like that, you little faggot?" Mitya hissed.

Pasha was breathing fast. "Don't."

Mitya could smell him. He smelled like fresh soap and mint, with a faint, tantalizing tang of sweat. Pasha never remembered to brush his hair, but his body was always clean. He liked soap like cats liked cream. "Do you like it, faggot?" he asked again.

"Yes," said Pasha, the word like something caught in his throat.

Mitya kissed him again, this time fiercely, forcing his tongue between Pasha's lips, grabbing Pasha roughly by his shoulders. He was pleased to feel Pasha's body press resentfully against his own, Pasha returning his kiss. He was overjoyed to see Pasha's face open its box of emotions again, displaying the vivid, matching colors of loathing and desire. Mitya lost his mind. He could have done anything then, and he wouldn't have known what it was he doing. Only a small part of him whispered that he should stop what he was doing, that Pasha was starting to cry, that he was making things worse, but Mitya didn't hear it.

Mitya pushed Pasha down onto his knees, and Pasha, knowing what he was meant to do, fumbled at the buttons of Mitya's jeans. His fingers were shaking, and Mitya cuffed him, striking Pasha's left temple with his open hand. "Stupid," he hissed.

"Sorry," whispered Pasha, succeeding at last in his task. He pulled Mitya's jeans and boxers down, then slid Mitya's already hardening cock into his mouth.

Mitya gasped, closing his eyes. "Oh god, Pasha."

Pasha was no longer shaking. He took the whole of Mitya's cock into his mouth, then slid it out, almost lovingly, licking it all over with his tongue as he went. Then he took a moment to attend to Mitya's balls, taking each one into his mouth and sucking it gently. "You're so good at that," Mitya breathed.

Suddenly, Pasha stopped moving. His whole body had grown still as though turned to stone. Mitya opened his eyes and saw his younger brother frozen, his head turned towards the door. Mitya followed his gaze. Mitya had, he saw, left the door wide open. And standing there, framed in the doorway, was Kolya. Frozen much as Pasha was frozen, Kolya's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, in what was half gasp, half nervous smile. Mitya had completely forgotten that Kolya was home. All the color drained from him; he could feel it rushing out as though it were blood rushing from a wound. He began to return to himself. He realized where he was, what he had been doing. He quickly pulled up his jeans.

Mitya was angry, but he didn't know who to be angry at. He was the one who had started this, who had forgotten to shut the bathroom door. Roughly, he pushed Pasha away. "Fucking shit!" he cried, to no one in particular. Charging like a bull, he shouldered past Kolya, thundered down the hall, and fled into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Kolya remained in the hallway, blinking as though he could not believe what he'd seen. Pasha remained on the floor where Mitya had pushed him, his head lowered. After a few moments had passed and Kolya was sure he had not been imagining anything, he walked into the bathroom. He offered Pasha his hand. "Are you all right?"

Pasha looked up. He stared at Kolya's hand, and now it was he who blinked as though he were seeing things. He tried to make his voice hard and cold, but it didn't work; the words came out soft. "Yes, I'm fine." He hesitated, then took Kolya's hand. Kolya helped him rise.

Pasha released Kolya's hand as soon as he was standing and sighed. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

Kolya did not know quite what to say. Of all the brothers, he had spent the least time with Pasha and knew him the least. Pasha had always seemed to avoid him, watching him through narrowed eyes when he watched him at all, mistrustful. "Oh, it's-- all right," he managed awkwardly. "He wasn't-- hurting you, was he?"

Pasha was unable to suppress a shudder of disgust. "What would give you that idea?" He managed to make his voice cold and hard this time; his words were icy with sarcasm.

"Oh. Is there-- can I do anything for you?"

Pasha bared his teeth. The result was by no means a smile. "You're his friend. Why don't you go talk to him?"

"But you're--" Kolya broke off, confused. He only wanted to help, but he didn't know how. "Are you all right?" he asked again. He knew he must sound stupid.

"I said I'm fine. Leave me alone." Like Mitya before him, Pasha shouldered past Kolya and was gone. Kolya heard another door slam. He stood in the bathroom alone, not sure what to do. He had been on his way to the kitchen to make a sandwich, but he had suddenly lost his appetite. He, Pasha, and Mitya were the only ones home; there was no one else he could talk to, not that he would have known what to say if there had been anyone else to talk to.

For lack of a better idea, Kolya knocked on Mitya's door. Even though they shared the room, in a platonic fashion, he did not feel it would be right to enter now without permission. "Go away!" Mitya shouted, his voice muffled as though he was in his bed and hiding under the covers.

"It's me," said Kolya, biting his lip.

"I know who it is, and I said, 'Go away!'"

Kolya pushed his fingers up into his blue hair, tugging at it anxiously. He knew better than to insist. Mitya was not someone to disturb when in a foul mood. Kolya turned away from the door and walked further up the hall, to the last door on the left. He knocked.

Pasha must have been inside, but he did not answer. Kolya, undaunted, knocked again. And again. "What is it?" asked Pasha at last. Kolya could hear in his voice that he was crying.

"Can I come in?"

Pasha was suspicious. "What for?"

"I don't know," said Kolya honestly.

There was a pause, sounds of motion inside the room. Then the door opened. Pasha stood there with a tearstained face. "Why do you do things if you don't know why you're doing them?"

Kolya shrugged. "Why does anyone?"

This startled a shy smile out of Pasha. Pasha was in no way traditionally handsome, but he was not ugly either, Kolya thought, especially not when he smiled like that. Kolya didn't think he had ever seen Pasha smile before, and certainly not at him. "That's a very good point," Pasha admitted. "Do you want to come in?"

This surprised Kolya into a smile of his own. He had never been allowed in Pasha's room, and it was his understanding that Pasha did not even allow his brothers to enter his small sanctuary. "Sure. If it's all right with you." He was pleased that Pasha was making this overture. He had always been curious about this, the dark brother in the quartet, the quiet one, the secretive one, the somber one scowling in the corner. Pasha was in pain; Kolya was glad he was willing to open up to him. Kolya wanted to help him, if he could.

Wordlessly, Pasha stepped aside and Kolya entered, closing the door behind him.

Kolya's eyes widened slightly at what he saw. He wouldn't have believed it, but Pasha's room was messier even than Mitya's. Clothes, almost uniformly black, were strewn across the floor, a great black sea with a few islands of dark blue denim. There were books everywhere, and empty cups and dishes, and scraps of paper and pens and a multitude of things, on the floor, the bed, the nightstand, the chairs-- of which there were two, one of them lying on its side-- and even a few things on the shelves. The walls were papered with various posters. There were black and white photographs of Paris, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. There were artistic shots of young men, barely clothed. There were posters of the band too, and it seemed so strange to see them, the brothers, in professional photographs, now that he knew them so well. One poster, next to Pasha's bed, was of Mitya only, dressed all in black leather, hamming it up for the camera, one eyebrow cocked coyly, his hand beckoning to the viewer-- typical Mitya. Kolya smiled.

Pasha noticed Kolya's eyes lingering on that particular poster, noticed the smile. "If you're going to laugh," he began warningly.

"I wasn't," Kolya protested. "I wouldn't. It's a cute picture, that's all."

There was an awkward silence. Pasha watched Kolya warily, and Kolya smiled, looking around, careful to make no sudden moves that might upset his unexpected host.

It was Pasha who spoke first, the words pouring out of him in a frantic rush. "If you're going to judge me, that's fine-- I don't care. I couldn't care less. But I can't help it. I know I'm disgusting, but I can't help it."

"I don't think you're disgusting," said Kolya. "Why would I think that?"

Pasha frowned. When he spoke again, it was haltingly, as though he feared walking into a trap. "Because-- Mitya and I--"

"Why would I judge you for that? I'm gay too."

Pasha's frown deepened at the word 'gay', and Kolya hoped he had not made an incorrect assumption, but Pasha did not comment on Kolya's choice of words. "Because we're brothers," he said.

Kolya shook his head. "I don't know-- maybe some people would have an issue with that, but I don't."

Pasha stared. "You-- really don't?"

Kolya actually did not know if he did or not, as he'd never considered the issue, but technically, Mitya and Pasha were only half brothers. And if one could ignore society's mores-- which was admittedly a difficult thing to do-- incest was forbidden largely because of the increased risk of birth defects, and there was no way Mitya and Pasha could have a baby together. "Really."

"Are you crazy?"

Kolya laughed. "Maybe! It's entirely possible."

Pasha put his hand to his mouth, chewing absently on a fingernail, then realized what he was doing and jerked his hand out of his mouth. He still had not relaxed, but stood facing Kolya as though the two of them were opponents in a boxing match. "I don't understand why you're being so kind. I thought people like you were supposed to hate people like me."

"People like me?" Kolya pointed a finger at his own chest. His fingernails were painted bright blue, the same color his hair was dyed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Pasha irritatedly. "You're so good-looking and charming, and everyone likes you."

Kolya laughed again, incredulously. He had never before been described in a way even remotely similar to how Pasha had just described him. In fact, he could remember being called the opposite of all those things many times. "Are we talking about the same person here? This me, the one standing in front of you?"

"There's only one of you, isn't there?" Pasha snapped.

"Yeah, but I'm not good-looking or charming or liked or anything like that, believe me."

"I don't."

Kolya shrugged, not sure how he could argue with that. "Okay," he said calmly. "But I don't hate you, that's for sure. I hardly know you. Why would I hate you?"

Pasha considered this. "I don't know. I just assumed--" He fell silent. He turned to look at the poster of Mitya near his bed. Without warning, he lunged towards it and tore it off the wall, ripping it into pieces and letting those pieces fall to the floor as Kolya watched. He turned to Kolya with burning eyes and pronounced quite clearly, "I wish he were dead."

"Oh," said Kolya.

Pasha gave a strange little smile. "But really, you see, I don't. Or I would have killed him already."

"Oh," said Kolya again.

"I'm kidding," Pasha said.

"Oh! Of course."

Pasha sighed. "What you don't understand is, I used to idolize him, when we were children. Then I grew older, and I saw he was nothing like what I'd thought he was. But it was too late then; that impression was already burned in my mind. It's funny how a young child can glamorize an elder brother, isn't it?"

"It is," said Kolya thoughtfully, as though remembering something in his own past. "Funny the things children think."

"I don't like the things he does to me, but at the same time, I don't exactly-- dislike them. After all, I can't expect anyone else to do them to me, can I?"

Kolya felt he was floundering in this conversation. He didn't know what to say, how not to risk offending Pasha. "That isn't true. I mean-- why would you say that?"

Pasha looked at him, eyes blank, face an enigma. "I say things because I believe them. Why do you say things? Why are you even here? I thought you had something to say to me."

"I don't think Mitya means to hurt you," Kolya blurted.

He saw at once that he had spoken the wrong words. "No?" asked Pasha coldly. "You don't think he means to hurt me? Then I would like to know exactly what it is he intends when he shoves me down, hits me in the face, and makes me suck him off." Pasha made a noise of disgust. "Why did I even bother talking to you? You're his, any idiot could see that."

"I'm not--" Kolya tried to protest, but there was nothing he could do. A moment later, he stood on the other side of Pasha's bedroom door, having been forcefully thrown out. He did not bother knocking again, knowing that Pasha would not let him in again, not anytime soon, at least. He had shown his loyalty to Mitya, probably a mortal sin in Pasha's eyes. And he could not help but feel loyalty to Mitya. Mitya was his friend. There must be some reason for what he had done. The Mitya he knew was not violent nor brutal. He could be an ass, but he was not a monster. Right now, what Kolya wanted most was to talk to Mitya, but Mitya had just told him to go away. Kolya sensed he should leave him alone for the time being. It seemed he would have to stick to his original plan of going into the kitchen and making a sandwich.

***

"Where's Mitya?" Alyosha asked. "I haven't seen him all day." His fork hovered above his plate of tofu and green beans. He was addressing this question to Kolya, who sat across from him at the dinner table. Vanya was sitting at the end of the table, reading while he ate, as he so often did, and Pasha rarely ate dinner in the dining room with everyone else. Mitya's absence was conspicuous; he loved food with a rare, voracious passion.

"Uh, I think he's in his room," said Kolya.

"Isn't he hungry?"

"I don't think so."

Vanya looked up from his book. "That's unusual. And I haven't seen him all day either. Has he been in his room the entire time?"

"Maybe," said Kolya noncommittally.

"He's not hiding under his covers, is he?" asked Vanya sharply.

Kolya remembered the muffled sound of Mitya's voice when he'd spoken to him through the door. "Maybe," he said again.

"Oh no." Vanya's lips narrowed in annoyance. "That's what he used to do when he was shooting up every day."

"I'm sure Mitya isn't taking heroin again," said Alyosha, confidently spearing a cube of tofu with his fork.

Vanya made a steeple of his hands on the edge of the table, regarding Alyosha over the top of his glasses. "Your certainty fails to impress me."

"It isn't anything like that," Kolya interrupted. "He had a fight with Pasha this morning."

This, apparently, was another matter entirely, one more taboo than drugs, because Vanya and Alyosha both fell silent. Alyosha put down his fork, tofu untasted. Pensive, he shared a glance with Vanya, who wore a pained expression. "Oh, did he?" said Alyosha at last, forcing a wan smile. "I see. He'll be all right, then. That happens from time to time."

Kolya looked quizzically from Alyosha to Vanya. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course," said Alyosha quickly, before Vanya could say otherwise.

"Why do they hate each other so much?"

"Ah." Alyosha smiled again, sadly. "You see, there's a lot we don't know. When our father died, we boys were split up. Vanya and I were kept together and put into foster care, but Pasha and Mitya-- they were sent to an orphanage, and we didn't have any contact with them for a few years. They don't like to talk of what happened during that time. So-- I don't know." He looked to Vanya, asking for confirmation, but Vanya said nothing, still wearing the same pained look.

It was not until after dinner, Alyosha having retired to his room to meditate, that Vanya spoke to Kolya. Kolya was washing the dishes, his chore for the day, when Vanya came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Kolya jumped, almost dropping the soapy dish in his hands.

"Sorry," said Vanya, drawing his hand back. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

Kolya put down the dish and turned off the water. "What is it?"

"You were asking about Pasha and Mitya, before. And something about the way you asked--" Vanya paused for a moment before continuing, his words careful. "You don't-- know anything, do you?"

Kolya had no reason to lie, but, not knowing what Vanya knew, he didn't want to give away too much. "I kind of saw something, actually."

"Ah. Something." Vanya nodded. "Would you mind not telling Alyosha of this-- something? I'm afraid it might upset him."

"I wouldn't tell him anything. But will you tell me something?"

Vanya measured Kolya with his eyes. "That depends. What do you want to know?"

"Just what I asked before. Why do they hate each other so much?"

Vanya heaved a sigh. There was something in that sigh of frustrated disbelief for what other, less rational, people did with their lives. "I'm afraid our Mitya has done some things he shouldn't have. And our Pasha is a sensitive young man, who felt Mitya's actions rather keenly. But I myself do not know the whole truth of it." He stared Kolya directly in the eyes. "Do you understand?"

Kolya nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He paused, staring at the sink bubbling with suds, in evident dismay at the sheer amount of dishwashing liquid Kolya had elected to use. "Do be sure to rinse the dishes thoroughly. Last time you washed them, there was a distinct soapy residue."

"Gotcha," said Kolya.

***

"Mitya, can I come in?"

"No, you can't." Mitya's voice was still muffled, as though his face was covered by a sheet.

"Let me in!"

"No."

"Come on."

"I said, no!"

"Please."

Mitya groaned in frustration. "You're not going to shut up until I let you in, are you?"

"That's right."

"You're a fucking pain in the fucking ass, you know that, kid?" Mitya's voice was no longer muffled, and it was moving towards the door. "I wish I'd left you in the jail where I found you."

"You don't mean that," said Kolya to the door opening before him.

"Yeah, I guess I don't," said Mitya, and Kolya was surprised to find himself caught up in a sudden fierce embrace. The embrace ended as suddenly as it began, however, with Mitya pulling away, embarrassed, smiling an apology. "Anyway, thanks."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Come in, if you want to. Don't just stand there staring at me." He walked back to his bed, and Kolya entered the room after him, shutting the door. Mitya sat down on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands, and took a deep breath. "Look," he said. "There's something I guess I should tell you. Considering."

"Okay."

"You see-- well, I don't exactly remember what happened, but I think that at one point I might have done something really, really bad." He shifted uncomfortably, straightening his back and stretching his arms back behind him. He looked around his room. Kolya looked too. The room, his own and Mitya's clothes spread casually around it, no longer seemed as messy as it once had, now that he'd seen Pasha's room. "And when I say really really bad," Mitya continued, "I mean it." He took another deep breath. "This is hard to say. Anyway. I think I raped Pasha. Or something like that. Not that he would tell me afterwards."

"You don't remember?"

"Yeah-- you know how saying 'I was drunk' is pretty much the worst excuse ever?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Well, I pretty much have the worst excuse ever."

"And now?" Kolya asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"And now," Mitya agreed. "Now, whenever I see him-- well, you know how saying 'I can't control myself' is probably the second worse excuse ever?"

"Yeah."

"Then I probably have the second worse excuse ever." With a sudden violence, Mitya began to hit himself in the head. He was clearly not holding back, but hitting himself as hard as he could, probably injuring his hand more than his head. He had a thick head, Kolya knew. "Fuck!" Mitya hissed.

Kolya stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. "Stop it!"

Mitya did not resist Kolya's grasp. He let himself be stopped. He stared at Kolya's hand wrapped around his wrist, Kolya's blue fingernails, his knuckles that were always abraded and bruised by his own clumsiness. "So anyway," Mitya went on, as though he had not interrupted himself. "I don't expect you to understand. Or even to like me anymore."

Kolya did not let go of his wrist. "I won't say that I understand. But I can't help it if I still like you, can I?"

Mitya looked up into Kolya's face. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"It's pretty sick to feel this way about my little brother, isn't it?"

Kolya said nothing, deeming this question a rhetorical one.

"I mean, I can't stop thinking about him. And I try, I really try-- at least in my head, I try-- to make things better between us, to apologize, but before I know what I'm doing, I'm making things worse." He shook his head, seeming slightly dazed. "I don't know why I'm not able to stop myself." He laughed. "It completely fucked up my relationship with my girlfriend, you know? Not that I blame her. What girl wants a boyfriend who fucks his own brother?"

Kolya deemed this another rhetorical question, but Mitya answered it for himself. "Some crazy, kinky girl, maybe. But not the girl I wanted."

"I guess not," Kolya admitted.

"So I can't have her, and I can't have him either. It kind of sucks, liking two people but having them both hate you, you know? Not that I have anyone to blame but myself. Goddamn it, I wish I had someone else to blame. Anyone. But no." He still held his hand out towards Kolya, as though for the express purpose of allowing Kolya to keep his hand wrapped around it, but Kolya released him, and his hand fell down to the mattress. "Just me," Mitya said. He looked up at Kolya again, raising his eyebrows. "You don't hate me, then?"

"No."

Mitya nodded, his face thoughtful. "I kind of thought you would. I guess I was wrong."

"But I don't think you should do that to Pasha anymore," Kolya added, firmly.

"You're right. I shouldn't. I shouldn't even touch him again. Hell, I probably shouldn't even ever talk to him again, but I--" Mitya clenched and unclenched his fist, and Kolya watched his hand warily, afraid he was going to hit himself again. "Okay, I know this sounds crazy, coming from me, but I really love him." Mitya started as though he'd been stung by his own words. "Yeah. That does sound kind of crazy. I've never said that before."

"It doesn't sound crazy, exactly."

"Yeah? How does it sound, then? What does a bastard like me know about love?"

Kolya tried to say something that would comfort his friend. He grasped-- at straws, at shadows. "You love your brothers."

Mitya shook his head. "That isn't what I mean." Kolya had never seen Mitya so at a loss. He was sitting on the bed, his hands at his sides, seeming somehow as though he never wanted to rise again, as though he would simply sink back, further and further, until the mattress and the tangled sheets swallowed him whole. "That isn't what I mean at all, and you know it. But it's hopeless." He looked up at Kolya, black eyes too bright, flashing him a desperate grin. "And I'm hopeless, so I know hopeless when I see it."

Briefly, Kolya had seen Pasha smile today. But Mitya's eyes were saying, He'll never smile at me. Mitya's eyes were saying, Hell, I won't even smile at myself, not anymore.