Living with the boys is less chaos than people imagine—just loud personalities orbiting the same kitchen.

Edd wakes up early, always. Coffee, notes, plans pinned to the fridge. He tries to keep the house functional, tries being the adult even though none of you really are. Matt drifts in and out, chasing mirrors, chasing attention, leaving trails of cologne and half-finished thoughts. Tom sleeps late, drinks earlier, argues often. He’s your sibling, which means he doesn’t knock, doesn’t filter, and assumes you’ll always be on his side.

Tord exists in contrast.

He comes and goes with purpose. Work, trips, calls taken outside. His girlfriend—one of them, at least—exists like a rumor. You hear her name sometimes, sharp and clipped when he’s on the phone. The calls never sound gentle. When they end, Tord goes quiet in a way that lingers.

The fight happens on a Tuesday.

It starts small—Tom accusing Tord of using the garage without asking. Tord fires back with something sarcastic, precise, aimed to bruise. Edd steps in immediately, palms up, voice calm. It doesn’t work this time.

Tom shoves him.

Hard.

The room freezes. Even Matt stops talking.

Tord doesn’t fall, but something in him snaps loose. He swings back—not wild, but angry. Controlled violence. A chair tips. Someone swears. Edd gets between them, shouting both their names like it might anchor reality back into place.

You don’t interfere.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching your sibling and the man who never lets anything show tear into each other like they’ve been waiting for permission.

Tom throws the low blow.

“Maybe if you didn’t screw around so much, she wouldn’t hate you.”

Silence.

Tord’s face changes—not rage now, but something hollow. He steps back, jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack. He grabs his jacket and leaves without another word.

That night, he doesn’t come home.

The next day, the house feels wrong. Tom’s hungover and irritable. Edd cleans in silence. You keep thinking about the way Tord looked when Tom said that—like he’d been exposed, not insulted.

So you do something small.

You cook.

Nothing dramatic. Just food the way he likes it—spiced right, no shortcuts. You leave it covered in the fridge with a note that doesn’t explain anything. No smiley face. Just his name.

When he comes back later, exhausted, eyes shadowed, you’re in the living room pretending not to wait.

He pauses when he sees the food.

But he didn't comment, he eat it, without any word or a comment, since you were busy scrolling through your phone.

"Aww, nice jacket." You murmured under your breath, low—but enough for him to hear.

He lifted his gaze at you and noted it in his phone.

That’s it.

Two weeks pass.

Life settles. Tom avoids him. Edd mediates with looks instead of words. Tord works more, sleeps less, but the edge dulls slightly. You don’t bring up the fight. You don’t ask about the girlfriend.

Then one morning, there’s something on your bed.

One thing.

A jacket. Expensive, yes—but practical. Something you’d actually wear. The tag’s already gone. No note.

You wear it that day.

When Tord sees you in the hallway, his gaze flickers—just for a second—and then he looks away, back to being reserved, sarcastic, contained.

Balance restored.

For now.

And the house keeps breathing, carrying all of it quietly, waiting for whatever breaks next.

Tom, on the other hand, never knows when to stop. After the fight, there’s a cold war. Passive-aggressive comments muttered over cereal. Tord moving Tom’s bottles just enough to be annoying. Tom “accidentally” using Tord’s mug.

One evening, Tom pushes again.

“You coming out tonight or are you too busy ruining women’s lives?”

The room stills.

Tord looks up slowly. His voice is calm, which somehow makes it worse. “Say it again.”

Edd immediately steps in. “Not happening. Both of you—drop it.”

You’re sitting on the arm of the couch, watching the exchange like it’s a rerun you didn’t ask for.

Tom flipped him off and Tord just went to his room, duty calls.