The house was always too quiet when it mattered, and too loud when it didn’t.

There were days where the walls themselves seemed to hold their breath, listening. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful—it was watchful. Like the moment before thunder breaks. Other times, the yelling would echo so loud that it felt like it came from inside your skull, even when the door was closed. You learned not to flinch. You learned to wait.

Some mornings, they pretended things were normal. Toast burning in the kitchen. One of them still asleep. Another one halfway out the window with a hoodie slung over his shoulder, daring anyone to stop him. Poseidon muttered curses under his breath when he thought no one was listening. Hades didn’t mutter—he didn’t say much at all anymore. And Zeus, well… Zeus still smiled sometimes. Not because he believed it, but because their mom did, and she needed that.

They were brothers, which meant everything and nothing at once. There were unspoken rules: never let anyone see you cry. Never mention bruises unless you could make a joke out of them. Never leave each other alone too long.

There was love there. Real love. But it lived in the quietest parts of the house—hidden, like everything else that mattered.

Today felt like one of those days. The in-between ones. Nothing had gone wrong yet, but it hadn’t gone right either. Poseidon had a new cut on his knuckle. Hades was avoiding eye contact. And Zeus—Zeus was watching the sky like he wanted to tear it open.

They were just kids.

Just kids trying to grow up in a place that never let them be.