Chapter XIII – Brotherhood
“Because once someone else knows, it stops being ours.”
The house smelled like Pine-Sol and stale beer, as if even the air had been scrubbed for inspection. The chapter room was hotter than it should’ve been, windows sealed, candles sweating down to puddles on the folding tables.
Clay’s voice was low and raw from a week of shouting. “Gentlemen,” he said, pacing the line of pledges like a man inspecting livestock, “you have survived Hell Week. That means you have earned the right to stand here.”
Ethan kept his chin up, though the collar of his shirt still clung to his neck. Released from the basement less than 8 hours ago, the six of them stood shoulder to shoulder in rumpled blazers, mud still crusted under their fingernails, faces pale from the sleepless night.
Jason stood at the front of the room, holding a tray lined with tiny pins. “Tonight,” he said, “we stop calling you pledges.” The brothers crowded the edges of the room, jackets dark, expressions unreadable. The flicker of candlelight carved shadows across the wall where the fraternity’s crest hung. Someone coughed. Someone else muttered, “Finally.”
Clay’s mouth twitched, but he ignored it. “You have been broken down and built again,” he continued. “You have learned obedience. You have learned humility.” He paused, then added, “You have learned that the house always comes first.”
Jason stepped forward. His voice carried differently — steadier, cleaner, like someone accustomed to ceremony. “When I call your name, step forward.”
The first pledge — Connor — moved stiffly. Jason pinned him with surprising gentleness, clapped his shoulder, murmured something Ethan couldn’t hear. Teddy followed, eyes glassy with exhaustion but smiling faintly. Marco winked as he stepped up, earning a few laughs. Tyler went last before Ethan, his hands steady at his sides.
Then it was Ethan’s turn.
“Ethan Harris,” Jason said.
Ethan stepped forward into the warmth of the candlelight. Jason met his eyes briefly, then fixed the small pin to his lapel. “You belong to something bigger than yourself now,” he said softly, so only Ethan could hear. “Don’t forget what it cost.”
Ethan nodded once. His throat was too tight for words.
Jason straightened, raised his voice. “Brothers—welcome them home.”
The room erupted. The sudden roar — clapping, whoops, someone pounding a chair against the floor — crashed over them. Clay grinned at last, relief breaking through his usual edge. Someone popped a beer, a bit of the spray caught Ethan’s cheek.
Catherine and the Kingston crew appeared as if on cue, it was turning into a proper party.
Ethan tried to smile, but the sound felt far away, like he was listening through water. The pin on his chest caught the light every time he breathed.
They spilled onto the porch minutes later, blinking against the night. The air felt cold and clean after the furnace of the chapter room. Someone passed around cigars; someone else dragged out a half-empty bottle of bourbon.
“Gentlemen,” Connor declared, swaying, “we are free men!”
“Free,” Teddy echoed, raising his beer, “and probably still grounded!”
Laughter rippled down the steps. Jason leaned against the railing, cigarette glowing in his hand, expression relaxed for the first time Ethan had seen. When their eyes met, he nodded — almost paternal.
“Good work last night Little Brother,” Jason said when Ethan passed him. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“For what?” Ethan asked.
Jason smiled faintly, putting his arm around Ethan’s shoulders. “For pretending this changed anything.” Before Ethan could ask what he meant, Jason squeezed his shoulder gently. “Listen, Ethan—I know I haven’t been much of a Big Brother. But if you ever need someone, I’m here. Eli’s not the only one who understands.”
He flicked his cigarette into the yard and walked off.
Eli was on the edge of the porch, one step below the others, head tilted toward the street. A cigarette hung from his lips, ember bright in the dark. He looked like he’d been waiting there all along, Catherine not by his side for the first time tonight.
Ethan hesitated, then stepped down beside him.
“So,” Eli said without looking at him, “you made it.”
“Barely.”
“That’s the trick.” He smiled, still not turning. “They make you think surviving it means something. You’ll figure out soon it’s just a warm-up.”
Ethan studied him — the loose tie, the tired eyes, the faint trace of sweat on his neck. “You sound like you hated it.”
Eli exhaled smoke, watching it vanish. “I did. Everyone does. You just learn to act like you didn’t.”
They stood there a moment, the noise from the porch swelling behind them — laughter, shouting, the sharp crack of another beer being opened. The night hummed with relief and exhaustion.
“Jason said something like that,” Ethan murmured. “That it doesn’t change anything.”
Eli finally looked at him. “He’s right.”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Then what’s the point?”
“The point,” Eli said, “is that everyone thinks it matters. That’s how the whole thing stays standing.”
For a moment neither spoke. A car turned onto the Row, headlights slicing across their faces, then disappeared into the dark. Eli glanced toward the house. “You heading back soon?”
“Yeah. Mark’s probably already passed out.”
Eli’s voice softened. “Come upstairs first. Catherine’s’ halfway back to Kingston by now, something about an early class she can’t miss, whatever.”
Ethan hesitated just long enough for Eli to notice. If he was being honest, he had missed Eli this week—missed whatever it was they had started. He wanted to go upstairs, but the thought of what might follow made him uneasy.
“Relax, man,” Eli said, half-smiling. “No pressure. Just a drink.”
Ethan nodded. “Okay.”
Eli pushed off the railing and led the way through the side door, the noise of the porch fading behind them.
Eli’s door was half-open, the lamplight falling across the hallway like a thin stripe of gold. Ethan followed him in, shutting it quietly behind them.
Eli poured two fingers of bourbon into a pair of glasses, emblazoned with the Westmore crest-bookstore standard issue. “To survival,” he said, handing one over.
Ethan took a cautious sip. It burned, but not in the way the cheap party liquor did. He coughed once, then laughed. “That’s awful.”
Eli smiled. “Yeah, but it’s honest.”
They sat across from each other—Eli on the edge of his bed, Ethan in the desk chair turned backward. The silence between them was comfortable in that way that only exhaustion can make it.
Eli stared at the floor, rolling the glass between his palms. “You know,” he said, “when I was standing where you were tonight, I thought it meant something. Like, this was the start of belonging somewhere. Turns out, it’s just the start of pretending better.”
Ethan studied him. “Then why keep doing it?”
“Because the pretending pays off,” Eli said. “People stop asking questions if you play your part long enough. They’ll call you brother, buy you a beer, never look close enough to see what’s really going on.”
He looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “It’s easier to be what they expect than what you are.”
Ethan noticed Eli’s jaw clench just a bit, his shoulders tight as he turned the glass in his hands. “You really believe that?”
“I have to.” Eli leaned back, the headboard creaking. “This place isn’t built for people like me. Or you.”
Ethan laughed softly. “You say that like you know what I am.”
Eli’s eyes flicked over him, the corner of his mouth curving playfully. “I have a guess.”
Neither moved for a long time. The fan filled the silence, a steady heartbeat of air.
Ethan wanted to join him there, but resisted. Finally, Ethan spoke. “Mark asked where I’ve been sneaking off to every night.”
That landed hard. Eli’s fingers froze around his glass. “What?”
“Tonight. On the way back. He asked what I’ve been up to. I guess he’s not as dead to world as you said”
Eli sat up, every muscle tightening. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing. I said I didn’t know.”
Eli nodded once, too quickly. “Good.”
Ethan frowned. “You make it sound like I confessed to a crime.”
Eli stood, crossing the small room, needing motion. He found a cigarette, lit it, took a sharp drag. “You didn’t. But this—whatever it is—it doesn’t survive daylight. You know that.”
Ethan set his cup down, voice low. “Why not? He’s your brother. Don’t you trust him?”
Eli exhaled smoke toward the fan. “That’s exactly why. Mark talks before he thinks. He still believes this place is what it says it is—honor, loyalty, tradition. He thinks it’s safe.” He turned, eyes catching the lamplight. “If he knew, it wouldn’t stay between us. Not because he’d want to hurt anyone. Because he’d try to help.”
Ethan shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It would be,” Eli said flatly. “It would get you labeled. And once that happens, you don’t come back from it here. Not in this house. Not at Westmore.”
Ethan looked down at his hands. “So I just pretend too?”
Eli gave a bitter smile. “Welcome to the brotherhood, we’re all pretending to some degree.”
They sat in silence again, the bourbon warming their veins but not softening the edge between them.
Ethan spoke first. “Catherine was there tonight. After the ceremony.”
Eli didn’t flinch, but something in his posture stiffened. “She comes to everything. Part of the act.”
“Is that what she is? An act?”
Eli rubbed his forehead. “She’s…a reminder. Of what I’m supposed to want. What everyone expects me to be.”
“And what about what you actually want?”
Eli looked at him, a long, searching look that felt like an answer on its own. “What I want doesn’t fit here or where I’m heading next.”
The room went still. Outside, the wind rattled the window screen.
Ethan rose from the chair, slow and unsure. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
Eli gave a soft, humorless laugh. “And what? Walk around holding your hand? You saw what this place did to you this week. Imagine what it’d do to me.”
“I’m not asking you to hold my hand,” Ethan said quietly. “I’m just tired of acting like it didn’t happen.”
Eli met his eyes. For a moment, the distance closed. “You think I’m not?” His voice cracked on the last word, barely audible.
Ethan stepped closer. “Then why can’t I tell him? Mark. Why can’t anyone know?”
Eli’s hand trembled slightly as he stubbed out the cigarette. “Because once someone else knows, it stops being ours.”
Ethan blinked, confused. “Isn’t that the point? To stop hiding?”
Eli shook his head, standing now, so close Ethan could feel the heat off him. “He’s my brother Ethan, you don’t have that right. Besides, if he knew, it would just be a matter of time before they’d eat us alive. You, me, both of us.”
Ethan’s throat ached. “So what happens now?”
Eli looked at him for a long moment, then reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of Ethan’s sleeve. “We keep quiet. We keep it ours. For now.”
The touch lingered—soft, apologetic. Ethan’s breath caught. Eli’s hand moved up, settling against his neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads touched.
Ethan whispered, “For now.”
Eli didn’t correct him.
The kiss came slow, familiar, stripped of urgency. It felt like acknowledgment and goodbye all at once. When they pulled apart, neither stepped back.
Eli exhaled, the bourbon and smoke still warm on his breath. “You should go,” he said, though his hand hadn’t moved. Ethan wanted to stay, but wasn’t going to give Eli the satisfaction.
“I know.”
Eli’s thumb brushed the line of Ethan’s jaw, then fell away. “You did good tonight.”
“So did you.”
Eli smiled faintly, eyes tired. “Don’t say that too loud.”
Ethan’s laugh was soft, almost sad. “Goodnight, Eli.” Eli pulled Ethan into a tight embrace, his stubble like sandpaper on Ethan’s cheek. Neither wanted to break, but Ethan kissed Eli on the cheek and turned for the door.
Eli leaned against the door after he left, listening to the quiet settle back in.
The house had gone quiet.
From upstairs came only the muffled thud of someone dropping a shoe, a door shutting against laughter. The kind of silence that follows celebration—uneasy, temporary, like the night itself was catching its breath.
Ethan stepped out into it, tugging his jacket tight. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wet leaves. Across the lawn, a plastic cup rolled in the breeze, tapping lightly against the curb before settling in the gutter. The row looked empty now, hollowed out by exhaustion.
His head still buzzed from the bourbon and from the conversation he couldn’t stop replaying.
Because once someone else knows, it stops being ours.
He turned it over again and again, like a riddle that refused to make sense. The night had been full of noise, ceremony, shouts of brotherhood, but the only thing that felt real was the sound of Eli’s voice saying ours like it was both promise and warning.
The walk back to McClintock was short—five minutes if you cut across the quad—but the campus felt unfamiliar. The lamps along the path hummed with that sickly yellow glow that made everything look suspended.
A pair of pledges from another house staggered by, now brothers too, still wearing their jackets like trophies. One of them nodded at Ethan and said, “Congrats, man,” without slowing down. Ethan mumbled a thank-you he didn’t mean.
He climbed the dorm stairs slowly, each step echoing.
At the door, he paused. The pin Jason had given him felt heavy on his lapel, like a lie he couldn’t take off.
Inside, the room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Mark lay sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his face, breathing slow and even. His jacket was draped neatly on the chair between their beds, the same pin glinting faintly in the glow.
Ethan undressed quietly, tossing his shirt over the back of the chair. The smell of smoke clung to it, faint and familiar. For a moment he thought about shaking Mark awake—telling him everything. It would be so easy. Just a whisper in the dark. He knew that Eli was right, that Mark would try to help. Mark was loyal to a fault and Ethan knew that he would support him.
Mark asked what I’ve been up to.
He could finish the sentence this time. He could say Eli. He could say your brother.
But the words froze before they even reached his throat.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. The hum of the radiator filled the room, soft and rhythmic. He could still feel the shape of Eli’s touch on his skin—the small press of a thumb against his jaw, the warmth that lingered long after he’d left the room.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the quarter. The metal was cool against his palm, the ridged edge biting faintly when he closed his hand. A pledge token, Clay had called it. A reminder to always be ready. He turned it over in his fingers, catching the light off its surface.
It was supposed to mean loyalty. Duty. Brotherhood.
But tonight it just felt like a secret.
He placed it on the nightstand beside his pin and watched the two pieces of metal gleam side by side—the symbol of belonging and the symbol of survival.
Mark shifted in his sleep, murmuring something Ethan couldn’t make out. For a heartbeat, he looked younger, almost innocent. Ethan felt a pang of something he couldn’t name—envy, maybe, or guilt.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The quiet pressed in, heavy and familiar. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, laughter rose and fell, then faded down the street. The night moved on, and he stayed still.
He thought of Eli’s last words—Keep it ours. For now.
The phrase looped in his head, both comfort and curse.
He wondered how long “for now” could last before it collapsed under its own weight.
When he finally drifted toward sleep, the fan hummed against the window, steady as breathing. Across the room, Mark stirred and rolled over, mumbling something about brotherhood.
Ethan turned his face to the wall, eyes open in the dark.
“Brother.”
He whispered the word back to himself, tasting it, testing it, as if it might still mean what it used to.
Further Reading
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