colter’s flashlight

the childhood house is warm, full of buttery smells and cinnamon, and their mother is off in town picking up an extra pie because someone [mark] ate half of one last night “by accident.”

“you think he’s actually gonna show?” mark asks after a beat, tipping his head toward the front door.

“russell?” beau wipes his hands on a towel. “he said he would.”

“you think he’ll wear them goofy combat boots to dinner again?”

“i think—” beau says slowly, “that you oughta stop pourin’ liquor into the gravy and help me set the table.”

mark gestures broadly. “hey, i am the youngest brother. this ain’t my responsibility.”

“big deal— were what? ten minutes apart? you’re still thirty-nine, same as me.”

mark’s about to argue when the front door creaks open. boots. heavy against the worn floorboards, then the low scrape of a zipper.

“jesus christ,” mark groans dramatically, “he’s doing the ‘mysterious entrance’ thing again.”

“fuck off, mark,” russell’s voice drifts in from the doorway, dryly. “i had somethin’ come up.”

the two brothers turn just in time to see russell step into the kitchen. black long-sleeve, tired eyes, military duffle slung over his shoulder. he looks like someone who hasn’t slept in three days and still somehow makes it fashionable.

beau grins. “you look like death.”

russell drops the bag. “ ‘nd you still look like a divorced clown.”

all three of them stare each other. a long, simmering beat. then mark bursts out laughing, walks over, and slaps russell on the back. “glad you could make it, man.”

russell exhales, long and quiet. “yeah. me too.”

beau watches them with a soft expression it hurts. he tosses russell a dish towel. “you’re on turkey-carving duty. mark tried and i think the bird filed a restraining order.”

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later at the table the cornbread was stacked high, buttery and golden. stuffing, cranberries, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. one overfilled gravy boat dangerously close to mark’s elbow.

and three grown-ass men, sitting down with their sweet mother.

“ain’t this nice?” beau says, voice honey-sweet but clearly ready to kill if anyone acts up.

mark raises his beer bottle “here’s to sibling rivalry.”

russell stayed silent, fork in one hand, tactical awareness in the other. he looks like he’s assessing the green beans for bombs, like usual.

“so,” their mother says warmly, “what’s everyone thankful for this year?”

a beat of silence. beau clears his throat. “i’m thankful we’re all here,” he offers. “healthy n’ together.”

“aw sweetheart,” their mother beams, and mark snorts.

“you got somethin’ better?” beau shoots back.

mark leans back in his chair, real thoughtful. “i’m thankful my last hookup wasn’t a felon.”

russell speaks up for the first time in ten minutes, mouth half full of food. “dude, she keyed your car.”

“yeah, but not during—”

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the night air was cool, the kind of crisp that clings to denim and makes old floorboards creak. the three of them sit on the front porch, scattered across mismatched rocking chairs. mark flicks a lighter. small flame, and a quiet crackle.

“the hell— you’re gonna get us all arrested,” beau mutters, elbow on the porch rail, looking like he’s questioning his life decisions.

“by who?” mark grins, joint dangling loosely from his lips. “you?”

“yeah,” russell adds, already exhaling his joint, slow through his nose, “you gonna call the sheriff on us, sheriff?”

“i am the sheriff—” beau glares. “and i could haul your ass to jail.”

“you could, or i could plant evidence on you and take you in myself” mark says, grinning wider, “but then mama’d have to come post bail, and we all know she’s got a soft spot for me.”

“only ‘cause she doesn’t know half the shit you’ve done.”

“and never will,” mark winks, passing the joint to russell. “beau you literally live in an airstream trailer, you’re one fuckin’ emotional breakdown away from writing country songs about your ex-wife.”

beau watches the smoke curl in the moonlight, brows knit. “fuck you, and how the hell did you even get that here?”

“i know people, got my connections” mark says.

beau takes the joint without looking at him. slow, measured. inhales once, exhales through his nose. “yea well— coming from the guy who left his fiancée two weeks before the wedding and still won’t shut up about how her sister ‘came onto him first.’”

mark blinks. “i mean, she did—”

“you don’t even have a wife to write songs about, mark.” beau claps back,

russell, deadpan from the rocking chair “ but he’s got a restraining order though. close second.” the middle child crosses his arms as he watches them bicker. “y’arguing about failed relationships like either of you’ve had one last longer than a presidential term.”

beau leans back, blowing smoke through his nose. “big talk for someone who hasn’t had a permanent address since bush was in office.”

mark couldn’t help but add to it. “pretty sure russ’ last mailing address was a bunker in bulgaria.”

“it’s classified asshole,” russell mutters.

“you don’t even exist on paper,” beau adds, shaking his head. “you’re one unshaved week away from bein’ a full cryptid.”

beau sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “jesus christ. m’too old for this.”

“you’re ten minutes older than me,” mark snarks.

“and i’ve made ten minutes of better life choices.” beau sighs, taking another hit of the almost doubted joint. trying to act like the ‘cool’ older brother even though he’s cringing at how many people he’s arrested for having illegal weed on them.

mark howls, watching beau attempt to hide the tickling cough in his throat. “holy shit— he fucking coughed!”

“shut up,” beau wheezes, waving smoke around.

“you alright?” russell asks, fighting a smirk.

“i’m fine,” beau rasps, eyes watering a little. “jesus— feels like my lungs lit up like the fourth of july.”

mark fans him like he’s fainting. “you want me to hold your hand, old man?”

russell exhales smoke through his nose, lazily. “you’re both idiots—”. after a pause “kinda missed this, though.”

beau’s still recovering from the hit, voice scratchy as he mutters, “yeah, well don’t get used to it.”

“why not?” mark smirks, passing the joint again. “you cry every time we leave.”

“do not.”

“do to”

“do not”

“do to”

and just like that, under a porch light buzzing low and a sky full of stars, the three of them are quiet again. not because there’s nothing left to say— god knows there’s always more.

a sheriff, a soldier, and a detective.

still brothers. still a mess.

and for tonight, their still home.