Just a Tuesday - 5. Tuesday, April 1, 2025 – Brothers

~The Cursebreaker~

The jail officer pushed open the security door, glanced into the room, and then nodded to me. “Go ahead, you know the rules.”

I nodded back and entered the small visiting room of Ashen Ward Jail.

Quen stood opposite me against the wall, hands on his head, looking both amused and bored. The click of the closing door had not yet faded when his hands fell. “I missed you.” His smile became sincere.

“Me too.” Actually, visitors and inmates weren’t allowed to touch each other – a stupid rule, considering they let us into a room without a partition between us – but no one had ever commented when we hugged, and according to rumors, couples even had sex in the visiting rooms, so what? (Although I really didn't want to imagine it in detail, because first of all, there was an officer standing outside the door the whole time, and secondly, the rooms were under video surveillance, including 7-day storage.)

Quen's hug was comforting. Warm, powerful, soft, loving. And too short. He pushed me away, looked me over critically, and then nodded toward the bolted-down table-chair combo. “How are you? How's work?”

“Same as always,” I said, more for fun, knowing full well it annoyed him because he could hardly get any information in here. “What did Uncle Carl tell you?” Uncle Carl didn't visit Quen directly, but he took the opportunity to talk to his nephew on the phone.

“Apart from the usual hocus-pocus?” Quen grinned. “You brought someone home.”

The case and Kellen's appearance had been almost four weeks ago and had already been filed away in my brain, but for Quen it was all new. His last fight and the accompanying investigations and punishments had pushed my visit further back than originally planned.

“Where do I start?” I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair.

Quen grinned broadly. “At the beginning.”

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth...”

“Asshole.”

I grinned back. “No?” I got the middle finger and shook my head, still smiling, then started talking.

Quen made his usual comments and asked a few questions, but otherwise he sat there surprisingly quietly, hands folded, listening.

My little brother was outwardly a classic Parker: tall, heavy-boned, huge hands, rough features with an unmistakable slightly bulbous nose.

But as a child, he had been small and fat, and it was only when he started therapy that he shot up in height. The Punching Bag had become a light-blond grizzly bear—he didn't necessarily find himself handsome, but he was proud to be recognizably part of the family, which would probably never have happened without therapy.

Where he had gotten the unusually dark freckles on his cheekbones and nose from was unclear, but the scar starting at the bottom right of his chin, running up to the inner corner of his eye and splitting the right half of his mouth, was clearly the result of a knife fight. He had earrings in both ears looking like spiked collars, and much simpler rings in his right nostril and left eyebrow; he used to have a ring in his lower left lip too, but he hadn't worn it since the incident that had left him with the scar. Understandably so. He now regretted the bulldog tattoo on the left side of his neck, as he had told me a while ago, but since it was in a place he couldn't see himself, it was probably more of an afterthought.

“And you didn't reply?” Critically, Quen looked at me as I recounted Kellen's farewell message, feeling slightly miffed at the memory.

“No. What am I supposed to say? I'm just a notch on his bedpost.” Technically, more like two, and if you wanted to get really detailed, maybe a few more, but that would be splitting hairs.

Quen shrugged and waggled his brows meaningfully. “Turn it into some nice sexting.”

I grimaced. “Not my thing.”

“Then you'll have to make do with your toys.” The topic of sex was a surefire way to get Quen from zero to onehundred in a second, and the only exception was when it was about me. Maybe it was a concession of brotherly love, to be on the safe side I never asked, but apart from Nico, he was the only one I had told about Kellen back then.

But something about his sentence, or rather his tone of voice, made me pause. And lo and behold, there was an afterword:

“Unless, of course, you like my gloved lawyer better.” Snarky and a touch hurt.

I blinked in confusion, then rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”

"Vibes, Dust. And he told me you two are seeing each other privately." Quen growled.

I couldn't help but snort, earning myself an even darker look. “I'm Nathan's mentor when it comes to magical things, and maybe we're friends, but that's all. My God, did the boy really say nothing more than that?”

“No the boy didn't. Are you sure that's not your new kink?” Quen was still growling. “And anyway, where's your respect for a lawyer?”

“The vibes are ‘little brother’ vibes in my eyes, nothing else, and where's your respect for lawyers, huh?” I replied irritably.

“Thompson buried it by telling our sperm donor shit.”

The fact itself didn't surprise me much, but the new expression for our father actually hurt, even if he certainly wouldn't be winning Father of the Year.

We were silent for a moment. Even considering that we didn't see each other very often thanks to his regular stays behind bars, we hadn't argued in a while, and this seemed ridiculous to me.

Finally, I spoke up; someone had to be the adult here. "As I said, Nathan and I are student and mentor, maybe friends, and we only talk about you in a professional context via email. If that still bothers you, you are welcome to find yourself a lawyer and pay for them yourself, or settle for a public defender. He's doing his best to get you out of here despite all the shit you've done in the past—”

“Hey, the last incident wasn't my fault!” Quen interrupted me indignantly. “I was just defending myself and the guy who was already on the ground.”

I had heard so many excuses and stupid stories over the years that I didn't believe him; I guess it showed on my face.

Fittingly, he snorted. “That's proven and forgotten, and that's why I'm getting my parole hearing next week.”

Slowly and still skeptical, I nodded. “Quen, I—”

“I want out of here.” To my amazement, he didn't say it rebelliously, but slumped a little, his shoulders falling forward. “Percival Senior has filed a formal complaint against the old decision that I have to go back to him during my probation period.” That decision was thirteen years old. At the time, Quen was still a minor and Mom had just been buried. He had to go somewhere while he finished school, and our father was, of course, the most natural choice from a judicial point of view. I could understand why Quen had never officially changed his residence, as Ashen Ward Jail, with its juvenile division, was a relatively pleasant facility, and his time on the outside had never been long enough for him to find and keep a job and a place to live.

“You know you can always come to us,” I said gently.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the metal tabletop.

Under the table, I nudged his foot.

The response was a deep sigh. “I've been thinking about two things.”

“Yes...?”

“One of the guys” — he nodded to the side to make it clear that he meant another inmate — "sued his parents for some childhood trauma. Do you think Upfield would do that?"

I raised a brow. “As long as you give him what he needs, sure. That's his job.” The thought of a child suing their parents sent an unpleasant shiver down my spine, even though I could completely understand that it was sometimes necessary. Quen had suffered, completely unnecessarily.

“Psychological evaluations and money, sure.” Quen grunted. “I’d have the time and nerves, but definitely not the money. Especially since I…” He trailed off, chewing on his words, and finally pointed down.

“So you want to have the surgery after all?”

He half nodded, half shrugged. “I don’t want to spend the next thirty years as miserable as the last ones. I have to start somewhere to come to terms with myself. But I don’t have money for anything.” He still didn’t want to look at me, and by now his posture was tense.

It was clear he would never get an official loan in a situation like this. Finding a job and a place to live was difficult enough as an ex-convict, but scraping together enough money for things like that? I mean, even my resources and good will have their limits.

“Uncle Carl and I will support you in one way or another, but how about you finally become a good boy and then collect Grandpa's inheritance?” I finally said.

“What inheritance?” He looked at me in bewilderment, bewildered, I looked back.

“Do you seriously believe Grandpa left you nothing?”

Quen searched for words and finally shrugged. “I know of nothing.”

“There’s money, I don’t know how much. A few thousand, I guess. But there are conditions. Again, I don’t know the details, but you’ll have to stay in the clear for a few years.”

With a bitter snort, Quen leaned back. “Of course Thompson didn't tell me about that. If I behave myself, he won't get any money.”

I refrained from commenting on the fact that Dad had certainly not paid his friend the full price. “If all goes well, when will you be out? June? July?”

He grunted affirmatively.

“Then you can take care of all that.” And because he was a stubborn jerk who was reluctant to accept help and certainly didn’t ask for it, I added, “We can help you, Quen. But you have to let us.”

With his lips pressed together, he nodded.

We sat across from each other in silence for a while, then a knock broke the silence.

“Time's up,” announced the officer who had brought me here and stood guard outside. He had barely finished speaking when a tinny voice came over a small loudspeaker:

“Inmate Quentin Percival, number 5-8-2-0-6-6, step back against the wall and put your hands on your head.”

Quen sighed deeply and stood up.

I also slid off my chair and patted him briefly on the arm. “After the decision following the hearing, I'll see if and when I can visit you again, okay?”

“Sure.” Already raising his hands to his head, he backed up against the wall. “And tell Nico he could give me a call sometime, the bastard. He doesn't do anything else all day.” There it was again, the condescending macho persona, but at least he accompanied his words with a wink.

“I'll tell him.” I would, but we knew Nico's answer. He was in contact with various detention facilities so often for research purposes that he felt uncomfortable making a call about personal matters.

The door opened behind me. “Mr. Percival. I'll accompany you to the exit.”

“Oh, am I being released already?” Quen chimed in, and I rolled my eyes and probably the officer did too.

“Shut up over there, I'm not talking to you.” The words were more annoyed by Quens' constant games than sharp, and I followed the man out.

Only when we had reached the end of the corridor and were thus at a safe distance from the prisoner according to protocol was he allowed to leave the room.

“Hey Dust!” he promptly called after me—another familiar game. “Next time, introduce me to your boyfriend.”

“How about you just come home for that?” I called back over my shoulder.

The officer next to me sighed in annoyance, and the two alongside Quen, who raised his hands in a symbolic handcuff gesture, grinned suppressed. But at least they allowed me to watch Quen until he disappeared through a door before ending my visit in accordance with protocol. Everything here was gray on gray, almost like a magical glimpse into a world without magic, but here and there polished steel flashed or a hint of blue mingled with the color of the walls. It was really bleak.

When I finally stepped out into the fresh air and made my way through the outer security checkpoints to the parking lot, I glanced back. The Ashen Ward Jail was an ugly, off-putting block, and I really hoped Quen was serious and would turn his life around this time.