At some stage when he was younger, Chance had worried over the stack of comic books in Abner's room. Why he'd never graduated to boy's adventure books, or the thicker reading material stored in her bookshelf. She'd thought it was his eyesight at first, (he was always in front of that damn tv from morning to noon after all) and wondered if he preferred comics over books because the print was usually larger in them. She decided once she could afford to take him to an optometrist, she'd get his eyes looked at. Two years later, after being held back two grades in middle school, the fresh concerns about her son came bubbling to the surface again. Maybe this time she'd take him to a doctor or something, see if he had some sort of learning difficulty. The case was dropped once and for all when Chance married Hans and seemed to forget about everything but her husband for a while.
Abner, unofficially voted and generally assumed middle school dunce, was going on twenty four now. An adult. Nearly goddamn Illiterate. He'd struggled with the whole reading thing as a kid, sure, and after disappearing off the educational radar once and for all at age ten, it hadn't gotten any better. Maybe a little worse. He kept it to himself mostly, never told anyone if he could help it. Because it was fucking embarrassing.
-
He was fifteen. Sitting at the family table, picking at some undercooked chicken on his plate. Chance always made a great, motherly effort (in her own sweet disordered way) with dinner and everything, but he was pretty convinced now, that she'd accidentally, one day, get round to giving him and Minerva food poisoning or something. It was just a matter of time.
"Hey, is your chicken like... A little pink on the inside?" Minerva whispered to him, and he nodded, miming himself dropping dead out of Chance's line of sight so he didn't hurt her feelings.
Charlie, positioned across from the two, was the only one apart from Chance who hadn't noticed the poor state of the meat. He was too busy laughing over some news article, holding it out at arms length seriously as if to scrutinize it, and then cracking up again. High, hysterical laughter. He wiped away a tear from a fourth eye.
"Oh shit. Holy shit. You've got to look at this." He handed the paper out to Abner.
Abner, surprised at this uncharacteristically friendly action from his older brother, blinked. Whatever they'd written must've been something good, if it made Charlie laugh. Not much did. Sometimes the dirty jokes Vince told did it, but even that was rare. He reached for the paper, happy to be involved in whatever Charlie was showing him. Then hesitated. It wouldn't be the cartoons that had tickled Charlie's funny bone. Not the sunday chuckles. No, it would be some kind of long political tirade or opinion piece that catered to his sense of humor. Those didn't come with any pictures.
Tactfully pressing the paper back into Charlie's hand, Abner decided to play it cool.
"What's it say?" He showed a smile, hoping he struck Charlie as casual. Minerva glanced nervously towards him. She'd mostly been around the house when he'd had that trouble with his grades at school, ("Mrs Frigewalt... You're son is practically illiterate") had heard about it from Chance, too, but Charlie was away at college during that time. He'd missed out a lot of Abner's life from an older brother standpoint, and a good thing too, because Charlie would've probably made his life worse had he been around much.
"You've gotta see this shit for yourself. There's so much in there. Can you fucking imagine-"
"Language!" Chance called as she passed by to collect his plate, finally realizing in silence the mishap she'd made with the chicken. She cursed herself, too wrapped up in yet another failure of hers when it came to dinner to observe just what Charlie was asking of Abner. Burnt steak on Tuesday, she'd boiled the hell out of the vegetables until they'd just about fallen apart, and now undercooked the chicken. Typhoid Mary? How about Samonella Sally. Without a word, she went and grabbed Minerva and Abner's plates, biting her lip.
Charlie apologized, raising his hands and making a silent promise to the swear jar, still in good cheer and hardly noticing how Abner cringed away from the paper.
Eventually, Abner took it, and pretended to read, dragging his eyes slowly across the pages. Row after row. Three paragraphs. He let out the appropriate chuckle once in a while, and Charlie laughed along with him.
Minerva looked at the space her plate at been before Chance had taken it away.
---
Him and Vince, arm in arm, unusual comrades, running around a store.
"Ab. Hello? Can you find the Fragbone?"
"Yeah, I'm uh, looking for it." Abner said. Vince wasn't even in the same isle yet, he was just yelling over the shelves. He wondered, half panicking, what the label had on it. Oh man. It was usually Vince that got whatever they needed. He recognized a large F on a bottle, but the label was a different color to how he remembered it last time. Fuck, fuck, shit shit.
"Bo likes that stuff. I figured it's just something to get-" Vince shrugged, coming over to where Abner stood. There was a pause.
"It's right in front of you! What? Are you blind?" Vince dramatically counted out how many bottles were in front of Abner, before grabbing the neck of one, shoving Abner aside. He let out an incredulous laugh.
"Can see just fine. I was- zoned out." He murmured something about the liminal atmosphere of stores at night. Vince accepted the excuse, turning towards some rum.
"You ever tried this?" He held out another bottle with his free hand. Abner took it from him, holding it unusually close to his face. He squinted. Vince observed this action with a level of mystification, watching Abner murmur out the letters quietly to himself. Sounding it out in his head. An old ritual.
Vince yipped, realizing how absurd the gesture struck him. "You. Are an enigma, my friend."
