#(Morris is there and Wiesel is not as well as a lack of big crowds he can easily pick fights in)

[i-didnt-do-1t]

psst, may i pls request “when did you learn how to do that?” with the delanceys? <3

Nox I am so sorry for posting this at 3am but I hope you enjoy <3

If Oscar hadn’t had a couple of whiskeys he wouldn’t have said it, but as it was his sight was a little blurry at the edges and a warm thrum was echoing through his body. It wasn’t often he could drink at home, usually preferring some cheap pub or bar out one of the shadier sides of town where he could pick a fight and not be noticed in the crowd, but Wiesel wasn’t home tonight, which meant him and Morris were sat in the kitchen together, a half finished bottle between them. The hangover in the morning would probably be hell but he decided it was worth it.

He’d kicked his feet up on the table in front of him, arm thrown casually over the back of his chair, the one that Morris had thrown his jacket over once they’d stepped through the door (he’d have to remind him to hang it up before Wiesel got home)

Morris had been working since they got back, some kind of paper work Wiesel never bothered to hand to Oscar so he assumed there was nothing to read on it. Usually it meant Morris had to get it done by the next morning but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a glass of cheap whiskey sat next to his smouldering cigarette.

Oscar craned his head again to glance at the clean sheet of paper Morris was scrawling on and his frown deepened as he tried to make out the numbers and what the hell they meant. He knew it was something for Uncle Wies, something about the stacks of papers and pay and all the other mathematic stuff Oscar wasn’t involved with but Morris was occasionally asked to look over.

“When did you learn how to do that?”

The question had left his mouth before he even realised he was thinking it.

Morris glanced up at him, brows pulled together, like Oscar was stupid and asking a stupid question. “What?”

He nodded toward the page. “Numbers. Math. I sure as hell didn’ teach you like I taught you everythin’ else.”

Morris took a drag of his cigarette.

“Definitely weren’t you.” He tapped out the ash. “You’re a shit teacher by the way.”

“You’re a shit brother.”

Morris rolled his eyes and turned back to his sheet, scanning it again

Oscar let the silence sit for a second as he watched him, trying to pin down any familiarity in the action, any familiarity in the way his eyes narrowed when he reached something he didn’t quite seem to get.

“Was it ma?”

Morris stopped again, the grip around his pencil tightening near imperceptibly but not subtly enough that Oscar didn’t notice

“What?”

“Did ma teach you numbers?”

Morris frowned at him, like the question didn’t make sense. And maybe it didn’t, Oscar wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure how many glasses of whiskey were in his system either. Didn’t keep count. Would’ve struggled to keep count if he’d tried.

“Course she didn’t.” Morris said eventually, and then with his cigarette between his teeth. “She teach you numbers?”

“She tried.”

“She failed.”

Oscar sent him a blank stare and a middle finger at that, anger somewhere low in his stomach, weighted down by the alcohol that usually surfaced it. (Maybe it just hadn’t reached that point in the night yet. There was still time for something to set him off)

“You can’t read.” He shot back, childish maybe but not untrue and if Morris was going to be a dick he could too.

“Means’ you failed Os.”

Oscar took a slow drag of his cigarette, staring down his brother as he exhaled smoke, fighting to keep the grin of his face.

“You’re an asshole Mo.”

Morris, he thought, looked unusually like their mother when he was exasperated but a little smug, not tired enough to be looking a fight. (Maybe it just hadn’t reached that point in the night yet.)

His lip pulled up a little at the edge in a rare almost smile, even if it was mocking and crooked. “Learnt from the best.”