“Feel rather like that ball,” Claus says, making me jump and miss the next kick. He’s ready for my slip-up and takes his own shot at the wall. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
“What do you mean?” I ask as the ball flies to me again, and I send it back towards the stonework.
Claus returns the volley and replies, “Like I’m just being shot at something I can’t avoid. I know it’s going to hurt like hell when I collide with it, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“Never known you to be one for metaphors,” I mutter as we continue to take our turns kicking at the wall.
My younger brother shrugs. “I’m more than a pretty face.”
I snort.
“Oh, come on, Fritz. Everyone knows, you’re the brains, I’m the beauty.”
My shoulders drop a bit, and I can almost smile. This is how Claus deals with everything, humor and irreverence. Perhaps he has it right. I don’t see him walking around the palace with his shoulders up to his ears or knuckles white from clenched fists. Maybe it’s because his biggest concern is always where his next lay will come from. His worry for Father ends there, with fear for the man we love. This illness doesn’t have the same implications for him as it does for me.
I settle the ball when it comes to me next. I give it a little roll and a flick to send itup into my arms. “Do you want to talk, or shall we just ignore our feelings like always?”
“I’d rather like a drink, but it’s only noon and I don’t want to miss out on all the fun tonight.”
I shrug. “Settle for gluttony instead?”
“I like where your head is at. Pizza?”
This time, I do manage a small smile. “What else?”
