The boy just won't leave Silas alone.
He's splashed him, sprayed him in the face with his water gun, followed too close behind him. He's four, maybe five. I've sat in a plastic chair beside the pool long enough to know that all manner of harassment is boyspeak for "Play with me," so I don't intervene. But Silas is not accustomed to being heckled. He's usually the heckler, and he's had enough. I watch him from across the pool as he turns around, points his chubby finger at the little boy, and growls something akin to "Stop!" Then he points a few yards away, where his brother is standing on the side, ready to jump in. From my perch, I hear, ".... I'll get Asher."
The boy walks away.
* * * * * * *
Tonight they watched their dad on stage. If they had been alone, either boy would have stood to the side, clapping and dancing benignly. But each is emboldened by his brother's brazenness, and both take their turn seeing just how close they can get to climbing on stage before I shoo them away.
Neither would try if his brother wasn't with him.
* * * * * * * *
They are up at dawn every morning, acting out a plot from a superhero's den, arguing over a toy, walloping one another, then playing again.
All day long I will hear them, talking over one another, battling (either staged or heartfelt), telling knock-knock jokes, plotting their mutiny. Running down the hallway, first to play, then to escape, then to play again. They are loud - have mercy they are loud - rambunctious, mischievous, silly. Whatever life would be like with one little boy is exponentially more so because they are together.
I can't imagine them any other way.