Just Marc
The Gothic Architecture of a Breakdown
The morning sun hit the Smith household with a brightness that Marc Aidan found personally offensive. He sat on the edge of Steve’s bed, his long, gangly limbs folded like a deck chair, nursing a hangover that felt like a tiny, angry construction crew was renovating his frontal lobe. Steve was frantically trying to find his left sneaker, while in the corner, Klaus was doing tiny, aquatic calisthenics in a shot glass filled with Gatorade.
"I’m telling you, Marc, the biology test is going to be a bloodbath," Steve panted, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Mr. Feeny said if we can't identify the parts of a frog’s nervous system, he’s going to make us eat the specimens. And you know Barry—he’ll do it just to feel something!"
Marc took a slow, painful swallow from his flask, the silver metal cool against his pale hand. "Steve, I have eleven siblings. I’ve seen things in our shared bathroom that would make a frog’s nervous system look like a Five Guys menu. I’m not worried about Feeny. I’m worried about why your 'uncle' is currently outside the window on a window-washing rig wearing a French maid outfit."
Steve froze. He slowly turned toward the window. Sure enough, Roger was suspended three stories up, vigorously buffing the glass with a silk scarf while wearing a black lace headband and a look of intense, erotic concentration.
"Oh, god," Steve moaned, burying his face in his hands. "He’s doing the 'Desirée' bit again. He thinks if he cleans the windows, you’ll invite him to your house to see the 'sibling hoard.' He’s obsessed with the idea of a house where nobody notices an extra body."
Marc stood up, his head nearly grazing the ceiling fan. He walked to the window and tapped on the glass. Roger froze, blew a soapy kiss that smeared across the pane, and then began to lower himself with the grace of a falling piano.
"He’s persistent," Marc noted, his voice a low, rumbling bass. "Most people give up after I threaten to let my brothers use them for target practice. But Phil-Roger? He just asks what caliber we’re using and if it matches his earrings."
"That’s the Roger guarantee," Klaus chimed in, splashing a bit of blue Gatorade onto the rug. "He has no shame, no boundaries, and a costume closet that is technically its own zip code. You’re his new hyper-fixation, Marc. You’re like a shiny new toy, but taller and with more repressed trauma. He loves that."
The bedroom door creaked open, and Francine poked her head in. She was wearing a pair of tactical goggles and holding a frying pan. "Boys! Breakfast is ready! I made 'Breakfast Nachos'! It’s mostly just Doritos I found under the sofa and some eggs I scrambled with a hairdryer because Stan broke the stove trying to 'interrogate' the bacon!"
"Coming, Mom!" Steve yelled. He looked at Marc with a mixture of pity and desperation. "Look, maybe if we stay at school late, he’ll find a new hobby. Like harassing the local bird population or trying to join the city council as a woman named 'Babs Honey-Bucket.'"
Marc grabbed his backpack, which was covered in safety pins and patches of bands that probably didn't exist. "Lead the way, Smith. I need to get out of here before your dad tries to measure my wingspan again. He was lurking in the hallway with a tape measure and a jar of Vaseline. I didn't ask questions."
The walk to school was a gauntlet of suburban absurdity. Halfway down the block, they were joined by Zack and Abby. Zack’s blue beret was pulled low over his albino features to shield him from the sun, while Abby was busy drawing a pentagram on her palm with a Sharpie.
"Marc," Zack said, his voice flat. "Your brother Leo is looking for you. He says you owe him twenty bucks for the 'incident' with the lawnmower. Also, he says if you don't come home tonight, he’s going to tell your mom you’re the one who’s been stealing her cooking sherry."
Marc rolled his eyes. "Tell Leo that if he breathes a word to Mom, I’ll tell Dad he’s the one who’s been using the pool house to host underground ferret racing. That should keep him quiet for a week."
Abby looked at Steve, her gaze lingering on his sensible khakis. "You’re very... beige, Steve. It’s almost impressive. It’s like you’re trying to blend in with a very boring wall."
"It’s a classic look!" Steve defended himself. "It says 'I’m approachable' and 'I won't sacrifice you to a dark deity in the woods!'"
"Weak," Abby muttered, turning back to her palm.
As they reached the school gates, a black SUV with tinted windows screeched to a halt beside them. The door flew open, and a woman with a towering beehive hairdo and a leopard-print tracksuit stepped out. She was holding a martini glass and a small, yapping chihuahua.
"Marc! My darling! My giant, brooding gargoyle!" she shrieked.
Marc stopped dead, his face going even paler than usual. "Oh, no. Not now."
"Who is that?" Steve whispered, staring at the woman who was currently trying to climb over the hood of the car in four-inch heels.
"That," Marc groaned, "is 'Jeannie Gold,' my family’s... wedding planner? Or maybe our travel agent? She shows up whenever there’s a crisis or whenever my dad forgets to pay the gardener."
Roger, in his Jeannie Gold persona, stumbled toward them, the chihuahua yapping at his ankles. "Marc, honey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Your mother is in a tizzy! The twins have locked themselves in the wine cellar and they’re demanding a ransom in Pokémon cards! And your brother Silas is trying to marry a goat! It’s a disaster! I need you to come home and be the tall, intimidating anchor this family needs!"
Roger grabbed Marc’s arm, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like they were made of glitter and gin.
"Jeannie, I’m at school," Marc said, trying to peel the alien off his sleeve. "And I don't have a brother named Silas."
"Details, darling! Minor details!" Jeannie waved a hand dismissively, nearly splashing martini on Steve. "I’ve already booked the caterer for the goat wedding! It’s going to be 'Barnyard Chic'! Now, get in the car! We have to stop by the florist and pick up twelve dozen black roses for your soul!"
"Hey!" Steve yelled, finally finding some courage. "He’s with me! We have a biology test! He can't go to a goat wedding!"
Jeannie Gold turned her gaze toward Steve, her eyes narrowing behind her oversized sunglasses. "And who is this? A hobbit? A very well-dressed garden gnome? Listen to me, little man, I have survived three stag parties in Vegas and a riot at a Build-A-Bear. I will eat you for breakfast and use your khakis as napkins."
"Jeannie, leave him alone," Marc growled, stepping between them. He looked down at the alien, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and genuine amusement. "Look, if I come with you, will you promise to stop harassing Steve’s family for at least twenty-four hours?"
Jeannie tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Make it twelve hours and give me a sip of whatever is in that flask, and you’ve got a deal, you delicious skyscraper."
Marc handed over the flask. Jeannie took a swig that would have felled a horse, let out a satisfied belch, and shoved the chihuahua into Marc’s arms. "Get in the car, boys! We’re going to the Aidan estate! Steve, you’re coming too! I need someone to hold the goat’s veil!"
"I’m what?" Steve squeaked, but he was already being shoved into the back of the SUV by Zack and Abby, who seemed perfectly happy to go along with the chaos.
The drive to the Aidan mansion was a blur of illegal U-turns and Jeannie Gold’s loud anecdotes about her time as a backup dancer for a one-armed magician. Marc sat in the back, the chihuahua asleep on his lap, looking out the window with a resigned expression.
"You okay, Marc?" Steve whispered as Jeannie nearly took out a mailbox.
"This is my life, Steve," Marc said, his voice surprisingly soft. "It’s either this or sitting in a dark room listening to My Chemical Romance and wondering why I’m the only one in my house who knows how to use a dishwasher. At least with your family, the crazy is... concentrated. My house is a shotgun blast of weird."
They pulled up to a massive, sprawling estate that looked like a cross between a Gothic cathedral and a high-security prison. As the doors opened, the sound of screaming children and breaking glass echoed across the perfectly manicured lawn.
"We’re home!" Jeannie shrieked, tumbling out of the car.
A group of boys, all varying heights but all possessing Marc’s dark hair and pale skin, swarmed the car. One was holding a flaming marshmallow on a stick, another was wearing a suit of armor made entirely of beer cans, and two were currently wrestling over a chainsaw that thankfully wasn't turned on.
"Marc’s back!" one of the younger ones yelled. "And he brought a nerd!"
Steve felt a wave of terror wash over him. "Marc, I think I want to go back to the 'Mystery Meatloaf' now."
"Too late, Smith," Marc said, stepping out and towering over his brothers. "Welcome to the Aidan household. Try not to touch anything sticky. Or anything that’s ticking."
As they walked toward the front door, a tall, imposing man with a thick beard and eyes the color of a winter storm stepped onto the porch. He looked at Marc, then at the shivering Steve, and finally at Jeannie Gold, who was currently trying to light a cigarette with a blowtorch.
"Marc," the man rumbled. "Who is the small, beige person?"
"This is Steve, Dad," Marc said. "He’s my friend. His dad is in the CIA and his uncle is... currently wearing your wedding planner’s tracksuit."
Mr. Aidan looked at Steve for a long, silent minute. Steve felt like he was being scanned by a predatory bird. Then, the man let out a booming laugh that seemed to shake the very foundation of the house.
"CIA, eh? Good! Maybe he can tell me why the government keeps sending drones to watch my compost pile! Come in, Steve! Any friend of Marc’s is a target for the rest of my children! Leo! Take the chainsaw away from the twins and set a place for the nerd!"
Inside, the house was a masterpiece of beautiful, expensive furniture covered in the wreckage of eleven siblings. There were velvet curtains with holes cut out for "forts," a grand piano being used as a dinner table, and a hallway lined with portraits of ancestors who all looked like they were plotting a murder.
"It’s... lovely," Steve lied, dodging a stray LEGO projectile.
"It’s a nightmare," Marc corrected, but there was a hint of pride in his voice. He looked at Steve, then at the chaotic swarm of his brothers. "But it’s my nightmare. And hey, at least here, Roger’s the most normal person in the room."
Roger, still in the Jeannie Gold persona, was currently teaching the twins how to make a proper dirty martini using apple juice and salt. "That’s it, darlings! Stir, don't shake! We’re not peasants!"
As the sun began to set over the Aidan estate, Steve found himself sitting on a tattered velvet sofa, sharing a plate of lukewarm pizza with a boy in a beret, a girl with a pentagram on her hand, and a giant who was finally, for the first time, starting to look like he belonged.
"Hey, Marc," Steve said, taking a bite of pepperoni. "Your family is terrifying. But the pizza is better than my mom’s meatloaf."
Marc looked at him, his blue eyes softening. "Yeah. It usually is. Just don't tell Jeannie. She’s sensitive about her catering."
From the kitchen, the sound of a goat bleating and Roger’s shrill laughter echoed through the halls. The terror was there, lurking in the shadows of the gothic mansion, but for one night, it was drowned out by the comedy of a family that was just too big, too loud, and too weird to ever be truly broken.
"To the goat wedding!" Roger’s voice drifted in, followed by the sound of a cork popping.
"To the goat wedding," Marc echoed, raising his flask.
Steve raised his slice of pizza. "To the goat wedding."
And in the corner, Zack and Abby just stared at the wall, waiting for the inevitable moment when the chainsaw would finally be turned on. It was just another Tuesday in Langley Falls, and for Marc Aidan, it was the best one yet.