Tony belly-flops onto the green velvet sofa with a muffled thump. The room goes quiet, except for the rain dragging slow silver lines down the tall window.
He tosses a grape up. Thud. Right on his forehead. Tony flops back, chin on the cushion, staring at the ceiling while the curtain rod gives one loud creak.
Tony looks up. Two scrunched-up legs dangle from the curtain rod. Feet first. Arms gripping tight. A face going pink.
Then red. Then a very deep, very red RED. "Tony," Clint mumbles, fingers still locked on the rod, "I forgot how to flip back." The grape sits on the carpet between them, round and unbothered.
Tony grabs the curtain and yanks. The whole panel ripples. Clint swings wider with a whoosh, and Tony's bare hands slide right off the damp fabric.
He tumbles back onto the sofa. Rain drums on the glass. Clint is still upside down, arms still flailing, mouth still open.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Two glasses of orange juice go clink on the coffee table. Dad spots the grape, picks it up, and lobs it to Tony.
Tony catches it. Looks up. Clint, still upside down, cackles so hard he bounces on the rod. Up. Down. Up.
Tony stands. Clint drops to the floor with a soft thump, face still rosy. He blinks at the ceiling like it owes him money.
Dad raises the grape under the chandelier. They pass it back and forth—tock, tock, tock—palm to palm to palm. Three voices shout "Your turn!" while the rain keeps tapping the windows, quiet and steady.
