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He has these big, soft looking lips that are the strangest pale pink color, like carnations or something annoyingly poetic like that. You can’t decide if you’re more jealous or enamored. When he talks, he rambles almost endlessly, and has developed this habit of licking them every now and then. You’re glad for your thick sunglasses. Even up close, he can’t see the way you stare at his rapidly moving, saliva-glossy mouth.
When he snorts, his face twists in this unnaturally attractive sneer, his nose crinkling and one half of his mouth opening to reveal perfect teeth. The breath that puffs out when he makes that face sets you silently on fire.
He’s so careless. Everything about him is a casual blend of pure sexuality and perfect grace. You remember being younger and trailing along after him as he picked you up from school, his limbs moving haphazardly around him in a way that would unseat anyone else but just gave him more traction and sway. Even now, he’s like a clumsy cat who somehow manages to stay on its feet and look good stumbling around.
He smells faintly of apples and expensive cigars. He doesn’t smoke, but his contacts do, and he’s always out rubbing elbows with someone or doing favors so he has some to cash in later.
When he’s home with you, he talks nonstop about everything. You find this habit endearing. You’ll lean over the counter with your head supported by one hand and just listen, watching him prepare dinner or wash dishes or some other task he devotes himself to neurotically.
He never fails to crash and burn, falling asleep on the couch and putting you in the position of carrying him back to his room. You’re old enough and muscular enough now that he’s not as heavy as he was when you were a kid and had to do the same thing. Back then, rolling him off the couch and kicking him was enough. Now you don’t mind the contact or the opportunity to stare at his sleeping face as you tuck him in.
He’s so beautiful when he sleeps, his dirty blond hair slightly mussed and the light freckles across the bridge of his nose lighting up his pretty cheekbones. You wait for a while sometimes, just watch him and smile because you’re comfortable and he’s gorgeous.
He breathes slowly and deeply when he’s asleep, and he sleeps like the dead. You inevitably strip him down to his shorts and leave him in the quiet of his room. He works so hard all day, never stopping, that rest for him is a treasured and rare thing.
One day, you wake him up half an hour later than you should, but you can’t bear to send him off to work after only five hours of sleep. He grumbles at you, takes a shorter shower than usual, skips breakfast, and hugs you hastily before leaving. It’s the first time he’s hugged you in over a year.
You’re so unprepared that you don’t hug him back, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s a quick squeeze, tight around your chest, before he’s gone.
He starts doing it more often. You start reciprocating.
He’s a good brother but you can’t say the same for yourself.
“Dave,” you say.
“Hmm?”
He’s taking a rare break from running his mouth to fill it with an uncomfortable quantity of fried eggs. He still somehow looks kissable stuffing himself with greasy food.
His uncovered eyes are widened in wait, eyebrows raised handsomely.
“Would you hold it against me if I said you were pretty?”
You’re a lot of things, but you’re not a coward. You wait for his disgust or—dare you think it—reciprocation.
Instead of answering, he snorts, mouth open and full of egg, eyes scrunched closed, head thrown back. It’s not even an unattractive face, what the hell.
“Is that funny, David Strider?” You put on your best teasing dad voice. If he’s laughing like this, that at least means you haven’t fucked up.
“Nah, just obvious. Of course I’m pretty. All Striders are pretty. It’s, like, some sort of cosmic rule or something. The law by which the universe orders itself.” His face is very serious as he says the words, hand sweeping dramatically in front of him. He’s a sweet idiot.
“Yeah, yeah. Am I pretty, then?”
He hums, turning his head to crack his neck before making a bridge of his hands to rest his chin on. “Oh, kouhai, you’re the prettiest girl here.” He flutters a hand toward himself and pretends to faint.
You roll your eyes.
You’re not irritated. You feel like you probably could be if you tried, but it’s a nice morning and he doesn’t have to leave yet, so you don’t want to waste time. You have a goal in mind and you’d like to achieve it soon. “I’m being serious.”
He laughs for a moment and takes another bite of egg, his expression unusually solemn. “You’re kind of pretty, I guess.”
“Ouch.”
He smiles just a little and glances up at you, red eyes shielded by his long eyelashes. God, he’s beautiful.
“Pretty’s not the best word for you, Dirk.” You love it when he says your name like that. It falls off his lips like he’s saying something precious. He enunciates it clearly and with an affection that makes your heart want to do terribly uncool anime things.
You tear yourself away from your thoughts. “Oh? What is the best word for me, then?”
He sets his fork down and reaches out with one hand, his long, slender fingers poking you in the forehead. “Nope.”
“What? That’s not fair. You can’t just do that. Tell me.” His fingers are still jabbing at the skin at your hairline, so you reach up and catch his hand. You earn a flick to the temple for it and twist his wrist painfully until he winces and jerks it back.
“Fucker,” he bites out.
“Eat me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
You stifle the urge to moan.
“Dave.” You stand and move around the table to look down at him from a closer position. When you turned twenty, you shot up and filled out almost overnight. You’re twenty-two, almost twelve years younger than your brother, and you’re bigger than him. You figure you can try intimidating him. “Dave, tell me.”
The voice in the back of your head tells you this is all way too middle school sleepover, but you ignore it. The bank of fucks has been cashed. Completely empty, without a single fuck in sight to withdraw and give.
For all your efforts, Dave’s sitting there staring up at you, eyebrow cocked in amusement, like he thinks you’re the cutest kid on the playground. You cross your arms.
“Annoying,” he chirps. He’s doing his shitty leer and it’s making you want to kiss him.
“Are you twelve?”
“I’m offended, dude. I’m obviously thirteen.” He looks so fucking wounded. You’re not sure why he didn’t just become an actor. You swat him upside the head and return to your seat.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, dickmunch?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go. Thanks, mom.” He stands and deposits his plate in the sink, eyeing you with a questioning look and silently asking if you wouldn’t mind washing it for him. You nod.
“Play nice with the other kids, dear. Make some friends.”
He ruffles your hair on the way to the door. As he’s pulling on his jacket, you hear him say something that’s too quiet to make out.
“Hmm?”
“I said, you’re not pretty, you’re rugged.” He puts on his shades. “Handsome. Sexy, even.” Snaps his watch into place. “That’s what you are.”
He smiles at you and he’s out the door.
“Well,” you say to the empty room, “fuck.”