Familiarity

It’s the little things that you get used to, over time.

You don’t even realize it at the start. It’s not like you’re psychic, and you’re certainly not somebody who can read what your heart will decide in one, two, three months.

Lying in his lap, you slip back into that easy stream of conversation. He had asked a question, and you hadn’t heard. You had been too busy watching the movie he’d put on in the background, because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you watch a movie like this?

Maybe you were trying too hard to focus on it. You couldn’t exactly remember what had just happened in the last few minutes, now that you think about it, even though your eyes had been glued to the screen. The awareness of his leg under your head, his fingers lightly drumming on your arm, the slow rise and fall of his chest- it was all so distracting.

What? Oh, he asked another question. This one you caught- you thought he would ask it, and there’s pleasant surprise as always when you guess right. Knowing someone this well… it’s soothing. You respond, and he laughs, face opening up.

You drag your eyes away from his smile, feeling your own mouth curl up.

It’s raining. It’s still raining after a week, and you’re feeling antsy. Nothing seems to be working today. All your tools are scattered across your desk, surrounding whatever it was you had built. It hadn’t been what you wanted, so you pulled it apart and sat beside your bed, instead.

The cat’s back in your room. It always seems to find you when you get like this. You don’t know if it’s coincidence or programming, either. Your eyes stare at it curling up in front of you.

It’s okay company.

When you wake up, it’s dark. A blanket is draped over your shoulders, and a note’s lying on a covered platter. You recognize the handwriting, and you smile.

It’s the long train rides that are either the worst or the best part of your day. Your brother accompanies you sometimes, when neither of you have clubs of your own, and those days are usually better. You poke at him, and he snaps back, and you laugh as he rolls his eyes. The scenery passes by, and on the best days, you gesture wildly as you talk about your day. Not every story is interesting at its heart, but you know how to put the right spin on it. Usually, your brother listens, and you feel warm.

He talks too, sometimes. You ask him questions when he doesn’t, of course. Why wouldn’t you want to know about his day? He doesn’t embellish like you do, but he swears and mocks and laughs, and all is well.

It’s worse when he isn’t here.

Phones are never the same, and strangers don’t want to be bothered.

On okay days, you find somebody to pass the time with.

On others, you turn up your music, waiting for the hours to drain by.

You don’t watch T.V. much, but he said his race was today.

You’re up before anyone else in the house at this time, and probably before the sun. It’s too early for breakfast, and you don’t want to turn on the lights, so you grab some juice from the fridge and make your way to the couch. You’re a little early, and the announcers’ chatter fills the air with a comforting buzz as you curl up in your place, pulling a blanket around you. Hopefully, this doesn’t bring the rest of your family around.

The racers come out onto the screen, and you wait until the camera zooms in on his face. Without anyone watching, you can stare as long as you want. The look’s there, that same one, but there’s a hunger there beside it, wolf-like.

Pulling out your phone, you take a picture, sending it to him with a quip. He won’t respond until much later in the day, so you turn back to the screen.

She talks about the girl, and you put your head in your hands, at this point more for the act than anything. It’s warm, and you can tell she likes her. You can also tell the girl likes her back, and you promptly tell her so. It’s hard to tell if she believes you on the front, though, so you sigh.

How would your brother do this? You’re not sure, and on second thought, you’re not sure you could pull what he does anyway. You offer an olive branch instead, an offer to help, and hope it’s your place to offer it.

Christmas lights have been twirled around the tree, and they light up the entire square. It looks beautiful, and you love beautiful things. The music changes, and you feel his hand brushing against yours, so you take it. You hold his hand and laugh, spinning as you throw snow up in the air. Twirl me! Twirl me! And he does, laughing along with you. People turn to watch, and you almost stop, but you catch a glimpse of his face.

He has that look again. You’re not sure what it is, but it makes you feel funny. Like you’ve caught a cold, maybe? You feel warm, and there’s no way to tell if you can like it. Maybe you’ve been staring for too long, actually, because the look shifts, just slightly-

You pick up a handful of snow from one of the walls and throw it in his hair, and the look’s gone, but the feeling isn’t.

He’s your friend, but he’s mostly your brother’s friend. But he’s your friend too, and when you spend time together, you remember why. You get along well still, and you don’t mind breaking a few laws to combat boredom together. Sitting in the circle of plastic toys, you close your eyes, waiting as he sets the glass eyeballs around you before you make up a chant. He’s recording it, so you keep your eyes shut, even when he snickers. It’s some bullshit verse; you think you might be remembering some out of the ones your parents used to recite, but with what you’re adding on, you doubt these lines would ever pass their lips.

You open your eyes, turning on the flashlights you slipped behind your ears, and put on an act.

It feels less lonely in the castle when you have somebody to spend that extra time with. You can’t reach home from here, so the nightly text messages become nightly wanderings, and the nightly wanderings become nightly encounters.

This time, when you slip out of the room you share, you have a plan in mind. They’re much older than you, and you feel a little childish, but that doesn’t deter you as you scramble through the halls, finding the right window and dropping down. They’re already there, and you’re glad you chose the right night. You don’t need to think much about what they’re doing. At this point you’ve spent enough nights down here to know most of it. Pulling the small wooden sword out from where you had placed it, you walk up to them, holding it up to them. You want to learn how to fight.

To your surprise, they say yes.

You’re sore for days after.

It’s always something your dad pulls. This time, it’s a karaoke night. Your brother somehow managed to rig the lights, and they flash along with the words as he matches your pitch, stealing the show as always. You don’t mind, much. It’s the rest of it for you; the feeling of the floor barely touching your feet as you turn and pivot around, moving your body along with the words. It’s getting lost in that sensation that’s the best part; when everything melts away other than the blurring lights and the soreness of your throat- because of course your brother chose the loudest song you could both find. Your dads are both clapping, waiting for their verses, and as you meet their eyes, their faces melt into the dorkiest smiles you could imagine.

You smile back, spinning.

You were told to come over, and you’re pleasantly surprised, because usually you’re the one pestering to see them. They look happier; well they tend to look happy, but they sit a little more proud than usual, their eyes lit up in a new way. The look suits them. You smile brightly, teasing them and watching their face go red, and it’s comforting in a way you got used to faster than you’d have thought.

This time, they pull out a case that you recognize the shape of. Your mind clicks together the pieces as they begin to play, and you watch, entranced. The music is soft, some of the chords unsure, but they’ve gotten better.

When they finally stop to look up at your reaction, you light up, taking their hand with bright eyes. You love it.

You had just turned seventeen, and you spent the night wondering what insanity your brother would think up this time. It was a tradition; you two shared the day, after all. You knew what you were going to do, and you went over it in your head, where to find the latch, the key, the map.

The cat is sitting on your face when you wake up, which means you let out a yowl to match it when you bolt up, swearing rapidly in languages you know its robotic brain understands. It’s early, much earlier than you usually wake up, but there’s not much sleep to be had after cat-ass. You grumble, make peace with the fact that you feel like you were just steamrolled, and pull on something that makes you resemble a put together member of society.

It’s too early for your sibling to have made breakfast yet, so you blearily head over to the fridge, opening the door only to be nearly blasted deaf by the loud sounds of a train horn, your brother’s voice even louder above it.

Of course he brought a train. Of course it’s Thomas. Of course, because your brother would never do anything less.

You laugh as you climb in, and you don’t stop.

There’s other things throughout the day. You don’t forget those either; the blur of friends, family, gifts and lights.

But the train? You think about it years later, and you laugh again, because of course.

Of course.