Ethrand isn't sure where the line is drawn. When apathy becomes disdain, becomes hatred, becomes obsession.
He's starting to think he's crossed it.
Occtis Tachonis was always worthless. The eighth child, unneeded, unnecessary. It was pathetic really; a child so unwanted. He was a disappointment at every turn; born without the sorcerous talents of his family and not even able to make amends for that failure with swordsmanship. A Tachonis heir with no talents or skills, a blight on their noble house.
Ethrand Tachonis was skilled in a great many things; sorcery came naturally to him- flowed through his veins like his very blood. Swordsmanship came easy as well. A perfect son- well versed in spells and swords and all the social etiquettes that his status demanded.
Ethrand grew in the comforts of his noble upbringing backed by his many talents. But always, always, there was something there. like the buzzing of insects on a summer's evening. Like the squeak of rats in the cellar. Like something rotting, just out of sight.
Occtis grew up in that house as well. All the best tutors money could buy, all the dressings of nobility, and Ethrand still couldn't pull his eyes from the disappointment. Occtis was something below them, the lowest standing in the family and yet still, somehow, a Tachonis nonetheless.
He never spares his younger brother the courtesy of kindness, barely even spares him a backwards glance. Such things- worthless little brothers- are below him.
When he does speak to Occtis it's only in passing sneers and subtle taunts.
"Ethrand, Why do you hate me?" Occtis asks once, when they're both young. It's obvious- because Occtis is a failure and a burden, and Occtis, even at such a young age, should know as much. But it does make Ethrand aware of at least one thing he wasn't before- that no one else truly hated Occtis.
Ignored him, ridiculed him, abandoned him, of course. But no one but Ethrand bothered with him. No one else felt this burning, creeping hatred towards Occtis that had taken root in Ethrand. No one else lays awake at night sickened by the youngest Tachonis son, unable to shake the feeling of disgust.
"Because I can. Because I want to." He says, rolling his eyes to dismiss the matter entirely.
He doesn't know, not really.
Ethrand has no idea what it is that separates the cold indifference of his family from the scorching contempt he feels. But it's there, and it's so obvious that even Occtis- daft as he is- can see it.
When Occtis is young, it seems to burn when Ethrand is cruel towards him. Those pretty green eyes well with tears and Ethrand can see the quiver of his lip as he fights back tears. Miraculously, Occtis manages that, at least. A shame, because Ethrand would have loved to see tears on his face.
When Occtis is in his teens, just barely coming into his own, he tries to bite back some kind of retort to Ethrand's comments. He's grown to be a sharp tongued brat, but Ethrand doesn't flinch. This is a game Occtis is only going to lose. Occtis knows as much.
Occtis can't help but back down like the meek little pet he is. Even when courage manages to find the young man, it never stays long enough to really suit him. A pity; because Ethrand would have loved to see Occtis try to prove himself to his older brother. But backing down is just as well.
He's not sure if the flicker in Occtis' expression is real or imagined, but it's gratifying all the same. If nothing else, Occtis manages that. Somehow, he always does.
Ethrand hates to admit it, even to himself, even only in his thoughts, but it's true all the same; Occtis has grown handsome with age.
Surely helped by the privilege of wealth, dressed in expensive clothes and smelling of expensive cologne. But his face is undeniably beautiful- almost androgynous in its angular planes and almost tempting when Occtis' drags his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Stop that." Ethrand scolds, standing above Occtis, at least a few inches taller and the difference is only amplified by Occtis' poor posture.
Occtis doesn't say anything in response, but a frown tugs at his lips despite how he tries to hide it. His lips look just as good shaped as a scowl.
Ethrand isn't sure where the line is drawn. When apathy becomes disdain, becomes hatred, becomes obsession.
He's starting to think he's crossed it.
His younger brother is the object of his contempt first and foremost. That can never be forgotten. He can't stand the failure that Occtis is- has always been.
He can't stand the man Occtis is. Worthless, useless, lurking in the Tachonis manor like a bad dream given form.
Ethrand watches from the hall like a shadow; Occtis is in his room, fussing over some project or another. From here, Ethrand can't see his face. Good. But the line of Occtis' body is bad enough. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, bent slightly over his desk, careful hands working on something. Occtis flicks his bangs out of his face, and Ethrand denies how he tracks the movement.
He pretends his eyes don’t track Occtis now, like he pretends his eyes don’t track Occtis down the hall, in the gardens, even at family dinners where Occtis makes himself small and tries to disappear completely.
He denies that he stands there, in the hall, for much longer than he needs to. It's his own home, afterall, he has a right to these halls. More of a right than Occtis does.
He watches careful hands sew up some macabre little project- a cheap imitation of what Ethrand can do without so much as a second thought. He's better than Occtis, but he already knew that.
But there's something he can't pull his eyes from. The steady motion of the younger man's hands, the intense focus that tenses his body. Occtis, for all his awkwardness and insecurity, is certainly attractive- in an objective sense.
From the length of his fingers, to his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, to the line of his spine that Ethrand's gaze has become affixed to.
He wants to bend Occtis over that desk, wants to hear the pathetic gasp he’d surely make, wants to feel the younger man under his hands; shaking like a leaf.
Ethrand leaves in a hurry. He forces the thoughts from his mind and doesn't let him look back down the hall. He can't hide the way his mood has soured. Everyone knows to avoid Ethrand when he gets like this- and he gets into these awful moods increasingly often.
He's left alone to stew in these thoughts as evening becomes night, becomes early morning. He's chewed on the inside of his cheek until it's begun to bleed, and the taste barely registers to him. He lays in bed, back pressed to the sheets, desperately trying to ignore whatever morbid fascination has crawled into his chest and called itself desire.
Behind closed eyelids, memories and fantasies play out in an incessant show of poor self restraint.
