“No.” Bro’s hands rest on your hips. His face is completely flat. He might as well have turned to stone. You settle yourself more comfortably in his lap.
“Final offer, Bro.” You hook your arms tighter around his neck so he can’t flash-step to freedom. “C'mon, I’ve taken off mine.” It’s nice: the light coming in through the big balcony windows make Bro’s sewing supplies look artfully scattered across the coffee table instead of just messy. “I can wait.”
You wait. Because you’re not wearing your shades, you can see his eyes even through the polarised glass of his. They’re the only part of him that moves, flickering down and to the side. He’s got so used to you not being able to see his eyes that he’s forgotten to control them. You’re not going to mention it to him.
Apart from his eyes, Bro’s expression doesn’t change; but after - seconds, minutes, hours - he lets go of you and reaches up to his shades. Slowly, delicately, he grips them by the edge and takes them off.
He looks like - well, he looks like an older version of Dirk. What did you expect? Freckled, fair skin, hawk-amber eyes. Pointy convex nose, high cheekbones tapering to a narrow jaw. Invisible eyelashes, thin lips.
And, by the corners of his eyes, the faintest touch of crows’ feet. How old is Bro now? Mid-thirties? He’s always seemed ancient to you, of course, but that seems young to be developing his first wrinkles. Will you start seeing grey in his hair soon?
“Satisfied?” Bro’s tone barely lifts at the end to make it a question. You know he must hate the exposure, the vulnerability; but you love that he’s willing to do it for you. You both know that out of all the things he owes you, the greatest is honesty.
“Almost.” And when you lean in to kiss his thin lips, his warm hands come to rest on your back, supporting you.
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