Little Things Ch. 01 of 04

The moment's gone on too long when I finally manage to turn around, disappearing down the hall and into my room on legs that feel strangely weak and wobbly. I'm glad for the distraction of the computer, of my assignment. I don't want to think about him right now. Or I shouldn't want to. I don't know.

Two hours at the keyboard sees a few pages completed, until I run into another wall and have to end the blinking taunts of the cursor. Late enough to hit the hay. I slip out of my jeans and under the covers, settling in for the night. I'm sure I'll feel more myself in the morning.

But the minutes drag on, laying there in the darkness. I can't sleep. Strange, for me. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me, there on the rooftop. The power in his eyes. The longing. I'm not cold, but I shiver a little beneath the covers. I've never had anyone long for me, not like that. Hell, not at all, really. I didn't think I could inspire that kind of feeling. Half a dozen boyfriends over the years, and I'm pretty sure none of them even loved me.

I mean, let's be fair -- it's not like I really loved them, either. Guys with a confident grin, or with a clever tongue, or musical fingers...I liked them all well enough at the time, with the possible exception of Chet. But that was all. I've never felt the kind of urgent desire that half the songs on the radio seem to be about, and I didn't think anyone else ever felt it for me. I wasn't even sure it was real.

So suddenly seeing something like that...and from my brother, of all people...it's weird, yeah. I don't know how to take it. I turn over, trying to get comfortable, trying to sleep, but my mind keeps whirling. How did this happen, anyway? When did this happen? I'd think it was recent, some quirk of his looming adulthood -- but why would he develop a thing like that now, when we haven't even seen each other for nearly a year? And besides...I don't know. We were so close, anyway, in the time before. Could I even have told the difference, between that and a secret crush?

Christ, I'm not going to be able to get to sleep like this. I ease out of bed, pad softly on bare feet out into the hall. The apartment's dark now, quiet. I guess even April's caught a relatively early night. Good. The last thing I want right now is to run into her again.

I don't really consciously decide to head out to the living room, but neither am I surprised when I find myself at its edge, peering dimly at the body that silently reclines on the couch, head lightly laid on a scavenged cushion, a thin blanket loosely draped above. Man, he barely even fits on that thing -- David's legs are halfway curled, and even so, he's pressed up at the edge of the couch. The thought occurs that he'd be more comfortable in my bed, and I feel a faint, ambiguous tingle run down my spine in contemplation of the idea.

Darkness. Silence. I shouldn't be out here. There's no point -- even though I can't tell for sure, with his face shrouded in shadow, David must be asleep. Just the way I should be. But my eyes linger for a few more seconds, hesitating on what little I can see of his features, on his muscular arm draped over the edge of the couch. Then, just as I'm turning to leave, I almost jump as his voice quietly sounds across the room. "Can't sleep either, huh?"

Turning back, I have to hope that the darkness of the room hides the quiet embarrassment glowing in my eyes and on my cheeks. "Not really." Fuck, my voice sounds so damn mousey. "Um." I inhale, and strive for something closer to confidence. "I'm surprised you're still awake, though. Doesn't dad still have you up at five to milk the cows?"

He's sitting up now, stretching as he settles in the couch's middle seat. "Yeah. I'm usually long conked out by now. But, well..." He hesitates, and I can feel his gaze on me, despite the dark of the room. "I got a lot to think about today."

A tiny, forceful laugh falls out of me. Not funny, really. Not even a joke. But it helps the tension, anyhow. "Yeah. Well, I think I've got you beat on that." I wander closer, little aimless steps that somehow bring me up beside him. An empty place on the couch, waiting for me. "Do you mind if I..."

"'Course not." He pats it lightly, and I plop down beside. Tongue-tied again. It feels weird being close to him, now. Not bad, just...weird. I flip through a few sentences in my head, trying to think what I can bear to ask him, what I even want to know. Maybe I shouldn't ask him anything. Just let it stay the way it is. Known, but unspoken. The secret nobody says.

My seat has me right beneath the only light in the room, the pale radiance of a distant streetlight filtering in through the front window. I can see David a little better now, and when I look into his eyes I find them turned downwards, fixed upon the top of my thighs where they emerge bare from the bottom hem of my shirt. Caressing me with his gaze. My stomach clenches tight, my heart beating faster. But I don't say anything. Just look at him, looking at me.

Not too many seconds pass before he looks up, blanching as his eyes find mine. "Uh." A stuttering apology takes shape on his lips. "Sorry."

"It's okay," I demur quietly, trying to decide what I'm feeling. "I said I didn't mind."

"Yeah," he shakes his head, shame inhabiting his words, "But still, I know you don't want..." Drifting off. There's a lot of things that could follow that.

I don't speak for a while, don't confirm or deny. He sits silently beside me, looking out into the darkened room -- our legs are inches apart. I can feel the warmth of him, like a soft trickle of tropical rain upon my skin. But it's curiosity which finally takes hold of my tongue. "How'd this happen, David?"

"How'd it happen?" His lip curls up a fraction of an inch, his voice striving towards humor - without great success. "Well, first I got in the car...there was some driving involved..."

I shake my head, shutting him down. "Come on. No jokes. When did you first... y'know, feel this way?"

"First?" A sigh, an unceremonious shrug. "Heck, I dunno. When didn't I?" And that's his only answer for what feels a very long time. I can hear the kitchen clock ticking away, counting off the seconds we spend here -- but I have no ready response. Finally, he speaks again. "You know how we were, Sam. I just about worshipped you when I was a kid. Maybe I just didn't..." Another pregnant silence, as he trails off. "I mean, I guess I started really thinking about it -- thinking about, uh, you -- when I was thirteen."

Thirteen? My lips part in surprise, shaping a silent question. But he isn't done speaking yet. "At night, just before bed, when we'd talk or watch TV...you always sat there in the upper bunk with your legs dangling down over the side. Kinda like now." His gaze dips hesitantly down to my bare legs again, before returning to my face. "I'd usually end up watching them, watching you, as much as anything else. Dreaming about touching them. I'd think to myself, those must be the prettiest legs in the whole world."

My head drops down, and I can feel a faint warmth spreading on my cheeks. God. I mean, I've gotten compliments on my legs before, of course. And my face, my hair, my eyes, ass, breasts...guys'll say just about anything they can think of. But this doesn't sound like a line. It just sounds like David -- like a memory, gentle and sincere. And I can't keep a tiny, pleased smile from blossoming on my lips. It's a long while before I can think of how to respond. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"You didn't ask." His lips quirk sardonically. Deflecting, again.

"Funny." I roll my eyes, tolerantly amused, but press forward. "Really, though. We told each other everything -- why would you keep this secret?"

"Come on, Sam." His head shakes minutely. "This isn't like talking about our nightmares, or telling you you've got on too much eyeliner. How could I start that conversation?" He glances away, breathes in slowly through his nose. A reluctant sigh falls from his lips. "I mean, I thought about it, sometimes. Saying something. Seeing if maybe somehow you...but then I'd remember Danny Foster."

"Huh?" I know the name, vaguely -- a kid from town, maybe a year or so older than David. But I don't know what he'd have to do with anything, and furrowing my brow isn't much help in making sense of it.

"Danny Foster," he repeats quietly. "He asked you out in your junior year of high school, remember? You told me all about it. How embarrassing it was to have a freshman make a pass at you, and how you had to tell him off. And there I was, still in middle school." His fingers interlace idly in his lap. "Even forgetting the whole 'being your brother' thing, I knew pretty well that nothing good would have come from telling you."

"Jesus." Chagrin sends my hand to clasp at my mouth, faintly mortified. I was an idiot in high school. I guess everyone is, to one extent or another, but I don't even like to remember it. How I suddenly worried about status, about fitting it, being cool. I didn't come back to my senses until my senior year. "I haven't thought about that in forever. I was a total bitch to him." Silence, again. I have to speak. "Don't tell me you've just been...pining for me, all this time."

He glances away, with a tiny shrug. I have a feeling that if the room were just a little brighter, I'd be able to see a blush on his cheeks. "I don't know. Maybe I have."

"Dammit, Davey." There's no anger to the imprecation -- more a soft regret, as I shake my head. I'm touched, yeah. I can't help that. But it seems like such a waste. He's a great guy; he should be finding somebody who can make him happy, not mooning over his big sister. "That's crazy. Even if I weren't your sister, I'm not worth that."

"You are." He's still looking away, his voice quiet, without force or fire. But he speaks with utter assurance, a silken certainty that does not admit the slightest doubt.

"Why?" I demand back, and then shake my head as seconds pass without a response. "For fuck's sake, David, I'm nobody. I've got nothing. Whatever you go for, you can find someone better than me."

Still no answer. This is so much like him -- avoiding conflict by retreating into silence. I know it'll do no good to browbeat him about it, and a low sigh escapes my lips as I reluctantly take up a different tack. "What about Sarah? I thought you two were..."

A few more seconds pass, but eventually he responds to this. "Yeah." He swallows. Sarah Davenport -- I'd heard about David's first girlfriend maybe a year ago from mom, and didn't understand why he hadn't told me himself. Makes a little more sense, now. "We were, kinda. I guess. It wasn't really my idea, you know?" He glances back at me, with a look in his eye like a plea for forgiveness. "She kept asking me to help her with stuff, or to go places with her. We spent a lot of time together. And..." He hesitates a moment. "And she looked like you, a little bit."

I raise an eyebrow. "Isn't she pretty short? And a brunette?"

David nods. "I don't mean her body, or her hair, really. But her face, when she smiled...I don't know." A quick sigh. "Maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see."

"You keep saying 'was,'" I observe quietly. "'Were.'"

A tense, cheerless smile flickers on his lips. "Yeah. We aren't, ah. Well. It didn't last." His fingers trace unhappily at the top of his hand. "I kinda feel bad about it. She was a nice girl, you know? We were only together for -- um, a few weeks, I guess. It depends on where you start counting. I just did what I thought guys were supposed to do." His voice is low and solemn. "We went to movies, and dancing, and -- I kissed her. My first real kiss, aside from...well. And then one day, I was over at her house while her parents were out, and we..."

He's quiet for a long while, before shaking his head. "It just didn't feel right. Like I was lying to myself, or to her, or...I don't know. I just knew I couldn't do it again, that I couldn't stay together with her." He looks away. "She cried, when I told her it was over."

I can hear the pain in his voice, the empathic sorrow echoing in his words, and my hand drifts over to rest comfortingly atop his. "I didn't want to hurt her," he confesses sadly. "I felt like such a jerk -- I couldn't even tell her why, or what was wrong."

Such a gentle soul. I don't think there's a cruel bone in his body. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You shouldn't beat yourself up about it, Davey. It's a rare relationship that doesn't end in tears." A half-hearted smile crosses my lips. "Remember the times I came home close to crying over some guy or other?"

I certainly remember -- and there's a quiver of requital in the recollection. He always comforted me at those times; when I was hurting from rejection, David would be there with a kind word to lift my spirits, would hang around, worriedly waiting on me like a little butler until I finally had to stop moping and move on. It helped, maybe more than I even realized at the time...knowing that at least he cared about me. That at least he loved me, even if these other guys didn't. Now they're hardly more than a handful of memories, while he's still the most important person in my life.

Another thought pushes to the fore, a slow realization. With a voice cautiously hesitant, I ask "Wait, David...does that mean, with April...was that only your second time?"

His body slumps down, distantly weary, before he eventually nods. "Yeah." His tone reluctantly pleading. "And I know, that's pathetic and everything, but I just...don't, I didn't-"

"Christ, no." I cringe at being so misunderstood. "That's not what I meant - there's nothing wrong with it. I was just thinking...I wish I had stopped her."

He seems surprised at this, but after a moment his mouth quirks with agreement. "I kinda wish you had, too."

I give his hand another squeeze. It seems like the thing to do; a kind of apology. "I guess I thought -- well, I mean, she's right about one thing. You did turn out pretty cute. And being on the football team . . . I just figured you'd have a few more notches on your belt."

He shakes his head, minutely. "No." And glancing away, to the far wall. "I mean, I had chances. There were parties, girls . . . some of the cheerleaders . . . but I grew up with you." Looking at me again, a small smile faintly flickers on his face. "You have such -- I don't know. Such spirit. Seems like every other girl might as well be made out of cardboard."

I laugh. I guess it's a laugh -- a brief, helpless exhalation, shocked with unexpected gladness, as a misting of affectionate tears touches upon my eyes. A tide of warmth, rising in my heart. God, this guy...he always could make me feel like I'm someone special. Like I'm better than I really am.

A sudden sense of gratitude trembles in my soul, a feeling of debt yet to be repaid. I owe him. I do. A thousand tiny favors of childhood and adolescence, borrowed chores and lies to parents. More than that - the silent compact of loyalty we shared as children. When the world was new and bright and wonderful, and adventure waited around every corner...I knew there was nothing that he wouldn't do for me. Nothing I wouldn't do for him. And how terrible the idea, chill and dully aching like a nail in my heart, that I've allowed the world in any way to come between us.

It's this feeling, not any kind of thought or plan, that curls my hand around his, pulls it over to rest above my knee. This feeling that gives his hand a little squeeze, as his long fingers drape down just upon the inside of my lower thigh. Silent. Frozen, as if paralyzed, as if afraid to move the slightest inch, lest the moment disappear like an interrupted dream.

I glance in his direction - he's barely looking at me, just the corners of his eyes touched upon mine. Those mild blue eyes, trembling with uncertainty. Not knowing what to say or do. I've always been the leader, with the two of us; I have to be it now. "You said you wanted to feel my legs, right?" I speak the words gently, a slight, comforting smile curved upon my lips.

He shakes his head, if only just, but doesn't remove his hand. Facing me more fully now, meeting half my gaze. "Samantha, you don't have to-"

"I know." Interrupting, an almost drunken giddiness flooding in. "I want to." It's not funny, but I feel like laughing anyway, hysteria pressing on the back of my mind. Nervousness. This is crazy. Yeah, it is. But it's such a little thing. Not like I'm thinking about having sex with him - it's just a little...taste. A touch, a token. No different from a massage, even, not really. "Just my legs," I add suddenly, softly. As much reassurance as restriction. Setting the boundaries.

The first movement of his fingers on my leg comes with an electric crackle in my nerves, a spark of raw excitement that reaches up, makes me inhale sharply through my nose. Fingertips, roughened already by hard work in the fields, slide up an inch upon my skin, his hand curling as though to leave. But it doesn't, not yet. Instead it slides back, up towards my hips, and I remember suddenly how much I like this. A soft caress - soft, but with the promise of steel, strong hands that could clamp down if they wanted to, could bring that bite of pain. They won't. He won't. But he could.

It doesn't matter, I remind myself. This is for him, not me. But I still can't help a little tremor as his fingers inch tentatively up my leg, leaving trails of warmth upon my skin. Exploring slowly, carefully. Like I'm a treat, a confection he doesn't want to consume too quickly. It feels good, in a strange way, thinking that. Especially as his hand drifts down, squeezing gently at the back of my thighs.

He keeps his eyes away now. Shyly, like he's doing something shameful. Maybe he is. Maybe I am too, letting him do this. But I don't want it to be that way. His name is on my lips before I realize it. "David."

He stops instantly, pulling his hand away as though rebuked, and I can't help a bit of a giggle. "No, look. It's okay." I twist upon the couch, lifting up my legs to lay them lightly steepled above his lap. "I just don't want this to be weird, you know? I mean, maybe it's going to be a little weird no matter what, but..." With a wry kind of smile, I take hold of his hand again, and place it once more at the top of my knee. "Just look at me, okay?"

He does - hesitantly at first, glancingly, but soon more steadily, his sky-blue eyes gazing into mine as his calloused hands scrape softly upon my skin. A blush remains on his cheeks, but he can't help that. I've got the same thing, I think. There's...warmth in this, his big hands grasping at me, drifting slowly upward. His eyes on mine, sometimes dipping down or rising up a moment to glance at my lips, my hair, and me suddenly wondering if he likes them. I was all ready for bed - my makeup off, my hair a mess. I must look dull, plain, boring. But he keeps staring, and I think I see in his eyes the same thing I saw there on the roof, in the cold and the wind. Want. Longing.

It's a familiar feeling when it comes, the ragged edge of my own arousal, liquid heat spurred into circulation about my thighs and hips. Unwelcome...I don't know. Halfway unwelcome. I mean, I'm not attracted to David. I'm not. He's my brother. It's just that right now, he's doing all the right things. And it's been so long since I've had anyone's touch but my own, my skin seems to quiver under his fingers, to tingle and to spark at the pleasure of an unfamiliar hand. I can feel my nipples grow firm, perk up brightly beneath my shirt - Christ, it must be so obvious, so visible.

I could pretend it's someone else. Close my eyes and let it be that rugged guy from my geology class whose fingers sit six inches from the top of my leg, whose touch is filling my insides with that delicious wetness. Who breathes heavily before me, as his hand shifts up another inch, my legs sliding wider to permit his advance. Whose gaze drops briefly down to stare at pink cotton panties slipping into view.