>Dane: Doubt yourself.
You were certain he was being antagonistic, but his reaction to your quip came completely from left field. Before you can muster a joke to set the mood at ease, he’s left the room, closing the door behind him.
The air is cool around you as you roll out of bed, landing on the floor sprawled out naked like a butterfly ripped too early from his cocoon. The carpet rubs against your back uncomfortably, but you don’t move for a solid minute, staring up at the ceiling.
The cold pulls goosebumps prickling from your skin, so you finally yank yourself to your feet and throw something on. It doesn’t really matter to you what it happens to be, considering your immediate return to a blanket that wiggled its way to the floor during the scuffle with Dave.
You tuck your face into the soft fleecey smile of Snow White and open the door.
“Kay, I’m ready.”
>Dave: Patiently wait.
This is a fairly abnormal thing for you, on most occasions. You have a habit of becoming easily irritated during long periods of waiting unless have one of your addictions to subdue you.
Though you have neither a drink nor a cigarette to mollify the anxiousness that would normally irk you, you feel strangely content. You hum quietly from the back of your throat, lazily picking at your fingernails and plucking a few specks of lint from your vest.
When you glance over and see the handle turning, you straighten up a little and ease your shades up the bridge of your nose, folding your arms as the door opens and reveals your little brother, bundled up in a childish and particularly ironic blanket. Or at least, you say it’s ironic. One of the main things to remember about irony is that to make it as truly ironic as possible, you have to wrap it back around into being genuine.
You guess he just likes flowery little Disney women. No harm in that.
Oh well, at least you already know he’s about as straight as Liberace taking it up the ass from Elton John while listening to a Cher album.
Your lips tilt up into the tiniest of smiles as you eye him from behind your shades, “Nice outfit. Diggin’ the little Disney cape thing you’ve got going on. It’d be almost villain-esque if not for the jubilant faces of pasty white princesses.”
Without another word, you fish your keys out of your pocket and make your way down the hall to the stairs (it’s basically a known family rule that the elevators aren’t to be used), jogging effortlessly down the several flights, fully expecting him to be following you with just as much ease.
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