To your room

You pass your room, first door on the right directly after the stairs. Your brother's is just a little further down the hall, so I knock on the door and shout, "Kyle! Mom says dinner will be ready in an hour!"

You barely hear his reply as you retreat and open your own door, muffled as it is by distance and wood. You enter and immediately take off my hoodie, laying it down on a knob projecting off your bedframe. Hell, while you're at it, you may as well just change out of your clothes. There's a little bit of sweat on the inside, and you're not eager to carry that clammy moisture around with you all day.

You open your wardrobe and rifle through it, selecting a plain white long-sleeved shirt and threadbare grey long pants. You set those items down on your bed and strip down. You try to take your top off without too much contact with your skin; its damp fabric slipping over you feels uncanny and freezing. You shiver in a mix of disgust and cold as it slides over your neck to join your new outfit on the bed.

You avoid paying attention to what's on your chest; there isn't much there, anyway. If breasts are assets, then you must not have invested well before birth. Just another reason to keep yourself wrapped up. At least if you keep people wondering — when they notice you at all, that is — they won't know how utterly disappointing your body is.

Your tracksuit pants are next, easier to remove. They slide off in one go, pooling at your feet in a puddle of shiny black and white. You throw them on the bed as well. You really should just get dressed immediately, but you can't help the short stretch, now that you're only in your underwear. The refreshing coolness is too inviting, and you're procrastinating to avoid putting your other stuff on. Even your lightest fabrics trap some heat, and that's **** in this weather. You can be comfortable for a minute, at least.

That's how Kyle finds you. You spin in place, instinctively covering the little you do have as you hear the door swing open. "Willow, I was trying to tell you that I didn't hear—"

He stops, and you stand frozen, arms and hands over your underwear. You want to shout at him, close to tears just from this, but words aren't connecting in your head right now. You're not even sure what you'd say. I just stare, hoping your glare conveys the fire you're feeling under your skin, and praying it'll be enough for him to leave and apologize on his way out.

It's not. He just stands there, frowning slightly. Every moment he remains in place just makes you want to shout at him more, if you could get the words out. The frown makes it worse, as if he's evaluating you and doesn't like what he sees. There's no other reason for him to be there for so long. Some part of you thinks it's only natural that even your brother wouldn't be able to hide his disappointment when he finally gets a good, long look.

"F— Kyle," you start, voice shaking, "why— what the hell!" You're just quiet enough that Mom doesn't come to investigate. That'd be too much for you.

"What do you mean?" he asks, voice infuriatingly level. Even though he's not smiling, he must be enjoying this.

"What do I— what kind of question of question is that? I'm asking why you just opened the door without knocking!"

"I never knock."

"Which is something I've complained to you about, multiple times!" You curse him in your head for the lack of courtesy, and Mom for confiscating everyone's room keys. "Would you just knock before you come into my room, please? This is humiliating."

He nods. "Okay, I will." Despite his words, he doesn't turn away.

Fuck me, you pick today of all days to suddenly turn into a leering asshole.

"Why are you still staring at me?" you practically hiss.

"You haven't asked me to look away."

You shift slightly, unbalanced by the odd admission. "What kind of— why do I have to ask you to turn around? Why can't you just read the room and have the courtesy to leave by yourself?"

His frown deepens. "I'm... not sure." His pitch raises at the end, almost coming out as a question. You realize that it's the first time his voice has been anything other than perfectly level since he appeared at your door.

For the first time, it occurs to you that his behavior isn't just odd for him, it's odd in general. He hasn't made any major moves to or away from you or the door since he got here, even though you're sure the shock of seeing you in your underwear for the first time in years has long since worn off. Plus, while he might not be overly polite, he's not the type to draw this out as far as he has, certainly not for a joke.

You start speaking slowly, your mind running through possibilities and finding none that made sense. "Kyle, why are you just standing there?"

His frown relaxes, becoming only a slight thing that barely creases his eyebrows. "You haven't told me to move."

"If I told you to move, would you?"

"Yes."

"Why would you move if I told you?"

His frown deepens again. "I don't... I don't know."

This is incredibly weird. You decide to try something, your words tumbling out at the same speed as your thoughts. "Kyle, are you— is this— if I give you an order, will you obey it?"

He pauses for a moment, taking some time to respond. "It depends on the order."

That's not a no. How far is he willing to take this... whatever it is? "Okay. If I told you to lick the door, would you?"

"Yes."

"If I told you to kill someone, would you?"

He visibly recoils. "What? No!"

Well, I wasn't planning to go that far anyway. It'd be a hell of a test. You're tempted instead to have him do something humiliating to call his bluff, something that falls well within the bounds of sanity while still being embarrassing enough that you'd feel the two of you were even, but, well... you're still in your underwear, and you're nowhere near that vindictive.

There is still a way to tell if he's bluffing, though, and it won't take much. Other than further embarrassment, but you're already sinking further with every second, so there's not much point to drawing this out further. "Kyle, I want you to forget what you've seen here. You can do that, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Forget what you saw and what we talked about— you know what, just forget about this altogether. Go back to your room, and don't come back to mine until I come out." You remember something. "And please knock from now on."

"Okay." Despite his reply, he still just stands there.

You huff. "You can leave now."

He does so almost immediately, closing the door as he turns away. You wait for him to burst in again, cackling at his prank as he celebrates pulling one over on you. The door taunts you, your hands still covering your underwear as you anticipate it bursting open once more. That would be the the perfect capstone to this stupid interaction.

It doesn't happen. The door remains closed for what must be two minutes of motionless watching.

You finally feel secure enough to turn and start dragging your clothing on. You keep one eye on the door at all times, sure that it'll open at any moment accompanied by the sound of sadistic cackling. Despite knowing that's out of character for him, you can't help but believe that today's the day your brother finally decides tormenting you would make for a worthwhile pastime. Enough of your friends have shared their own horror stories of idiot older brothers being complete assholes to them. Why should yours be any different?

And yet, as the final item finds its place on your body, the door remains resolutely shut, not a sound on the other side. He listened. You don't know what to make of that.