Type
you're not helping, bro
“Wonder if Kris is this nervous,” Neil said, leaning on the bathroom doorframe, snickering while Adam’s fingers tried not to tremble so much so he wouldn’t poke his eye out with the pencil.
“I’m not nervous,” he snapped, cattier than usual, his mouth a gleaming streak of gloss across his scowling face. “And don’t let him fool you; he’s not as clean-cut as people make him out to be… why should he be nervous?”
“And you’re the king—I mean, queen—of flirts, aren’t you?”
“And you’re my brother; why didn’t you inherit any of those genes?”
Neil didn’t respond to the insult, and only shook his head in that condescending way that always made Adam want to screech his ear off.
“I mean, you must have more experience of dating guys like him than he has of you, anyway.”
The liner clattered to the sink, leaving an accidental smudge on Adam’s cheek. Memories of short, brown-haired, faceless ex-boyfriends flashed in his mind; memories he just wanted to forget.
“Don’t—don’t—”
"It was a joke, bro."
"They're not—"
“I know, I’m sorry, it wasn’t a good joke, obviously.” Neil raised his hands apologetically, his next words a fraction quieter, “I know you, I know you’re not heartless like that. You told me Kris was different, and I believe you.” Adam looked back at Neil, his expression serious before the grin came creeping back (there were two actors in the family, one of them was just too lazy to pursue it).
“You can hardly deny that you have a type, though, bro.”
The aforementioned singer blushed faintly, and thanked the makeup gods profusely afterwards because there was nothing more humiliating than acting like a poof in front of your flesh and blood.
“Shut up, man. Kris is… something else.” For lack of better white-boy adjective.
Neil crossed his arms and watched him pick up his eyeliner before the tip got too wet. "So, where are you guys going?"
He opted to keep the shrug in his voice, lest he mess up his eyes again. “I don’t know, I don’t wanna seem overbearing, so I’ll let him decide.” A moment of contemplation. “You and Mom are just gonna sit here talking about us the whole time, aren’t you?”
“Not the whole time,” Neil admitted innocently. “Anyway, it’s a lot less fun without you there to go as red as Grammy's lipstick."
“I do not go—“
“—which isn’t really your color, bro, it clashes with your eyes—“
"You ass, get out of here! You’re quiet, but no one ever sees the evil side of—“
"Don’t forget to brush your teeth!" Neil cackled as if he was trying out for Elphaba in Wicked.
Adam nearly threw his toothbrush at the slammed door, remembering just in time that he hadn’t brushed yet, and opted to chuck Neil’s instead.
He took one final glance in the mirror, hair coiffed to the core and eyes ready for a dance-floor slaughter, and smiled. The perfect outfit (complete with the lucky python boots), vengeance on an annoying little brother, permission to molest the hottest Arkansas native ever, and being alive was an amazing thing.
“I’m not nervous,” he snapped, cattier than usual, his mouth a gleaming streak of gloss across his scowling face. “And don’t let him fool you; he’s not as clean-cut as people make him out to be… why should he be nervous?”
“And you’re the king—I mean, queen—of flirts, aren’t you?”
“And you’re my brother; why didn’t you inherit any of those genes?”
Neil didn’t respond to the insult, and only shook his head in that condescending way that always made Adam want to screech his ear off.
“I mean, you must have more experience of dating guys like him than he has of you, anyway.”
The liner clattered to the sink, leaving an accidental smudge on Adam’s cheek. Memories of short, brown-haired, faceless ex-boyfriends flashed in his mind; memories he just wanted to forget.
“Don’t—don’t—”
"It was a joke, bro."
"They're not—"
“I know, I’m sorry, it wasn’t a good joke, obviously.” Neil raised his hands apologetically, his next words a fraction quieter, “I know you, I know you’re not heartless like that. You told me Kris was different, and I believe you.” Adam looked back at Neil, his expression serious before the grin came creeping back (there were two actors in the family, one of them was just too lazy to pursue it).
“You can hardly deny that you have a type, though, bro.”
The aforementioned singer blushed faintly, and thanked the makeup gods profusely afterwards because there was nothing more humiliating than acting like a poof in front of your flesh and blood.
“Shut up, man. Kris is… something else.” For lack of better white-boy adjective.
Neil crossed his arms and watched him pick up his eyeliner before the tip got too wet. "So, where are you guys going?"
He opted to keep the shrug in his voice, lest he mess up his eyes again. “I don’t know, I don’t wanna seem overbearing, so I’ll let him decide.” A moment of contemplation. “You and Mom are just gonna sit here talking about us the whole time, aren’t you?”
“Not the whole time,” Neil admitted innocently. “Anyway, it’s a lot less fun without you there to go as red as Grammy's lipstick."
“I do not go—“
“—which isn’t really your color, bro, it clashes with your eyes—“
"You ass, get out of here! You’re quiet, but no one ever sees the evil side of—“
"Don’t forget to brush your teeth!" Neil cackled as if he was trying out for Elphaba in Wicked.
Adam nearly threw his toothbrush at the slammed door, remembering just in time that he hadn’t brushed yet, and opted to chuck Neil’s instead.
He took one final glance in the mirror, hair coiffed to the core and eyes ready for a dance-floor slaughter, and smiled. The perfect outfit (complete with the lucky python boots), vengeance on an annoying little brother, permission to molest the hottest Arkansas native ever, and being alive was an amazing thing.
♠ ♠ ♠
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