Y IS FOR YEARBOOK.
(OR: MAKE-OUT KIDS NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO BE BEST FRIENDS.)
by alien trash.

Warnings: Incest.
Author's Notes: Part of an A-Z prompts table. (:

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"You look pretty."

"You think that's going to make it up to me?"

Stranz paused for a moment, "Yes?"

Crossing her legs, left over right, on the lip of his desk, Fairchild breathed a sigh; he was a fucking idiot. This was by no means a revelation, but the consistency with which he displayed it-- now that, that was nothing short of remarkable. Even as she tossed her head and examined her nails with the rehearsed disinterest she'd been perfecting since fifth grade, he tried to catch her eye with his own brand of pathetic obliviousness. God, he just never got it, forever assuming that she could be won around with a few cheap compliments.

In the absence of a reply, Stranz drummed his fingers against the table Fairchild sat on, glancing up at her with a petulant expression; they hadn't even made ithrough homeroom before she'd decided he'd fucked something up. It was always his fault-- always him.

His fingers became increasingly disorganized in their rhythm as his scowl grew more pronounced and his thumb slipped, brushing against his sister's knee. She bristled. Intentionally or instinctively, he didn't know, and – either way – a grin made it to his lips. Shuffling a little lower in his chair, Stranz casually let his hand slip a little further, fingers resting on the hem of her regulation grey skirt.

"You look very pretty," he tried, head cocked a little.

She looked down at him, at his too-long hair, his crooked grin, the delicate fingers on her thigh.

"I know," she replied, letting her lips part in a way she knew would keep him interested. True to form, he leant forwards, going from dominant to dominated in no more than five seconds. Fairchild's hand was now on his, guiding his fingers upwards--

"Cute shot!"

Blinking wildly in a flash of light, Stranz turned to see a camera being lowered, the person behind it strangely at-ease with having taken a shot of him with his hand up Fairchild's skirt-- except now Fairchild was holding his hand in a manner more typical of siblings, fingers locked, with a sickeningly innocent twist on her lips.

"Yearbook photographers," Fairchild explained, throwing away his grasp at the first possible opportunity, "Get a grip, Stranz," she hopped neatly from the table top, scowling at him, "I'm not your fucking babysitter."

She walked away.

Fuck.

It was always his fault.