A/N: Again, I don't have much to say? Plot will come, plot will go; though sometimes I ramble when I write, and I hate making chapters long because then it feels like I'm lagging it all out, as well as making the reader suffer with my.. rambles. And if you've read my other fics, you know I reeeally ramble. On and on. Description is great, yeah, but sometimes I take it waaay too far. But yeah here's the first chapter of this fic.

Double Take

Shit.

Another double take. What the fuck were you just thinking? Your eyes widen, your body becoming stiff. Seemingly, the air around you is hotter, filling your nostrils with the smell of your lil bro's shampoo. It was a familiar smell, something you could relate to—but why in the hell did it have to make your body so stiff? He's been using that kind of shampoo for months now; so why does it hit you so damn suddenly? You breathe in deep, trying to avert your shaded eyes from watching Dave's every move; but it's just that hard. It's that hard to stop yourself from lingering over the toned muscles, the gleaming skin which is surely soft to the touch; the way the corners of his mouth turn upward in the sweet taste of that juice he's drinking, the way his throat muscles move while swallowing…

Fuck.

"Bro? What the hell's wrong with you?" Dave's voice asks, coming off as emotionless—just like yours would have been. Even so, you knew all too well that his brows were pulled together, his eyes filled with concern and wonder. The little guy couldn't hide it, and he knew that for a fact. You were his bro, and he learned from you, taking on your example. Which, some days you really did fucking regret. What if he turned into a hard-ass just like you? Dave was better than that—better than you, something you knew for a fact.

But you'd be damned if you said it out loud.

Quickly, you noticed the silence—the lingering, hot and seemingly suffocating silence. Snap out of it. "Huh? What was that, lil man?" you say mockingly, a playful smirk taking over your lips. Nice recovery, you think, allowing yourself a little praise. No need to get too practical on yourself. Here, you tilt of your head, a cock of your brow following suit, too. "You concerned or somethin'?"

He looks at you for a moment, that placid expression slipping slightly. You give him props, though, especially since the guy recovers so quickly. You watch as Dave finishes his apple juice, flipping open the pizza box he had grabbed out of the fridge; slender, pale fingers reaching to get a slice, and then reaching once more to his mouth. The expression on your face must have been cold-stone, because he flinches as he looks at you; and that makes your heart sink, another fucking thing that never happens to you. What the fuck? The thought resounds in your mind, making you want to scoff in disbelief. You, the Bro Strider—the best hard-ass of 'em all—feeling that blood-pumping muscle in your chest sink? Immediately, your head jerks slightly as you give another smirk, almost as if showing him you were just teasing him—even though in truth you were allowing your mind to wander. Stop that.

"So? You gonna answer my question or not?" you ask, giving a loud, oh-my-god-you-damn-fucking-kid sigh as you make your way beside him. You allow yourself to lean against the counter, picking up a slice of pizza yourself as you wait. The silence lingers, which is okay with you. Sure as hell ain't gonna ask the question again, seeing as it would be a waste of words: which you don't do—though, you do let yourself do other things.

Eyes wander aimlessly, making their way over to Dave again and again. On purpose, or accident? Hell, even you weren't sure. All you knew was no matter where you looked, your shaded eyes would avert back to your shirtless brother. …huh. A few glances in his direction and it's all you can do not to lean over and see if his skin tastes better than the cold pizza. A small smile crossed your face, and your desired impulse leans your over the tiniest bit, going in for something like a prey—just when the slight crack of the pizza crust Dave's chewing snaps you out of it.

Shit. Just like that, you're leaning away, playing it off as if you were scratching your back. Mentally, you let out a sigh—thankful Dave can't read you like you can read him. Just yet, that is; surely the time would come, and it was something you totally weren't looking forward to.

"Nah," he says finally, breaking the silence. The way he says it makes you twitch—then, look down at him disapprovingly; just when he finishes the sentence: "I'm... not concerned."

That makes you snort: especially the uncool pause he lets slip into the sentence. Dave doesn't say shit, though, because he knows you know what he knows. If that makes any sense at all; which you think probably fucking doesn't; though, somehow… to you, it does. You and Dave had always had your own way of communicating. The two of you understood each other so well, knew each other like the back of your hand—almost, that is. Whenever he said something, it would either have its own meaning or a hidden one (same goes for you, too); and what he just said? I'm concerned, but if you're fine then that's cool, Bro.

"Mm. 'Kay, then," you say back, rubbing your fingers together slightly to get the crumbles off your skin. Yeah. I'm fine, lil' man. Thanks.

He knows I know what he knows. The thought and double meaning behind his words linger behind as you allow your eyes to travel in his direction, right next to you. It seems as though the thought is burned into you as you witness a small smile; witness his face light with color—something you… what? Hadn't seen in ages; hadn't expected; was completely fucking confused about? Pretty much all of the above, and it makes you twitch—good thing he doesn't notice, though, because he passes right by you, the stoic expression back on his face as he rummages through the cabinets.

Your body is stiff and it pisses you off; especially how fucking uncool you feel, the word "loser" pretty much deep shit in your system. I'm… too aware. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you don't move a muscle as you continue to watch, feeling like the creepiest big bro to ever exist. It bothers you, sure, but no way in hell will it stop you from watching Dave and the way he raises his arms, the way he moves his fingers to curl around the can of ravioli; the way that blonde hair of his moves across his neck like a lover, the way his muscles move under that slightly pale, freckled skin and—

Shitshitshitfuckfuckfuck—

One deep breath later and you flash-step as fast as you can behind Dave, surprising yourself, even. You know he doesn't notice at first, but with your bare fingertips trailing down his side, the lil' guy sure as hell does now. Behind your shades, your eyes linger at his neck and your brows relax. With your keen senses, you can tell he's trying his best to stay still, though you know all too well his eyes are as wide as the record on his favorite shirt. Hearing his breath hitch the tiniest bit only makes you feel fervid, and suddenly your mind's pulled up a blank as your impulses reach beyond the chained box you keep them hidden in.

That's when you lean in, heart racing and it makes you feel so moronic and lame, even if your mind is indeed blank and your loving the feeling of his skin as well as the way he holds himself absolutely still for you, allowing you to touch him. Even the ugly feelings don't make you stop; don't make you hesitate as you continue to lean until your lips touch the back of his neck, your other hand settling comfortably against his naked, exposed rib cage. The feel of his skin, the smell, the taste—it makes your mind race, your body stiff with nervousness.

What the actual fucking shit.

You let your breath hit his skin, another trail of your fingertips before you inhale deeply, feeling so damn unStrider (or maybe a different kind of Strider) it makes you want to punch yourself in the gut, maybe even lower. And you flash-step away, more quickly than you had went to him in the first place. You're in your room all too soon, your incredibly cool shades on the bed, your finger-less, leather gloves covering your mouth as your face burns with a blush that makes you feel like a damn pussy. You don't bother to not notice the crash of a metal can against the countertop, causing your other hand to twitch towards the door.

No.

Though, it leads you to wonder what he's thinking right about now, what he's feeling, how he's feeling it, exactly. Especially with what just happened surely coursing through his mind, fresh on his body and mind. Did you just fuck up? Dave didn't pick up on that desire, did he? That damn, twisted desire to turn him around and kiss him on the lips, let your hands trail to other places; to hear him whisper your name and laugh at something ironic you say about what they're doing-

Did I just fuck up?