You see, he's my brother. A right bastard, but still my kin in some way or another, whether I'd like to admit it or not. A good man all-in-all, I would commend. And that being the reason fingers stroke tentatively against my keyboard at all.
It feels as though I've been battling by his side, yet still his companion like second in command, for years. And if put the correct way, that indeed has happened. Being forced my father's tasks is practically improbable singly; this teamwork is essential. Our teamwork. True, still, is it teamwork? A "team," by definitive terms, carries out responsibilities equally sharing the weight, distributing complex jobs between parts like cogs of a grandfather clock. Somehow I've been loaded all the work yet receive hardly any praise from peers, let alone the man himself. Blood barely escapes his pale, flawless skin, while I'm over here nearly perishing in every paranormal encounter we come across. It is always me; it always has been. I shall do the "behind-the-scenes" research whilst he brave cold climates and commands me as if I were his pet. Does he even consider me a sibling any longer? Have we become colleagues?
I would rather not dabble in this, but these feelings persistently continue to haunt me, even worse than… her. Worse than all those deaths, all the murders, everything. I have only but one of him, rather, one like him. So perfectly unique (I cannot fathom why he lessens himself to an animal when with those women), so much so that I question what family is. Dad… he never cared for me. Only him. I wanted school, academics, an intelligence… but that was wrong on his moral compass. No, no, for him you had to be strong and adventurous, daringly quick on your feet and ready for battle. I am not this. Only him. Only him…
How am I to even ask? "Oh, hello, brother, would thou liketh to court thine own kin?" Just my terrible attempt at Shakespearean language would scare him off (not like he has any idea of it anyway). "I've noticed you recently and felt drawn to you lustfully, physically… Love me, brother. Love me as you did with her that night." My mind shuts that thought instantly, knowing the results of the thought itself: He would give me that look, like whenever he was beyond confused, ask me to repeat it. Which it was challenging enough to accomplish the phrase once, let alone twice. And then comes the abundant awkwardness that follows a dissed comeuppance.
No matter how hard I wish, how much I beg…. he would never. It's wrong, I know it is; but that doesn't relinquish the desire for it any less. Sadly, it is only brotherly love. Well, at least, for him.