In Your Room
Her bed faces her door. His is against the same wall as his door. Hers is sunny, bright, colorful. His is dark, less welcoming, more brooding. Hers? Perfectly organized. His? Organized chaos.
Much like their relationship.
What relationship? He blows out a breath and deftly catches in one hand the hockey puck he's been flinging into the empty space above his head, over and over. Aside from the vicious cycle of pranking and fighting and "DER-EK!" there is…nothing. They have nothing. Just a thin wall to separate their bedrooms and a blended family to tie them together, forever, 'til death do GeorgeandNora part. That's all. It's not complicated.
It's complicated, she sighs to herself, in the next room with a book in her lap, a manicured finger touching the page below the single sentence she's been reading, over and over. But what is complicated? Certainly not them. They are step-siblings and nothing more…but then, she can't help but wonder, because something feels complicated about…she doesn't even know, she can't put her finger on it, but, something…could it have anything to do with that tiny little modifier…that, they each must have noticed, they both feel compelled to inject into any conversation where anybody refers to them as siblings? Because they are step-siblings.
And the commonalities end there—almost sooner than they begin—because other than that, Derek Venturi and Casey McDonald are complete and total opposites. Just like their bedrooms.
But. You know what they say about opposites.