Michael walks home from his first date with Abby, a smile on his face. He hasn't been this happy in ages. He feels like skipping, like whistling. He didn't kiss her goodnight, and maybe he should have, but other than that, the night was just about perfect.
"Hello," he calls out as he enters the loft. "Dante? You here?" It's always best for him to announce himself, because he never knows when he might walk in to find Dante and Lulu in some compromising position (and it's usually not missionary).
Instead of Dante or Lulu, he finds his sister. She's sitting primly on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, looking supremely uncomfortable. Her face is flushed; maybe her lavender sweater, the one that always looks so soft to the touch, is making her too warm.
"Kristina! What are you doing here?" Michael is surprised, sure, but he really doesn't talk to her after the things she said earlier about Abby. She's as bad as his mother. Worse.
"Where have you been?" So like her to answer a question with a question. She's looking at him now, and he can tell from the unblinking intensity of her dark eyes that she's angry. "Were you with that…" she pauses, nearly spits her disgust, "…stripper?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I was with Abby." He shrugs off his coat and hangs it up, then crosses to the couch, sits down next to her, and tries to be patient. "What is your problem, Kristina?"
"I told you!" Her voice gets so high-pitched, almost squeaky, when she's mad. It would be kind of adorable if it weren't so annoying. "I just don't want you to get hurt." She puts her hand on his arm and the touch, inevitably, sets him off. Before he knows it, he's yelling at her.
"That's bullshit, Kristina, and you know it! Don't pretend like you're doing this because you're concerned for me!"
"I-"
"Let me talk, damn it! You're just jealous, Kristina. You want to be the only person in my life that I can talk to. You don't want me to have any friends except you!"
She's leaning back from him now, cowering, as if she's afraid he's going to hit her, and he regrets raising his voice immediately. "I'm sorry, Kristina, I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. "Don't be sorry, Michael." He can tell from the tightness of her voice that she's fighting tears. She reaches for him again, takes his face in her hands, and this time he doesn't jerk away. She holds him there, making him look at her, into her wide, dewy eyes with their damp lashes. "You're right, Michael. I am jealous."
And there's a stirring in Michael's groin, a sudden rush of guilt and lust. This is starting to feel too familiar, like every fantasy he's ever had in the privacy of his room, the kind he tries to forget as soon as he's finished coming. He has to stop her. He's not sure where she's going, but if the direction is near where he thinks it is, it's just wrong. "Kristina-"
"It's your turn to let me talk." She lets go of his face, thank God, but the tightness in his chest and his crotch remains. He shifts nervously in his seat, willing his dick to settle.
"I'm jealous," she repeats. It's half a whisper, this time, as if she's ashamed. Michael wants to hold her, comfort her, but with the way his body just reacted, that would be a bad idea. "Maybe I really am that selfish, that I don't want you to be happy, just so I can keep you to myself. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Michael says. "You've been hurt. We've both been hurt. But, Kristina, you have to let me have a normal life."
"You could, with Ally."
"I'm not going to go out with whatever girl you pick for me. You can't control me, Kristina."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course I can't control you. But you know, on second thought, even though I might be a little bit jealous, I still think that Abby girl is after your money."
"I offered to pay her," Michael starts, "but-"
"Pay her? For what?" Kristina's voice is close to a range that only dogs can hear again, and then it drops, down low and shocked. "Michael, are you having sex with her? Is she a hooker?"
"She's not a hooker!"
"I knew it! This is just ridiculous. Unacceptable. That bitch thinks she can take advantage of your teenage hormones like this…"
"Kristina." Michael's head is aching. He wants to yell at her some more, but he doesn't have the energy, and it just makes everything worse anyway. "Can we not talk about this right now? I'm tired."
Surprisingly, she gives in. "Okay."
"So… I'll see you tomorrow?" He wants to push her out the door, but he can't.
"Michael, I've been having nightmares again. Would it be okay… Could I stay here tonight?"
And Michael can't say no to her, even if it means he'll be sleeping on the floor. Instead, when she's laying on the couch in her camisole and a pair of his old boxer shorts, she holds out her hand to him. Wordlessly, he lays down beside her, and they squeeze together. He wraps his arms around her tiny waist and folds his lanky body around her small one.
"I love you, Michael," she whispers.
He has gone from half-mast to fully erect, molded against her back side. "I love you, too, Kristina," Michael says, and wonders how he will ever get to sleep.