it's a chilly, overcast afternoon. you don't know when. you think it might be july.
you woke up this afternoon wanting a chocolate milkshake, and you'd be damned if you'd let the cold weather stop you. when dirk wakes up, you show him the masterpiece, with whipped cream and drizzled chocolate syrup, and he asks you why.
you point out the chocolate sprinkles.
"but why?"
you go into your trainwreck of a living room and drink your milkshake.
on days like today, rose sits in her sunroom with a book in her lap and stares out the window and remembers. on days like today, john builds crackling, leaping fires and reads calvin and hobbes in front of them and remembers. on days like today, jade bounds through the jungle and reaches down to pet the missing companion by her side and remembers.
today, you, too, are remembering.
dirk rattles around in the kitchen for a bit, and after a moment, he comes into the living room and sits down on the other end of the couch, holding a glass. you glance at the contents.
it's a milkshake. strawberry.
freckles dusting his cheeks and scattered down his shoulders. too many scars. the way he holds himself, just a little too stiff and awkward to have grown up around other people. dirk isn't perfect, and your eyes trace his imperfections hungrily. he's drinking his strawberry milkshake through a straw, and a few years ago, maybe you would've been self-conscious about the chocolate mustache across your upper lip.
he is not your bro, and you are not his. but his eyes catch yours sometimes, though, and the light glints off his shades in a particular way and his stare is sharp and his stance is powerful, and something twists in your chest, and you remember.
you tilt your glass back and let the last of the milkshake trickle down your throat, mostly-melted ice cream and a lot of sprinkles. when you place the empty glass on the coffee table and wipe the condensation on your hand onto your jeans, it's the first sound in a while, but the silence hasn't been oppressive. today is a day for quiet, and a day for remembering.
you stand up and go into your bedroom. when he gets around to following you, you're making the bed. you always refuse to do anything without making the bed first, and he usually makes fun of you, but today, he leans against the doorframe and waits, watching your movements from behind his shades. today is a day for moving slow and languid.
afterwards, your lips are lazy in leaving each others', and you drift off breathing in his scent - musky deodorant, and strawberries.
it's late evening when you wake up, and rain is drumming at the roof. dirk is standing at the window, staring out over Houston. he doesn't stiffen when your eyes open, and offhandedly, you wonder if it's because he feels the softness in your gaze. but your eyes alight on his hunched shoulders, his hands gripping the windowsill, and you know he hasn't sensed your eyes yet.
in a moment, he will turn around and see you, and maybe you'll be able to soothe the raw pain in his eyes. but for now, you lie next to the impression where his body once laid, and you watch him remember.