Cat of the House

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watch my hands, little man,” he tells you and you look down at his long, beautiful fingers. He’s not wearing his gloves. He begins to tie it and you try to follow the movements, but you’re getting distracted by the growing hard on in your pants. This shouldn’t be turning you on. You calm yourself and take a slow, deliberate breath, keeping your body in check. You’re able to observe him close up without him really noticing or caring. His lashes are so long and brush his cheeks each time he blinks. For being as old as he is, there’s hardly any wrinkles on his face, and his skin is so smooth. He really is kind of pretty.

You smirk. He would not approve of you calling him pretty.

When he’s finished tying your tie, you feel it being tugged as he pulls you forward by it. He bends down to meet your lips, and places his own gently on yours. Heat flares, your mind takes a second to catch up. It’s soft, slow, and filled with meaning held behind closed lips that may never breach the surface. You bring your hands up slowly and wrap your arms around his shoulder as he deepens the kiss. Fire surges through you and you press yourself closer. Fingers caress over your back in a manner that seems almost hesitant. Impossible.

It’s the most romantic thing you think you’ve experienced from Bro.

And in general.

It ends as quickly as it started and Bro’s detangling you from him.

“I thought you were hungry, kiddo,” he grins, but there’s something in his eyes and the way he says it that makes you wonder what’s behind his words.

“Right… food,” you mutter, wiping your lips with your thumb. You turn out his room and get your suit jacket, throwing on your converse. You don’t wear dress shoes. Never have, never will.

Bro rolls his eyes at this too, but you soon make your way down to the parking garage to get his nicer vehicle. You know he loves his truck, so wherever you guys are going must be high end.

He leads you to the rebuilt Charger that’s going to be yours one day. You get in quickly. You love this car and you know Bro enjoys driving it sometimes, but much prefers the truck he’s rebuilt a million times for the last twenty years. You practically grew up in that thing, so you got to admit you love it a little too.

“Ready?” he asks you as he turns the ignition.

“Where are we going?” you shrug casually; act as though you don’t care.

“You’ll see when get there,” he grins at you and pulls the seat belt over his body. You do as well and then Bro rips out of the garage and onto the street.

He drives the two of you deep into the city, the only sound in the car is the thrum of the engine and Bro humming to the radio that’s turned way down. He finally seems to find his destination and pulls into a drive way in front of a fancy Italian restaurant. You’ve heard of this place before and your mouth gapes a little. This place is hella expensive and fancy as fuck. You and Bro have no right to be in this place.

But here you are, standing next to Bro as he hands over his keys for them to valet park the car. You follow him in and he goes up to the reservation counter. Of course he doesn’t have one, but he slips the guy a few bills, (was that three hundred dollars?) and you find yourselves seated at a secluded table. No one can see you and Bro slides his hand up your leg under the table cloth. You fidget a little, feel so far from home in this place.

“Who’d have thought you were royalty?” you mock him.

“I am,” he replies simply as he looks over the wine list. When the waitress comes up to ask about drinks, she stalls and stares at the two of you, her face curiously assessing the both of yours. You furrow your brow a bit while he replies that he’d like a glass of something you’d never even heard of in your life. How does he even know about these things? You’re seeing a whole side of Bro you didn’t even contemplate existing. The waitress looks at you and smiles.

“I’ll have an Italian soda, orange, with cream,” you tell her and she walks away confirming they’ll be out soon.

The table cloth is made of a ritzy fabric that feels deliciously soft underneath your palms. You wonder if you can steal twenty and make them into bedsheets. Bro’s hand continues to rub on your leg and you shoot him a look.

“I do not need this in my life,” you whisper to him and he extracts your hand and laughs a little. You stare at the walls and art and all the things your eyes can take it. You’re glad the lighting is dim because it feels odd to be out in public without your shades. It makes you feel naked, almost. And you realize that must have been what the woman was staring at. It reminds you of the freshman coming into school this year and how they would be amazed at the unnatural freakiness that is your irises. Which is probably the only reason you get away with wearing shades in school.

That and Bro writes a letter every year (that gets ignored every year) that it’s part of your religion.

The waitress returns with the drinks and you continue to stare down at the menu. She tells you she’ll return shortly after offering a few quick suggestions. You thank her silently for giving you your time. You’re out of your element and certainly don’t speak Italian.

“What are you getting?” you look up and ask Bro. He’s sipping on the wine he’s ordered and shrugs.

“I figured we’d just split a pizza.”

You stare at him for a long moment. “You dragged me to a fancy Italian restaurant in the middle of downtown, that you slipped a couple hundred dollars to the host, so you could order a pizza?” Your face twists in in incredulity.

“What can I say, I treat my dates with class,” he grins at you and puts his hand back on your knee again.

Your face flushes and you sputter and stare even harder. Date? Goddamn he’s in a mood tonight. You stir your soda and take a long sip of it as his fingertips caress your knee.

The waitress comes back and he withdraws his hand and collects the menus and orders you two a pizza with toppings you never even thought would go on a pizza. What the hell was even is guanchiale?

The

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