My Brothers Best Friend [18+]

Chapter Twenty Nine

It is apparently tradition to go out to the club Fiction on New Years Eve. 

I learn this information the day before, when Matt and I are sat on the sofa watching a horror film and he turns to me, ice cream scoop in one hand and cheap carton of ice cream in the other, and says, "did I tell you about tomorrow yet?" 

"No?" 

"We're going to Fiction," he shrugs. "We do it every year." 

I don't ask if Skye is still invited. It seems like too risky of a topic at the moment, especially after that awkward encounter with our parents on Christmas Eve. I hope I never have to talk about her and Matt; I hope I never see them all over each other again either, but that may be one dream too far.  

Noah returns home late that night. 

I'm half asleep in his bed, roused only by the gentle opening of the bedroom door. He takes off his shirt, kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, and then disappears from the room. I drift back into a dreamless sleep. 

I find him sleeping on the couch the next morning. Matt is already awake, cooking a greasy breakfast, holding his phone to one ear and speaking into it with harsh, spitting words. He attempts to smile when he see's me take a seat at the island but his mouth seems permanently etched into a grimace. 

He's stomping when he walks to the other side of the kitchen. The fridge, which has done nothing wrong, cries out at the hinges when he yanks open the door. He drinks orange juice out of the carton. 

"Why are you still on the phone with me?" 

I look away from him. That harsh tone is not my brother - not the brother that I recognise in front of me at least. There's fire behind his eyes and his tongue is as sharp as silver when he argues with the person on the other end of the line. 

A few more cusses, hissed words, the phone is thrown onto the table between us. Call ended. 

"Everything okay?" 

"I hate women," is all he spits back at me. 

Noah's voice startles me. His words are croaky and deep, he has to clear his throat while he's speaking. "You realise you're saying that to a woman?" 

I look back at him and pause. His eyes still threaten to close themselves, blinking softly like they want him to close them again. Hair in every direction, stuck against one side of his face flat and puffed out at the other. There are crooked pillow indent lines along his right cheek, red and jagged lines that cut into smooth skin. 

And, oh. He isn't wearing a shirt. 

The blanket over him falls down his shoulder as he tries to keep his body tilted towards the two of us. When Matt just scoffs in response he flops back down, the couch groaning underneath him. 

I have the sudden urge to walk over to him and curl up into his side. To squeeze against his body on that little sofa and get lost under the blanket and in each other. 

I want to kiss every part of his face, every part of his body. I want to find the shirt he discarded last night and drown myself in it. Emotion floods over my body. He's smiling at me, mouth just tilted faintly - not that usual cocky smirk that I've grown accustomed to. 

I want that smile against my own mouth. I crave those usual whispered words in my ear that we only share when we're alone. More than that. 

I want to smell his neck and lick his bottom lip - my God, I want to be with him. I want to be his girlfriend. 

It hits me all at once and yet I barely outwardly react. My eyebrows raise a fraction, gaze flickering over Noah and his gentle staring, before I realise I should be smiling back at him.