Raining Candy Canes

His sister dances like a ballerina in a music box, pirouetting across the glossy hardwood floor (it's still filthy)

He watches her from his place on the bench, earphones plugged in and connected to his phone; he's not listening to anything. He watches her bare feet, scraped and red, oh why is that silly girl dancing barefoot? She had never been the brightest bulb in the box. It breeds stomach-flipping anxiety, but he can't say that he hates it. He'll always be glad that she's not conventionally attractive. Not curvaceous, yet slim. No oval-shaped face.

Still, she's beautiful. Her skin is as white and soft as camellia petals (n - not that he would know if her skin was soft!); her face, an enchanting heart, embedded with sapphires for eyes. She's more on the thin side, with spindly wrists and knobbly knees. He always rushes to her side whenever she runs into the coffee table - he's scared that she'll break one day. He watches her when she dances, admires the graceful curve of her back, the flutter of her black lashes, her footing. He's always ready to catch her if she stumbles.

And she might. He takes note of the position of each nail protruding from the floor, eyes narrowed. She really shouldn't have been dancing there.

Laughter and chatter suddenly interrupt the lively piano tune. A group of young men pass in the hallway, slowing down to gaze upon the matchstick ballerina.

He suppresses a growl, clenching his fists. He wants to slam the door shut, but he settles for aiming his most acidic glare their way. It works. Their stares harden but they leave.

Nobody is good enough for her. Not even him.

Oh, he knows that he's not worthy of her. He has to remind himself of this again as she rests against the barre. Then she's off again, arms arced above her head.

He remembers how she'd danced at home last Christmas, in her red and white striped sweater and her airy white skirt. Her arms had looked like the candy canes she coveted; her skirt had ballooned up with air when she spun, floating like clouds or candy floss to reveal long, white pins. Their parents had simply smiled at her, but he'd fled to the privacy of his bedroom.

She'd sought him out the next morning, jumping on his bed to get him to open presents with her. She was much too be old to be doing that sort of thing, and he told as her much. There was no venom in his words, though - there never is. She'd settled down after that, perched on his bed and watching the blue-grey almost-dawn sky outside his window with a gentleness that was unlike her.

But it happened again and again after that. Oh, she still flitted around like a little bird, but those little episodes were frequently broken by periods of thoughtful stillness. He was dying to know what went on in her head whenever she stopped moving.

But it's probably nothing, because, that same Christmas morning in his bedroom, she'd suddenly snapped out of her reverie and shoved a candy cane in his face.

He eyes it blankly. "You already ate half of this." It wasn't a question.

"I know. I can't finish it so you have to eat it."

"I don't want it." Yes, he does.

"I don't care." She places the candy cane on the pillow next to his head.

"Ready to go?" she asks, bag slung over her shoulder.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, looking her up and down. "Aren't you going to change?" He asks, because so help him if she thinks she's going outside in a little black leotard where other men could see her -

And she groans. The noise shoots straight to his groin and he shifts his bag over his crotch, furious with himself because he's not some hormone-fueled teenaged boy, dammit!

"It's a short walk from here to the car," she huffs, "and another short walk from the car to the front door when we get home."

He tugs his earphones out of his ears and puts away his phone. He knows he'll never win against her, so he simply takes her (sequinned, bright pink) duffel bag from her.

The dimple in the smile she gives him makes his breath catch in his throat. "Thanks!" she chirps. "And thanks again for waiting for me and taking me home. You didn't have to, you know. You could've gone to the library and caught up with your work, or you could've gotten some ice cream from the place down the block and you could've gotten me a cookie while you were at it too." Another dimple. Cheeky brat.

He loves her so much, and in more ways than one.

"Yeah, how about 'no.'?"

She laughs, then. (He loves her laugh too) One would think that it would sound like tinkling silver bells but, no - it's loud and unrestrained and it kind of sounds like she hicupping. It's adorable.

"Did you finish all of your home work? Do you need help with anything? When are your college entrance exams starting again?" he asks, as he escorts her to the car. The hallways and the car park are mercifully empty. He doesn't know what he'd do if he caught some man ogling her.

"No, I'm fine. I still have a few weeks before exams start, you know. And shouldn't you worry more about yourself? University is hard, right? You act like you're so much older than me, but we're less than a year apart! You're so weird." This, with a fond giggle. It makes his cheeks heat up.

It's wrong. It's so, so wrong and he's a terrible person for feeling like this.

In the car, he makes sure she's comfortable before reversing out of the spot. At least, that's what he was going to do, before she puts her hand on top of his. His entire body freezes up and her meets her eyes, a mirror image of his own.

"I mean it. Thank you. You're the best older brother I could have ever asked for." She says it with pink cheeks and averts her eyes shyly at the end.

Why couldn't she have waited to do this when they were at home, and he had pillows and blankets to pull over his lap?

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Sure." He's surprised at how steady his voice is, before he takes off.

As they drive home, the sun finally sinks below the horizon and the sky darkens to that twilit haze, where strange things happens.

His sister leans over the seat to dig through her bag, eventually emerging with - oh for the love of -

A candy cane.

And she shoves it right under his nose. "Look, I got you a whole one this time!"

"Yeah, yeah, alright." She opens it, hands it to him.

It's wrong. So wrong.

Their drive continues in silence, each sibling lost in their own respective thoughts. The girls mind wanders to her stomach, as it tends to do, and she holds out hope that her mother decided to cook potatoes today.

Her brother's mind wanders back to their last Christmas morning, where he'd drifted back to sleep with a half eaten candy cane beside his head. He wondered what it meant, when he'd dreamed of her lips pressed against his, when he'd awakened later on with the faintest hint of peppermint on his tongue . . .