You'd been skeptical of Patrick, at first. Any new marriage was bound to throw you a mite off-kilter. Even if it was your mother's—what? Fifth? Seventh? You've stopped keeping track.

Zweig was a good choice, you supposed. Not unlike all the other ones; classy, established, wealthy. The only difference is, she'd shot for someone much older than her usual suitors—which meant you got the package deal of a new 'step-dad', and the lovely gift of Patrick Zweig. Step-brother. Pain in the ass.

It's a lot like how you'd imagine having a brother to be like. Especially when Patrick was practically guaranteed to be a spoiled brat (not that you weren't, but two in one household seemed excessive, especially since you suspected there wasn't a lot of parenting to be done.)

Patrick waltzes around in his boxers, constantly. He drinks the milk straight from the carton. Opens the door to your room for the sole purpose of not closing it. In all honesty, Patrick Zweig is exactly the ways you'd expect him to be.

Except for the ways that he isn't.

"Why don't you pass the salt, my sweet, dear sibling. " Patrick drawls, winking at you—the piece of shit. The two of you are at the dinner table; Patrick's father at the head and your mother at the corner. His nicknames don't bother you, nor the fact that the salt is right there, between you, and he could easily reach for himself if he wanted to. (Though, that in itself is irritating, because this table fits twenty-four people and he chose the seat right next to you. No mistake, you're sure.)

No, what makes him a piece of shit is the way his hand snakes underneath the table as you move. How he shifts his chair deliberately closer, calloused palm squeezing. Hooking the elastic of your waistband, parents none the wiser.

Piece of shit, indeed.