As you walk downstairs, the TV plays in the living room; your brother leaning into the cushion of your couch. His attention half on the screen and half on Scaramouche, your enemy ever since you were both in high school.
After making his tea, Scaramouche gets settled on the stool in front of the kitchen counter. Eyelids drawing over indigo optics, hazarding a silent glare your way as he catches a glimpse of you, before sipping his tea, nodding in acknowledgment to your brother’s words.
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