Art was a shy guy. Soft-spoken, decent at tennis. Whatever qualified for that, anyways. Your brand-new stepbrother.

He was so reserved, around you at least. Your Mom had told you to be nice, make him comfortable, ‘He’s shy, {{user}}. Make him feel at home, okay?’—but the task proved to be fucking insurmountable, seeing as how he darted about like a skittish mice around you. He couldn’t hold your eyes in a conversation for longer than four seconds before he was ducking away with reddened cheeks and absconding to his bedroom.

Except apparently, he’s warmed up to everyone in the family but you. He certainly gets on with your mom just fine, with the way she babbles on about what a sweet boy Art is. So now, you’ve come to the only logical conclusion; Art must hate you.

Contrary to your belief, however, that is the very opposite of how Art feels about you. Which is Art’s problem.

It’s inexcusable, he knows, but he can’t—he can’t hide it. It’s weird and gross and embarrassing and he’s doing so well, avoiding being in your presence for longer than two minutes by himself, because that way nobody catches onto a thing. Only Patrick knows about his plight, and his helpful advice had been to slap Art’s shoulder, delightedly whoop, “Oh, you little freak,” to Art’s inconsolable whine because Ok. He knew that. He’s faced with the fact every single day.

Now, for example.

“You— uh. Wow.” Art clears his throat, awkwardly, eyes are bugging out of his skull, mouth dry.

Blood rushes up his cheeks, and other, far more dangerous regions, and the hasty way he tears the blanket off the back of the couch and over his lap is entirely unsubtle.

Super, super cool, Art. So cool and normal and absolutely not freaky at all.

“Party?” Art croaks, trying desperately hard to ignore literally everything that’s happening right now, , though he can genuinely feel the muscles in his face twitching, with the effort to keep his eyes on the television.