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Nolan gets stubborn with his controller, still staring at the TV, trying to stop me from leading the game.
“Practice,” I simper, “and a lot of talent.”
Edgar laughs, and Nolan redoubles his effort, getting angry until he ties the score and then ends up winning the game byone point. He explodes, proud, and dances like a kid in the middle of the room.
“Always the best! It was close!”
He gives me a quick glance, and unlike my brother, I remain impassive in the face of this defeat. I defended myself well and I’m happy with myself, because when my eyes meet those of Edgar’s friend, a particular glow crosses his irises.
He looks impressed.
My stomach twists and I turn my attention to focus on the new game they’re starting. Either way, impressed or not, it won’t change his perception of me.
***
When I leave my room and walk down the hallway of the apartment, it’s not even midnight. This is the first time since the beginning of the week that I’m going out at night. I managed to sleep a little bit in between randomly waking up. I never went back to lie down on the sofa, but tonight, sleep is far away. The afternoon spent in front of the PlayStation screen, the whole night I slept on Saturday evening and the rewriting of a few of my lessons on the computer have kept me awake. I have no desire to toss and turn for two hours in my bed.
When I walk into the living room, the TV is still on, and I only notice the figure on the sofa after the hallway door is closed. I stop in my tracks, surprised to see him sitting there.
“I think your insomnia is rubbing off on me,” laughs Nolan.
“Too much coffee?”
I come to settle in my place from the other time, pulling the plaid blanket under the cushions to place it on my legs. He takes a corner of it and brings it back on him to cuddle himself underneath.
“I don’t know. I just wasn’t sleepy,” he says shrugging and handing me the remote. “I let you choose the program.”
“Admit it, you don’t dare put on the show yourself,” I say.
He leers at me quickly.
“Put it on, let’s get it over with!”
“You dream of knowing what’s going on.”
“I just hope they will fuck a little.”
I tap him on the shoulder, and he bursts out laughing.
“Just a kiss, then? With tongue,” he says.
“It’sKorean.”
“And so, they have a sex life, the Koreans,” he exclaims. “They are fifty million, the kids didn’t fall from the sky.”
I giggle, both amused by his repartee and exasperated.
“It’s a TV show, if you want to see sex, watch a porn!”
He looks at me, his eyes bulging, as if I’ve said a bad word, and I give him a second tap, on the cheek this time, and softer than the first. Just to make him look away, because feeling his eyes on me when I just mentioned sex videos brings up a pretty familiar tension between my thighs.
“Ok,” he concedes. “No tongue, no sex, just dripping stuff. Understood.”
I refrain from making a joke on what is dripping, aware that if I start on this game, he risks being much more comfortable than me. I put on the show, spreading my legs until he grabs one of my feet to rest it on his thighs and caresses my ankle. I tense up.
This isn’t the first time he’s been touchy with me. When we were in high school, he often passed a hand on my back, on the back of my neck, grabbed my wrist, stroked the top of my head. They were subtle, friendly, fraternal gestures. Protective. We have grown a lot since high school, and even if he continues to have somecontactwith my body, this one is more special for me. Because he’s only wearing light sweatpants, he’s wrapped his fingers over my bare, slightly cold skin, and if I move an inch, my foot might slip on his—
Oh fuck! Is he wearing underwear?
