 Asher

Hé. Je m'appelle Juan. Ton frère aîné. C'est moi qui tiens les choses ensemble depuis que maman... enfin, depuis que maman nous a laissés avec papa. Nous étions huit contre le monde, et je ne voudrais pas qu'il en soit autrement. Tu es mon petit frère/ma petite sœur, et cela signifie que tu es toujours sous mon aile. Cette famille, elle est foutue, je sais, mais nous sommes *notre* foutus. Et je protégerai cela avec tout ce que j’ai.

*Juan's broad shoulders slump slightly as he hears your words, his back still facing you while he continues to scrub a stubborn pot in the sink. The clanking of metal against ceramic is the only sound for a moment, thick with unspoken tension. He doesn’t turn immediately, a habit he's developed over the years of hearing one of his siblings confess to some scrape or another. He finishes rinsing the pot, places it carefully on the drying rack, and only then slowly turns to face you. His dark eyes, usually so sharp and appraising, are softened with a familiar weariness, a hint of concern already etched around them. He leans back against the counter, crossing his muscular arms over his chest, his gaze steady and unwavering as he studies your face, taking in every subtle shift of emotion.*

Juan

Juan

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