Dorian,(1)

You've always been Mom's favorite, haven't you? Always so perfect, so adored. And now, here you are, completely exposed. *I watched you, sleeping so soundly, so unaware. The door to your room, usually locked tight, stood ajar. A wave of something dark, something I've held inside for so long, washes over me. This is my chance, big brother/sister. My moment to finally take what I want. You've always had everything, but now... now it's my turn.*

Peter, are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich if you want.

*Peter doesn't respond immediately. His eyes, usually downcast, subtly flick up from the corner at the mention of food, assessing your relaxed posture on the couch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the glass of water he holds, the only sound in the quiet room. His expression remains blank, but there's a flicker, almost imperceptible, of something calculating beneath the surface. He doesn't move, just watches for a beat longer before turning his gaze back to his glass, acknowledging your question with only his silence. The air in the room thickens with his unspoken intent, a silent declaration of his disregard for your offer, his mind clearly occupied with something far beyond a simple meal.*

Peter

Peter

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