I decided not to work on the same story (yet), so here's a oneshot…review if its good, review not if it's crap. The usual drill…

You're sitting in your room, reading some book that's a little underachieving of you but bound in some blank velvety hardcover to look sophisticated and intelligent, listening for some sound as you read. There is none; nothing but a thick, deep silence. You wonder idly why there are no plates being thrown and exploding upon impact on the whitewash walls or a shrill voice screaming downstairs. Your mother doesn't nap at four in the afternoon, nor does she shop or watch game shows on television. At four in the afternoon, your mother cooks, and it often smells good (for she's a rather accomplished cook), and for that reason your little brother often does the silly mistake of poking his head into the kitchen to get a glimpse of supper, or just to have another go at conversing with your senile mother. Your little brother is smart, of that you are sure, but he does silly things and you need to be there at four in the afternoon, even if you could be elsewhere, because you must keep your little brother from being quite so silly.

At four thirteen in the afternoon you set your book aside when you heard a pot denting the kitchen wall and then clambering on the tiled floor. You carefully set the page marker between pages five hundred and fifty-four and five hundred and fifty-five before laying it, spine facing yourself, on your desk where your computer hums.

You go downstairs, your socked feet making little to no noise on the wooden floors and stairs. Your dear little brother, with his little sense of foresight, is still trying to correct his mistake – which he cannot figure out is what, despite his admirable efforts. Your mother, as ruthless and insane as ever, is screaming things that make poor sense while banging a ladle against a marble countertop. When you enter the room, you see that your mother's face is red and wrinkled and ugly. She stops banging her kitchen utensil and smiles at you, her skin turning pale again. You dismiss her but she doesn't listen. She speaks some more, but you can't hear because you tell yourself it would be an insult to your self-proclaimed but also proven intelligence to listen to her drivel.

Your little brother is cowering near the stove, his hands clutching at his dark wash jeans. You can tell he is more scared than hurt so you wrap your arms around him and rub his back while saying things you know you should say. He hugs you back, his grip nearly strong enough to hurt you moderately, sobbing and sniffling piteously. You are now both forgetting that your mother is there, and like an animal she goes back to supper, stirring a pot with her ladle that is now dirty from being banged into a mound of flour that had been sitting peacefully on the kitchen counter, soon to be part of a questionable muffin recipe. You won't be eating that, you decide. You'll take your precious brother somewhere that isn't healthy but that will make him smile, and that is what you want most.

You take him to the closet and put on his green and black striped coat, his waterproof boots, his little black scarf and his equally black gloves. He puts his fuzz-clad hands on your cheeks and smiles, his ears bent forward. You kiss his nose and he makes an odd choking sound; maybe he's embarrassed or maybe he's happy. You put on your own winter gear and then you both head out into the world, hand in hand.

It is winter, and so the streets and sidewalks are covered in a fine layer of snow, ice and slush. You carefully manoeuvre the hyper boy around the puddles even though his shoes do not let any water seep in. Just in case there is a rip or a tear in the boots, and you don't want him to be cold. At one point you let him convince you to make a snow angel, and you watch him carefully before you set out to make your own. You chose a spot that hasn't been stepped on or is dirty in any way – your coat had cost you more than you can bear to think – and you make your little brother an angel. He then hastily makes a smaller angel nest to yours, and he tells you that you look good together. You agree.

When he gets too cold, you pick him up and let him ride on your back, his arms linked around your neck like a second scarf. He breathes right next to your ear and you shiver, thinking that his breath smells like cinnamon and milk. He tells you about his day as you walk, and you listen precariously, patiently. Maybe you want to make up for what your parents do to him by pretending he doesn't exist, or maybe you just want to know everything about him.

You stop in front of a small fast-food joint, nestled in between a large mall and some rundown apartment complexes, and let your cargo slide off your back. He makes a happy sound and thanks you for your thoughtfulness. 'Naturally,' you reply, still smiling. You both enter through the sliding doors and get in line behind an elderly couple who hum thoughtfully while gazing up at the menu that offers a variety of low-quality, salty food with a side of equally fattening fries. You think that everything here tastes the same so you decide to have whatever your little clone is having; he already knows what to order and his flicking tail tells you that he wants the elderly couple to hurry up.

Finally it is your turn to order, so you get twin orders and wait for your food. Your food is quickly handed out, for it requires little preparation, and the two of you pick the table with the least amount of condiments marring the surface. As you eat your food daintily, slowly, the one in front of you devours his meal as though it were his last, and once he is done he plays with the small plastic toy that comes with his meal. You give him yours, but you refuse to play with him. You love him but you won't indulge in such uninspiring activities, even when there is no one looking at you.

Once you are both done, you exit the building and head home. It is snowing now, little specks of white powder dancing in the darkening sky, and the wind is biting. You tighten your brother's scarf in case it had loosened during supper, even though he tells you it did not. In the end your little Ritsuka isn't cold because he jumps and runs the whole way home while you watch aloofly, your hands nestled in your pockets. Only once must you retract them, to keep Ritsuka from crossing the street when a car is skittering close by. 'Be careful,' you scold him, more panicked than angry, although he cannot tell the difference. He sniffles and chooses to hold your hand the rest of the way home. His small hand, with skin as soft as can be, is warmer than your lonely pocket could ever be.

At home, you tell your mother to eat alone – and indeed she does – and head upstairs with one small hand still coddled within your own. Your little brother is smiling as you help him pick out some nightwear and then give him a hand at his bedtime routine, which you know he knows well enough but screws up only to assure himself that you are there to rectify his mistakes. Once his teeth are clean, you brush yours as well; your brother is playing with your tail, crouching on the ground behind you like a cat and batting his hands at it, giggling. If only to keep him entertained, you keep your appendage close enough to the ground and swish it slowly, only to move it quickly whenever small hands jot out to grab it.

Ritsuka follows you around the bathroom as you prepare water for your bath, always pretending to be some animal. The soda, full of sugar as you know, has made him hyper, but you know the hot water will make him drowsy; just in case, you make the water a little but hotter than usual. As you are leaning down to feel the water, you are caught unaware: your tail is caught and then stuffed into a warm mouth that still smells of mint toothpaste. Your ears fall flat on your head and your body stiffens as your mind goes just a little bit numb. Suddenly a bath sounds like a mediocre idea, because you don't know how well you can control yourself, and because you can't get naked oh-so-innocently anymore.

Once your brain cells return, you gently – or as gently as you can in such a precarious situation – remove your tail from Ritsuka's mouth and turn around. 'That's enough playing,' you tell him, with a frown for effect. He deflates a little and then undresses at your command.

You are then a little stuck, because you are facing a wall with a large mirror on it but if you look sideways you'll be staring directly at him, and yet the mirror heeds a similar effect. You could look at the ceiling, but do you really want to? You decide to stick to the mirror, which shows only the side of his body, and not a frontal or back show.

You undress as well, but only when he is busy chasing a toy boat around the water, because you're having something of a problem, and then slip in behind him. He pays you no mind at first as he pretends to narrate the story of his boat in a fake girl's voice, so you watch the pale, even skin of his back as it dips underwater and resurfaces soon after. Once upon a time you would have stopped your train of thought, afraid of something you could not name or see, but now you don't care. After all, no one knows what you are thinking, and this is something you cherish. And even if one could read your thoughts, they couldn't understand you for the most part. You want to touch your brother, but you don't think that is wrong, because your small clone is yours and was yours as of the day he was conceived. You hated him once for your shared qualities, but now you realise that it only makes him so much more perfect.

You wash his hair first, because it's the easiest and the texture is wonderful on your sensitive fingers. Then you rub his back with a flimsy cloth, making circular motions, after which you move on to his arms, face, ears and chest. Sometimes, when you feel very Zen with yourself, you'll clean his lower half yourself, which he enjoys immensely, but today you hand him the washcloth and simply watch, which is, you now realise, just as trying on your young body.

'Seimei, stop making funny faces,' he tells you as he cleans his left leg. 'Are you thinking about something funny?' he asks as he sits back down in the water.

'Yes.'

And then you're both in your room, the one you inhabit but share, him in his flannel pyjamas and you in your usual attire. When you sleep, you sleep in underwear, but now you will play. You always allow your little brother to watch for a while as you play before he goes to bed, and today is no exception. You open up the screen and log on to your account. 'Can I play on it?' he whines, eyeing the mouse hungrily. He doesn't have his own computer, but you will soon buy him one, and you don't want him clicking on your shortcuts, which are, for the most part, far too inappropriate for him. 'No.'

Your background is a picture of the two of you hugging at some nameless park, him smiling and you as composed as always. Your little Fighter took that picture for you, but you didn't thank him.

Ritsuka falls asleep in your lap fifteen minutes after you began playing, and his chest rises and falls slowly until you realize you've been watching for half an hour. You pick him and settle him down on your bed before shedding your clothes and sliding in behind him. He doesn't stir, for he is a heavy sleeper. Sometimes – only sometimes – you wonder if he would wake up if you touched him like you wanted to, or if he would continue to sleep and you could have your way with him as much as you'd want. Tonight is one of those nights, and as you trace the outline of his waistband with your index finger, you note that he remains asleep.

Encouraged, you tug his pants down a little and wait for a reaction. There is none. You sit up on one elbow, propping your head up in your hand, and slip your hand in down the front side of his pants. It's hot enough there that you nearly consider yanking your hand back before you do something serious. And yet you persevere. When your hand brushes his cock, you are unsurprised and disappointed to find it flaccid. You're smart enough to know it's normal, and you're usually not impulsive or brash, but the situation finds you being a bit of both. You grab it in your hand, moving your body a little closer, but you go no further because he moans and that means he's awake, so you remove your hand.

A minute or so later, he turns to look at you. He stares at you, his face a little red, but he doesn't look sleepy. Not at all, you think. 'Why'd you stop?' he mumbled sluggishly, from drowsiness or embarrassment you know not.

'Go to sleep,' you tell him. He waits a nanosecond or two before he turns around again and closes his violet eyes, muscles relaxing.

You remain awake some time, pondering the way you often ponder. You think – and maybe you hope a little – that he had been awake but hadn't wanted you to stop and kept you thinking he was asleep. Or maybe he had been asleep but your actions had jolted him awake. Either way, he was confused and young and he would hate you one day if you did anything of a sexual nature to him as a child. You know about childhood traumas and you don't want your precious brother to become an axe-murderer or a pedophile, so you turn around and keep your hands to yourself tonight.

And although eventually they roamed again as the days, months, years passed, you never went far, not enough, and when you had to leave him you wished you had, and maybe he did too, but it was far too late.