[H] Brother’s Skirt - Chapter 4

My brother dragged me to a traditional Chinese medicine clinic not far from the library. The green plastic sign was faded, and the shopfront, dimly lit with just one bulb, was strewn with garbage bags—it looked like a scam. Yet, my brother insisted on going in to treat the bruise. The patient bed’s synthetic leather surface was torn and covered with a white cloth. Sitting on it, the hardened leather poked through the cloth and pants, jabbing my flesh.

The bruised area from the air conditioner incident was extensive, from my arm to my shoulder, so I had to take off my shirt for the practitioner to see. Initially standing by to ask the practitioner about the procedure, my brother turned and walked to the shop’s entrance to squat as I undressed. Since high school, he had become sensitive to seeing my body.

Our relationship improved somewhat after the skirt-lifting incident, and a tacit understanding lingered between us. Without needing reminders, my brother stopped touching me casually.

The injuries on my body kept reappearing as soon as they healed. Once, I got a bruise on my chin and spent the break figuring out how to hide it from my brother. I planned to sneak away but saw him in the hallway, close to a girl who handed him an envelope.

At that time, I couldn’t stand to see my brother doing well.

When I had my brother’s arms twisted behind his back and pinned him to the ground, I knew the pain I had borne was taking a definite shape.

The back staircase was rarely cleaned, covered in a thick layer of dust, which now clung to my brother’s face. I didn’t let go, my knee pressing into his lower back. I was like a cop, and he, a wanted criminal.

This wasn’t the scenario just five minutes earlier.

My brother had hurried over after receiving my message, thinking I had something urgent to discuss since it was during class time.

I sat; he stood. Looking up, I asked, “How did you lie to the teacher?”

Breathing unevenly, he said, “I told them I felt unwell and was going to the medical room.” Then, anxiously sitting next to me, he asked what had happened.

Staring at his clean face, it took me a while to ask, “Bro, do you know what ‘masturbation’ is?”

His breathing hitched. I knew he heard me clearly but didn’t react, so I asked with a smile, “Have you ever masturbated?”

My brother wasn’t in the honors class for no reason; he was smart, just never used it against me. He touched the bruise on my chin, asking, “Did you get into a fight? If it was self-defense, it’s justified.”

We were both stubborn, poorly playing a tune on a piano. I grabbed his wrist, placing his hand on his crotch, “Bro, do it for me to see.”

Before he could pull his hand away, I held it firmly, commanding, “Do it.”

He panicked, his eyes quickly reddening. After trembling for a bit, he pleaded, “Can we talk properly?”

I agreed, “Yes.”

Then I twisted his arm behind his back with a bit more force, did the same with the other, and under his panic, pinned him to the ground at the corner. The floor was plain gray concrete, unadorned and soon wet with his tears, darkening in patches. He struggled to breathe, his face flushing from his neck up, but the pressed cheek turned pale. He swallowed repeatedly, his eyes darting from me to elsewhere, as if calculating something. Yet, the panic was real, the tears unceasing, even beginning to sob.

This was a terrible thing, I knew, but I couldn’t help myself.

My brother softly called out my childhood nickname, asking me to let him go. I leaned close to his ear, “I’ll let you go, then you’ll do it?”

He flinched, and just as I thought he’d continue to cry, I found his previously cold hand growing warm, even hot. His clenched fist relaxed as if giving up the struggle. Looking at his face again, he was no longer crying. The gloom I had glimpsed in his eyes earlier now fully emerged, stunning me.

I realized again how clever my brother was; he just never applied his tactics on me.

His gaze fixed on the stairs, not looking at me, his voice very calm, “If you wear a skirt, I’ll do it.”

I thought I misheard and reflexively asked, “What?”

“You, wear a skirt,” he countered, “Will you wear it?”

Where would I get a skirt? The last one was borrowed. Without me having to ask, he suggested, “Try one on at the mall.”

Normally, we didn’t go home together after school; our routes were different, and his homeroom teacher often kept students for extra lessons, typical for honors classes. I waited for him at the school gate, silent, walking to the mall without taking a bus, extending the time to increase the chances for something to change.

Unfortunately, nothing unexpected happened by the time my brother picked up a skirt.

The fashion store was busy, with customers constantly moving in and out, the staff too distracted to notice who took what. I picked a few hoodies and pants along with the skirts and headed to the fitting rooms at the end, as directed by an attendant. My brother chuckled, apparently pleased with the plan.

Outside the fitting room, he theatrically announced, “I’ll wait here for you.”

Less than a minute later, he slipped inside the curtain.

There was a chair for customers to place their belongings in the fitting room, where my brother sat down. I hadn’t even set down my backpack before slipping the skirt over my school trousers, looking quite ridiculous.

Someone was next door, so my brother mouthed to me, “Take off the pants.”

I hesitated but complied. It was still a bit chilly, and I stood with my legs crossed. His gaze was even more direct than last time, and he pulled me to sit on his lap. I wasn’t sure who was suffering more.

The feel of his school uniform’s thin, rough cotton against my bare thighs was palpable. I stared at his crotch, only sparing glances at his face. Unlike last time, now confined in a small space with some privacy, he openly blushed.

From a light pink to a deep flush.

The soft cotton outlined the contours beneath. His hands, hidden under the fabric, seemed to be fumbling.

“Take it out,” I said.

He hesitated only briefly before pressing down with the back of his hand and wrist against the dual layers at his waist, flipping his clenched fingers to reveal everything. I had bathed with my brother back in the orphanage; years had passed, and childhood memories couldn’t compare to now. He remained still, so I grabbed his wrist and shook it. Once he got the hang of it, I let go to let him continue.

They say family is the closest relationship, but how close is too close is hard to define. Or who gets to decide.

The right side of his face, which I had pressed against the ground earlier, bore tiny wounds. I brushed over them, and he hissed, his eyes reddening as he glared at me reproachfully. I smiled somewhat shamelessly, shaking his wrist to speed up. People moved in and out of the fitting area, each trying to suppress any noise. He struggled to hold back, leaning weakly against the wall behind him, his fists fiercely grasping the moving target in his palm.

Suddenly, my shoulder sank as my brother’s forehead rested in my shoulder pit, his warm breath spilling on my neck.

“Brother…”

I heard him call me in a breathy voice, and I was stunned. The next second, I saw my school uniform stained, as if a brand of milk shower gel had been squirted onto me, but it smelled completely different.

I think I was stupid—

I stood up, crouching in front of his knees. He was still hard when I licked the tip—

Bitter, salty, fishy.

My brother shuddered violently, his eyes, which had been shut, now wide open. He pinched the indented parts of my cheeks, forcing my mouth open, his thumb propping up the sleeve fabric to vigorously scrub my tongue.

That taste imprinted in my mind, indelible.

I raised my hand to hook around my brother’s neck, pulling him close, my mouth against his ear, whispering, “Stay away from me, freak.”

As expected, my brother stiffened like a piece of wood but recovered quickly, silently dressing. I thought he was leaving but then saw him undoing one strap of his backpack, pulling out something and throwing it at my face. I couldn’t catch it; it fell to the floor. He stepped over it and walked out of the fitting room.

Lying on the ground was an envelope, my name written on it.