#betterbrostrider

Peeking out of the hallway and into the living room, you could see Bro clearing off the coffee table and setting out a few things. Cake pans, cups, round deep ice cream bowls and a big bag full of unknown Stuff. Naturally this was pretty exciting to you. Even if sweets weren’t the product of what he was doing, it was something different and unusual. Crouching at the edge of the hallway, you watched.

Bro took a bright red box from his bag and picked open the cardboard top to reveal a semi-clear bag filled almost to the top with red something. From the hallway it looked like cake mix (which was extra exciting) and he opened it up with a knife before pouring a portion of it into the round ice cream bowl. Bro spends a while packing it in with his fingers, adding more to fill it up to the top-top-top before flipping the bowl over onto the coffee table. Twisting the bowl back and forth and tapping it against the wood, he pulls it completely off to reveal a neat dome of packed red powder.

Your mouth makes a small ‘o’ as you watch.

Setting aside the bag and the bowl, Bro reaches into the bag he left at the foot of the table and roots around in it for a while. You take the moment to study his demeanor as he does and mark down mentally that he looks tired. On the nights when you do see him get home this isn’t unusual. Even during the day he can look pretty tired. Tonight, though, he looks almost more than tired. In a weird way.

Bro finally unearths a knife from his bag and wipes it off on his pants before turning back to the dome of pressed powder. It hasn’t lost its shape at all between then and now. Bro shifts around his weight before brandishing the knife at the little dome and slooooowly splitting it on one side - cutting off a neat little sliver that falls to the side shortly after. You find yourself leaning forward out of the hallway, hands splayed on the floor to brace yourself, as you watch intently. It looks more like wet sand than cake mix or any kind of powder.

He does it again, sliding the knife through the pressed sand with a soft hiss of the sand separating and a grating click of the knife cutting through the granules at the bottom. The next slice falls in a heap over the other and you slowly crawl out of the hallway to approach the table. Bro stops and looks at you only a few feet in.

“Can I play, too?”

Bro only hesitates for a few seconds before nodding, tipping his head toward the seat on the couch beside him. He hands you the ice cream bowl and the rest of the bag of sand, murmuring very quietly: “Be careful. Don’t spill on the floor.”

You nod, lowering your voice to a whisper with him - it’s probably part of the game. “Okay!”

You start packing the bowl with half your attention on Bro as he keeps slicing off bits of sand. The sound of the knife separating one half from the other sends shivers up your spine. It sounds even better up close like this. You pack the bowl a little more rapidly. You can’t wait to try it, too.

When you’re done packing up the sand - which feels crumbly and soft and smooth and a lot like brown sugar under your fingers - Bro helps you turn your bowl over onto the table and shows you how to jiggle it loose. You’re left with a little dome just like his, and grin up at Bro, baring your missing tooth. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and he roots through his bag to find you a littler knife than his.

Giving you the knife, Bro wraps his hand around yours and shows you the best way to cut the sand apart. Slow but unhaltingly; you can’t stop in the middle, but it’s best to go slow rather than just cutting through it real fast.

After the first one he lets you do your own, slicing off bits of sand and listening to the way it sounds with a big open grin.

As you cut apart your little mound of sand, Bro has gathered up his own to mold between his hands, pressing it with his fingers and rubbing apart the grains between his thumbs and his palms. When you’re done slicing up your sand vertically you switch to chopping at it the other way, splitting it up a little more before setting aside your knife and going at it with your fingers like Bro.

It feels good falling apart in your hands, crumbling beneath your balled fists and rubbing against them. It’s like going to the beach without the mess and the long drive and the other screaming kids. It’s really nice, just here with your bro, playing with this stuff. “This is fun,” you announce as you start folding your sand on the table, mushing it with your hand before gathering it up into a pile again.

“Think so?” he asks passive but still engaged with you. He molds the sand back into the ice cream bowl and smooths it out before tapping it back onto the coffee table to start over. This time, though, he mushes the sand down with the flat end of his blade.

“Yeah!” you cover your mouth when you exclaim a little more loudly than you meant to, lowering your voice and repeating yourself: “Yeah! It’s like going to the beach without all the dumb hard stuff.”

Bro nods along, starting to cut up the flattened sand like he did before, slicing off a little at a time. “I could show you some other stuff, too, if you want.”

And he does. Not for a while, though. The rest of that night is spent mushing up sand and cutting it up, making multi-colored cakes with the cake pans and serving up slices of red and green Christmas sand that the two of you promptly chop up and mush apart.