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It's an inevitable thing to happen. Dozens of people here, half of them living in the same buildings together. He's already walked into more than a few guys changing, or walking around in their underwear; big deal, they're guys. No one draws attention to it. From what it sounds like, the girls practically have revolving sleepovers.
The men don't go that far but the inn is stuffed room after room of them. Banossa's own is the most private he could manage in a corner of one of the upper halls. Little in the way of foot traffic makes it near his room, though he has to pass dozens of others to make his way out. One like this, a day like any other, he passes by a bedroom door that is slightly ajar, a totally normal thing here. There are always visitors, people popping in and out, then just plain forgetfulness.
The gap draws his eye, casually, without any real intent from him. He looks at it, because it is there to look at. And comes to a stop before he can take proper measure of what he's looking at.
In the gap, a young man dressing, the line of his slender back and long legs like a figure drawing, shoulders twisted perfectly for one single moment as he pulls a shirt on overhead. Butt covered in boxers. It is only with his upper half covered that he seems suddenly verboten, erotic.
Banossa starts with the shift in realization, heart jump-starting all the way up into his ears, scolding himself—what are you lingering here for, moron? Especially for a guy like this?
It's his brother. The black, feathery hair is a dead giveaway, even from behind. But he'd known it was him before that. Somehow, he'd recognized him through the shape of his body, the color of his skin, the pert of his ass as he leans over to pull his pants up one leg, these things that he had never seen so intimately before.
My brother! My brother! Banossa punches the words into his brain, shouting them down. He must need it, because any second now Kir is going to turn and realize he's being stared at. That someone had just been standing outside his door to do it. The fuck is wrong with you?
Good question. That finally does it—he moves—but even that dismays him. His legs feel like he's walking on jello, they're going so slow, so reluctant, with a hesitation that is bone-deep. He fixes his face straight ahead, trying to ignore the flush coming into his cheeks, and the way his stupid heart won't stop pitter-pattering. He doesn't even want to think about it. He refuses to. It has nothing to do with him.