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You are a grown-ass man and you fully admit that you take a rather childish, yet sadistic delight and seeing your brother jump whenever you touch him just right.
From an evolutionary standpoint, Dave would have a solid chance of surviving in the wild with nerves like that. Not a spider in the world could creep along his back without him flipping the ever-loving-fuck out. Evolution aside, it’s still pretty fucking adorable when you skim your fingers along the back of his neck as you walk by, making sure to barely brush the tiny hairs at the nape, and he winds up two feet away, shaking and glaring.
You idly wonder if that’s the only place that his skin is that sensitive, but don’t ponder the thought for too long.
Your second opportunity comes later in the day, when the sun has risen high enough to turn your tiny apartment into a compact oven. Dave stands near the bathroom sink, shirtless, the water running as cold as possible as he attempts (in vain) to bring his body temperature down, if only a bit.
Catching him off-guard is hardly difficult when his eyes have never quite been able to keep up with your flash-stepping, and you find yourself behind him. Your fingers just barely ghost up his ribs, causing him to start, then immediately slam his elbow into your sternum.
If you weren’t so amused, you’d probably be pissed about how much that hurt. Using your hips, you press him forward, trapping him between the counter and your pelvis as you continue to tickle him, then abruptly stop. He’s panting and still writhing, his eyes wide and his shades just barely hanging on his nose.
You take careful note that he looks pretty hot like that as you lean forward and breathe against the back of his neck. This time, instead of struggling, he freezes and you hear his breath hitch in the back of his throat for a millisecond.
It appears that the sensitivity has more than just its evolutionary advantages.