Brotherly Love

A Sailor Moon Fanfiction

By Doughnuts of Miroku

A/N: Uh, I wanted to write something weird, once in a while. So here is the result. This is the second time I posted Brotherly Love because I had to do some corrections in order for chapter two to make sense. I'm sorry for those who were anticipating a new chapter. I'm working on it, people.

Summary: They say that if you spent enough with someone, you would eventually fall in love. She felt that they lied to her, especially since the man she loved since she was four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay. [Darien and Serena]

Part One :: Dirty Little Secrets

They say that if you spent enough time with someone, you would eventually fall in love. It was some unwritten rule that fueled the invention of arranged marriages. They also say that kind of love is the one I would want when I'm seventy, smelling of mentholated somethings, and I had more grandchildren than I had fingers. Whoever thought of this bullshit love theory must have never loved.

Otherwise, he would know that love couldn't outlive time.

Love couldn't outlive society and sexuality.

Love was a flimsy, fragile thing – especially when that man you loved since you were four at Happy Tots Nursery was gay.

The man I loved had probably more interest in my elder brother than me.

I grew up with this man. I loved him. I knew this love well.

What I didn't know was that I was loved by another.

A man that lived in a little, black book.

"What are you going to be when you grow up, Darien?"

I was thirteen. He was thirteen, and we were underneath our favorite place in the entire world.

The swing sets at Colapinto Park.

It was sunset, and I stole a glance from Darien as he slowly swung.

Darien Shields was a beautiful male specimen even at thirteen. He was taller than most boys our age, but lanky and awkward. Ebony strands fell across his eyes, and when he smiled, you knew he was genuinely content because they were scrunch tightly. When he laughed, you could feel his laughter underneath your skin, crawling everywhere as if it was him, and he was touching you. But I shouldn't really be thinking of him like this. I couldn't because . . .

"I want to be someone's wife."

Because of that.

He was gay.

He told me he was gay on his birthday a few days ago. It was shock, but somehow I pieced together every odd thing about Darien. He would always do what I do, followed me around, dressed in the same room together, play my feminine games. He had no other friends beside me, and he didn't allow other people to touch me.

I mean, I didn't really mind when we were younger in kindergarten. He would play teaparty with me while the other boys ran around, mud-covered and enjoying tormenting the girls with their perverseness. At times, we would part-take in house, and I would be the husband and Darien, the wife. Now that I knew about his secret, we would rate classroom boys from one to ten. He had crushes, and I had crushes. Sometimes, we would be interested in the same boy. But I had never done anything about those crushes; I felt as if I would betray Darien if I gave my heart to another man. I thought Darien and mine's relationship was perfectly normal, ordinary.

Then again, how many boys can give you a professional manicure?

I stared at my cherry-red converse, contemplating.

"Oh. Me too."

It was all I could say. I couldn't tell him that I wanted to be his wife, that when I grew up, I wanted to have his children and grow old with him. He would have a seizure or something and then avoid me like a leper. Life without Darien isn't much of anything at all, and I would sacrifice my heart just to be next to him my entire life.

"Serena. If neither of us gets married, ever, if no man wants us, I'll marry you. We can die old together, albeit, you're not my ideal man, but you are my soulmate. We are closer than a man and man could ever be, and that's enough for the rest of my life."

When he says things like that, I sincerely believed he preferred me above anyone else, man or woman.

I couldn't say anything, and the tears started to fall. I swung higher and higher; the brisk air drying my tears. Yet, they came heavily down my face. I swung higher, so that I could reach the sky, the sun, and be relieved of all the pain. It was all unattainable, like he was, and after a while, I found my energy drained, and I couldn't swing anymore. I was dead tired of all the lies, and simply sat there, crying, moaning, gasping for air.

Darien watched me, sensing my pain, weaving his fingers through my cornstalk blond hair. He would always do that, and I felt at peace.

I turned to look at him, and I saw sadness and love in his eyes, but it wasn't the kind of love that I wanted.

I cried even harder, and he took me in his arms, nearly smothering me against his chest. He smelled good as usual, and his arms were warm around me. There wasn't enough air to breathe normally, but I didn't mind.

This was the best way to die.

In the arms of the man you loved.

He never did ask about the incident that happened when we were thirteen. He probably brushed it off as a womanly right of passage. We graduated high school, me with my unrequited feelings, and him hitting on every buffoon with a nice ass that crossed his path. Darien, of course, had more boyfriends and sex affairs than me because I never dated, had a boyfriend, or lost my virginity in some over-sexed, drinking party. No, I remained his.

It was pretty pathetic to be pining over a queer man. Especially since Darien and I attended the same university, UC Berkeley, and lived in the same dorm which was specially pre-planned by my darling interfering father. I wonder if they know about Darien's dirty little secret yet.

Probably not.

And now we lived in an over-priced, small apartment in San Francisco. I was an interior designer which was pretty much useless in a city like San Francisco because after paying mortgage on your house, you wouldn't have enough money to pay for the inside of it. Darien Shields, my best, but not the only, gay buddy and target of my foolish, one-sided affections, was strangely a librarian at the San Francisco Public Library. I mean, when you think of librarian, the first thing that comes to your mind isn't a 6'4'' beautiful homosexual man.

We were both twenty five, and our love lives were in ruins. While Darien's sex life hasn't hindered once, his love life is nearly as desolate as mine. My love life is centered around making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a man who will never look at me once in romantic way and watching the Nanny.

While Fran Fine has trouble looking for a nice, kosher Jewish husband, at least, Mr. Shetfield wasn't a homosexual British man.

No, instead I got the cowboy of the Village People.

I was watching Everyone Loves Raymond when I heard the door becoming unlocked and the familiar jingle of keys and Darien's voice. He apparently tore the door open and was wrestling something.

What if he was being mugged in his own apartment? I grabbed the vase his mother sent him for Christmas which I have to comment, was the ugliest thing I've seen. I pressed myself against the wall, looking over the corner to find Darien frenching some strange man I've never seen before.

"Oh my fucking god! Here I thought you were being mugged or assaulted by some creep. No, instead you're here, molesting some hot College piece of flesh you met at work! Darien Shields, if you weren't my best friend, I would have castrated you in your sleep. Look what you've done, now I don't have a reason to break this ugly vase! You're not getting any dinner from me, but I doubt you're hungry for that kind of thing since you got Don Juan sticking his tongue down your throat."

I marched off, throwing his vase at his head, attempting to give him a temporary concussion.

"I'm sorry, Darien. I don't think this is the right time for this, but call me on my cell phone. My wife is suspicious after five years."

I heard Darien bid him goodnight before strolling to the opposite side of the couch like a kicked puppy.

"If you hated that vase so much, I could have 'accidentally' knocked it out our window."

I still refused to look at him, despite the tempted little grin on my face.

"And what? Risk killing Ms. Ibbotson while she's rummaging through her ex-husband's trash?"

"It would have been an accident."

I handed him the carton of Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra and a spoon.

"You forgive me?" He looks up from the half-consumed carton.

"What other reason do I have in handing you ice cream named after a sex book?"

"That's my girl." Darien draws out his arms, and I accepted his embrace, happy while sitting on his lap, both scarfing down more ice cream than my thighs could handle. I was content like this, and I laid my head against his neck, looking up towards his face. Drowsy from the scent of his hair and my restless nights fantasizing of him and me in some Caribbean island, love-making on the sand, in the water, in the shower, in the bed, against a tree, inside a public bathroom, in a boat, anywhere where condoms are easily purchased, I planted a small kiss underneath his chin and slept.

A tormented look passed Darien's face, and his hand shook slightly, then clenched in a fist. His knuckles were exceedingly pale.

He buried his face in her hair and sighed wistfully.

"That's my girl."

"Hey, Darien? Why do always write things in that book of yours?"

We were sixteen, hormonally charged, going through that James Dean stage in our lives. Of course, Darien wanted to screw anything with a hole, and I, his trusty, loyal best friend, stayed at his side. I sounded like Lassie.

Lassie died.

Not a good sign.

We were in his bedroom. I was rummaging through his CD's, slipping the Ramones into my backpack. He wouldn't miss this anyways. There he was, sprawled on his bed, scribbling something in that journal of his. It was something he kept with him everywhere. I was jealous of that little book. I wouldn't mind Darien writing on me, perversely enough.

Darien murmured something incoherent as he continued to write, ignoring me.

"One day I'm going to leave you because of that book. Then you won't have anyone else to ignore. You will miss me, of course, but I can't do anything because I would have moved to Tahiti or something. Somewhere far, unknown, inhabitable, so you can't find me again. It' d be so romantically tragic."

He shot me a look, then closed his journal, tossing it underneath his bed.

"But love, I'm gay. I'm not romantic to anyone unless they have a foot-long schlong in his pants."

I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear my best friend make sex jokes.

"Me and my virginal ears. You have defiled me."

I glared at him, and for a moment, he had a wistful look on his face. It was heart-wrenching to watch him so sad.

"Come here, Darien."

Uncharacteristically obedient, he walked from his bed to stand beside me.

"This has something to do with Andrew, doesn't it? You've fallen for him, and he rejected you. Kiss me."

When did I become so bold that I would use my best friend's pain to earn me a few seconds of pleasure? When had I become so insensitive to Darien so I could kiss him once? The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He was confused, bewildered, pained for some reason or another. I could read Darien like a book. He was my other half, unwillingly the man I give me heart to.

"Serena, what—?"

I hushed him with a finger. I was almost tempted to touch his lips; they were softer than most men. They intrigued me, but I need that kiss.

"Kiss me as if I was Andrew. Let it all out. The anger, the passion, the pain--- let me have it all. This will make you feel better. I promise."

Before I could say anything else, his lips found mine in a brutal, punishing kiss. His lips shifted feverently against mine, and his tongue managed to brush against my own. I was lifted in his lap, and I could feel hardness brushing against me. His hands wound against my hair as it fought to keep inside the hair band, but it failed, and the hair fell in all its golden glory. We were completely covered in strands of gold. I was elevated higher than Darien because of our position, and his lips had to reach for mine in order to make contact.

I wanted to cry so badly then. I shouldn't have made him kiss me. This will always remain a constant reminder of what I cannot have. The first taste of sexuality and passion and love wound into one kiss. He is the man I cannot have.

Alas, he released me, distressed and out-of-breath. His arms set me aside so I no longer straddled his lap. I missed the warmth, but it was all for the best. His fingers sifted through his luscious black hair, a nervous habit that became permanent.

"Look at you. Flushed. Why has no man ever ravished you before? Why are men so blind?"

I couldn't speak; Darien have always left speechless. He laughed despite this incident. Yet, it wasn't full of mirth or bliss; it was cold, spiteful laugh.

"For a moment, I almost forgot I was gay. You could have lost your virginity to a homo, my foolish, little rabbit, and it would mean nothing to me. Everything to you, and that is something I cannot live with."

His words stung; I thought even for a little while that I could be seen as a desirable woman to him.

I closed the door, missing what Darien said afterwards.

"Run, my little rabbit, before I devour you. I promised God that I would never touch you, and I'm afraid that I might break my promise to Him."

I left his room, fled his house, ran and ran, until I was at the park. There was the swing, the only constant thing in my life.

I swung for hours, never really reaching the sky.

The day afterwards, all was ordinary again. He acted like he didn't take my heart, and I acted like I never let him.

A/N: Intrigued? Course you are! Review, review, review.