Author's note: This is the first fanfiction that I've written in recent years, notwithstanding the odd grade school attempts ubiquitous to almost everyone's experience; that being said, this also happens to be my first venture with novel-like writing. I've always been more accustomed to writing in a more clinical manner within the context of formal discussion and essay, yet I've often felt the literary constraint inherent to this field. The late Christopher Hitchens often speculated that fictional writing required an innate sense of music and rhythm in the writer, otherwise it comes off as too contrived and a bit amateurish- I've agreed with this for the most part, possessing little musical proclivity myself, but I'd always felt somehow blithely confident in the versatility of my own writing. However, I've already noticed the shortcomings apparent in this brief attempt: I find it naggingly difficult to vary my sentence syntax, resulting in bunches of lengthy multi-clause sentences which seem to inhibit the flow of the story with excessive description, forcing the pacing into an odd rhythm. I'll choose to pawn this off as lack of practice which can be ameliorated with further work. This was originally written as a birthday present for a friend.
He sat with his back hunched softly against the metal of the blocky air conditioning unit, gripping one knee to his chest, tracking the progress of a lone cloud through the darkening sky. The open rooftop of the man's high-rise apartment building afforded him the luxury of its quiet solace, and he took every opportunity to exploit it to the fullest. Gentle but insistent were the vibrations of the appliance against his spine, and he huddled closer to the machine to feel its touch. Oftentimes he imagined this to be his sole companion, frequently having let his head fall back against the cool iron to allow the hum of its white noise voice to drone the thoughts from his mind.
Lifting a biker gloved hand he adjusted his dark gray cap, his fix on the cloud unfaltering behind his mirrored sunglasses. It was a worn wisp of a thing struggling silently across the open expanse of sky, alone on its endeavor on an otherwise clear evening. Standing pale gray against the backdrop of a brown polluted view, it drifted ever onward, its destination unknown. Rather like himself, the man thought—silent, mysterious, solitary. A ghostly vagabond floating from place to place, continuously searching for a purpose.
His lips pouted in a pensive frown as the winds tore a thin piece from the cloud and left it to stream slowly behind its predecessor, the gap widening with each second. He had responsibilities, duties to fulfill—a younger brother. His demeanor steeled by this realization, the man's mouth curved in a reassured grin; Dave was the sun in his sky—the lighthouse guiding the vessel of his mind through the maelstrom of his thoughts. Roused from his introspection, he cleared his throat and lifted himself from the dusty roof, turned on his heels and dove nimbly down the trapdoor in a dignified and fluid motion.
The boy leaned in close to the mirror, contemplating the pair of sullen crimson eyes staring back at him. He'd recently taken up the practice not out of vanity, but rather from peevish disdain. He'd always disliked the color red. Having convinced himself that if he kept staring, he could transmute them through sheer force of will, he stood, stared, and tightly clenched the bathroom sink hoping someday his efforts would prove fruitful. Despite his vehement disfavor, he incorporated the color seamlessly into his wardrobe, professing it as his favorite. While the chagrin would overwhelm an average person, Dave reveled in the masochistic irony of it; his eyes were another matter, however. He agonized over them, knowing that he was burdened with their unnatural verve like a scar he couldn't cover. He couldn't discard them like a stained shirt on the floor—instead he opted to wear aviator sunglasses, obscuring half his face behind the indifferent mask of their blackened lenses, declining to remove them even indoors, save for in his solitude. This, he staunchly maintained, was an expression of ironic genius.
His gaze drifted downward over his gaunt reflection, and he raised a hand to his face, tracing his sharp jaw line to his chin. It was too smooth, he thought, his lips wilting in a truculent frown. Not even the ghost of a bristle or the hint of a whisker to cover his nearly translucent pallor. He'd never equal his brother at this rate. Grimacing, he touched his forehead to the cold glass of the mirror, envisioning his brother's stoic smile and his taut, powerful frame concealed by a white, formfitting t-shirt: his wiry muscles exuding nearly palpable bravado as they worked themselves alluringly to the pace of his sauntering gait.
Dave's face flushed scarlet as he imagined their smooth feel under his hands, trailing reverentially downward to his brother's pants. Deep within the recesses of his psyche he longed to undo that oversized belt buckle and explore what lay beneath, but he dared not acquiesce and allow the illicit conviction entrance into his waking dreams. Enamored with his older brother, he could never admit it flatly even in the shelter of his mind, for he feared that this admission would free his desire from the vault of his emotions, burgeoning and taking root in all that he was. Though his struggle was futile, as his affection had already become enmeshed inextricably in the fabric of his being.
His body assumed the baser tone of his thoughts, and an erection asserted its presence against the boy's jeans. Dave exhaled, fogging the mirror, and pushed off hard from the sink. Turning in the tiny bathroom, he swiped a hand through his citrine hair, breathing in raggedly and then forcing the air from his mouth in a thick stream.
"Fuck it," he breathed apoplectically through gritted teeth, turning again to brace his back roughly against the wall. He couldn't maintain the self-deception any longer. Closing his eyes, Dave fumbled with his pants, hurriedly unfastening the button and lowering the zipper. He pushed his red briefs down below the triangle of silky hair, rescuing his penis from his pant leg. His fingers ghosted along the thick organ, brushing over the soft flesh of its widened head. Gripping it fully, he stroked its hardened length with mounting fervor, his back slipping downward along the wall with his effort. A drop of fluid escaped the rounded tip, rolling quickly over his knuckles with his balls swinging softly to each motion.
The blonde arched his neck, releasing his mind and granting his fantasies carte blanche—like a runner poised, eagerly awaiting the handoff they sprinted into action. Dave was overtaken with visions of his brother, striding across the stage of his mind. He appeared in front of him against a black backdrop, pinning the boy, extending a strong arm to the wall and pressing a flattened palm against the surface. Dwarfing the boy by more than a foot, he slid in closer, lowering his head to study the tightened, pleasure-wracked face below him over the rim of his pointed sunglasses. Dave reached tentatively for his chest with a shaking hand, feeling the muscled contours through the thin fabric of his brother's shirt. Trailing downward over a washboard stomach, he hooked a finger in the waist of the man's jeans, pulling, begging him forward. He stood unmoved by the feeble tug, staring down at the boy, his face inscrutable.
"Please," mouthed Dave anxiously, dropping his head forward and nuzzling into his brother's broad chest in desperation. The taciturn face softened and flashed a reserved grin, and the man shifted his free hand to his belt. He lowered his arm, guiding it gradually down to his pants, sliding ever closer to the boy. Soundlessly he dragged the leather through the clasp, unfastened the button and pulled the zipper, all with teasing languidness. Parting his boxers, his meaty shaft sprang forward, contacting Dave's own with electric stimulation. Pulsing veins lined its length, looping lazily down to a thick tuft of unkempt aureate curls. The man gripped the boy's waist with purpose and insistence. Dave released the breath he'd been holding as his erection throbbed; the cold pads of the digits brushed his heated skin. He felt secure under those hands—safe and protected. Dave bit down on his lip as the man began to rock, his own hips rolling weakly against the controlled, rhythmic undulation of his brother's. Their flesh slid together in long, forceful swipes, the man's equine balls bouncing softly against Dave's. Reveling in the godly friction, his consciousness melted and dripped from his control like hot oil down a canvas. His arms reached out to steady himself with the man's shoulders. The massive organ against him flared and he felt thick ropes of searing liquid hit his abdomen.
Burning pressure climbed within the boy's body, scaling upward exponentially. The apparition of his brother blurred and evaporated as the concentrated crescendo approached. It exploded, flowering within him, rocketing through his core and outward over his hand as he cried out. The first stream flowed down his trembling fingers, the second and third flew from him, streaking across the bathroom floor. Like a thick fog, he felt pleasure and emotion swim before him in a disoriented haze. His knees faltered and he slipped down the wall. Catching his footing, Dave allowed his back to snake slowly to the floor where he gripped his legs to himself, gradually collecting his breath. The slam of the rooftop trapdoor reverberated through the living room signaling his real brother's return as he stealthily descended the steps. However, it fell on deaf ears as Dave's mind pieced itself together, oblivious to his surroundings.
Begrudgingly the storm of blinding sensation subsided and callous reality stole its place, weaving its threads back into the orderly tapestry of the world. First came the paralyzing uncertainty, crashing down upon him in icy sheets. How would he be able to meet his brother's eyes now? Will he ever be free from the prison of his own yearning? The guilt flowed quietly on uncertainty's coattails, prodding at him until he tumbled into the sweeping undercurrent. This lust was wrong—unnatural and impossible. Stinging self-abnegation soaked through to his marrow, clutching his heart with its creeping tendrils. He was deluding himself for entertaining the possibility. His face burned, and tears stained his inflamed cheeks. He wanted to sleep—to lose consciousness and forget it all: his eyes, his cool-guy affectations, his brother, everything.
He sat up, flailing his arm for the shower curtain to pull himself into a standing position. Catching the plastic in his hand, he yanked it with too much force as he rose, splitting it from its rings and unleashing an avalanche of wet, brightly colored puppets from inside the shower.
"Fucking cheap-ass piece of shit! What the hell are these slimy fuckers doing in this goddamn airplane sized bathroom anyway?" Dave shouted, vituperating himself more than the puppets. Hefting the pile against the wall in fury, he was startled by a metallic jiggling. Dave turned in time to see the knob twisting before the door flew open.
Descending the rooftop staircase three at a time, the man leapt agilely to the floor, employing his momentum to pirouette into the living room where he vaulted over the futon, landing heavily in a cloud of dust and food crumbs in front of the television. He turned the appliance on, cycling through the stations before he could reasonably say that he was disinterested in the programming. He rather disliked watching television in general, instead having an intense proclivity for videogames and web design, evidenced by the mess of wiring and console controllers adorning the floor and the gargantuan computer monitor occupying the corner of the room. Speeding through channels for the irony claiming that nothing of interest was playing was a worthy pastime, however. Switching to an auxiliary channel, he bent low to pick up one of the game controllers. It dropped from his hand as he was interrupted by a piercing cacophony of crashing and fitful screaming emanating from the bathroom. The man's face adopted a devilish grin with the knowledge that Dave must have fallen prey to his shower trap. Jumping from the couch, he stalked through the room to the bathroom door to reap his spoils. Quickly turning the doorknob, he thrust the door open and barreled into the tiny room to declare his victory.
"You-" he began triumphantly as he dashed into the space, slipping on something spilled on the floor, "Shit!" His foot shot from underneath him and he toppled backward onto the tiled floor. Violently derailed, his train of thought suffered a sudden termination, and he forgot what he'd come in to say. Disguising a pained moan as an arduous grunt, he leapt to his feet to salvage the last vestiges of his pride. He braced himself for the raucous laughter and the swift rejoinder that were sure to follow, but to his surprise neither came.
For the first time he surveyed the room, glancing quickly from his younger brother to the pile of offending puppets, and back to Dave. He saw the tears, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Dave's still leaking erection. Lifting his forearm he turned it to inspect the wet smear he'd received from the floor stain when he fell. He bolted from the room when he noticed its milky white coloration, hooking a foot on the edge of the door and closing it without looking back to see Dave's expression in his rapid escape.
Sprinting up the staircase to avoid possible pursuit, he closed the hatch behind him and emerged on the roof, blushing furiously. Regaining his composure, the event in its entirety caught up with him and he doubled over in mirth. He'd run in on Dave masturbating and slipped on the ejaculate. He couldn't tell who had been more mortified.
His laughing fits dissipated when he remembered Dave's face—a portrait of abject misery. Had he forced him to tears with the prank and the untimely discovery? No, he looked like he'd already been crying. Was it the puppets? It couldn't be that; he'd always vigorously avowed that puppets were cool. The man mused for a moment, failing to generate any useful answers. He glanced again at his forearm, wet with Dave's essence.
He'd never contemplated the concept of Dave's sexuality before. Although he'd noticed the inception of unusual behaviors in the boy, he'd blithely attributed them to the conflicts of early adolescence. Secrecy and self-seclusion were commonplace in that period. Reevaluating, he recalled a marked increase in Dave's interest in him over the past months. Only recently had he started asking to spend time together in contrast to the usual mutual antagonism. He'd written this off as the pursuit of a role model, being secretly grateful for the opportunities it presented. Could Dave have been thinking about him while he pleasured himself? His face flushed rouge for the second time in as many minutes—an uncommon gesture for him. He raised his arm to his mouth, considering the implications of the whole affair. Deciding he'd confront Dave at the next opportunity, he ran his tongue over the liquid, savoring the salty flavor. Silently traipsing down the staircase, he reclaimed his place on the futon sans the customary theatrics, plotting their next encounter.
Dave sat huddled in the back of the shower, his pants redone and the floor cleaned. Maintaining a death grip on his shins, he impacted his forehead punitively on his knee. His brother must revile him now. There was no way he could reconcile this. He could never leave this bathroom. Affirming that he'd sooner die of starvation than face his brother, he lifted his head again and thrust it against his knee, bearing the pain as penance. His clothes were damp, both from the shower and the puppets, and his eyes were swollen and irritated from crying. He'd even neglected to bring his sunglasses into the bathroom with him.
He shivered, lamenting his poor foresight. Deciding that being shirtless would be better than wearing the cold wet one, he peeled the moistened fabric from his torso, tossing it into the other corner of the shower. He curled tighter, seeking further warmth. Scowling, he unfolded himself, the wet denim of his jeans feeling abrasive against his bare chest. From across the room he caught his reflection in the cabinet mirror—pitiful, puerile. Holding his breath, he steeled his nerves for a quick escape. Confident he could out maneuver his brother and claim the sanctuary of his bedroom before he was intercepted, he stood slowly. At this hour his brother was most likely on the roof again, fulfilling his penchant for stargazing. He could easily negotiate the length of the room to the opposite end in this case. Although it's possible he could be waiting to ambush him in the living room. He could still make it, he resolved.
Turning the doorknob with infinitesimal rotations to avoid a telling squeak, he opened the door a fraction of an inch making certain not to clack the dead latch as it retracted. From the narrow view he was afforded, he couldn't see his brother anywhere. His breath caught in his throat as he acknowledged the possibility that he could be hiding along the wall. He'd have to risk it anyway. Crouching behind the wooden frame, poised to run, he opened the door another inch, waiting. Satisfied when he heard nothing, he shoved it hard, leaping from the miserable bathroom and sprinting for his bedroom door. This was almost too easy. He couldn't hear his brother stirring from whatever hiding place he'd taken, and there were no obstacles in his way. Accepting this good fortune, he bent low, sacrificing balance for speed. Paces away from his goal, he prayed he'd left the door unlocked.
Dave's stomach dropped as his brother's machinations were revealed, and his door swung open from inside. It was too late to correct his posture and he sailed into the room, futilely trying to brace for damages. He was saved by a masculine arm, absorbing his momentum and scooping him up over a broad shoulder.
"Took you long enough, bro," the man said, smiling to himself.
"Fuck this! Put me down!" Dave protested, pummeling his brother's back with his fist, his face reddening with humiliation. He walked them over to the futon, dropping the boy beside his normal spot. Swiftly he sat down and secured Dave's attention with a strong hand around his shoulder. "What are you going to do to me?" the boy demanded, summoning the remnants of his determination to cast a defiant glare at his captor.
"What? I'm not going to do anything to you. I'm just gonna talk to you," the man sighed, bemused.
"You don't have to tell me. I know already. You hate me, don't you?" he whispered, the strength drained from him.
"What would make you think that?" he crooned, pressing Dave's shoulder reassuringly. The boy's face flashed to match his eyes, any trace of his sanguine demeanor dissolved.
"Fuck you! You're patronizing me! You know I- that I- I…" his voice petered out like helium from a balloon, fresh tears forming in his eyes as his words failed him. He felt the urge to break from the man's grip, but drowned in the need for understanding. He had nothing left to lose. He went for broke, throwing his arms around his brother's torso, burying his face in his chest. "I love you. Fuck," he choked. The man slid down the mattress to hold the quivering mess in his lap. Lowering his head, he rested his lips to the shell of the boy's ear, lacing his fingers through his hair.
"It's all right," he breathed. The syllables were long and protracted, a warm breath behind each one. Rocking slowly until the boy's sobs subsided, he traced his fingers through the same path in his hair, ghosting over his scalp. "What are you going to do to me, now?" he exhaled to his ear.
"Please," Dave whimpered, "please be serious."
"Deadly," he rejoined, punctuating it with a rustle of his hand through Dave's hair, shaking free rivulets of water.
"Can I…" he bit his lip. "Anything?"
"I'll stop you when you've gone too far." Although this was only a formality. He knew he'd give the boy anything if it made him happy, harboring no intention of preserving the banal appropriateness that so harshly strangled his spirit. Dave wriggled free from his brother's grip, shuffling to the floor. He kneeled before the man, peering upward into his rugged face, his own features marred with uncertainty. The pointed glasses shone in the light, and his mouth donned a dangerous grin of absolute assurance. Dave nervously ran a pink tongue across his lip, lifting shaking hands to the man's belt. His fantasy was finally taking hold. He felt the cold metal beneath his fingers, and eased the leather strap through the clasp. Worshipfully he unfastened the button and pulled the zipper. Streaming a hand along the cylindrical bulge beneath, he reached upward to feel the smooth contours of the man's stomach. Reaching inside, Dave pulled the penis slowly from within the orange boxers that lay before him. Running the pads of his fingers along its lightly curved length, he pressed it to his face, feeling his brother's masculinity. His tongue darted out, circling gently over its wide head. He felt it twitch, hearing a gratified sigh from the man above him. Holding his tongue over his teeth, he took the thick head in his mouth, bobbing at a languid, gradual pace, savoring each stroke. Teasing the cleft of its underside with the point of his tongue, he was rewarded with a haggard groan. Dave lifted his hand to tightly grip the excess he'd never be able to swallow; he leaned lower, flattening his tongue to take it deeper, stroking the veined underbelly with coarse, passionate licks.
He pulled away, dragging the point of his tongue down its length in teasing loops, pausing purposefully at his brother's sack, taking long, lingering licks at the thin flesh. He sucked, taking one in his mouth, swirling his tongue gently around the treasure. The man coiled his fingers through the back of Dave's hair, guiding him upward. He capitulated, engulfing the head once more with soft suction. He felt it throb in his mouth, and the man's grip on his hair tightened with urgency. The head flared in his throat, and he pulled back, falling forward again in rhythm. The man trapped the breath in his throat, and Dave tasted the thick, salty liquid as it spattered his palate. It filled his mouth, and he swallowed readily, taking the next bursts in turn, the hot streams slicking his tongue and splashing down the back of his throat. He wished this moment weren't as ephemeral as the march of time demanded—locked in the symbiotic bliss of the connection, he felt fulfilled. He gave it a final stroke and pulled away as the convulsions ceased, clambering unsteadily to his feet.
Inhaling in wavering gulps, the man's shoulders sagged in exhaustion. He barely noticed when Dave curled into his lap, nuzzling into the curve of his neck, breathing softly. Dave stared closely, past the pointed glasses, and saw his brother's eyes. The shimmering saffron pools swam with lazy satisfaction in the intensity of his probing crimson gaze. Months of shared convictions, secrets and yearning flowed through the silence as they sat staring, neither one able to sever the connection awash in the sea of feeling. The heaving sighs of the broad chest below him lulled Dave quietly into relaxation and he felt its warmth chasing the chill from his body. They phased from consciousness this way, the boy resting in the welcoming lap of his guardian, drifting together into the blackness of sleep—immersed in the dark waters of the other's mind. Above them, across the dimmed ambience of the cityscape, a lone cloud wandered across the horizon, content to drift: its purpose realized.