Fixation
"It was love at at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight."
― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
You don't know the name of the man on top of you, but you can't say that you wish you did. Your eyes are closed and you're biting back a name because you wish it was him fucking you instead of the stranger you picked up at a gay bar downtown. You're drunk enough that if close your eyes and keep on lying to yourself, you can believe it's really him. You don't remember a time when Bro wasn't occupying your mind, sitting there in his carved out space that you haven't managed to replace. He's been your entire life, your childhood, your hero, your greatest obsession. You used to think that all you needed was his approval, and when you felt hopeless to gain it, the need to be him consumed you, until it mutated into something that needed to have him, to keep him, to touch him and feel him just to make him real.
When you reach orgasm, it's a hollow satisfaction, because what follows the afterglow is a painful glide back to reality, out of a fantasy world where everything is okay, where your perversion isn't sick at all, where guilt isn't even an afterthought, but here and now, you feel sick. If you had any less control, you might be crying for loss of being able to go back to the way things were, if it were even possible to identify how things were before and why it was better than this. You leave the man's bed, grabbing your phone and your shades after redressing, and get out of his apartment before he has the chance to ask why you're leaving. It's a one-night stand, but you don't have any commitments to even stay the whole night. You don't think you even could, being so close to someone who isn't Bro, just a hollow image and a warm body that you use to relieve your sexual tension..
It's close to four when you pull into the reserved parking of your apartment building. You probably shouldn't have been driving drunk, but you were sobering up anyway and you made it one piece. You walk up the stairs to your apartment instead of taking the elevator. Bro's been texting you since one-thirty, and you're really not in the mood to even look at him, much less face whatever he's got up his sleeve as soon as you walk through the door. You'd prefer to quash your emotions for now, hold them down and just get some fucking sleep before school tomorrow.
That won't happen, though. You stick your key in the door as quietly as you can, and slip in silently. Where did you put your sword? The apartment is silent, and Bro isn't in sight. You know that he's home because both Lil Cal's trunk and Bro's equipment is in the living room. You scan the area before moving carefully to the kitchen. If you're lucky, you can make it all the way to your room. You grab a random sword from the kitchen, then move towards the hallway. You're in the archway when Bro taps you on the shoulder from behind, making you spin around and block the first sword strike.
You're not going to hold long; you're (half) drunk and tired and you're not using your regular sword. Bro draws you out to the clear center of the living room. You duck under his, and block his swings the entire way, but you're shaky and disoriented. Your head feels heavy, and you're ready to just throw your arms up and give in. But you don't, because what follows a particularly humiliating defeat is just one more problem you don't want to deal with right now. Bro dances around you, giving you strikes you can dodge, but he's circling you like a goddamn shark circling around a drowning swimmer. It's making you dizzy. He tests you with a maneuver he taught you last week, which you're barely able to block. After a few more strikes, he distracts you with a swing to your right before he flashsteps to your left, and as you're turning to face him, he flashsteps again, able to fucking karate chop you in the brachial plexus, kick the back of your knees, and pull the edge of his sword up to your throat from behind you while you're down on your knees, still clutching your sword like it actually matters at this point.
His blade is millimeters away from your neck and you can feel Bro's presence above and behind you. You shouldn't be turned on by this. You really, really shouldn't be turned on by this. You swallow and he brings the blade away, allowing you to stand up and face him, still holding your sword. He sheathes his own.
"Where the fuck have you been?" He asks.
"Friend's house," you say. It's not entirely a lie.
"Did you drive home?" He crosses his arms. It's the only sign that he's being serious as all hell right now, and you're trying not to think about how attractive he looks. He noticed you're drunk. Fuck. You suppose it's kind of obvious, especially for someone perceptive like him. You really shouldn't have gone out on a Wednesday night. But you know what? It's getting harder to handle, having to hide and sneak out. The pressure is building, and you're getting close to just outright breaking.
"I'll call next time," you say.
"Like fuck you will. There will be hell to pay if I catch you drunk again." He turns and leaves you standing in the middle of the room.
You retreat to your own room, chucking the sword to the ground, followed by your shirt and your pants before you climb into bed. You plug your phone in, and lie awake, staring at the ceiling for a long time. You're tired as all hell, but you can't sleep.
As you lie there thinking, you wish there was a way to get rid of your feelings for Bro, find some way to be happy with someone your age, unrelated to you, but the years of trying to drive him out of your head have proved that you're stuck with him to your very core. Even if one day you find that you've fallen in love with someone, you wouldn't be surprised if they're just another replacement for Bro, a hollow projection that will leave you always wanting more. He is the Annabel to your Humbert Humbert, making your future bear a sickening likeness to the plot of Lolita whether you want it to or not. At least you don't like twelve-year olds, just your older brother.
You don't go out for another week, but it makes being around Bro unbearable. It's like being told you can't eat your favorite food when you're starving, and it's dangling tantalizingly in front of you, but you also know that if you eat your favorite food, it will probably kick you out of the house and you'll be universally shunned forever or something. Well, you don't really know what Bro would do, but it's the sort of thing that's just don't do, because it's wrong. Basic human morality stuff. You don't kill people, because it's just fucking wrong. You don't make sexual advances towards you brother/legal guardian, because you can't.
Next friday, however, you can't take it anymore. You sincerely give zero fucks and you need to get out. You go out to your usual bar, order your usual drink, and look for a guy who might pass for being blonde, muscular, and twice your age. You find a man that fits one and a half of those qualifications and you take the bait. You sit next to him at the bar, make your usual small talk, get him to buy you a couple drinks, and this time, you don't even bother to go home with him. You take him straight into the bathrooms and get a quickie. He leaves you with a noticeable mark on your neck and you don't even care.
When you go home that night, Bro is on the futon watching a shitty inner-city Sesame Street rip off from the eighties, and you think the universe might truly hate you. He isn't ordinarily here on Friday nights. You wonder if maybe he stayed home just to see if you'd sneak out again, which of course you did, and of course he caught you. You also realize haven't eaten all today, on account that you haven't gone to the store this week to restock your closet. It's midnight, and you think maybe it's not even worth it to hide where you've been from Bro. You just don't give a flying fuck today.
You can sense Bro watching you from his place on the futon, but you're not bothered by it. You stroll right up to the fridge, open it, dodge a sword, grab a sweet golden beer from the door, and open it right in the kitchen with an audible pop of the cap. Bro is on you in a second, snatching it from you before you can raise it to your lips. He's so close to the counter that you can't help but shove him back, successfully knocking him against the counter with the element of surprise on your side. He doesn't outwardly show it, but you're close enough that you can see his eyes blaze with rage. You know he's about to do something, so you pull your right hand back and land a punch on Bro's face, just beneath the glasses, knuckles connecting with the left side of Bro's nose. At the same time, you snatch the beer from Bro's right hand. You take a victorious swig, which doesn't last long, but you can choke down about half the thing before Bro tears it back out of your hand, spins you around and shoves you back into the counter. The force is surprising, cracking a line of pain where the counter digs into your lower back.
"Have a heart, man. I'm already drunk," you say, squirming underneath Bro, whose hands are on either side of you, pushing you into the counter. It would be hot, if it weren't for the piercing anger being shot at you like daggers. You're protected by two layers of shades, but you can feel it. Aw, shit, who are you kidding, Bro is two inches away from you, pinning you into the counter; this is hot. This is definitely hot and if Bro was going to beat the shit out of you, he could at least have the decency to fuck your brains out first.
"Exactly. And now you think it's okay to do this shit? You didn't even bother trying to hide it from me?" If you leaned up a little bit, you could do worse than punching him. You could kiss him. Right fucking there. He hisses in your ear, "and don't you dare think you can get away with punching me like that."
"I'm getting sick of hiding my weekly outings to gay bars just to get smashed and fuck some random dude. Oh yeah, good time to mention that I'm gay," you say, not even fully aware you're saying it until you see feel Bro's miniscule shifts in front of you. You should really shut up now.
Bro leans his face in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath on your face. It should be intimidating, but you're feeling more and more turned on by the second, your pants getting uncomfortably tight. "Is that where you've been going?"
"Gotta blow off steam somehow, what with this massive incest boner I've got going for you," you say, and that is the moment that Bro flinches in front of you. It's a small gesture, but you score another point, because you just freaked the fuck out of him. Now, you just want to keep making him squirm. "That Sigmund Freud would have a field day with, but I have to keep hiding. Or, I guess not, now. Not to mention the men twice my age I use as distractions, they're not working so well lately. I'm starting to not give a single flying fuck who's screwing me, whether troll or human or whatever the hell at this point, and believe me, I hate repeatedly explaining why I'm calling them 'Bro.'"
Bro tightens his grip at your sides, but you can see him realizing other implications the position could have, given your monologue just now. "Don't fuck with me right now," he says, his voice completely unaffected, but his movements slightly uncomfortable.
"I'm not. I actually want to ride your dick like a cowboy at the rodeo," you say, and in fact, you think that's your brain screaming at you, telling you to stop now, to take back every word and go back to hiding and fucking nameless men and pretending you're not royally fucked up. Bro just stares at you, boring holes into your own. You're waiting for a response.
"Grab your sword and meet me on the roof," he says, letting you go while somehow still slamming you back against the counter again. "Now."
You grab your sword from the wall in your room with reluctance, resigned to following Bro up the steps to the roof above, where you will fight pathetically in your drunkenness, and hope maybe this is all just some fucked up dream and you didn't just tell Bro all about how you have the hots for him. You have a very, very bad feeling about this, you think as you ascend the stairs to the warm night above.