Quit

Love is supposed to be raw, rough, exhilarating, awe inspiring, and wonderful. Love is placed upon this pedestal that all should clamor to stand atop, it's supposed to be...it's supposed to be this warm, familiar, inviting, and all consuming. This is not always the case; love is horrifying in the fact that it WILL consume you, it' bleak in the sense that it can fade, it's a complicated mass of all your emotions vying for attention, it's illogical, It's irrational, and it's...it's what I feel for him every day I draw breath.

It started out innocent enough, a slight crush that blossomed into unyielding affection and admiration before coming into full bloom. I tried to stop it, I truly attempted to halt the process with various methods: distancing myself physically from him, trying to shift my focus to other people, of the same and opposite sex, throwing myself into school more than usual, it was all fruitless. I still tried, not recognizing the looming futility in my actions.

Back to how this began, I suppose it started out when I first hit puberty and started noticing girls…and boys. I kept that aspect under wraps due to the fact that I'd get the crap kicked out of me if anyone knew. I had a few crushes and I guess what you could call girlfriends but seeing as how the men in my family are doomed to ruin relationships, they were all failed miserably. With that, I sort of decided to stay single…well the cosmic forces that be decided for me.

At that point my fate was sealed, I was doomed to succumb to my feelings for him. I made a last-ditch effort before I lamented in my fate. I made a very detailed pro's and con's list of why this was a very bad idea; I included every reason I could trudge up and then some but even as I read over the list for the 100th time, I still couldn't stop how I felt. I couldn't think it away, I couldn't wish it away, I couldn't physically push it away…I am doomed to love him for the rest of my life.

Here we sit, the three of us, on this well-worn couch, watching some centuries old wrestling match. We sat an amicable distance away, legs spread just enough to be comfortable but close enough not to touch. Despite starting at the screen with an interested look on my face, something I learned to fake at an early age, all I could think of was this closeness we were sharing and how, under the circumstances, this would be as good as it would get for me. I wanted to do all those stupid, cheesy things you see in movies and TV shows, I wanted to lean against him as he draped his arm around my shoulder, I wanted to look up at him and smile for no good reason, I wanted him to gently place a kiss on my forehead. I knew I had a better chance at being hit by lightning the same day I won the lottery but my mind still drifted to these cheesy scenarios.

I was jolted from my thoughts when the other two occupants of the sofa stood, cheering for one of the wrestlers. The look of happiness on his face when the challenger was tossed out of the ring and onto a table left me breathless, he was…a simple beauty, one few appreciated. It took a lot of time to see that he was more than just his reputation. Not a lot of people are willing to put in that time but I've had 15 years to devote, not that I've had a choice.

I excuse myself to the kitchen to get a drink but on the way, he trips me and smiles devilishly at me before refocusing on the television. I hated to admit it but that stupid smirk made me go weak in the knees. I secured my glass of water, silently watching them as they focused intently on the screen but my focus eventually shifted from both of them to just him. I mentally slapped myself for doing so, I tried to reign in these stupid thoughts time and time again but with each failure the tenacity in me withered. It's to the point that I'm starting to not care that I feel this way for him, my energy is focused more so on hiding it than stopping it because I know what would transpire if my feelings were ever brought to light.

My…urges…came in stages they fluctuated in intensity: first came the need to be near him, being in the same room usually satisfied that stage, next came wanting to be closer, touch him if possible, starting a brawl usually satisfied this stage, then came a burning desire to feel him pressed against me, nothing really quelled this urge except time, after that, the last stage was dreaming of what I could not have and succumbing to the loneliness that accompanied waking up.

Tonight…the next to last stage was at its apex. I wanted him pressed against me. I wanted him on top of me, moaning and panting as our hips ground together. I wanted his lips to coast over my dampened skin and leave patches of discolored flesh in their wake. I wanted, no, I craved, his touch in the most intimate way possible.

I lie awake, facing him as he slept. He looked so serene, a scene that people outside of this house never got to see. They only saw the dimwit with a penchant for trouble. I saw more, sometimes the residents of this house saw more as well but not the same way I did. I saw a gentle soul housed inside an aching body. I saw kindness in those hazel eyes. I saw passion. I saw a vast expanse.

I found myself rising from my bed before I could will myself to stop. I knelt next to his sleeping form, simply admiring him and all that he was. His defined features were highlighted even more in the light filtering in through the window. I smile to myself, appreciating what I had over looked time and time again. This…this untainted beauty I cannot admire during the day lay here before me once again this evening and once again I am tempted, tempted to do things any sane person would not do. But again…love brings about insanity and dispels all logic. If that was not clear before, it should be clear now. Me, a certified genius, reduced to an illogical, slack jawed, love sick, teenager.

I reach out and ever so gently run my fingers through his constantly gelled hair. For once, the usual rigidity of the spikes is absent, replaced by an almost unfamiliar softness. He stirs. I am paralyzed, trying to come up with an excuse as to why my hand is in his hair but after coming up with 20 solid excuses, over half of them malicious, he settles. I breathe a sigh of relief before returning to my ministrations. I allowed my hand to lazily drift down to his cheek. Soft skin sent tingles throughout my entire body. I wanted more. I craved more. Wrestling matches and these butterfly touches in the dead of night weren't going to cut it for much longer, especially with the reoccurring dreams I've been having.

I take one last look at him before returning to my bed. I sadly slink under the covers, seeking solace in sleep. I know the search will end with a feeling of euphoria followed by a feeling of hopelessness that will pool in my stomach. But eventually, despite a million thoughts buzzing about in my head, I sleep. As predicted, my dreams are filled with the two of us once again.

We were home alone, which already signifies that this is an impossible world of fantasy, and I was in our room doing some school work. He came into our room and just stood there, gawking at me. Instead of it being a look of contemplation, it was a look of lust. He wanted me, but I was either too dumb or too shy to notice. He took me refusing to acknowledge him as a challenge to get my attention; he laid down on his bed and proceeded to let his hands roam about his body, doing his best to bring himself into an aroused state.

I tried to tune him out, not wanting the sounds of hands moving over fabric or his belt being undone or his zipper being pulled down to become the focus of my mind. But it was too late, I had stopped writing, pencil resting against note filled paper, eyes wide as I focused more and more on the sounds coming from behind me. I heard him spit into his hand along with more shuffling of fabric but what made my blood run cold was the moist slicking sound of him moving his hand up and down his length. I was pushed over the brink when I heard him moan my name.

I whirled around to face him and saw that same damned smirk on his face. His hands down his pants, still massaging away at his partially hidden erection. He beckoned me to come to him with a simple jerk of his head. From there I found myself, on my knees looking up at him. It was an all too familiar position but usually I was begging for him not to hurt me or tell mom something I did. However, this time, I was sitting there, eyes half lidded as he passed the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip while his index finger supported my chin.

He muttered something but I couldn't make out what it was, I just know every time he muttered, I opened my mouth wider, slightly sticking my tongue out. I always heard what he said next, a condescending "good boy" was escape his lips before he dropped his plaid boxers, his stiff cock bobbing up in front of me. He slowly slid the head into my mouth before pulling it out again. He moaned as he continued to tease me but when he finally went balls deep into my throat, he let lose a sound instilled in him years and years ago, by our evolutionary ancestors. It was a huge turn on.

Feeling him slide in and out of my throat with rehearsed ease was exhilarating to say the least. But my favorite part was always him letting me take control once he was satisfied. After knocking my tonsils around, he let me up, telling me I was his too do with as I saw fit. I happily took full advantage of his submission. Admittedly it was mostly a turn on because it fed into my need to be in control, it fed into my narcissism, it stroked my ego to know I was the one who could make him feel this good, to make him moan out my name, to make him whine right before he came.

I forced him down to his knees before undoing my belt. He eagerly helped me out of my pants and boxers before taking hold of my cock. I allowed him to stroke it a few times before he tried placing it in his mouth, at that point I grabbed him by his hair, telling him to stop. He knelt there, the length of my cock begging to be swallowed but I was forcing him to slow down and wait. I peered into his eyes, seeing them filled with impatience and desperation. I circled his lips a few times before nodding towards him. He tried to eagerly take all of me into his mouth but I pulled him off again, giving him a stern look. He got the message, slowly easing his way down my shaft. It felt so good, the heat of his mouth was slowly spreading through my body and with each bob of his head, I felt my orgasm draw closer and closer.

I pulled him off me, smirking at the dissatisfied look on his face. I informed him that I wasn't ready to cum yet. I wanted to hear him moan my name before we could finally get to some real fun. I forced him to strip naked and get on all fours facing the window. He did as I asked, presenting himself to me like a dog in heat. I let my hand glide over his surprisingly smooth ass before sliding my fingers over his hole. He shuddered a bit. I brought my fingers around to his mouth and commanded him to lick them. He quickly complied, coating them in his saliva. I pulled out of his mouth and proceeded to press two of my fingers into his tight hole. He winced a bit before moaning my name.

I slowly moved my fingers in and out of him, reveling in the short, ragged breaths he was drawing in. I made sure he was properly prepared before aligning myself with him. But just as I was about to push inside of him, I jolted awake. I groaned, knowing that this is where the dream always ended. It stopped right as I was about to situate myself between perked cheeks. I felt the front of my underwear and, as always, they were stained with the physical manifestation of my guilt and unrequited feelings. As is tradition, I rise from my bed, grab a fresh pair of underwear, and change in the bathroom.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, feeling shame wash over me as it always does. And, as always, I slip into a quiet fit of sobs, feeling my grip tighten around my soiled boxers. I curse under my breath, damning myself for these unwanted feelings. I never asked for this. I would never sick these feelings on anyone, no matter how much I hated them. Fuck.

School, the one place I rarely interact with him, the one place I can distract myself. I hurl myself into lessons, provoke thought during discussions, talk to teachers about my current academic standing, any and everything that meant I wouldn't run into him…at least before lunch. However, when lunch did roll around, I had very few options in regards to avoiding him. I could only use the "I have to see a teacher about something" excuse only so many times a week, and since neither of us had been great at making and keeping friends, we were pretty much forced to eat lunch together. I sat with the kreylboynes and, as always, he joined us.

There was chatter of future experiments and inventions being thrown about, much of it going over his head but he listened anyway, probably to use it as ammunition in a verbal, or physical, assault later in the day. I chimed in from time to time when my input was asked but I stayed quiet for the most part. I was unintentionally watching him as he ate. He ate like a starving animal but I was oddly entranced by it. My attention was usually focused on his lips and occasionally his tongue when he would try to lick sauce from the far corners of his mouth. It was torture.

My wandering imagination began to make blood flow a bit more to one part of my body. I excused myself to a washroom inside the main building, and after making sure it was vacant, I picked the stall furthest away from the door. Settling myself on the seat of the toilet, I gripped my now throbbing length and began stroking it. Slowly at first, but as more images of him and that nimble tongue of his flashed to the forefront of my mind, my strokes grew in pace. I drew closer and closer to orgasm and I felt something caught in my throat, a name unspoken in such context dared to slip from my lips and into the stale air of the bathroom. I knew with that simple utterance, I would fully condemn myself to a long, hard life of unrequited love, but knowing that I was going to suffer that fate whether I spoke his name now or never, I let his name be heard in a pathetic whine.

"Reese."

Love is as pure as freshly fallen snow, but like freshly fallen snow, it is eventually tainted and blackened. Reality…reality sets in and it harshly informs you that this overwhelming feeling you are experiencing comes with baggage. You must accept the person and all that follows them, both their successes and their shortcomings. You must be willing to compromise. In return, if the object of your desire returns your feelings, they must do the same. This makes love work. However, when the apple of your eye is unaware that you have been enticed by its beauty, you must accept that and do your best to move on, lest you end up like yours truly.

We've grown into our own men now, leaving behind the shackles of adolescences and embracing adulthood. Me, still single but with a decent job at a research lab, him with a girlfriend who suits him and a job working for the city. We've started down our own paths in life, however we shall never not cross paths, it comes along with being brothers. But…I know that as long as we live, as many partners as we may cycle through, as happy as both of us may seem, I will always feel a pang of hurt when I see him with another and I will always resent them for having what I've longed for. I apologize to him, his partner, my partner, and my family. I did not mean for this to happen…I wish I could stop…but I can't help the way I feel. I'll spend my life apologizing.