There was a slow screeching noise outside of the house, racketeering through the end-summer's day. Arthur Kirkland looked out of his home's front window to see a raggedy old bus, barely held together by what seemed to be duck-tape and metal fixings. However, it was not the vehicle he was interested in, it was the person inside it that did. His green eyes scanned the time-badgered rig again and again, the movements of the shadows inside of it perplexing him so.
Finally, the figure he wanted to see appeared like a visage from a mist: his younger brother, Peter! The bus was one from the small-time program for summer vacation that Arthur decided to sign him up for to improve his diminutive character and, to be honest, quite rebellious character. It was after the fourth time that Peter ran away and began to claim that Berwald Oxenstierna was his new father, and that being the final straw. Arthur looked up several summer-time programs to ship his little brother off to, until he finally found one that seemed fairly coerced: The Happy-Happy Time Camp, found in the Far East. It was far east enough that it would most likely cure him of his Scandinavian-obsession, but not far enough that Arthur would not be able to swoop in and rescue him if something were to go wrong. Seeing as how his little brother was now exiting the vehicle, primed in a plain-brown uniform like all the other little duckies on the craft, there was obviously no swooping needed.
Arthur opened the door immediately, and with no hesitation wrapped his arms around Peter. "It's so good to see you, you little wanker! How was camp?"
"Hello, brother." Yup, that was the same British accent that he himself sported; it was Peter. "It is nice to see you too; I learned a lot of new things." That's odd, right there; his voice failed to break a single octave beyond neutral. Arthur pulled himself back from the warm-against-stiff embrace to see that those reflective pools of joy that were once his eyes were now limp, crass piles of analyzing muck.
Something is terribly wrong here. He placed a hand on Peter's face, feeling a strange cold that seems unnatural for this time of year on even the most callous individual. It practically burned, it was so cold. "What's the matter, Peter? Blood hell, you feel like an icicle!"
However, the little brother didn't seem to respond at all to that question and exclamation. Instead, a wicked smile soon grew upon the little Brit's face as he looked up and down, slowly, his older brother. He seemed to almost be searching for something upon the older's casually-clothed, white-shirt-green-pants person. "I learned a lot of new things." His eyes blinked, calculatingly.
Arthur looked back to the kitchen, severely disturbed as to what was going on. Luckily, a pot of tea was ruminating on the stove at the moment, so he took a careful hold of the younger's limp hand. "Come on, Peter; let's fix you up something to drink. It's almost noon." He did not expect much resistance, but he did indeed meet a dangling, attached arm that refused to move. It pulled back on him, so Arthur stopped getting up from his crouching and returned to it to see what Peter wanted to tell him. "Yes?"
No response came, initially. The smaller hand gripped his and began to swing it back and forth, causing Peter to give out a small but anatomically automatonic giggle. The surrealism of the situation was encroaching, not to mention discerning. Suddenly, with no warning, the younger brother pulled himself forward to Arthur's left ear, holding his right hand closely to his brown uniform, and gave a small whisper, once more repeating "I learned a lot of new things, Arthur."
The touch of his hand may be stiff and cold, but his breath was… hot. It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine when he whispered into his ear, but like bloody hell he was going to admit it; this is not the place for that sort of buggery. To get himself to focus, the older pushed the younger back slightly and locked his green eyes with the younger's cerulean ones. "What did you learn, Peter?"
A look of 'how absurd of a question is that?' grew on the smaller's face. He gave a shrug, unintentionally showing that he now adorned a small patch upon his right-arm that was two triangular red-and-black symbols, separated by a white bar that held a single red star. The teen noticed that the patch caught his brother's eye, and gave an explanation, "Mr. Ivan said that it would be a good addition to my uniform; he said it made me look more proletarian." When he uttered such a word, a small and wily twinkle flashed in his eyes as one of them gave an almost seductive wink. Peter's right hand rose towards Arthur's face, the cold feel slowly moving along his smooth face up to his eyebrows. "I learned that if I, collectively, need or want something that is very important to me, I should be allowed to absorb it at my whim."
Arthur fell backwards onto his arse, sweat trailing down from his huge eyebrows to his chin. He felt the pressure of Peter crawling forwards onto his body from his legs, gradually up to his torso as the smaller's hands found 'ground' to hold on to and to further his advance. "What do you mean? What do you need?" His voice practically cracked, which would be humourous considering his accent made it sound absolutely effeminate.
The cracking in the older's voice did not quell the invader, whom climbed and climbed until he rested upon his prey by kneeling on the floor, parallel to the older's legs, and his arms clenched upon his shoulders. Peter's voice sensualized a mumble, ever so slightly, an offering that was impossible to ignore: "Become one with Brother Sealand." A small kiss laced the offering upon Arthur's lips, a sort of olive-branch stemming from a treaty.
This was a total surprise, an obliteration of the fundamentals. How could Arthur possibly come back from this sort of domination, this invasion of his personal life? One thing is for sure, is that when their lips touched, one could swear that Arthur's face became as red as the flag that Peter and, now apparently his 'comrade' Peter, now hailed to. What bitter irony, that the one person in the entire neighborhood not considered an adult, much less a bystanding consenting citizen, was now influencing a narrowing of the political spectrum within his elder, far more powerful brother. The rise of this erotic communism begins with the meeting of the Sea and Land, with a break-off from the normal uniting faction: it would be based on consent from both sides to work together. There would be no need for a red-stained pipe or a silently-moving Chinese man watching from the trees, for both would work together for each other's needs, desires, and everything in between. There has never been anything close to this type of unity, bar one thing, perhaps.