Matthew takes a deep breath, nostrils and head filling with the unmistakable scent of his brother's skin – smog, baking bread and an underlying hint of deep, damp forests. The same forests he runs his fingers through when they tangle in Alfred's sweat-soaked hair. The latter fidgets, blue eyes ever-moving and nervous behind his spectacles, and stammers out an almost inaudible word.
"Please."
Matthew balls his hands into fists, trying to dispel the lingering awkwardness, and feels centuries melt away. He dips his head to take a taste of his brother's mouth, and doesn't come up for a long time. He is used to this, used to being with his brother, and any hint of guilt is swiftly blown away by the overwhelming love he feels.
He does something to Alfred's bottom lip that makes the other gasp sharply, and is rewarded for his - admittedly sweet - troubles when his twin grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and pulls him down. They're pressed together in a tangle of limbs on a scratched-up leather couch. The thing is something Matthew salvaged from his basement, and it's so old he's sure it signifies something. He just can't tell what.
When they were children, only half-civilized despite everyone's best efforts, teetering on the edge of puberty, they used to go to the basement sometimes, crawl onto this same couch and press their bodies together in a clumsy, shameful whirlwind of exploration.
Matthew feels like a kid again. His brother had always been so insistent, babbling about something-or-the-other he'd found in a book, and how good it was supposed to feel. But between the two, all of his bravado dropped, and Matthew was the one who had to take the initiative.
Another thing that hasn't changed at all.
Legs tangle around him, pulling their still clothed bodies together. Matthew lets his head sink on the body beneath his, lips pressed to an exposed collarbone, and revels in the sensations washing over him. He can only guess at how different it is for Alfred, who is half-sick and stung with guilt.
And enjoys the shame just much as the touches that cause it.
"C'mon, Mattie," the voice is soft, almost whining, and the words are supported by hands gliding over his back, the bumps of his spine,"say something!"
Alfred is pleading with him, pleading for something he doesn't like to give. But he loves his brother, enough to seem something of a pushover when all he wants is to make him happy.
The question remains – how does that make Alfred happy?
"This is wrong, Al, and everyone who saw us would tell us so. We're brothers."
He doesn't know how well he plays the admonishing part, but it's seemingly well enough, as Alfred gasps, half-shoves him away and then pulls him in again, even tighter than before.
"This is sin." Matthew says, feeling Alfred twist and twitch at the last word. He imagines the sparks of pleasure that the guilt and shame send through his twin, and feels his own face grow increasingly hotter. Alfred tilts his head back, eyes silently begging for a kiss, and Matthew obliges. When the contact reaches sweet, melting fever-pitch, he pulls away as if his lips have been burned.
"We shouldn't be doing this." he says, trying to sound as guilty as he can manage.
They love each other, it feels wonderful, of course they should be doing it!
Alfred nods weakly, mutters a weak "Sh-shameful-" and pulls him in for another kiss, even longer and wetter than the last. Matthew is the one to break the kiss again, giving his brother's lips a last, slow lick.
"It's shameful, sinful, disgusting." he says, his voice not quite shaking. Alfred squirms at each word, pressing their hips together tighter, and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Open your eyes," he doesn't like commanding like that, and if he does, it's only a little. But he does oblige his brother wills, ridiculous though they may be,"not looking at me doesn't make it any less wrong. We should be ashamed of ourselves."
Alfred has worked one hand between their bodies, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Matthew grinds against the pressure, head reeling, attempting to formulate a clear sentence.
"Sin," he chokes out, having no more breath to spare,"incest, wrong, shameful, abomination..."
Each gasped word makes Alfred's hands work more feverishly, and so he keeps going, trying to think of anything that will invoke the guilt he is free of.
His vision almost goes blank.
I love you, Al.
"You want me," he chokes out,"I'm your sin."