Dolled Up II: Chocolate Icing
Softly plinking piano keys create lilting tones that settle over the pair like shifting sand, getting in their eyes and landing on their clothes as they move. Dusting fingerprints drive Nathan to distraction and he's battling not to tighten his grip around the slender hips. He feels the sand surround them, thickening the air; leaving wine-like lethargy to hang about, making the space appear vaguely mauve. Nathan smiles as the same crimson color tinges Peter's cheeks; turns silken fabric nearly periwinkle. Ruffles touch against his suit in fleeting brushes as Peter presses closer; steps faster, squeezing his brother's forearm; dragging across the shoulder of his sport jacket with delicate digits enveloped in blue.
Nathan inhales deeply, rubbing his thumb in cyclic motions against one satin-clad hipbone, his eyelids lowering as the clean scent of belonging overpowers his senses. He should feel guilty when a sloppy kiss makes its way to his lips, teeth grazing skin in an awkward show of desperation. He should feel guilty that it feels like benediction. He focuses on making slow, languid strokes with his tongue, gaining access to Peter's mouth; plundering the confines. He should feel guilty at the small noises of wanting loathing that are elicited by his actions; by Peter grappling at his back, bringing them into a crushing embrace; by the way his brother is shaking against him. He feels nothing of the sort.
He tastes cream and home on warm lips and he knows this is the end of him; knows this is absolution. Peter is backing up and Nathan panics, tries to pull away, stuttered apology already coming to his lips, but he is being tugged backwards—towards the stairs; their kiss becoming urgent. He realizes what the clever teen is attempting and stifles an ironic laugh and an inane urge to sweep Peter into his arms and fly up the staircase at once. He settles for tearing their mouths apart, and it truly is an effort. Peter's eyes are glassy and wide as his gloved fingers encircle Nathan's wrist in a light grasp that mirrors the possessiveness in his brother's gut. When Peter's fingers tighten he can feel the instinct contract, tying his stomach in knots as they race to the bedrooms. More accurately though, Nathan is dragged along, dumbstruck by the surreal scene he seems to have been typecast into.
They blunder into Nathan's childhood room, and the older man finds himself against one very blue door covered by one very blue individual. Lace and taffeta scratch against smooth linen as Peter's lips crush his once more, the younger man swallowing Nathan's cries as his back arcs and his hands clutch at the sharp jaw. Peter breaks the contact abruptly; Nathan lets out a small noise in protest even as he feels those young lips trailing down his neck, tongue darting out to lave his pulse. He reaches out to hold Peter there, but the boy slips out of his grasp, moving to shrug him out of his jacket, rip off his tie in a way that nearly strangles him, and start in on too-many buttons with less-than-articulate fingers that fumble and slide silkily across his chest. Nathan shudders.
There is no returning from this point as those glove-clad fingers ghost over him, waking up every inch of him: his body, heart and soul. It is a dangerously powerful experience that Nathan allows himself to get lost in when he knows he shouldn't, inhaling sharply when his brother's naїve fingers find the closure to his slacks.
Peter slides Nathan out with clinical ease, satin dragging along the length. If ever he had doubted his brother for his current career path as a male nurse, he can't any longer. He gives in that last inch, letting out a low and guttural moan—becoming half-hard immediately. The boy looks up at his brother, eyes sparkling with mirth; a slapdash smile plastered to his face crookedly. He should look ridiculous. But he doesn't, makeup smeared; dress hanging off his shoulder awkwardly and Nathan can't even think the word "ridiculous".
Beautiful, always beautiful, Pete, he thinks, winding his hands in Peter's hair—not pushing, but resting; stroking.
Slowly, hesitantly, a tongue darts out to meet the head and all Nathan can feel is silk from every angle, and it smothers him.
Years go by, and while Peter still bears the pretty face of childhood Nathan sees senescence setting in all too quickly. His brother is almost eighteen, and the revelation shocks him; did he look that old on his graduation day? He watches Peter with owl-eyes as his face splits into an ecstatic lopsided grin and he tosses his hat into the crowd. Nathan can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Peter just looks so happy.
After all have gone home and all has been said, Peter is quite exhausted, and Nathan is even more exhausted from observing Peter become exhausted.
"Nate, I think I'm going to turn in." Peter flashes a hint of that bright smile from earlier. Nathan feels a sharp twinge in his chest that he is more prepared to accredit to the onset of old age and heart disease than its true origin. The boy man raises his arms above his head in a cat-like stretch, jaw falling open into a satisfying yawn; droplets of saline gather and well at the corners of his eyes and Nathan sees the child in him again. He couldn't be more relieved.
When Peter's half-lidded eyes refocus, Nathan is standing very close—too close even. Their breath mingles for a single, timeless beat and the taller man looms forward. A rough kiss falls on Peter's brow.
"Congratulations, Pete." Nathan allows his face to crinkle slightly, some sliver of his true emotion shining through. His brother returns the gesture, soft lips landing on a hollow cheek and he is almost surprised. He needs more contact; grabs Peter's hips firmly, but not forcefully, bringing them flush against his own in a tight embrace.
Peter's head drops to Nathan's shoulder as he wraps his arm about his older brother's torso. They stay there for long moments, no thoughts between them as he strokes Peter's back, large hands sliding up the back of the unassuming heather grey Class of '98 tee. Peter hums contentedly, breath hitching whenever the cool gold of Nathan's ring catches his bare flesh.
Peter's gasping pulls at something deep inside Nathan that has lain dormant for nearly two years. That familiar need for flesh; for connection washes over him, imbuing next-to-uncontrollable desire in his loins. His lightly calloused hands move over Peter's shoulder blades, tangling in his hair. Nathan frowns.
He doesn't find silk there, but wiry, course fibers that make his fingers itch. Peter looks to his brother expectantly; Nathan's stomach knots. He leans forward abruptly, pressing his lips awkwardly to the now-legal teen's. Peter murmurs something, but it fades as Nathan deepens the kiss, his hold on reality tenuous at best; his hold on Peter fierce and almost suffocating.
Peter's eyes grow wide and he's pushing away, not shoving, but gently unwinding himself from his brother's grip. "What are you doing, Nathan?" he whispers, tone dripping with concern for the older man.
"I-I… y-you…" Nathan begins, but what could he say? 'I thought you wanted your nearly-twice-your-age brother to molest you' would hardly go over well. "Prom night," he finally manages, grasping at straws.
"Prom night?" Peter cocks his head to the side, long hair sifting with the movement. His brow furrows as he delves deep into thought. "I was drunk that night."
Nathan suddenly feels like ice. "D-drunk," his lips stumble over the words.
Peter backs up, but places a hand on his shoulder. "Why, Nate?" The eighteen-year-old's voice raises an octave too high. "What happened?"
Awaking in a rumpled prom dress, makeup smeared down his pillow. Peter had the worst hangover of his life.
The same ice seems to manifest itself as fingers, grasping Peter's throat; making him nauseous. "You…"
And Nathan realizes that Peter is not his to covet, that he will someday lose him to another; that he will have to stand by and watch.