Date: Thu, 8 Aug 2019 22:47:55 -0400 From: RJ Subject: Family Reunion - Ch. 1 Family Reunion by RJ This story is about a married father who takes in his younger brother after a five-year separation. If you are offended by themes of incest, do not read. Please note that this chapter serves as an introductory chapter and will not have as much sexual content as future chapters. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don't hesitate to email me. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. Please also consider donating to Nifty if you can: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ~ Chapter 1 ~ As soon as the garlic hits the skillet and starts sizzling in the olive oil, I smile. There's just something about that aroma and that sound that makes my mouth salivate like none other. But Eve's question breaks me out of my mini-, food-induced trance: "You're going to his meet tomorrow, right?" She asks it as she hands me the chopping block, and I push the carrots, scallions, and peppers she chopped or stripped onto the hot skillet. "Yes," I tell her. "No tending to last-minute issues this time?" "None." "Good. Because you promised." "Yes, yes, I know," I say, focusing on stirring the vegetables. I hate when she brings it up as if I don't already feel bad about bailing on Parker's last four meets. Our son started wrestling this year as an attempt to try something new now that he's in high school, but a month and a half in and I haven't even seen him play yet. Last-minute issues with the gallery caused me to miss those opportunities to see him and his team wrestle. Bad timing, really. We always get our big-name clients in that end-of-fall/beginning-of-winter season, and even though I try my best to delegate, I'm too much of a perfectionist: I have to personally ensure that everything is in order whenever an issue arises -- and *fuck*, do issues keep arising. "I'll be there," I insist. "Good," she says with a nod. While I watch over the vegetables, she checks the rice on the backburner. "I still don't understand why he wants to wrestle," I mutter. She laughs. "Let him do what he wants." "Of course I'm gonna let him do what he wants," I tell her. "I just don't understand." Wrestling, of all things? She smiles slightly. "Just because you don't like sports--" "That's beside the point," I warn her with a small chuckle, and she gives my ass a playful little slap. Eve and I have been together for fifteen years. We met both as students and lovers of art, long before either of us became teachers of that same subject. With the way our minds worked, and the way we valued artistic expression, it made sense that we were drawn to each other in some way. Right off the bat, she became one of my best friends. Months of taking classes and perusing museums together went by with us purposefully not acknowledging the growing sexual tension between us, though. It was hard for me to deny or ignore, seeing her long dark hair and her thick figure and the smile that lit up her face whenever she noticed me looking. Eventually, the scales tipped in both our favors and we became something more than just friends. Then, fourteen years ago, completely by surprise, we made Parker -- and I made her Mrs. Emiliano Flores soon after our junior years of college. "Do you think he's still mad at me?" I ask. "Parker? No," she says in a soft voice, stroking my arm. "You know he doesn't hold a grudge." I almost scoff. Very unlike his father, he is. "He's still short with me." "He's probably just disappointed. Or," she says, holding up her finger more sternly, "maybe it's that he can tell you don't care." I sigh a bit. If it's any consolation to myself, it's that I'm grossly aware of my faults. I know I need to do better, to start putting my son before my own passions. But getting there? That's the hard part. As I finish up prepping our veggie paella, she starts working on making the empanadas. It's amusing to watch, because no matter how hard she tries, she can never seem to fold the dough over the filling just right. I guess there's a finesse that's required to perfect those little meat pastries, a particular hand that she just doesn't possess -- ironic, considering she's a sculptor. So, as usual, I take over, once again showing her the way my grandmother taught me. She tries with a separate empanada, but it falls apart in her hands, causing both of us to laugh. As she's wiping her fingers clean with a paper towel, the doorbell rings. I turn curiously towards the front door, and Eve glances back at me. "Think he forgot his key again?" I check the time on the stove: it's only a quarter after four. Seems just a touch early for Parker to get home from practice. "Maybe," I say skeptically. "I'll check," she says, tossing the paper towel onto the counter. I continue folding each empanada carefully, tenderly. That was another thing my grandmother always taught me: handle everything you consume with care. I've even taken that advice into the bedroom, but I don't think that's what my abuelita meant. I hear Eve swing the front door open and say "Hi" in a pleasant voice, so clearly it's someone she doesn't know. I look back at her curiously, always on the wary side of things. Who'd be ringing our doorbell right now? Probably a Jehovah's Witness or some nonsense salesperson. I hear a mumbled voice coming from outside, and I swear I feel it resonate through me in an unexpected way. The tone of it sounds vaguely familiar -- enough for me to stop what I'm doing and try to listen better. "Sorry, who are you?" Eve questions as I start walking over to join her. "Emiliano's brother," I hear the voice say, more clearly now. I almost pause. Did I hear that correctly? My heart leaps in my chest as I rush to wipe my hands, go around Eve, and stand in the open doorway to confirm what my ears heard. Sure enough, there he is. My brother. Suddenly, I have no other sensation in my body besides weight. I can't feel my heart, or my extremities, or the way my glasses always manage to dig into my nose. All I feel is gravity. The total shock of seeing him at my doorstep plants my feet practically into the floorboards. "Holy shit," I mutter. He smiles at the sight of me. "Hey, Emi," he says sheepishly, the sheer familiarity of his voice startling me. Emi? I haven't heard him call me that in... Jesus, how long has it been? Three years? No, five. Five fucking years. "David?" I ask stupidly. Of course I know it's David. It's obvious, from the so-easily recognizable voice to that goofy, wide-eyed expression of his. I'm floored, so I don't know what to say. I barely even know what I'm thinking. I'm just completely caught off-guard here. "That's me," he says, holding out his hands and laughing nervously. When he sees that my expression doesn't change, he just clears his throat and stands straight. "Surprised?" "What are you doing here?" I ask instead of answering him. Might as well ask *one* of the questions zooming through my head. "Oh, you know," he says vaguely, shrugging lightly. No, David, I don't know. But it's clear that he doesn't know what to say either. To be fair, though, what can you really say to a brother who you haven't seen or spoken to in five years? Normally, I'd expect awkward niceties, even reintroductions, because God knows how much a person can change in that amount of time. But not us. We're family. Despite the distance, the separation, the intentional alienation, there's still that connection, and seeing David in the flesh after all this time makes me walk forward, into the doorway, into his familiar atmosphere. He looks at me skeptically, shying away slightly as if afraid I'll hit him -- and he's right to, because as soon as I'm close enough, I punch his arm. He recoils, rubbing his bicep with an irritated expression. "Ow! What the hell, man?" But then I grip his tattered jacket and pull him into an embrace that's half a decade overdue. Fuck, it feels good to hug him again. Even though half of me wants to punch him all over (mostly to goad him into punching me back), I want to just enjoy this, to feel the warmth and strength my little brother's body emits. "Fuck you, David," I murmur. I don't have to see his face to know that he's smiling. Seems after all these years, we still have a bit of a sixth sense for each other. "Fuck you too, Emi," he says as he wraps his arms around me tightly too. It's clear neither of us want to let go, both desperate to revel in this moment. It's not lost on me that we fit so well together, him with his burlier, softer physique and me with my leaner build. We're the same height, too, so we can bury our faces in each other's necks easily. I can feel my eyes burning from the tears as the hug stretches on for nearly a minute, and I try my best to blink them away. When we pull back from each other, we stand close -- and frankly, I'm a little happy to see that his eyes are tearing up too. We both laugh at the sight of each other in that blissfully unspecific way. Nothing's funny about this moment, but I know we're both feeling the same mix of emotions: shame, regret, relief, longing, joy... everything that comes with a reunion like this. I hold my little brother's broad shoulder, sniffling a bit. "You wanna come in?" He laughs a little harder, nodding. "Please." When we finally pull away from each other, wiping our eyes, I let him enter the house and hug my wife. They've never met officially. At the beginning of our marriage, Eve and I were still students raising a baby boy, and we were just scraping by. There was no way I could save up enough cash to get us all to Argentina. Same goes for David. We were always on the poorer side growing up. Hell, I don't even know how he got here now. As I step inside and watch them interact, I take a moment to get a better look at him. He looks... I don't want to say "dirty". Maybe "disheveled" is a better word, or "worse-for-weather" or whatever the phrase is. His jeans are oversized and torn in random areas, and his jacket has seen far better days. I think his undershirts (of which he's wearing two) might be in even shoddier condition than the rest of his outfit, because when Eve offers to take his jacket, he refuses. He looks like a damn hobo. Granted, he always used to make fun of me for how much I liked the idea of using clothing for self-expression, but he's taking his lack of fashion sense to an extreme. However, I'm pleased to see that his face is still just as I remember it: wide, kind, milk-chocolate eyes; thick, expressive eyebrows; and the softest smile I've ever seen on anyone. His hair looks to be in good shape too, short and dark brown. The only thing new is his facial hair. Seems he's going for that perpetual five-o'clock shadow look. It suits him, though. "Do you want a drink or anything?" I ask, trying to be hospitable. "No, I'm fi--" Then he corrects himself. "Well... What do you have?" "A lot," I say with a laugh. "Maybe a beer?" he asks hesitantly, looking as if I'd snap at him for requesting such a thing. "Yeah, of course," I say gently. "Just... make yourself comfortable." I gesture towards the living room, and he nods, heading right for the couch. I make eye contact with Eve, and she cocks her head towards the kitchen before leading the way. Once we're out of earshot, she turns to me, stroking my arm. "You okay?" "Yeah," I say, nodding as I look around at nothing in particular. I'm just feeling a lot of things and don't know which emotion to start dealing with first. I keep sensing this strange rush of joy before it's aggressively pushed back by all the guilt I'm carrying. "You sure?" she asks. "I know you guys left on weird terms." I laugh slightly. I suppose that's one way of putting it, but poor Eve doesn't know what actually happened, because I've never divulged the full, unadulterated truth to her. She doesn't know the whole story. David and I used to be close. Closer than close, really -- and I think we had to be because of the home we grew up in. Dad was an abusive alcoholic and Mom had a slew of mental issues and was too nose-deep in her Bible to be a proper mother. Even though my brother and I looked to each other for mutual protection, I knew it wasn't an environment I could remain in for much longer. After a particularly nasty, physical and verbal altercation with my father shortly after my eighteenth (the context of which I don't even remember), I fled home. I took all the money I had been saving up over the prior few years and any personal affects I could fit into one backpack, and somehow, (by the good grace of God, Mom would probably say) I made it to the States. I built a life for myself, found a shack to live in, attended school with a visa, worked three jobs in order to supplement my passion for art, and now, I have a wife, and a fourteen-year-old child, citizenship, and the financial safety net to keep on pursuing my dreams of being immersed in the art world. Most people would say that me leaving home was probably the best decision I could have made for myself. But in my selfish haste to leave, I ended up leaving David behind, alone with our parents. I abandoned him. It's my biggest regret in my thirty-five years of life. "I'm just... shocked, is all," I tell Eve. I don't know what to do, or what to say to him. But she seems to know that the only way to break through this is via conversation, so she grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the cap, and hands it to me. "Go talk to him," she whispers. "I'll handle dinner." "You sure you got the--?" "Yes, I've got the empanadas," she says quickly, hitting me playfully. I smile at her, and we kiss before I take a deep breath and head into the living room. I see David looking around the spacious living room curiously. I'm sure he didn't expect me to live in a place like this: an unconventional, modern glass structure built into the cliff-face of our backyard. It doesn't look like much of a home from the outside, but the inside, as spacious as it may seem, is as cozy as I need it to feel. Eve and I purchased this place a year after we opened our gallery, after the consistent, unbelievable success our investment (and passion) brought us. I'm sure it's both impressive and daunting to David considering the tiny house we grew up in. I hand him his beer, and he thanks me before gulping most of it down in one go. When he pulls the bottle from his lips, he lets out a long sigh. I just stare at him a bit. If he's trying not to look at me, he's doing a damn good job of it. It's evident that he doesn't know what to say either, so I make a point to break the silence. "How did you find me?" I ask. He turns towards me. "Looked you up," he says. "Took me a while but I managed to find you on that college site of yours." The university web page? "My address isn't on there," I point out, recalling the professor's page for the art department. As far as I can remember, it just has my office phone number and my school email -- nothing personal. He smiles slightly. "Guess you should fire your office secretary, because she was quick to give it out." "Are you serious?" I ask, bewildered. "Yup," he says smugly. "To be fair, I talked her into it." "How? What did you tell her?" "Something about a long-lost brother," he says cheekily, and when I make a face, he just laughs. "Hey, it worked." "Christ, I *am* gonna have to fire her," I mutter, and David chuckles. "Go easy on her. I pried." Then he smiles gently at me. "I actually showed up to your office a bunch of times, but you were never there." Somehow that makes me feel bad. "I haven't gone in all week," I say. "I've only gone in to teach, and then it's back to the gallery." "Gallery?" "Yeah, I-- Well, Eve and I, we opened up an art gallery in town," I tell him. "No shit!" he says, laughing. "Chasing your dreams, huh?" I smile slightly. Besides Eve, he knows better than anyone that having my own gallery has always been a fantasy of mine. "I guess." "Do you make money off that kind of thing?" he asks curiously. "I mean..." I just gesture vaguely to our surroundings, to the expensive home we're currently sitting in. That should serve as a sufficient answer. He chuckles. "Guess now you're officially a snob, then." "Fuck off, David," I say with a laugh, adjusting my thick-rimmed glasses mostly just to do something with my hands. I'm finding it hard to remain still. He completely switches gears. "It's really good to see you, Emi." I can't help but smile hearing the gentleness in his tone, especially under that matching gaze. "Yeah. You too," I say. "I missed you," he admits. Then his eyes drift a bit, from my eyes to the rest of me. "You look good." "Yeah, I, uh... missed you too," I say, feeling flustered under his watchful eye. I scratch my thinly-bearded jaw, laughing slightly. How does he see me now? I probably look as posh as he expected me to grow up to be, with my pressed, short-sleeved button-up tucked into crisp slacks, wearing loafers like they're house shoes -- a damnable act in the eyes of our mother. Maybe his compliment goes beyond what I'm wearing. I have my health, but I doubt that's what he's referring to. He's probably thinking about the body underneath the clothes, a lithe, toned figure wrapped in tan skin and a body hair pattern that matches his own. He can probably see my chest hair peeking out through my shirt, and I reach up to button myself up to the neck. Focus, Emiliano. Don't go there. To clear my head, I think about the one important thing: David's here, in the flesh. There's so much to catch up on, isn't there? Five years of information. I wonder what he's been up to. How old is he now, thirty-two? October was just a couple months ago, so I just missed his birthday. Did he spend it alone? Then I remembered something: the reason for our most recent lack of contact. "How was the Peace Corp?" I ask. He looks at me with confusion. "Huh?" "Abuela said you joined the Peace Corp," I say. I remember that conversation I had with her a few years ago: something about David joining the Peace Corp and doing volunteer work with the underprivileged in Botswana. He'd been living essentially off the grid, so it explained why I wasn't hearing from him. But apparently that's not the case. "Oh." He looks ashamed for a moment. "Uh... No. I've been living in San Fran." I blink. "California?" He's been that nearby? San Francisco is so close to Seattle -- compared to Argentina, at least, let alone Botswana. "Yeah. For a while now." I squint a bit, looking at him shrewdly. "So why did she think--?" "Because I lied to her," he says quickly, his face flushing a bit. David, a liar? I know my brother, and he's not one to make things up, so it must have been for a good reason. "Why?" "Because it sounded better than the truth," he says to himself. He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands lightly. "I just wanted to buy myself some time, get back on my feet." "Get back on your-- What are you talking about?" I ask curiously. He glances at me before staring at his bottle. "I've been in and out of homelessness," he mutters. I falter. "What?!" David's homeless? "It hasn't been that bad!" he's quick to say, and I can see he hasn't changed. He was always one to try to minimize the tough situations. "I've been living in my car mostly--" "David!" "--but it crapped out on me finally and so I've been slumming it as best I can--" "For how long?" He gulps a bit. "Couple months after Dad died." I feel a strange pang in my chest when he mentions that day. "I moved up here to try and reconnect with you but everything kinda went wrong." I wince a bit. Yet again, it's my fault, isn't it? David probably wouldn't have been rendered homeless had I just been a better brother, a better *human*. But still, true to my nature, I try to deflect some of the blame. "You should have told me." Now he looks at me. "You never responded," he says. Something in his tone sounds accusatory, and so I'm quick to defend myself. "If you had told me you were fucking homeless, I--" "You what?" he asks. "I would have taken you in!" I say as if it was obvious. "You would?" I feel like I'm being challenged right now, and I have to force myself to dig deep for a moment and realize that he's in the right. He's entitled to how he feels. "It doesn't matter. I didn't want to have to rely on you like I always used to, so that wasn't an option. And, to be honest," he adds, "I thought you were still mad." After I left home, David and I lost touch for a bit -- partly because I was too busy trying to get on my feet and pretending not to feel guilty about leaving my little brother behind. When I finally did reach out, it was probably nine months later. I called the house, and David answered. It was hard to talk at first. Both of us were excited to hear each other's voices and briefly catch up, but after that initial enthusiasm wore off, our conversation was a little awkward. For a while, it was like that. But soon, after a few calls, we started acting normal again, sharing laughs and dreams, talking about my schooling and his work in landscaping, all while leaving the fact that we desperately missed each other completely unaddressed. Emails became a regular part of our correspondence too, since all those international calls were getting expensive. It was a quick, easy way to keep in touch and plan out times where we *did* just want to sit back and talk on the phone for an hour. David was the first person I told that I was getting married. I refused to tell my friends until my brother heard the news first. And he was ecstatic for me, genuinely so. Tacking on the news about a baby on the way caused his beautiful, positive energy to practically beam through the receiver. I could feel it. Through his laughter and his praises and his excitement about being an uncle, I could feel how happy he was for me. Then, Dad died. It was a morbid affair, mostly because I was so detached to begin with. To make matters worse, I drank enough at the funeral to drown any residual feelings I might have had. The truth was, I never liked my father. I didn't like the man that he was, or the example that he set for his kids. David still tried to appease him, though, but I suppose all little boys desperately want their fathers to love them, even in their adulthood. At the funeral, David was mad at me for not taking the time to grieve, and I told him that Dad simply wasn't worth grieving over. Hell, I had only flown back to Argentina for my brother and our grandmother, not the man I called "Father" -- not even Mom, who was too busy mourning in her own way to even notice that I had come home. He took offense to that, and he was quick to blame me for not being around when our parents needed me. I knew what he *really* meant, though. He meant that I wasn't around when *he* needed me, and despite the undeniable fact that he was totally right to feel betrayed after I abandoned him, I was drunk and defensive -- following my dad's footsteps, apparently. Things escalated, and eventually, we got physical for the first time in our lives. In contrast to my little brother, as an adult, I'm not built for causing damage, but I got a few good swings in before my glasses were cracked and my own nose was gushing blood all over my nice dress shirt. Funny thing is, I was more upset about the shirt than my own father's passing. That was about five years ago. After I returned home to Seattle, we didn't speak for almost a year. No calls, no emails. Then, one summer morning, I was surprised to see his name pop up in my inbox after nearly twelve months of silence. He said he had made it to the States and would love to meet up, clear the air, "be a family again". He said he missed me. He missed me, and I never responded. That's something I inherited from my father: a natural talent for bitterness. I took one look at that email and deleted it, and for what? Pettiness? Misplaced anger? Pride? Shame? I don't even know. Nearly another year later, after a long night of unexpected reminiscing, I caved and ended up emailing David back, taking him up on his long-since-overdue request to link up. But he never wrote back. Karmic, I suppose, but after a few months of impatiently awaiting a response, I gave my grandmother a call and asked if she knew what was going on with David. That's when she told me he went off and joined the Peace Corp. But it turns out he's been living on the streets this whole time. I can envision it so clearly: David using the computer at a local library every day to check his email, to see if I responded, and then frowning when my name never popped up. Maybe he just gave up after a while and never saw my year-late response. "I *was* mad," I admit. "In a petty sort of way. You know how I can get." He smiles slightly. "What about now?" I sigh, looking at my lap for a moment before I smile at him. "I'm just happy to see you," I tell him, grabbing his knee. Seeing him feels like a rush of possibility, a rekindling of a bond that was previously missing from my life. I'm just hoping he feels the same way. I know I should apologize to him, but I tell myself that David knows I'm sorry, even if I don't put it into words. He can see it, right? That's how close we used to be. He just knew. "Me too," he says. I bite my lip a bit as I look him over again. "So, what now?" I ask. "Are you're still homeless?" He blushes and nods. "Technically, yeah," he says. "Why'd you come here if it's not an option?" I ask, recalling his earlier hesitation to tell me about his homelessness. He shrugs. "Desperation?" He sighs. "I don't know. Winter's a hard season, and it's coming soon, and... besides that, I just know I can't keep pretending like I don't still need you, Emi." My heart aches. "So you need somewhere to stay," I state. He makes a funny face. "Don't make me ask." I smile gently, my hand (without my consciousness's consent) going right to his face to cup his jaw. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, nuzzling into my touch. "Of course you can stay." "Thanks, Emi," he says gently, smiling at me with just a hint of his teeth. He still has that tiny gap between his two front teeth that I love so much, that I've always found so fucking irritatingly adorable when he was younger, so devilishly cute, and now that he's older, downright sexy-- I clear my throat and pull my hand away, derailing that train of thought before my mind is overrun with memories. "Um. I should go check on Eve, make sure dinner's okay," I say, already lifting my ass off the couch. But David stops me, clutching my arm. "Wait," he says. "There's something else I... I should tell you, in case it... in case it comes up." I raise an eyebrow, sitting back down. David takes a breath before letting my arm go. "I might have gotten... into some trouble," he says, wincing as he speaks. I cock my head to the side. "What trouble?" He clears his throat a bit, playing with his beer bottle. "Um... Just a little warrant." I'd be choking on my drink if I had one. "A *warrant*?!" "Only in Cali, though!" he says. "I'll be fine if I don't go back. Right?" It's clear that he's asking for reassurance from me. I shake my head as I close my eyes, needing the full story. "What did you do?" "It's just a misdemeanor," he says quickly. But that doesn't answer my question. "What misdemeanor?" He looks embarrassed before muttering two words: "Indecent exposure." I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh that's almost half of a groan. "It's not like that!" David explains. "I just had to clean myself up, but someone saw me and called the cops." There are integral details missing, but the point of the matter is that he has a misdemeanor, and a warrant out for his arrest. "A misdemeanor doesn't just go away, David." "I'll be fine," he says earnestly, looking at me with a pleading expression. He wants me to repeat those words back to him: that he'll be fine. I roll my eyes. "God, you're just like Parker," I mutter -- both of them so quick to write everything off as "not a big deal", so quick to want to believe that everything's fine. Parker, on some level, I understand. He may be too easy going for his own good, but he's young still, with all the ease of a kid in his early teenage years. He has the world ahead of him and the modest confidence to bolster him forward. David, on the other hand, is a homeless thirty-two-year-old looking to serve jail time in California. At the mention of Parker, David's quick to change the subject. "Oh yeah! How's the little guy doing?" he asks, smiling. I stare at him for a moment. Part of me wants to continue our previous conversation, but maybe later. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. "He's fourteen now," I tell him. "Not exactly little anymore." "Yeah? Jesus, time flies," he says. The last time I showed David a picture of Parker, my son was only four feet tall, cute but awkward looking considering how disproportionate his facial features were. Something about his eyes -- I think they were too big for his head. But my, puberty has done my kid wonders. He's blossomed into a bit of a stud, if I'm being honest. Now he stands just a few inches taller than myself, six feet of exceptionally-toned muscle. He's lean, just like his father, with charmingly messy brown hair that half-covers his ears, perfectly smooth skin, and deep dimples in his cheeks when he smiles, flashing perfect set of teeth (thank you, braces). He could be a model, if he wanted to, a perfect hybrid of my Argentinian background and his mother's Scottish heritage, the greatest piece of art that we'll ever create. Thank God his mother taught him how to be humble, and gentle, and kind. On top of being handsome, he's turning into a respectable, well-rounded young man, and I couldn't be prouder. I should tell him that more often. As I'm catching David up about all things Parker, Eve calls out to us from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready!" I smile slightly. "You picked a good day to show up," I tell David. "We're making empanadas." A wide grin appears on his face. "Must be fate, man," he says with a laugh. Then he polishes off the rest of the beer before handing me the empty bottle. "Hey, so... Do you mind if I use your shower or something before we eat?" he asks. "I feel grimy." "You *look* grimy," I say with a smile before standing up and taking his empty bottle. "C'mon." I lead the way up the winding staircase to the second-floor bathroom. It's fully stocked with everything he'll need -- shampoo, conditioner (if he so chooses), an array of soaps and body washes, razors and shaving cream if he wants to shave, and freshly laundered towels and washcloths. "The water gets really hot, so be careful," I warn him, showing him which valve is the hot water versus the cold water. "But other than that, you should be good. Just holler if you need anything." "Thanks, Emi," he says appreciatively, already starting to take his jacket off. I just nod, looking him up and down and clutching at the glass bottle in my hand more intently. I get the briefest temptation to stay and watch him undress before I turn on my heels and head out of the room, my throat feeling filmy. I pause when I get to the top of the staircase, looking down those steps and taking a moment to myself. I think I'm still processing this, because all I feel is disbelief. I'm amazed my brother has made it to Seattle, that he's here, in my home. And though I'm immensely happy to see him after so long, I know what trouble this could bring for me. I know history could repeat itself. Us growing close was inevitable, considering the hostile, strange environment we grew up in. We had to have each other's backs if we wanted to survive. He in particular was a soft boy growing up, and even if I was a bit of a know-it-all hard-ass (he'll always be the first to say that I'm too serious), I was always good to my brother. I always protected him. We were inseparable. We'd eat together, bathe together, play together, go out together, sleep together. It's no surprise, then, that things eventually turned sexual. At first, it was all exploratory. I'd realize what felt good on my body, and I'd pass that knowledge to him. We learned what we liked together, what we didn't like, what made us hard, what made us moan, what made us cum. But it wasn't just physical. We weren't just your typical horny, hormonal boys that got off together simply because it was fun and felt good. After doing it so much, it started to feel real, emotional, and important. Loving. Eventually, we told each other that we were in love, giggling quietly at that acknowledgement under the blanket. Part of me is quick to think we were foolish to believe that, but deep down, I know there's something strange between us, something undeniable and genuine, even today. I tried to put it behind me when I left home, leave that in the past, move on. When I met Eve, I did my damn best to quiet the longing in my chest whenever I thought of David, a longing that always crossed the line separating "brotherly" from "romantic". I mean, what did we know? We were kids, scared kids who only had each other to rely on. What did we know about love? Still, whatever we might call it, whatever the word for it is, it's real. It's there. It flared up intensely the last time we saw each other, the day before Dad's funeral. I flew into Argentina early, and when I met him at our old house, once our eyes connected, we found ourselves innately drawn to each other. All we did was hug initially, but as soon as we embraced, our bodies (in some weird, carnal way) woke up, like they were invigorated after over a decade of not touching each other. I dropped my bag to the floor after he kissed me, and I responded by grabbing at his new, grown-up body. He felt larger than I was used to -- clearly he was growing into the body of a laborer while I still had the body of a student. But it was a welcome change, a beautiful development, something new about him that I was damn fucking eager to explore. We didn't exchange a single word. We didn't think about our father, or the wife and child I left back in America, or our mother and grandmother who could return home from the market at any minute. All our focus and senses were on each other. We kissed and touched and made quick but passionate love using the same fluid knowledge we'd grown to acquire throughout our childhood and adolescence. And I didn't feel guilty about it. I still don't. I suppose that's my biggest shame about the whole situation: not that I regretted it, but that I *didn't*. That's what terrifies me. Thinking about it now, I'm wondering just how much of a gamble it is to have David stay in my home. Fuck, I need a drink. I head downstairs into the kitchen, where Eve is pulling the paella out of the oven, hissing when the heat of the pan seeps through the oven mitt. "Careful," I say before setting David's empty bottle on the counter and opening the fridge to grab a beer for myself. She looks over at the sound of my voice and gasps, tugging me closer after she shuts the oven. "How is everything?" she asks. "Did you two talk?" "Yeah," I say, twisting the top off the beer and taking a long sip, just like David did. "And?" she asks, desperate for information. But then she looks around. "Wait, where is he?" "Upstairs, showering." She looks wary. "You don't think... And don't take this the wrong way, but you don't think he'll steal anything, do you?" "What?" I ask, surprised. "No. Why would you say that?" She shrugs. "He looked kinda... homeless when he showed up." That's because he was. "He won't steal," I say firmly. She looks at me skeptically, so I hold her arms and give them each a squeeze. She knows I'm usually wary of people in general, cautiousness being one of my personality traits, so this quickness to defend my brother is out-of-character for me. "I promise. I know him. He's no thief." "You guys haven't talked in how long now?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. "How much do you really know about him?" I open my mouth to retort, but all of a sudden, I hear David shouting my name from upstairs. I sigh, leaning down and kissing Eve's forehead before handing her my beer. "Be right back." I head upstairs to see David standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a towel around his waist and the clothes he was wearing piled up in his arms. "Hey," he says. "Everything okay?" I ask. "Yeah, just... You have anything I can wear?" he asks. "This is all I have." He holds up his clothes lightly. I blink. Something about that statement sticks with me. "That's *all* you have?" He nods. "Nothing else?" "Nope." I look from his clothes to his face. "Seriously?" "Just the clothes and this stuff," he says, rummaging his pants pocket for five of his only possessions: twenty-seven bucks, a punch card at a sandwich shop, an ID, a toothbrush, and an old necklace that looks vaguely familiar. Probably one of Dad's. Jesus, is this really all he came here with? Is this all he has? Suddenly I feel guilty for living the life that I do. "Sure," I say, and I lead him to the master bedroom, right to my dresser, actively trying to not think about the state he was in while living in his car, or on the streets. He only has one fucking outfit. I show him some options, picking out some of the biggest clothes that I have: a fresh pair of boxers, some sweatpants, and a simple t-shirt. "Hopefully they fit," I say, handing each article to him. He thanks me before dropping his towel without hesitation. My eyes (my annoying fucking eyes) go right to his crotch, ogling his manhood. I knew the space between his legs very well when he was a boy, but as a man, I've only handled it once. I think I was too impassioned, too in the heat of the moment to truly realize that David is hung now, probably surpassing me by an inch or so in length and most likely in circumference too. It's only hitting me now, as I recall that quick afternoon fuck. David, my not-so-little brother. I watch as it hangs heavily between his legs. Even soft, it looks imposing, jutting out from a crop of dark, natural pubes. Seeing it is making my fingers twitch, but before I know it, my view is obscured by him pulling my boxers onto his hips. "Not bad," he says, reaching inside to adjust his cock before feeling satisfied with the fit. "Not too tight around the hips or anything?" "I'm not *that* much bigger than you, jeez," he says with a slight grin before pulling on the sweatpants. I let my eyes follow that trail of hair from his waist all the way up to his chest before he pulls on the shirt I gave him, smooths it out, and chuckles. "Something funny?" "Nah. I'm just remembering how I used to always get your hand-me-downs. Now look," he says with a grin. I roll my eyes. "You're not keeping them. I like those sweatpants, so you're not going anywhere with those," I warn him playfully. "Yes sir," he says with a laugh. There's a moment where we just stare at each other, eye-to-eye, and I feel my heart adopt a nervous pace. He knows I'm thinking about it, doesn't he? Otherwise he wouldn't be staring so intently into my eyes, unintentionally hypnotizing me. We're alone up here, and conveniently, there's a bed nearby, a large, comfortable bed that would look better unmade from a round of secret lovemaking. Eve's downstairs, after all. It's just us. What if we--? I hear the front door open and shut downstairs, and I break the gaze, losing my train of thought. Parker's home. I can hear him saying hello to his mother. "We should get downstairs," I say, looking hesitantly back at my brother. "Okay," he says, his eyes scanning my face before he smiles lightly. "Lead the way." I do so eagerly, thinking that having Eve and Parker in the room will serve as ample distraction. I bring David downstairs, wondering how Parker will respond to seeing a family member he's never met before -- or heard about, really. All he knows about his uncle is that he has an uncle. That's basically it. When we step into the kitchen, the first thing I notice is that Parker's gym bag is on the counter. Again. It's a total pet peeve of mine, seeing his dirty locker room bag on the counters we cook food on, and I have to remind him time after time to not do that. "Parker," I interject, cutting into the conversation he's having with his mother about school. He looks at me and sees me pointing to his bag. "Oh, right. My b," he says in his raspy, weirdly surfer-esque voice that breaks a lot. It's been like that since he hit puberty a year and a half ago. He's never been embarrassed about it, though -- and in a way, it suits him. He grabs his bag and pulls it off the counter. "You can put it *anywhere* else," I remind him, "just not on the counter." "Sorry," he says, looking at me timidly. That's when he notices David standing behind me. He raises his eyebrows before looking at me for an explanation. "Right," I say to myself, taking a breath and stepping aside so that I can introduce my brother. "Um... Parker, this is your Uncle David." Parker blinks before smiling. "Whoa, seriously?" he says, looking back and forth between us to gauge the resemblance. "*You're* Dad's brother?" "Unfortunately," David teases, and I hit his arm with the back of my hand practically in the same spot I had punched him earlier. He winces, rubbing that spot again. But Parker laughs. "Cool! Nice to meet you, man!" he says, charmingly stepping forward and offering his hand. David looks pleased by Parker's mix of manners and casual aura. "You too, buddy, you too," he says as they shake hands. "Heard a lot about you from your dad." Parker's eyes flicker towards mine, and I don't know why, but I feel momentarily embarrassed. David points towards Parker's bag before asking what sport he plays -- a topic I hadn't yet addressed with him, so he must be pretty intuitive to assume it was an athletic bag. "Wrestling." "Hey, nice! JV, I'm guessing?" David asks. "Varsity, actually," he says, smiling. Jesus, I didn't even know that. David looks impressed. "Freshman varsity wrestler, huh? You must be pretty good!" "I'm alright," Parker says with a modest smile. But Eve is quick to praise him. "That's not what your coach said," she says as she starts filling four plates of food. "Better than alright, then?" David asks. "Maybe a little," Parker says, getting a laugh out of my brother. "Atta boy. Well I'd love to see you sometime." It's both heartwarming and annoying to see David and my son hit it off so well so early. Parker's clearly thinks nothing but positive things about his newfound uncle so far. "That'd be awesome, man," he says. "You in town long or something?" "Uhhh..." David looks at me before he answers that question. "Kinda, yeah." "Sweet!" I'm sure he's about to invite David to come to his meet tomorrow, but Eve walks by him with two plates in her hands and tells him that dinner's ready, so he should go wash up. "K, Mom," he says, smiling at us before lugging his things upstairs to his room. David turns to me with a smile when Parker's out of earshot. "Good lookin' kid," he says. "That's 'cause of Eve," I say as Eve walks by me. I see her grin to herself, and David laughs. "There's some of you in there, buddy," he comments. "How old did you say he was?" "Fourteen." "Damn. He looks like he'd be eighteen, practically." "He's mature for his age," Eve says as she walks by us again, the last two plates of food in her hands. "That's what everyone says to us, anyway." "Well, he'll definitely get someone into trouble," he murmurs to me with a grin, and I slap him on the chest to get him to shut up. Eve, who appears to not have heard, sets down the plates at the table before smiling. "Alright, gentleman. Take a seat." David's wide-eyed at the sight of the food and starts digging in before his ass even hits his seat. As I situate myself next to him, I wonder: when was the last time he had a home-cooked meal? Hell, when's the last time he had a meal, period? He looks relatively big-and-healthy, but looks can be deceiving. I don't know his full story yet. I don't know if he actually got by okay like he says, or if he was *really* struggling, sleeping on the concrete with nothing but a dirty towel by a dumpster he digs in for scraps. I wonder if he had a job of some sorts. I wonder if he had friends. Do I even want to know these things? Maybe ignorance really is bliss -- for me. He's scarfing it down, getting a quarter of the way through his meal before I even touch mine. He moans gently, shaking his head before turning to my wife with paella filling his mouth. "This is delicious, Eve," he says, pointing to his plate with his fork. She raises her eyebrows but smiles. "Thank you!" David ponders the flavor for a moment before saying "Tastes like home." "Well, Emiliano taught me that recipe," she adds with a private look towards me. David looks towards me and smiles. "Still cooking for the family?" he asks, referring to how I handled most of the meals growing up. But that's how it was at home: if I didn't cook, no one ate. "Try to," I say. "Eve and I usually do it together when we can." Just then, Parker comes back down, having changed into clean clothes and presumably washed his hands. He sits across from David, licking his lips at the sight of food. "Thanks, guys," he says before taking gracious bites out of his empanadas. Dinner goes by smoothly, made interesting by David's presence. Unsurprisingly, Eve and Parker have a lot of questions for my brother, like how old he is, what he does for work (to which he says he's "in-between jobs"), what it was like growing up in Argentina. Eve even asks what *I* was like as a kid, and David grins a bit. I'm worried that he'll say something incriminating, or drone on about how serious I always was, and how cautious of a person I grew to be. But he surprises me and says "The best." He emphatically paints me in the best light possible, talking about how I'd always care for him, and be there for him, and protect him from our father. "The most loving guy I've ever known," he says, and I wonder if, seventeen years later, that's still true. Still, it's nice to hear him think that about me. It's even stranger to see us now. Now that he has a bulkier body, he *looks* more like the protector -- but what he lacks is the attitude. Eventually, David starts asking questions about Eve and Parker. Eve informs him that she's been busy teaching, like me, and Parker's been focused on school and wrestling. Parker shares a little bit about the classes he's taking, and David listens before leaning into me a bit. "Ever hear of that Teen Titans show?" David asks me. "The what?" I ask, but Parker just laughs. "I know what you're gonna say," Parker mutters. David grins. "Yeah?" "That I sound like Beast Boy." Parker chuckles a bit. "I get that a lot." "What's Teen Titans?" I interject. "It's a cartoon," David comments, and I look at him with furrowed eyebrows and a slightly amused smile. "You watch cartoons?" I tease. David shrugs. "I did a lot when I lived in" -- here, he lowers his voice, trying to be discreet -- "a shelter." But Parker overheard. "You lived in a shelter?" he asks curiously. Eve's head turns towards David, looking at him with interest that matches my son's. David looks embarrassed now, turning towards me as if for reassurance. "Ummm... Yeah. For a bit," he says before clearing his throat. "I was, uh... homeless." "What?!" Eve says, shocked. "You were homeless?" Parker asks. "Like, living on the streets 'n stuff?" "Well, *am* homeless, technically," David says as I try to ignore Eve's eyes momentarily boring into me. "But it wasn't always the streets. I had my car for a while, then shelters if there was room. Some of the parks in San Fran are nice, though." Eve looks at me, a stunned expression on her face. "Did you know about this?" "No!" I falter, almost hurt that she'd assume I've known all along. "I only found out today." But Eve is still amazed by this news. "But he's been homeless for *how* long now?" she asks, looking between us both. "It's my fault, Eve," David says. "I should have told--" "Stop it, David," I warn him sternly, and he looks at me. I try to get my point across with just a look, to nonverbally tell him to not take all the blame for this. It's as much his fault as it is mine, if not less. He seems to understand, because a tiny smile appears on the corner of his mouth. "Where are you staying now, hon?" Eve asks gently after a pause. "Anywhere?" David looks at her. "Nowhere, really. My only goal was to get here, reconnect with Emi. I haven't looked at any shelters yet--" My wife, my son, and I all speak at the same time. I mutter "You're not staying in a shelter," Eve says "No no no," and Parker asks "But he can stay here, right Dad?" I turn to my son and nod. "We'll figure things out," I say, glancing at David. "*I'll* figure things out. But you're staying here in the meantime." David's eyes water lightly, and he smiles before looking at his near-empty plate. "Thank you." It's late, and Eve and I are both in our master bathroom, getting ready for bed. After I brush my teeth, I stare at her in the mirror while she puts on her green tea face mask. "This is okay, right?" I ask suddenly, and her eyes connect with mine through the mirror. "You're okay with him staying?" Even though I assumed she would have no problem with it, I never asked for her opinion. "Babe," she says soothingly, "of course." "You're not bothered by him or anything?" "No! Why would you think I'm bothered?" I shrug, pulling my glasses off my face to wipe the lenses on my shirt. "Just... the thief comment--" "I just wanted to know how you felt," she says, turning to me. "I trust you, and if you trust him, then I'm fine." She smiles gently. "Honestly, he's a sweetheart. He didn't have to help me with all those dishes." I smile softly, remembering how quick David was to help clean as to show appreciation for feeding and housing him. "Yeah, he's... yeah." She looks at me curiously for a moment before asking "What happened with you two, anyway?" I sigh. I shrug it off, not wanting to get into specifics right now. "I'll tell you another day," I say, knowing I'll have to come up with a watered-down version of the truth. I'll probably only tell her about the incident at the funeral -- never about the sex. "I'm gonna go check on him. I'll be back in a minute." "Okay, love," she says, stroking my hand before I exit the bathroom and let her finish applying her mask. I head down the hallway in my pajamas, going right for the guest bedroom. We haven't made much use out of this room -- only when Eve's parents come to visit from Vancouver, or if Parker has one too many friends over (even though they usually all just pile up in his bedroom somehow). I hope David makes a space out of it. I knock, and when I hear him say "Come in," I open the door and see he's already in bed, relaxing under the covers. "Hey!" he says, perking up at the sight of me. He sits up against the headboard, letting the blanket fall off his shoulders and expose the fact that he's shirtless. I almost stop in my tracks before I focus. Don't look, Emiliano. Don't get tempted by his large arms, or his soft but strong-looking chest, or his furry stomach, or the thought of what's underneath that blanket. Don't think about it. "Everything okay?" I ask. "Yeah. This bed is really nice." Then he laughs. "Hell, your whole house is... somethin'." I smile a little before coming over to the bed. I don't sit down, though, and merely lean against the dresser nearby as I talk to him. "I wanted to ask... Do you have a plan?" He blinks. "A plan?" "Yeah. Like, how long you're staying, what you're doing, et cetera..." "Um... I don't know," David says, frowning a bit. "Is there an expiration to your offer?" I sense a little bitterness in his tone. "I just have to tell Eve something," I lie. "I can leave whenever, Emiliano." "That's not what I'm asking," I say, closing my eyes and taking a breath. "What are you asking me then?" Clearly I shouldn't have said anything, because now he sounds upset. "For a timeline, David." "I don't have a timeline!" he says. "I don't have anywhere to go!" "David--" "Just say what you actually want to say." I blink. "Which is...?" "That you don't want me here." I inhale through my nose, looking around a bit as I think. I don't know how to respond to this, because I feel conflicted. I have this intrinsic need to help him, and I know I will. But the fact of the matter is, my attraction for him clearly hasn't died -- and that complicates things. I come over and sit on the edge of the bed next to his legs. "I want you here, David," I say softly. "You don't understand how much I missed you." David sighs a bit before smiling. "I missed you too, Emi." I reach over and take his hand, stroking his knuckles with my thumb. "I'm so happy to see you. Honestly." I give his hand a squeeze. "I'm just feeling... a lot of different things right now," I say with a laugh. He nods a bit. "I understand." "Do you?" "Totally," he insists. "But you're at least somewhat happy, right?" I smile. "Yeah." David nods again, stroking my knuckles as I do his. He laughs a little before saying "You know what I couldn't stop thinking about when I first saw you today?" "What?" "That little ghost on your back." I blush. David knows every inch of my body. He was good at remembering stupid things, like how many dark freckles I have on my neck, or the tiny beauty mark behind my left ear (that I didn't even know existed until he pointed it out), or the blemish on my ring finger that's now covered by my wedding band. His favorite, though, was always the birthmark on my lower back that's shaped like a little sheet-ghost. "He still there?" he asks. "It's a birthmark. It doesn't just disappear." I see his eyes drifting a bit before he asks another question. "You remember mine?" How could I forget? I'd kiss that triangular patch of lighter skin on the inside of his thigh whenever I was down there. I just swallow thickly as I so vividly recall the feeling of his heat on my face the closer I got to his groin. I loved being there, especially as he got older. He was maturing quite well by the time he hit fifteen -- well enough for me to decide to switch things up and start bottoming for him. "Yeah," I say, more breathily than I intended to sound. "I missed you," David says again, but this time, there's a sensual edge to his voice, a heaviness that goes right to my cock. Fight it, Emi. Fucking fight it. But God, that voice of his. It's always managed to hit me to his core, especially when it got deeper. Hell, his voice dropped a register before his balls did. I just clear my throat. "Get some sleep, David," I say. "I'll be down the hall if you need me, alright?" I start to take my leave, and I try to remove my hand from his, but he doesn't let go. In fact, he holds on tighter before pulling my arm gently towards him. It's not even a tug. He doesn't use much force. My body willingly, stupidly, thoughtlessly moves forward, because it wants to. It wants to be near its brother. And before I know it, before I can take a moment to reconsider, our lips are on each other's. We breathe each other in as we kiss deeply, and I feel David's other hand gripping my shirt. Our lips are moving seamlessly against each other, like they were made for each other, like we never took a five-year break, or, before that, a twelve-year one. It feels so fucking good, so terribly right. The kisses start to get heated once my hand touches his skin. It's like this strange electric shock courses through me, reinvigorates me. Just as our tongues start to slide hungrily against each other, my fingers press into his chest, and he moans right into my mouth, a moan that send shivers down my spine. It also wakes me up. I snap out of this incestuous trance and pull back quickly, catching my breath and looking away from David. Fucking Christ. He's only been here for five hours and I've already got my lips on him. He seems to pick up on my stress because he says my name in a soft voice. "Emi--" "We can't be doing this, David," I say, shrugging his hand off my back when he tries to touch me again. I look at him. "I'm married now. I have a kid, for Christ's sake." He nods a little, looking at his lap. "Right. Of course." "If you're gonna stay here, we need... boundaries." "Right," he repeats before looking at me sheepishly. I hate that look. It melts my heart, always has -- even more so now that I know my big-little-brother has been lost for so long but has always been thinking of me. Guess some loves never die. "Sorry," he says. "Don't apologize," I mutter. "I hate when you apologize." "Sorry," he says automatically, and when I give him a look, he holds his hands up. "Habit! Sor-- Fuck. I'll stop." I just laugh slightly at him before giving his leg a squeeze through the blanket. "Sleep. I'll see you in the morning." "Okay." He licks his lips a bit. "G'night. And thank Eve for me." I smile a little. "I will," I say before actively resisting kissing him goodnight. "'Night," I say, quickly standing up and heading out of the room. I can feel David's eyes on me as I exit and shut the door behind me. I take a breath, my head spinning, dizzy from that passionate, sudden kiss. I just lean back against his door, giving myself a moment -- and giving my cock time to deflate before I return to Eve. I know taking my little brother in was the probably the right decision for the short-term, but for the long-term? I really hope it wasn't a mistake.