Date: Wed, 24 Oct 2018 16:27:40 -0400 From: RJ Subject: Brothers at Arms Chapter 1 Brothers at Arms by RJ This multi-part fiction involves the developing relationship between two brothers (aged 13 and 19). If you are offended by such themes, do not read. If you have any comments about my work, or even just want to chat, please don't hesitate to message me. Please note that the first (and possibly second) chapter(s) will serve as introductory chapter(s), and will be longer and will not have as much sexual content as later chapters. As always, please support Nifty in any way you can. ~ CHAPTER 1 ~ One more day. Just one more day and the school year starts up again. And it's not the academics that terrifies me -- that part of school has always come easy to me. Everything else, though? Not so much. Considering how last year went, with my reputation being almost irreparably rewritten, I think I have a right to be nervous. "I think you're just overreacting," Ally says in the middle of putting her hair up into a ponytail. "Overreacting?" I blink at her. "It's been a whole summer. People stop caring." Even though Ally's a year older than me, she clearly has a lot to earn about kids our age. But regardless, that's not what I'm worried about. Not totally. "I don't care about them," I say, half-telling the truth. Of course I care a little about what my peers say about me (either behind my back or loudly to my face). But there's a more pressing concern. "I just don't want HIM to find out." I cock my head towards my bedroom wall. Ally knows exactly who I'm talking about. She's been staring at him through the window for the past ten minutes. Dean. My older brother. She just smiles slightly to herself. Dean is outside mowing the lawn, and since he's shirtless, she's soaking up the opportunity to ogle him. "Fair point," she says. I decide to ask for reassurance. "My fears are valid, right?" She shrugs. "I guess so." Then she laughs. "How many times did he say 'faggot' the other day?" "I think we counted fifteen," I say with a smirk. "Guess that's fifteen reasons to, uh, keep it on the DL." Ally and I start high school tomorrow. A new chapter is exciting and all, sure. But Ally was with me all last year, and she knows how badly I was tormented for coming out to the whole school -- especially since it wasn't my decision. I was outed, and in the worst way possible. At the beginning of eighth grade, I was perfectly comfortable withholding that information from everyone except a few people I'm close with, like a few good friends, and my dad. My dad inevitably told my mom, so now my family knows -- but I begged them (almost embarrassingly so) not to tell Dean, and thankfully, they've kept it a secret thus far. But now, starting tomorrow, Dean and I will be at the same school, which just seems like the gods are fucking with me. I don't want to say that Dean is "dumb," because he isn't. He's just simply not good at school. And I'm the direct opposite. Whereas he has to repeat senior year due to failing a bunch of core classes throughout high school, I skipped a year way back in elementary school and have been either near or at the very top of my class ever since. And, because we're exactly six years apart (we share a birthday), a cursed sense of fate has brought us together for his (hopefully) final year of secondary education. I've never felt the need to tell Dean that I'm gay. For one, it's none of his business. But my lack of desire to open up to him has been solidified by his blatant homophobic remarks. Everything is "queer" to him, and he refers to other out-and-proud gay guys as "faggots." And considering how much we fight already just for being brothers, I think it's a safe decision to keep my homosexuality to myself. We're just too different to get along all the time. Dean is the charmingly aloof, too-cool-for-school type, whereas I flourish in that environment and grades are all I care about. He has that quietly-cocky swagger of a modern-day greaser (with his leather jackets and blue jeans and basic tank tops and vintage-looking combat boots) mixed with the surefire confidence of a sports junkie, and I, on the other hand, no longer play or have any sort of interest in sports and still dress like a total fucking dork. Dean eats, breathes, and shits masculinity, being the tough, domineering, hands-on, sometimes volatile guy that he is, and though I wouldn't consider myself feminine, compared to him, I'm a princess. I'm much more animated, soft, and passive aggressive -- things he hates. We just don't seem to mix well. We fight a lot, and even though I know I push his buttons (often purposefully), he's disproportionately a dick to me for no reason -- calling me names, putting me down, disregarding my interests and talents as "pussy shit," pushing or shoving or hitting me... The works. And if he finds out I'm gay, that will only provide him with more ammunition. We used to get along. But that was when we were too young to notice or care if we were different. Sometimes I look back at the picture on my nightstand of us when we were little, on Halloween night. I must have been five, and he was on the cusp of puberty. We dressed like soldiers (it was his idea), and he kept cracking jokes all night. "We're brothers in arms, Ma!" he'd say, and my parents both got a kick out of it. He was so good to me back then. Even shared his stash of candy with me because I had somehow lost mine. It's a simple memory, but one I attribute to "the good times." When we were brothers in arms. Now we're more like brothers AT arms, the way we act. "I hope no one makes the connection between us," I say stupidly. Of course someone will make the connection. If I was taller and more buff, we could pass for twins. Same colored hair (though mine's a little longer). Same greenish eyes. Same strong nose and full lips. Our milky skin tones are a perfect match. All in all, I look like a miniature, bespectacled version of him. And I've seen pictures. I look exactly like he did when he was thirteen. And since we obviously share a last name, there's no hiding that we're siblings. "Seriously?" Ally asks, breaking her staring session to look at me. "If he was my brother, I'd tell everybody. I'd be handing out fucking pamphlets." I roll my eyes. "Just because you think he's hot--" "One," she interrupts, holding a finger up matter-of-factly, "he IS hot. And two, you're missing something important here." "Do tell." "No one will fuck with you when they find out who your brother is." She has a point. Maybe it's a lucky thing that Dean is staying back. Using my nineteen-year-old brick of a brother as a shield might be a good survival tactic to employ. "Maybe," I say. I know how kids are, though: relentless. "As long as no one tells him I'm gay." "Relax about that, too," she says, looking out the window again. "But--" "Cut him some slack, Stevie. He's a dick, yeah, but he always has your back." Again, (irritatingly) she has a point. Even though the majority of the time I'm convinced that he hates me, he always ends up proving that he'll go at length to defend me. He's argued with uncles, my peers, his own friends, and even my ex-soccer coach for giving me any sort of shit. I think it's the whole "No one fucks with my little bro except for me" thing. But it's confusing. Why can't he just be nice all the time? It's not that hard. Then maybe we could be close. After we hang out for a little while longer, Ally has to be home for dinner, so I walk her downstairs. We cut through the kitchen, and of course Dean is there, having just got in from cutting the grass. He's gulping down a huge glass of water, looking sweaty and dirty. He glances at us as he downs the rest of his water. "Hey," Ally says boldly, ever the outgoing one. "Hey yourself," Dean says in his baritone voice, not even attempting to be subtle as he looks Ally up and down. I just roll my eyes, pushing Ally towards the door as she giggles to herself. We hug goodbye, making plans to see each other before classes. I watch her head down the street to her house before shutting the door. When I turn around, Dean is leaning against the counter, smirking at me. "What?" I ask. "You hit that yet?" He's so crass. And irritating when it comes to Ally. He's been teasing me about when I'm going to lose my virginity to her ever since he caught us kissing a few months ago. But he doesn't know that she's just my best friend and we were just messing around. It was for fun -- I had never kissed a girl before, and we're close enough for it to not be weird. And the thing is, Dean also doesn't know that I'm definitely not a virgin. "No," I say with an annoyed voice. "What a waste," he says, putting his glass in the sink. "She's a cute little thing." "Maybe you should get registered, then," I fire back. "Fuck off, Skeevy," he says, pushing me aside to get to the stairs. Skeevy. I hate that nickname. "I'm gonna go shower. Don't do anything stupid." I find it funny that he thinks he's in charge when Mom and Dad aren't home. I can take care of myself (I have been for years), and, considering I'm technically the golden child, they don't worry about me. Dean is the one that's basically on the path to degeneracy, and we all know it. I stay downstairs for a while. Since Dad isn't home, he isn't hogging the television, so I take the opportunity to play some video games in the living room. Once I sit down on the floor, press my back against the couch, and pick up that controller, I lose track of time. I guess I don't realize how long I've been playing because, maybe a little over an hour later, Dean comes down the stairs, whistling to himself. I hear his tune get louder as he steps into the living room. "Whatcha playin'?" he asks, heading straight for the front door. "Mario Kart," I say, glancing at him briefly before I focus back on the television. "Do you wanna play?" But he doesn't respond. The angle I'm at, I don't know what exactly he's doing. I hear the front door unlock and then swing open, and I hear conversation that's dulled by the sound coming from the TV, but I can't discern anything specific. Soon though, the smell hits me: pizza. My mouth salivates and I realize my stomach has been grumbling for a little while. I'm starving. Dean pays the delivery guy and then comes straight to the living room, sitting on the couch beside me. He nudges me with his leg and then says "I ordered us a pizza" before plopping it down on the coffee table in front of us. He opens the box and grabs a slice for himself. "Cool," I say. I want to eat, desperately, but I'm on the last lap of the last course. Almost there. I hear Dean chewing behind me. He starts talking with his mouth full. "You not hungry or somethin'?" "Gimme a second," I snap, in competitive mode right now, trying to focus. I bite my lip in concentration, ignoring Dean's soft little laughs. He's nice enough to not distract me during the last minute of the race, and I manage to pull through, coming in first. And about fucking time, too. I'd been struggling with this Cup for the longest time. "Atta boy," he says, mouth still full. "Thanks for the pizza," I say, leaning forward to grab a slice. I stuff my face way too fast, choking on the first bite. I cough a bit, patting my chest. "Chew and fuckin' swallow," Dean says, and I sense him lean over to grab another slice. "I'm not kissing your ass back to life." "That's not... how CPR works," I say between coughs, clearing my throat. I adjust my glasses, taking a deep breath and shaking it off. "Whatever, smartass. You gonna let me play?" he asks. I glance at him. "Sure," I say, trying not to smile. Playing Nintendo games is the only thing we do together without any real hostility. Even though he calls it a "faggy gaming company" compared to Sony, he secretly loves Nintendo as much as I openly do. And it's nice to do something together every now and then. The Mario Kart games are a staple in our relationship. Probably the only thing that holds us together. He sucks the tips of his fingers clean before grabbing the controller I'm offering him. As I go back to the character selection screen, Dean asks "You ready for school?" I shrug. "I guess," I say, choosing Yoshi and Peach, and surprisingly, he doesn't tease me about my choices. "I'm a little nervous, but I don't know." "You're good at school. You'll be fine," he says, choosing Bowser and Waluigi. It's always strange hearing some sort of compliment from him, so I soak it up while it lasts. And then he says "I'm fuckin' jealous, honestly." I pause, looking back at him. "Of what?" "Of your smarts," he says, shrugging. "I have to repeat fucking senior year and here you are." "Is that why you bag on me all the time?" He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. "I bag on you because you're fuckin' annoying," he says. Then he glances at the TV before looking at me. "You gonna pick a course or not?" "Oh." I look back at the TV, sighing as I look through the different options. I just pick one at random. As the course loads up, I decide to say something. "I don't think you're not smart, you know." I can almost feel his tension. I wonder if he's going to say something nasty or just stay silent. "Yeah right," he mumbles. "I just think you're a dick," I say bluntly. The race starts after a countdown and Dean makes his way to the front of the line. "But you know lots of stuff I don't know." He scoffs. "Like what?" "I don't know. Cars? Sports?" "Yeah, I can fix mom's fuckin' car no problem, and yeah, I'm good at sports. That's not gonna get me anywhere." He swears under his breath as he falls off the edge of a cliff and I make my way in front of him. "I mean, you can go places, really go places, and I'll just be..." I wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn't. "Well, where do you wanna go?" I ask. When he doesn't respond, I ask another question to specify. "What do you wanna do? Or be? Or whatever." "Never mind," he mutters after a moment. Then he changes the subject. "Yo, if I hit one more fuckin' banana--" I laugh, doing my best to maintain my position in first place. We play a few rounds before calling it quits. Dean sets the controller down on the coffee table before leaning back and sighing. "It's gonna be weird seeing you at school every day." "So you're saying you're going to school every day?" I tease, glancing back at him as I take another slice of pizza. He laughs a little harder before leaning forward and flicking my forehead. "Don't get smart, little brother." "Too late." Playing Nintendo always seems to put Dean in a better mood, so for the rest of the evening, we don't argue. Not even once. It's my turn to do chores, so I pick things up around the living room, do the dishes, and wipe down the kitchen before I retire to my room. I want to take a look at the essay I wrote for my summer work, and make any final adjustments necessary before I print out the final copy. I do this often. I'm a bit anal about work I submit academically, so I nit-pick every little detail until I exhaust myself. Before I can even open up Microsoft Word, though, I notice I still have a porn video up from this morning. As soon as I see it, my dick twitches. I reach down, rubbing myself lightly. There's not too much left of the video: an amateur tape of two hot frat studs getting it on in front of a webcam. I have this video bookmarked, it's that good. But every time I come back to it, I end up cumming before I can make it to the end, so I just pick up where I left off. The sound blares as they groan mid-fuck, and I quickly pause the video, forgetting to plug my headphones in. Hopefully it wasn't loud enough to carry outside my bedroom. I wait a moment before turning the volume way down and resuming play. I'm rock hard already. I pull my cock out and stroke myself fast, almost in a needy way, silently but quickly jacking off. I glance down at my member, holding it out. I'm pretty proud of it, honestly. Out of the guys that I've messed around with, I've always been the bigger guy, even though I'm usually younger or shorter than them. Hard, I'm just over 5", with a good amount of thickness. It makes me feel like I have the one-up on some of these dudes. I may be one of the only gay boys around, but I can easily be the source of major penis envy. Unfortunately, the video doesn't end with a hot cumshot of any sort, and I groan with irritation. I just close the video and get myself off, shooting a load into the rag I keep between my mattress and my bedframe. I feel instantly relaxed after I cum. I hide the rag, put my cock away, and then get to work on my essay. After about a half hour, Dean comes bursting into my room. I glance over at him. He's just in his underwear: a pair of boxer briefs, but the legs are so short that they almost look like briefs. This is typical attire for Dean when our parents aren't home. I wonder if he does it because it's comfortable, or because he's trying to make me envious of his body. If it's the latter, it's working. I find my eyes glancing often at his little happy trail. Sometimes, if his underwear rides low enough, I get a glimpse of his pubes. And not to mention the serious bulge in his underwear. Maybe that's why he wears such tight undergarments. It makes me jealous that I don't have all of that. "Smells like jizz in here," he says, sniffing a bit. Does it? Fuck. I blush. "Fuck off, Dean," I say, looking back at my computer. "Did you just jerk off?" he asks with a grin. "I said fuck off. Did you not hear me?" He just laughs. "Whatever, bro. I need your laptop." His has been broken for weeks. Which is not my problem. He should have taken better care of his things, or gone to his anger management classes. "That's nice," I say. "Mine's broken." "I'm aware." "So lemme use yours," he says. I glance at him with irritation. "I'm busy," I say, gesturing to the laptop that I'm clearly using. "Doing what?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "Homework." "Jesus fucking Christ," he says, exasperated. "Just lemme borrow it for like twenty minutes." "Why?" "Because I fuckin' need it." "Can't you wait until I'm done?" I ask, looking at him. "No, 'cause you'll be here all night." I roll my eyes. "Well, I don't know what to tell you. It's my laptop." He doesn't say anything further, so I just look back at the essay. Now I lost my place. I scan the second paragraph to find where I left off, but I never get there, because Dean comes forward and snatches the laptop from me, grabbing it by the screen. I instinctively try and grab it back, and I get my fingers around the base of it enough to get a little bit of leverage. But there's a hint of a struggle, and for a split second, neither of us is gripping the laptop tightly enough for us to handle. It falls to the floor and I hear a loud crack noise. Both of us go silent, and then Dean just says "Shit." I stand up and look down, and my heart drops. The screen is black and shattered on one side, hanging slightly on its hinges. I don't think about whether or not it's fixable or not. I don't think about whether or not I can salvage everything that was on that laptop. I have one thought: Dean broke it. I had everything on that laptop. Poems, stories, all my past essays, vacation photos, all my music, all my homework that I did this summer... And Dean destroyed it all. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean seems to think this is funny, because he starts laughing. "Sorry, Skeevy." I start crying, but it's because I'm angry. I push him back. "Get the fuck out of my room," I warn him, bending down to pick up the remains. "Dude, I'm sorry," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "You shouldn't have grabbed it like that, though. That was stupid of you." I round on him, instantly infuriated. I start shoving him repeatedly, with every sentence that I speak. "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't taken it from me!" "Relax--" "It wasn't yours, you fucking douchebag! This is your fault!" "Damn it, Stevie, calm the fuck--" "I had everything on that computer! EVERYTHING! And of course you ruined something for me--" "Stevie--" "--because that's all you ever fucking do -- fuck things up like the fuck-up you are!" I'm so angry that it doesn't even hurt when he punches me. I feel his fist slam into my cheek and then into my nose in one arch, and I say "Ow!" in the way someone says it when they bump their hip into a table but it doesn't actually hurt. I can barely feel it. Mostly it just feels sore, and hot, and wet somehow. And when I bring my hand up to my face, I realize it's because my nose is bleeding. I must have hit a nerve. Dean can get physical, especially when his anger flares, but he's never outwardly punched me before. Maybe it was the "You're a fuck-up" comment. That's Mom's favorite way to chastise him. So when I look up at Dean, I expect him to be red in the face, ready to swing again. Instead, he looks horrified. "Shit," he says. My nose is now dripping all over the floor. I have to clean up. I brush past him aggressively, and he doesn't stop me. I get to the bathroom and use the tissues to plug up my nose a bit. When I look in the mirror, I see a long line of blood from my nostril down my shirt. I swear under my breath. Now my shirt is stained. Great. As I turn on the water to try and wipe up at least some of the blood, Dean comes into the bathroom. "You okay?" he asks. "Fuck off." Now I sound stupid with my nose plugged up. "Let me help you," he says. He's in big brother mode, I can tell. He puts his hand on my arm and tries to make me face him, but I pull away. "Don't fucking touch me." "Stevie--" "Just go away, Dean. I don't want your help." We stare at each other for a moment, and he looks like he's on the verge of saying something. But nothing comes out. He just turns around and leaves me alone in the bathroom. My nose feels a little sore in the morning, but I don't think it's broken or anything serious. I can at least smell the breakfast cooking downstairs, so that must be a good sign. I pull myself out of bed, get dressed, wash my face, pack my book bag, and then head downstairs to the kitchen. "Morning," I say. My mom looks up from the newspaper and smiles. "Ready for school?" she asks as I come over and kiss her cheek. "We'll see." I head over to my dad, who's whipping up omelets on the stove. "Morning, Dad." "Hey buddy," he says, bending down enough so we can kiss cheeks. "Big day, huh?" "Not really," I say, grabbing a glass of OJ before I join my mother at the table. "You sound like your brother," he says with a chuckle, whistling slightly as he flips the omelets. "He broke my laptop, by the way." "Are you kidding?" My mom looks at me, putting her newspaper down. "Wish I was." I grab a piece of toast from the center and start spreading butter on it. "We just bought you that laptop." "I know. I'm pissed," I say, and she can sense from my tone how angry I still am, considering I'm usually not an angry person. She rubs her forehead. I think it's a calming technique, because she does it after she hears distressing news, maybe to ward off her temper. I know Dean inherited that lovely trait from her. "I'm gonna kill him." "Can I watch?" "Play nice," my dad says, coming in between us with the pan. He scoops out omelets for each of us onto our plates. "Thanks, Dad," I say, and he ruffles my hair a bit. "We'll see about getting you a new one." "We can't afford that," my mom snaps, running her fingers through her hair. "We'll figure it out," my dad says calmly. I love my parents. I love that they're sort of unconventional, in weird ways. Dad is much more of a homemaker than my mom is. He does all the cooking, and most of the cleaning. He's bookish and wicked smart and super calm and patient. Mom was the wild child back in her day, and she still sort of is. She's athletic, aggressive, hilarious, daring -- all things that make for a good cop. I admire them both in different ways, especially considering how open and honest they are with me. I've never been sheltered, especially by my dad. He's the "The more you know the better" type, even with things like movies. PG-13 is G-rated in our household, and anything that's actually rated G is not worth our time. This type of parenting definitely helped me develop my intelligence, since I've always had an aptitude for learning. As I dig into my breakfast, Dean comes bounding down the stairs, dressed in his leather jacket as per usual. He doesn't say good morning to anyone, but just grabs a few pieces of toast from the center of the table. "Bring your brother to school," my mom says to him. "Seriously?" Dean asks, glancing at me before looking at my mom. "Seriously." Dean glares at me now. "Tell her you don't want a ride." "Dean--" "It's fine, Mom," I say. "I'll just get a ride with Ally." "Good. Have fun with your girlfriend," Dean teases, turning around. "At least somebody likes me," I mutter, taking a bite of my food. "The fuck did you just say?" Dean rounds on me, but my mom quickly stands up and blocks his way, pushing him towards the door. "Go to school. And if I hear any trouble from you, there will be hell to pay." Dean struggles a bit, clearly trying to get the last word in, but Mom just ushers his dumb ass out the door and I just sit at the table with a smile on my face. After I finish breakfast, I run over to Ally's house (she's six houses down and I'm convinced her mom is in love with me) and get a ride to school with them. On the way, her mom barrages us with questions: are we excited, are we nervous, are we prepared? I tell her I'm mostly nervous, which is the truth. That nervousness stays with me for the first half of the day, but nothing bad (like I expected to happen) happens. Everyone I've come into contact so far has either been nice, semi-nice, or otherwise ignores me -- which is perfectly fine to me. I do end up seeing Dean in the hallway with a guy who also ended up staying back, but he doesn't pay me any attention. Which, again, is perfectly fine. Classes seem to be a cinch so far, although none of the teachers have really gone into much yet. It's all introductory. "Hi, I'm so-and-so and welcome to such-and-such and let's go around the room and introduce ourselves!" It's dumb as hell, but we all get through it, doing little more than handing in our summer work (that I thankfully had emailed to myself drafts of before Dean broke my computer). The only class that we go into subject matter almost immediately is our History class, Ancient Civilizations. And right off the bat, the teacher hits us with a group project. We all whine and groan. Usually teachers are kind enough to hold off on group projects for at least a couple weeks, but this guy is grumpy and old and has little to no patience for us and does what he wants. He assigns groups, and since he doesn't know our names yet, he just points and says "You and you." I get anxious. I hate group projects, and though I do have friends in this class, they're all unfocused and loud and procrastinate until the last minute. I pray he doesn't pair me with someone who won't put the work in. He pairs me with Caleb. Beautiful Caleb. He's a total sports jock, sexy and driven, tackling a sport every season -- we even used to play soccer together -- but he's also pretty smart. And nice, despite the assholes he hangs out with. I've always been attracted to him, maybe even had a little crush on him, but have never dared to do anything. He's always seemed too straight to me. When the teacher points to the two of us, Caleb turns around to look at me and then smiles, giving me a wink that makes me blush instantly. We spend the rest of class talking about what makes a civilization a civilization, and then discussing what we have to do for the project -- essentially make a presentation about one of the first civilizations. Caleb and I get Mesopotamia, and by the time the topics are assigned, the bell rings. I gather my things, stuffing my books in my bag before I look up and see Caleb at my desk. "Looks like you're stuck with me," he says, giving me a winning smile. I can tell he's the "I know I'm charming" type, but damn, it still works on me. "I won't hold it against you," I tease, smiling back as I stand up. He laughs. "Honestly I'm glad I got paired with you." I blink. "Really?" "Yeah. There's no bullshit with you." He smiles as if he just gave me the biggest compliment one could give. "You have free time this week to knock this bad boy out?" I bite my lip. "Well, my laptop's broken," I say with a sigh. "That's fine. Libraries are a thing," he says with a chuckle. "Or you can come to my house." The thought of me being in Caleb's house terrifies but thrills me. "We can figure it out," I say, being vague. "I'm thinking we could do a little research on our own, see what we come up with, and then... find time to knock it out?" "Works for me. I'll look up some stuff tonight," he says, reaching out and giving my arm a little stroke. "See ya, Stevie," he adds with another one of those winks, and I swear my heart stops. I realize I'm just standing there awkwardly before I shake it off and then head to my next class. The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. No one bothers me. No one says anything about last year. I guess Ally was right when she said people stop caring. And Caleb put me in a good mood. She comes over after school and I tell her about Caleb, and sure enough, she goes into full girl-mode about him. We laugh and speculate about his winks and the arm touch and the way he spoke to me. It's fun to imagine Caleb actually being interested in me, but the more we talk about it, the more I start to actually wonder, is he? Or am I just projecting my hopes onto him? Dean doesn't come home until after dark. Mom and Dad didn't even really ask about him when they both got home from work. The three of us just ate dinner and talked about my day, and Dad only asked "Where's Dean?" once, seemingly satisfied with my answer: a simple, I-don't-care shrug. When Dean gets home, it's a little after 11, and he stumbles in, laughing quietly to himself before he tries to silently shut the door behind him. He's saying "Shhh" to no one and laughing as he does it. I'm watching him curiously from the living room couch, a book in my lap, homework spread out on the coffee table. He's tripping and talking softly to himself and I just roll my eyes. He notices me after a few seconds and then clutches his chest. "Jeeeeeesus," he drawls out, laughing but also trying to be quiet, as if he'll wake Mom and Dad. "You scared me, little bro." He's slurring his words quite a bit. "Are you drunk?" I ask. "Nawww," he says, laughing and shuffling over to the couch. "I only had... one or two drinks," he adds, holding up four fingers. "You're drunk." "Shhh," he says, leaning over and pushing his finger on my lips before falling into a fit of laughter. At least he's in a good mood when he's drunk. "It was just a lil party, das all." "It's literally the first day of school." "Why can't you just be happy for me?" he asks, pouting out his bottom lip. For a second, I think he's serious, but then his mouth splits into a grin again and he laughs before falling behind the couch with a loud thud. "Dean!" I say, a little startled. I set my book down and rush over to the other side to make sure he's okay, but he's just laughing, rolling over slightly. "I'm A-okay, Stevie boyyy," he says, trying to get himself up. I sigh. "Here," I say, coming over to help him. He pushes me away at first, but I think he ends up realizing he can't do it himself, so he leans on me for support. He isn't light, and I'm not that strong, so it's super difficult getting him to his feet. And then, to make matters worse, he drapes both arms loosely over me, leaning heavily into my body. "I'm gonna fucking fall over," I grunt, trying to keep him upright. "Carry me," he says, giggling. "Dean--" "Sorry, sorry," he says, leaning off me a little bit. He keeps one hand firmly on my shoulder and then almost falls, but I half-catch him by wrapping an arm around his waist. I hate drunk people. They're so needy and annoying. "C'mon," I say, eager to get him to bed and finish my homework. "Where are you taking me?" he asks as I practically drag him to the stairs. "Don't you want your nice, comfy bed?" I ask, and he hums in response. The stairs are a challenge. Every step is a struggle to pull him forward, since his weight is fighting me every inch of the way. I'm practically sweating by the time we get to the top. Thankfully, his room is right there, and I help him inside before basically pushing him on the bed. I'm panting, and I take a moment to catch my breath. "There." He grunts something in response, but I miss it. He sits himself up, starting to pull off his t-shirt, but of course, it gets stuck over his head. "Stevie?" he says, then louder, as if I had left the room. "Stevie?!" "I'm right here, dumbass," I say, sighing and stepping forward. I help his arms out of his shirt before pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. "Need help with those too?" I ask, pointing to his jeans. He nods, laying back on the bed. This isn't the first time that I've helped him undress when he's gotten drunk, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I undo the button and his fly before starting to pull his tight jeans off of his waist. That's when I notice his pubes and the base of his cock coming into view. I stop. "Are you not wearing underwear?" I ask. He looks down, pauses, and then says "Shiiit" before laughing slightly. "Where'd it go?" I sigh heavily. This fucking kid. I grab his hand and rest it casually over his crotch to help maintain his modesty as I pull his jeans off of his legs. But by the time I get them off his ankles, his hand had slid away, and his cock just hangs out in the open. I've seen him naked maybe a couple of times. But this time, it's different. Maybe because it's up close. I find myself staring at his cock, transfixed. Wow. Even soft, it's... well, beautiful. It's strangely dark, too, especially compared to the rest of his body. Kind of like mine, but his is much more tan. It's thick and looks heavy and suddenly I find my mouth watering before I stop myself. "Stop!" I think to myself. "You're salivating over your brother's cock? Jesus Christ!" I shake my head to clear my mind for a second before helping him into bed more, purposefully avoiding his dick. As I pull his legs onto the bed and then throw his blankets over him, I notice he's already asleep, breathing in and out steadily and deeply. I pat his leg before leaving the room, and when I shut the door and take a breath, I realize something: I'm hard. I'm rock fucking solid. And it's because of what Dean's got between his legs. The first week of school is a breeze overall. I reconnect with a few friends from last year, classes seem like they'll be fine, and though I can't totally be sure, I feel like things with Caleb are getting increasingly more flirty (though I don't and would never dare to broach the subject). As far as Dean goes, he is his normal, usually-shitty self. Thankfully, he hasn't mentioned me ogling his dick -- maybe he hadn't even noticed, for which I am eternally grateful. So things between us remain normal. But then, for the first time all week, Dean approaches me during school hours. It's in between classes, and I'm chatting with my friend at my locker when Dean slips right in between us, totally blocking my view as he leans against the lockers in front of me. "Um... what--?" "Do you want a ride home?" he asks me suddenly. I look up at him curiously. He doesn't look mad, or anything like that. It's just his plain old face. "Is this you offering to give me a ride home?" I ask. "Yes, idiot." "Calling me an idiot isn't--" "Do you want a ride or not?" he says, with slight irritation. He seems to be holding back though, because he takes a calming breath. "Fine." "Good," he says, and then he starts leaving. "Don't drag your ass." For the rest of the day, I speculate what that was about. Is this his way of trying to reconcile for punching me? Or breaking my laptop? Now that school has started, we don't see each other much even at home, and I'm not sure if that's because of school or because of what happened the night before the semester began. Part of me hopes for an apology, but I know it's a little stupid of me to expect one from him. I meet him in the parking lot after the final bell rings and I gather my stuff from my locker. He's already in his car, idle and waiting for me, and I walk as fast as I can, not wanting him to yell at me for "dragging my ass." I hop into the passenger seat, and as soon as I close the door, he veers out of the lot, just narrowly avoiding a few students walking to their own cars. "Thanks for the ride," I say after a moment of silence. "Sure," he says, nodding. I feel strangely tense. It's that sensation of knowing something's about to happen, or something's about to come up. And come up it does. A few minutes later, Dean speaks up again. "I heard an interesting rumor today." I immediately want to die. I just want to open the door and jump out onto the street and let a couple cars run me over. "Stevie?" I look at him and realize he's glancing at me slightly while he drives. I hadn't responded. "What?" "Did you hear me?" "Yes." "I said I heard an interesting rumor today." "I know. I heard you." "You're not gonna ask what the rumor is?" I sigh heavily. Is he toying with me? "Just spit it out, Dean." He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then: "I just wanna make sure you're okay." I look at him. He's looking at the road, but somehow his features seem softer. "I'm fine," I say. This isn't how I expected him to react. Maybe he didn't hear the full story? "What did you hear?" I ask hesitantly. "About the video," he says. So he knows it all. Last year, I messed around with this "straight" guy from the soccer team. Sucked his dick, and he sucked mine. Little did I know, though, that he had recorded me blowing him. And he showed everyone. It spread pretty quickly, and the torment ensued. I had a good group of friends at least, and they defended me when they could, but it still wasn't easy listening to everyone berate me and call me a fag while saying nothing about him. It wasn't fair, that's for sure. "Is that why you quit soccer?" he asks me. I nod. "Yeah." I quit soccer, and all my extracurriculars. The bullying became too much to handle. I didn't feel like a part of the team anymore, either. Still don't. Still won't. "Stevie?" he says again. I zoned out a bit again. I shake my head, fixing my glasses. "Sorry." "Why are you sorry?" "I don't know." Then, I ask a question. "You didn't... see it, did you?" He bites his lip, glancing at me and pausing. "It was a split second." "Oh God--" "It's not a big deal." "Not a big deal? Really?" "That's not what I... Look, just relax," he says. "Take a breath." My face is so warm that I feel ill. I inhale and exhale as best as I can, but I'm so embarrassed. There's a pause before he says "You should have told me." I actually laugh out loud. "Seriously?" "Why's that so funny?" "I can't tell you anything, Dean." "That's not true--" "You're just as bad as they were." That shuts him up real quick, and I can tell it affects him. That makes me feel a little powerful, finally making my brother feel something. Putting him on the same level as my bullies. Eventually, he speaks up. "Worse, probably." I shrug, sighing heavily. "I don't know." "I would have at least kicked their asses," he says, glancing at me with a grin. I laugh a little. "I know." He smiles at me before focusing on the road again. "I always figured you'd turn out gay or something." I roll my eyes. "Sure you did." "You don't believe me?" "Well for one, you constantly tease me about Ally." "Oh, I knew you weren't fucking her," he says with a laugh. "I can just tell. Plus, you still dress like a fucking virgin." "I'm not a virgin," I say. I didn't necessarily want to tell him, but it slipped out. He looks at me. "Huh?" I blush. "Yeah." "Shit, really?" Dean laughs heartily. "I didn't fuck until I was like, 16." He grins a bit. "I'm impressed." Dean's impressed with me? That's a first. Figures it has to do with something "cool" like sex, but I'll take it. Then he asks something. "Wait, so do you have a boyfriend or something?" "No," I say, shaking my head. "But there's this guy I kinda like." I smile at the thought of Caleb. "And I think he likes me. Maybe." It feels strange admitting that out loud. Especially to Dean, of all people. I really hope he likes me. Otherwise I'm reading this all wrong. But why else would Caleb compliment me, and touch me casually, and wink at me all playful like? "He cute?" Dean asks. It's strange talking to Dean about this, but it's a nice change. "Very." We chat about Caleb all the way home, and I express my hunches and my nerves to him. He seems to agree that Caleb "probably wants to bone" me, and I laugh at him as we head inside the house. He pauses in the hallway, thinking about something as he looks at me. "What?" I ask. "Well..." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I wanna show you something." "Okay," I say, shrugging. I set my bag down and we take off our shoes, and I let him lead the way to the basement. I don't come down here often. It's mildly furbished, but Dean has taken it over, using it as his personal workout room and hangout space for when he has friends over. I don't have a need for it anyway. When we get downstairs, Dean stops and looks at me. "You can't tell anybody this." I blink, surprised. "Huh?" "You told me a secret, so I'm telling you one." "Mine's not really a secret, honestly--" "Whatever, Stevie," he says, pushing my shoulder. This time, it's a little more playful, I notice. "Just don't tell anyone." "Okay." "Promise?" "I swear." He stares at me for a long while before turning and heading towards the back of the room. He rummages around, moving things before he pulls out a guitar and comes back. I'm surprised. "You play?" I ask. "A little," he says, and I notice his cheeks are a little red. He sits down on the couch, with the guitar in his lap, and I sit on the floor. Is he really about to play me something? "Is this your secret?" I ask, smirking slightly. "That you play guitar?" "It sounds stupid when you say it like that," he says, glaring at me for a moment. "I don't know. I guess kind of. I wanna be a musician." That's what surprises me most. "Seriously?" "Yeah," he says, blushing still. "I play down here so no one will hear me upstairs." "Well it works," I say, almost laughing. "I would have never guessed." I look at him, almost seeing him in a new light. He looks vulnerable for once. "Are you any good?" "That's why you're here," he says, picking up the guitar and getting ready to play. "You can make fun of me if you want. That's my gift to you." I laugh. "Okay." He starts playing. He strums a few chords, which seem pretty basic until he adds little flourishes of his own between transitions. I'm impressed so far. But then, he starts singing, and I'm stunned. He only gets through the first line of the song because I say "Holy shit" out loud. He stops altogether, looking at me nervously. "What?" "You're actually good." "Really?" "Keep going. I'm sorry," I say, leaning in more to listen. He smiles slightly, looking a little flustered before he starts over. He plays a song I don't recognize (though, to be fair, I don't like any of his music), and his voice has a soft, soothingly raspy quality about it. Semi-rocker, semi-folk, with little riffs every now and again. By the time he finishes, I'm actually speechless. I have fucking goosebumps. I blink a few times before I start laughing. "Stop laughing at me," he says. "I'm just..." I compose myself a bit. "I'm just amazed." "Yeah?" "You're like... really fucking good, dude." "You think so?" The fact that he cares at all about my opinion is nice. "I got chills." "Cool," he says, smiling. "It's the first song I've actually finished writing, so I was nervous about it." "Wait, you wrote that?" "Yeah." "Wow," I say, laughing again. I have that jittery feeling one gets when they're really happy for somebody. This is that moment. "I'm impressed." Then I start thinking about the lyrics. They were surprisingly introspective and emotional. Something about love, but not in a cushy way. "I knew you were a total softie on the inside," I say, giggling. He pushes me by pressing his foot to my chest, and I laugh harder. "Fuck off," he says, laughing. I just smile. "Do you have more?" He shrugs. "Some unfinished stuff." "I wanna hear 'em." I have to goad him a bit to play more for me, but he does so, and I compliment each one of them. We chat a little about how long he's been doing this, what inspires him, what made him want to be a musician, before we head upstairs and hang out. As the evening transpires (Mom and Dad are visiting family until Sunday), I feel like everything has changed between us. He's way nicer, for one. He still calls me things like "loser" and "cocksucker," but it's always with a little smile, or he'll ruffle my hair, or give me a playful nudge. His tone is completely different. And I try not to think about it too much, wanting to relish in this version of my brother. But then his friends come over, and it's like the past four hours never happened. As soon as they get to the house, Dean is back to his normal self. "Alright, go fuck off, Skeevy," he says, bullying me in front of his friends. They all get a kick out of it. Normally, I just accept it, but I'm so caught off-guard that I don't know how to respond. When I don't move, Dean glares at me. "Are you deaf?" Then he pushes me. His rude tone and aggressive shoves are back. I don't know if it makes me angry or sad, but it almost makes me want to cry, and I rush upstairs to avoid further humiliation. When he comes upstairs hours later, after his friends are gone, he steps into my room, a bit stoned. "Hey, loser." He has that playful tone again, the one I like, but now, it's irritating the fuck out of me. "Do you know where the dustpan is? Made a huge mess downstairs." "Leave me alone, Dean," I mutter, focusing on my homework. "Huh?" "I said, leave me the fuck alone." "What's wrong?" "You," I say calmly, keeping my anger to myself. I want him to think I'm calm and collected, or unbothered, or uninterested. Or something. Dean just laughs. "I don't know what that means, bro." "It means, you're an asshole and I don't want to deal with you right now." He sighs. "If this is about what I said earlier--" "Are you embarrassed of me or something?" I ask, glancing back at him. "Embarrassed?" "I mean, I get it, it's fine. I'm the dumb little brother and you have to be cool and, I don't know, maintain your reputation." "That's not how it is." "It's not? Then how is it? Because I thought we were getting along, actually getting along, and then they show up, and you're back to being a fucking bully." I face him a little more fully. "Do you know how corny that is, to be a douche when you're with your boys?" He looks legitimately embarrassed now, and I love it. I relish in the moment. He starts running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know why I do it." "Well when you figure out why you hate me so much, let me know." He just looks surprised that I would ever say such a thing. "I don't," he says simply, and then, without another word, he leaves. I can't go back to my homework because I'm so distracted by him. He confuses the hell out of me. Does he like me or not? Are we cool or are we not? He must like me, but only when we're alone. Maybe that's why he hides his music too. He doesn't want to come off as weak to anybody. He's a fucking idiot. I just roll my eyes and shut my textbook, giving up on homework for the night. I just shut off the lights and climb into bed, feeling overly irritated. And, somehow, horny. But of course, with my laptop broken and my porn stash gone and my phone all the way downstairs, I have nothing to jerk off to. I just groan and get under the sheets, trying to ignore my cock, but it's so insistent. I keep finding my hips moving on their own as if thrusting into something. I give up fighting it. I take off my shorts and underwear, reaching under the sheets to pull at my cock. I close my eyes and focus, focus on Caleb. Caleb, with his pretty blue eyes and luscious lips and tan skin. I undress him in my head. I've seen him shirtless plenty of times. He's perfectly toned. My mouth waters and I lick my lips, imagining I'm licking each of his abs as I work my way down. I wonder what his cock looks like. I bet it's long. No, no, I bet it's thick. I hope it is. I prefer the girth. That's what I decide to picture: Caleb's hopefully-girthy cock. So, as I peel off Caleb's jockstrap in my head, out pops flops his cock. But it's Dean's. It's clearly Dean's, because it's exactly how I remember it. My cock twitches as I get an eyeful of Dean's meat. Suddenly, the body is no longer Caleb's. It's my brothers. I stroke myself faster, panting slightly, feeling warmer. I look up, and Dean is looking down at me with that signature smoldering grin of his. He just nods as if giving me the okay. And so I lean forward, sticking my tongue out, so close to his crotch that I can smell him, just half an inch away from guiding the tip into my-- I cum. I gasp, shooting right into the sheets. I swear, pulling them off of me and trying to spill the rest onto my stomach. I bite my lip as I unload all over my shirt, squeezing out the last few drops before sighing heavily. I'm blushing. I can tell from how warm my cheeks are. I've never really thought about Dean in a sexual way, and he invaded my fantasy so suddenly that I couldn't very well stop. Plus, I can't ignore how my body had responded. I feel weird. I peel off my shirt and toss it to the floor, lying back and sighing as I look up the ceiling, only feeling angrier at my brother.