FIC: The Brothers Who Were Turned Into Birds (Jonas Brothers RPF, Joe/Nick)
This is, uh, on the dark side. Just FYI.
Title: The Brothers Who Were Turned Into Birds
Fandom: Jonas Brothers RPF
Rating: R
Pairing: Joe Jonas/Nick Jonas
Length: 3500 words
Disclaimer: This is super fictional and no libel is intended -- I do not believe their family is actually like this.
WARNINGS: Underaged incest. UNDERAGED INCEST, DUDES.
Summary: "I'll always protect you," Joe whispers, more to himself than you. It's not the first time he's said it. You're six years old and it never occurs to you to ask him from what.
AN: Thanks to kyrafic for betaing a hard copy of this on a plane on the way to Obama's inauguration. It was nice of you to be bored enough to do that. <3
**
You're the third son, the youngest, the baby, and your daddy's a preacher. You sit in church and color while he preaches on idolatry, Baal and Asherah and Moloch, the high places, the altars. The Canaanites who even made their children pass through the fire, even sacrificed their children. Your daddy says you aren't supposed to sacrifice children. You color quietly and after the sermon you're the special music for communion. You sing a solo, your voice high and sweet and strong. Though the darkness hide thee, you sing.
There's a hush, a breathless silence when you finish, which you know means you were good. Then someone says, Amen, which is what you say in church instead of clapping. There are a lot of amens and you go back to sit in the front row with your brothers to wait for the benediction. Joseph puts his arm around you.
"Good song, Nicky," he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. You smile and nestle further under his arm. Joe leans his head on yours. "I'll always protect you," he whispers, more to himself than you. It's not the first time he's said it. You're six years old and it never occurs to you to ask him from what.
**
You sing and dance on Broadway until your shoes get worn down in strange places. Your mom points it out to you one night when you get home late after a show, after your brothers are in bed, how strangely your shoes are worn.
Maybe it's just from girls tackling me on the playground, you say. Your mom laughs, but it's not funny. They hold you down until you sing for them, sing the songs your dad taught you after school. At home you sing those notes over and over, over and over till you get them right. Your dad likes things to be right.
You write a song, and then another song. Outside, Joseph learns to ride a skateboard.
**
For awhile you sing alone, but it's when you sing with your brothers that things start to happen. Kevin and Joe flank you, standing a little behind, harmonizing the way your dad taught you, and the man from the label looks at you with his sharp, shrewd eyes. Afterward Kevin has to learn guitar -- your dad teaches him. With two brothers on either side of you, you feel safe on stage, like you can do anything and nothing can hurt you.
"One for all and all for one," Joe says and you bump knuckles, the three of you, meaning it.
**
There's a story where the king's sons get turned into swans, and only their sister can rescue them. You don't have a sister. Mandy and Maya and Miley and Demi -- none of them are really your sisters, no matter how many times you say they're just like that, no matter how many blondes with microphones you lie to. Frankie was born a boy. Brothers can't save each other, not in the stories -- they're swans too.
**
You're in the house in New Jersey, up in your room playing guitar. Somewhere far away you can hear raised voices that make your stomach hurt, but you try to ignore them. The guitar almost drowns it out. You have to get this song exactly right -- some of the riffs are tricky and you play them over and over, strings digging into your calloused fingertips. It doesn't work if the riffs aren't right, and it doesn't count if you don't play it perfectly. It has to be perfect.
Joe comes into the room without knocking and shuts the door behind him too carefully, so it closes with only the softest snick. He flops down onto the bed, so close he's lying on top of your legs. "Dad's in a mood," he says. That's code for, don't go downstairs if you can help it.
You mmm something and change chords. You know Dad's in a mood -- you can hear it. Joe doesn't have to pretend like he needs to tell you if he just wants to hide out in here.
"You and me, right, Nicky?" Joe says, his voice so quiet it's almost a whisper. For a second, with the yelling downstairs muffled and far away, you feel like the two of you are floating together far away from the rest of the world, high up here in your room. Like an escape pod from a space ship that just holds two.
You smile at him and keep playing guitar as you feel the breath go out of him in a sigh. You play the riff quick, follow it by the chords of the chorus. D#, then F, then G. You time them so the rhythm matches Joe's breathing, like your two bodies are just one, like you can't tell where you leave off and he begins. Joe closes his eyes.
**
You turn thirteen. You meet a famous girl, fall in love, like all of a sudden you're half grown, not a kid anymore. It's okay -- you never felt much like a kid when you were one. Two months after your birthday you spend a week in the hospital, worrying you're going to die, and come out with a pod in your back and strips to test your blood, and then you don't feel like a kid at all.
On tour, at night you and Joe and Kevin share one hotel room, Mom and Dad and Frankie in another. Kevin always claims seniority gives him the bed to himself, and you and Joe don't really argue even though it's a stupid reason. It's okay, even though Joe snores and he says you kick.
You have a bad show, so everyone's in a bad mood. You sang out of tune, and when you come off stage Dad tells you what parts you need to practice for next time even though you already know. You get touchy and then he gets touchy, and Mom doesn't like your tone, and Kevin and Frankie have disappeared somewhere. Joe's sitting off to the side, silent moral support even though you know it must be taking all his energy not to get lost, must be going against all his instincts. Fight-or-flight -- in your family, it's always smarter to go with flight, and Joe hates fighting more than anybody, always tries to joke everyone out of it.
You sit in the back of the van on the way to the hotel, Joe beside you messing around to try and make you laugh, but you don't want to be cheered up. Eventually he quiets down and lets you sulk, watch out the window as the streetlights flicker by. At the hotel you toss your stuff down without saying too much, and all get ready for bed in cranky silence. You're exhausted anyway.
When you come out of the bathroom, Joe's standing outside waiting for you. "Stealth hug!" he says, and grabs you. Behind him, Kevin's got the TV on and turned down low, what sounds like a Simpsons rerun.
Stop, you say, trying to shake Joe off. It's annoying, and you don't want to be hugged, but Joe won't let go, holding onto you tight, and finally you figure it'll be faster just to hug him already so he'll get off. So you stop struggling and hug him back, and Joe's arms fit around you just right. You're getting almost as tall as he is now. You can fit your chin over his shoulder, and he hugs you really close, and for a second, his body warm and strong around you, you almost want to cry. You finally relax into it, lean into him and sigh, and Joe rubs your back and you hug for a long time.
I'm tired, Joe, you say, just meaning in general, always. The whole grind of touring, never being in your own bed. The only time you don't feel tired is when you're on stage.
"Yeah," Joe says, misunderstanding and pulling back. "Let's go to bed."
That night, you wake up at 3 am because Joe's pushing you off him and back onto your side of the bed. It's pitch black out and Kevin's breathing deep and even, sleeping so heavy it's like he's been drugged or something. He's always been a good sleeper. "Get off," Joe mutters, his hands hot on your bare chest. You groan, still drowsy. Even though you're back on your side of the bed, Joe doesn't take his hands off you. Instead he rolls on top of you. "See how you like it," he says. "Stay on your side."
You squirm underneath him, and Joe goes all limp on purpose, heavy on top of you. Stop it, you tell him. I want to go back to sleep. You're confused, not quite sure where you are. A hotel, you know. You can't remember what state you're in, but maybe you never knew in the first place. Somewhere in the middle, probably, Nebraska or Iowa.
Something in Joe's face has changed a little bit, his eyes opening wider, looking at you all intense. He keeps pressing you down. "Shh," he says, moving around, fumbling. "Hold still. I, um, want to try something."
Then he's touching you, his hand snaking down between your bodies and touching you in places where nobody's supposed to touch you. For a second you feel a hot burst of shame, get panicked with the kind of panic that's like when you go snorkeling and put your face in the water for the first time and can't remember how you're supposed to breathe, when you keep breathing in with your nose by accident. Like you're going to smother, and you want to thrash your limbs until you're okay again, but Joe's touching you and keeps touching you and your body likes it. And after that first moment of panic subsides, you slip into it, let yourself start to careen apart, stop trying to hold onto control. The burn of surprised shame shifts into something dark and sick and desperate and wanting in the pit of your stomach and you're letting him touch you, you're moving with him and Kevin is breathing slow and even in the other bed. And it's your brother touching you, that's wrong, that's messed up, and for a second you try to imagine it's Miley touching you like that, but that's wrong too, it's all wrong. You're not supposed to be doing this with anybody. You're supposed to be setting a good example, good, always good. Perfect, such nice boys, such a nice family.
You think about how your parents would feel if they ever found out you'd done this, and in the middle of feeling ashamed you get a strange flash of something else, something that feels like you'd like them to find out. See? It's saying. Look what Joseph and I are doing, in a hotel room somewhere on the road.
It's all quicker than you thought something like that would be, quicker and sweatier. Almost like wrestling, staring into Joe's face and biting your lip and trying to show him up. And then Joe's rolling off you but leaving his arm slung around you, friendly. He falls back asleep, but you don't, not for awhile. You're sticky and hot and even with Joe's arm around you, you're alone.
The next day you feel different, like something's taken root in your body somehow. Like your skin's not the same, like your limbs aren't quite yours anymore, and when your parents look at you you wonder if they can see the difference, how you've got something darker inside you. But no one notices. Unless you call the way Joe sometimes looks at you noticing.
**
You don't do anything like that again for months, but then there's another bad day, where you miss sound check and Frankie spills milk all over both himself and your dad when you were all already almost out of laundry, and then Dad's in a mood and Frankie's crying, and Kevin breaks three strings in a row, and a half hour before you're supposed to go on, Joe pulls you into the bathroom of the club and locks the door behind you.
"Nick," he says, and then his whole body's flush against you, thighs and dick and stomach and chest, and you groan as he presses you into the wall. Now you're almost the same height, same build, same bodies. Brothers, a matching pair.
You shouldn't do this, you shouldn't, and you take a deep breath to tell him you can't, but then Joe's muttering, "Don't you hate all this?"
You're surprised. No, you say. We love this. Remember?
"Right," Joe says, quiet, and you can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, but then he's unzipping your fly and you forget what you were talking about. That's the first time he goes down on you, the cement floor of the bathroom leaving wet dirty spots on his knees by the time he finishes. Good thing that was at the stage of touring where you were all wearing ripped skater jeans instead of white skinny ones. By the time you're wearing white skinny jeans you've learned to be more careful.
**
You keep expecting things to slow down, but they never do. You trade in the van for a bus with bunks and the days blur together, slipping by. You sleep on the bus, you wake up early, you give an interview, you sign autographs for blushing little girls, you give another interview, more autographs, thanks for coming out, you go to sound check, more guitar on the monitor please, you play a show, you climb back on the bus, you fall asleep again. Sometimes you wake up at three in the morning and lie awake listening to the wheels spin along the empty highway, think about how lucky you are, how lucky you're all always saying you are.
In the morning your mom wakes you, after you've slept about half as much as enough. Radio interview this morning, she says. You want breakfast?
You look at her blearily, your head fuzzy, your legs still sore from jumping up on amps the night before. You don't feel hungry but you know you better eat -- when you don't eat bad things happen.
Your mom holds out an apple, shiny and polished red. You think you can see yourself palely reflected in it, dark circles under your eyes.
**
Three brothers, three rings, cold on your three left hands. The rings make you different, your mom said when she gave them to you. Not like everybody else. You never take them off, even when you should. Even when your brother's hand is on your dick, the ring grazing you as he moves. At least it's true you're different, you'll give Mom that.
Before the shows you all make yourselves into a ring, holding hands, and your dad prays. When you were little and you prayed before meals, you thought only the food inside the circle of your hands would be blessed. Then Joe used to make faces at you when you were supposed to have your eyes closed. Now your dad holds your right hand tight and your mom holds your left hand tight, and there's nothing in the middle of the circle at all. Across from you Joe would probably be making faces again, except there's a camera watching, so his eyes are closed and his face is still. There's almost always a camera on you now, even when you pray.
**
You're making crazy amounts of money, insane amounts, but on the nights you stay in a hotel you and Joe still share a room. Sometimes you think your parents will ask about it, wonder why, but no one ever does, and after awhile you stop waiting for them to notice. It's a secret, your and Joe's secret, just like all the family secrets no one talks about, and sometimes you wonder if you like being on stage so much because that's when there's so many eyes on you, because that's the only time you can't hide anything.
You're too famous to go to church anymore. God understands, your dad says, and you just have family church on Sunday mornings, where your dad reads the Bible and you sing some praise songs. At least, you have family church when your dad remembers, when you don't have an interview or a show or a TV spot to shoot. At family church, you do the harmonies on the songs, though, so it kind of just feels like being on stage, like what you do every day. You and Kevin and Joe, singing together. It's just that at family church God's the audience instead of a horde of screaming ten-year-old girls, and sometimes it feels like a smaller difference than it should. God and the fans -- they've both given you so much. You have to keep singing for them, and there's Dad at the side, pretending he's singing to God too, but with that look on his face like he's wondering if you're a little flat on the high notes.
Offer your bodies as living sacrifices, Dad reads one Sunday. For a second the image flashes into your mind of you, splayed out on an altar, and then for some reason you remember Sunday school stories about Abraham and Isaac, the one where Isaac almost gets sacrificed. You see it like you learned it in Sunday school, laid out on flannel board, Isaac tied up and helpless with that comforting blue flannel background, his father with the knife. But God saved Isaac at the end, and anyway, that's not what living sacrifices is about -- you don't know why you're thinking about that story. Living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God. That's about your body not belonging to you -- which yours doesn't. It's just that your body is supposed to belong to God, not your older brother.
You glance over at Joe, but he's looking at nothing, like he's not even listening. You wonder if he ever feels guilty, but that's the kind of thing you never talk about.
You sing another song to close, and then you have two hours of free time before you have to get on the road. Kevin goes down to the hotel pool. You and Joe make it through a twitchy hour of doing anything but what you really want to do, before Joe finally gives in and bends you over the bed you're sharing.
**
You're fifteen years old and selling out arenas. Your dad says he always knew you had it in you, but don't get cocky. You can always do better -- you've got the fans and the cover of Rolling Stone, but now you've got to get the credibility, the respect. You practice harder than ever.
On stage the lights are so bright you can't really see the fans anymore -- just the first row or two if you squint, the lights hot on your face. It's probably just as well -- it's always weird to look out and see girls screaming like they're in pain just because your brother's making that face he makes when he's having sex. That face you shouldn't know is the same face.
Now when you're on stage it's like the stage itself is this isolated world, this bright world of just you and your brothers and the band, cut off from everything, safe and contained.
Joe jumps up on an amp, so he's up above you, between you and a light so you can't make out his features at all, so his body's just a haloed outline. He stretches out his arms so his body makes a T, a cross, and the screams get louder.
From where you're standing with your guitar, for a second the light glares in your eyes and Joe's arms look almost like wings, the brightness haloing like white feathers, spread out like he's going to take flight, fly away from all this. For a second you think of open sky, the world spread out far below you, just you and Joe, looking down on the arena as you leave it behind.
But then Joe jumps off the amp and he just looks like Joe again, playing the rockstar, and when you finish the set, backstage your parents are waiting for you. Your dad tells you to watch your breathing on "Tonight," and back at the hotel you lock the door behind you and suck your brother's dick, and another day goes by.
**
END
Title: The Brothers Who Were Turned Into Birds
Fandom: Jonas Brothers RPF
Rating: R
Pairing: Joe Jonas/Nick Jonas
Length: 3500 words
Disclaimer: This is super fictional and no libel is intended -- I do not believe their family is actually like this.
WARNINGS: Underaged incest. UNDERAGED INCEST, DUDES.
Summary: "I'll always protect you," Joe whispers, more to himself than you. It's not the first time he's said it. You're six years old and it never occurs to you to ask him from what.
AN: Thanks to kyrafic for betaing a hard copy of this on a plane on the way to Obama's inauguration. It was nice of you to be bored enough to do that. <3
**
You're the third son, the youngest, the baby, and your daddy's a preacher. You sit in church and color while he preaches on idolatry, Baal and Asherah and Moloch, the high places, the altars. The Canaanites who even made their children pass through the fire, even sacrificed their children. Your daddy says you aren't supposed to sacrifice children. You color quietly and after the sermon you're the special music for communion. You sing a solo, your voice high and sweet and strong. Though the darkness hide thee, you sing.
There's a hush, a breathless silence when you finish, which you know means you were good. Then someone says, Amen, which is what you say in church instead of clapping. There are a lot of amens and you go back to sit in the front row with your brothers to wait for the benediction. Joseph puts his arm around you.
"Good song, Nicky," he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. You smile and nestle further under his arm. Joe leans his head on yours. "I'll always protect you," he whispers, more to himself than you. It's not the first time he's said it. You're six years old and it never occurs to you to ask him from what.
**
You sing and dance on Broadway until your shoes get worn down in strange places. Your mom points it out to you one night when you get home late after a show, after your brothers are in bed, how strangely your shoes are worn.
Maybe it's just from girls tackling me on the playground, you say. Your mom laughs, but it's not funny. They hold you down until you sing for them, sing the songs your dad taught you after school. At home you sing those notes over and over, over and over till you get them right. Your dad likes things to be right.
You write a song, and then another song. Outside, Joseph learns to ride a skateboard.
**
For awhile you sing alone, but it's when you sing with your brothers that things start to happen. Kevin and Joe flank you, standing a little behind, harmonizing the way your dad taught you, and the man from the label looks at you with his sharp, shrewd eyes. Afterward Kevin has to learn guitar -- your dad teaches him. With two brothers on either side of you, you feel safe on stage, like you can do anything and nothing can hurt you.
"One for all and all for one," Joe says and you bump knuckles, the three of you, meaning it.
**
There's a story where the king's sons get turned into swans, and only their sister can rescue them. You don't have a sister. Mandy and Maya and Miley and Demi -- none of them are really your sisters, no matter how many times you say they're just like that, no matter how many blondes with microphones you lie to. Frankie was born a boy. Brothers can't save each other, not in the stories -- they're swans too.
**
You're in the house in New Jersey, up in your room playing guitar. Somewhere far away you can hear raised voices that make your stomach hurt, but you try to ignore them. The guitar almost drowns it out. You have to get this song exactly right -- some of the riffs are tricky and you play them over and over, strings digging into your calloused fingertips. It doesn't work if the riffs aren't right, and it doesn't count if you don't play it perfectly. It has to be perfect.
Joe comes into the room without knocking and shuts the door behind him too carefully, so it closes with only the softest snick. He flops down onto the bed, so close he's lying on top of your legs. "Dad's in a mood," he says. That's code for, don't go downstairs if you can help it.
You mmm something and change chords. You know Dad's in a mood -- you can hear it. Joe doesn't have to pretend like he needs to tell you if he just wants to hide out in here.
"You and me, right, Nicky?" Joe says, his voice so quiet it's almost a whisper. For a second, with the yelling downstairs muffled and far away, you feel like the two of you are floating together far away from the rest of the world, high up here in your room. Like an escape pod from a space ship that just holds two.
You smile at him and keep playing guitar as you feel the breath go out of him in a sigh. You play the riff quick, follow it by the chords of the chorus. D#, then F, then G. You time them so the rhythm matches Joe's breathing, like your two bodies are just one, like you can't tell where you leave off and he begins. Joe closes his eyes.
**
You turn thirteen. You meet a famous girl, fall in love, like all of a sudden you're half grown, not a kid anymore. It's okay -- you never felt much like a kid when you were one. Two months after your birthday you spend a week in the hospital, worrying you're going to die, and come out with a pod in your back and strips to test your blood, and then you don't feel like a kid at all.
On tour, at night you and Joe and Kevin share one hotel room, Mom and Dad and Frankie in another. Kevin always claims seniority gives him the bed to himself, and you and Joe don't really argue even though it's a stupid reason. It's okay, even though Joe snores and he says you kick.
You have a bad show, so everyone's in a bad mood. You sang out of tune, and when you come off stage Dad tells you what parts you need to practice for next time even though you already know. You get touchy and then he gets touchy, and Mom doesn't like your tone, and Kevin and Frankie have disappeared somewhere. Joe's sitting off to the side, silent moral support even though you know it must be taking all his energy not to get lost, must be going against all his instincts. Fight-or-flight -- in your family, it's always smarter to go with flight, and Joe hates fighting more than anybody, always tries to joke everyone out of it.
You sit in the back of the van on the way to the hotel, Joe beside you messing around to try and make you laugh, but you don't want to be cheered up. Eventually he quiets down and lets you sulk, watch out the window as the streetlights flicker by. At the hotel you toss your stuff down without saying too much, and all get ready for bed in cranky silence. You're exhausted anyway.
When you come out of the bathroom, Joe's standing outside waiting for you. "Stealth hug!" he says, and grabs you. Behind him, Kevin's got the TV on and turned down low, what sounds like a Simpsons rerun.
Stop, you say, trying to shake Joe off. It's annoying, and you don't want to be hugged, but Joe won't let go, holding onto you tight, and finally you figure it'll be faster just to hug him already so he'll get off. So you stop struggling and hug him back, and Joe's arms fit around you just right. You're getting almost as tall as he is now. You can fit your chin over his shoulder, and he hugs you really close, and for a second, his body warm and strong around you, you almost want to cry. You finally relax into it, lean into him and sigh, and Joe rubs your back and you hug for a long time.
I'm tired, Joe, you say, just meaning in general, always. The whole grind of touring, never being in your own bed. The only time you don't feel tired is when you're on stage.
"Yeah," Joe says, misunderstanding and pulling back. "Let's go to bed."
That night, you wake up at 3 am because Joe's pushing you off him and back onto your side of the bed. It's pitch black out and Kevin's breathing deep and even, sleeping so heavy it's like he's been drugged or something. He's always been a good sleeper. "Get off," Joe mutters, his hands hot on your bare chest. You groan, still drowsy. Even though you're back on your side of the bed, Joe doesn't take his hands off you. Instead he rolls on top of you. "See how you like it," he says. "Stay on your side."
You squirm underneath him, and Joe goes all limp on purpose, heavy on top of you. Stop it, you tell him. I want to go back to sleep. You're confused, not quite sure where you are. A hotel, you know. You can't remember what state you're in, but maybe you never knew in the first place. Somewhere in the middle, probably, Nebraska or Iowa.
Something in Joe's face has changed a little bit, his eyes opening wider, looking at you all intense. He keeps pressing you down. "Shh," he says, moving around, fumbling. "Hold still. I, um, want to try something."
Then he's touching you, his hand snaking down between your bodies and touching you in places where nobody's supposed to touch you. For a second you feel a hot burst of shame, get panicked with the kind of panic that's like when you go snorkeling and put your face in the water for the first time and can't remember how you're supposed to breathe, when you keep breathing in with your nose by accident. Like you're going to smother, and you want to thrash your limbs until you're okay again, but Joe's touching you and keeps touching you and your body likes it. And after that first moment of panic subsides, you slip into it, let yourself start to careen apart, stop trying to hold onto control. The burn of surprised shame shifts into something dark and sick and desperate and wanting in the pit of your stomach and you're letting him touch you, you're moving with him and Kevin is breathing slow and even in the other bed. And it's your brother touching you, that's wrong, that's messed up, and for a second you try to imagine it's Miley touching you like that, but that's wrong too, it's all wrong. You're not supposed to be doing this with anybody. You're supposed to be setting a good example, good, always good. Perfect, such nice boys, such a nice family.
You think about how your parents would feel if they ever found out you'd done this, and in the middle of feeling ashamed you get a strange flash of something else, something that feels like you'd like them to find out. See? It's saying. Look what Joseph and I are doing, in a hotel room somewhere on the road.
It's all quicker than you thought something like that would be, quicker and sweatier. Almost like wrestling, staring into Joe's face and biting your lip and trying to show him up. And then Joe's rolling off you but leaving his arm slung around you, friendly. He falls back asleep, but you don't, not for awhile. You're sticky and hot and even with Joe's arm around you, you're alone.
The next day you feel different, like something's taken root in your body somehow. Like your skin's not the same, like your limbs aren't quite yours anymore, and when your parents look at you you wonder if they can see the difference, how you've got something darker inside you. But no one notices. Unless you call the way Joe sometimes looks at you noticing.
**
You don't do anything like that again for months, but then there's another bad day, where you miss sound check and Frankie spills milk all over both himself and your dad when you were all already almost out of laundry, and then Dad's in a mood and Frankie's crying, and Kevin breaks three strings in a row, and a half hour before you're supposed to go on, Joe pulls you into the bathroom of the club and locks the door behind you.
"Nick," he says, and then his whole body's flush against you, thighs and dick and stomach and chest, and you groan as he presses you into the wall. Now you're almost the same height, same build, same bodies. Brothers, a matching pair.
You shouldn't do this, you shouldn't, and you take a deep breath to tell him you can't, but then Joe's muttering, "Don't you hate all this?"
You're surprised. No, you say. We love this. Remember?
"Right," Joe says, quiet, and you can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, but then he's unzipping your fly and you forget what you were talking about. That's the first time he goes down on you, the cement floor of the bathroom leaving wet dirty spots on his knees by the time he finishes. Good thing that was at the stage of touring where you were all wearing ripped skater jeans instead of white skinny ones. By the time you're wearing white skinny jeans you've learned to be more careful.
**
You keep expecting things to slow down, but they never do. You trade in the van for a bus with bunks and the days blur together, slipping by. You sleep on the bus, you wake up early, you give an interview, you sign autographs for blushing little girls, you give another interview, more autographs, thanks for coming out, you go to sound check, more guitar on the monitor please, you play a show, you climb back on the bus, you fall asleep again. Sometimes you wake up at three in the morning and lie awake listening to the wheels spin along the empty highway, think about how lucky you are, how lucky you're all always saying you are.
In the morning your mom wakes you, after you've slept about half as much as enough. Radio interview this morning, she says. You want breakfast?
You look at her blearily, your head fuzzy, your legs still sore from jumping up on amps the night before. You don't feel hungry but you know you better eat -- when you don't eat bad things happen.
Your mom holds out an apple, shiny and polished red. You think you can see yourself palely reflected in it, dark circles under your eyes.
**
Three brothers, three rings, cold on your three left hands. The rings make you different, your mom said when she gave them to you. Not like everybody else. You never take them off, even when you should. Even when your brother's hand is on your dick, the ring grazing you as he moves. At least it's true you're different, you'll give Mom that.
Before the shows you all make yourselves into a ring, holding hands, and your dad prays. When you were little and you prayed before meals, you thought only the food inside the circle of your hands would be blessed. Then Joe used to make faces at you when you were supposed to have your eyes closed. Now your dad holds your right hand tight and your mom holds your left hand tight, and there's nothing in the middle of the circle at all. Across from you Joe would probably be making faces again, except there's a camera watching, so his eyes are closed and his face is still. There's almost always a camera on you now, even when you pray.
**
You're making crazy amounts of money, insane amounts, but on the nights you stay in a hotel you and Joe still share a room. Sometimes you think your parents will ask about it, wonder why, but no one ever does, and after awhile you stop waiting for them to notice. It's a secret, your and Joe's secret, just like all the family secrets no one talks about, and sometimes you wonder if you like being on stage so much because that's when there's so many eyes on you, because that's the only time you can't hide anything.
You're too famous to go to church anymore. God understands, your dad says, and you just have family church on Sunday mornings, where your dad reads the Bible and you sing some praise songs. At least, you have family church when your dad remembers, when you don't have an interview or a show or a TV spot to shoot. At family church, you do the harmonies on the songs, though, so it kind of just feels like being on stage, like what you do every day. You and Kevin and Joe, singing together. It's just that at family church God's the audience instead of a horde of screaming ten-year-old girls, and sometimes it feels like a smaller difference than it should. God and the fans -- they've both given you so much. You have to keep singing for them, and there's Dad at the side, pretending he's singing to God too, but with that look on his face like he's wondering if you're a little flat on the high notes.
Offer your bodies as living sacrifices, Dad reads one Sunday. For a second the image flashes into your mind of you, splayed out on an altar, and then for some reason you remember Sunday school stories about Abraham and Isaac, the one where Isaac almost gets sacrificed. You see it like you learned it in Sunday school, laid out on flannel board, Isaac tied up and helpless with that comforting blue flannel background, his father with the knife. But God saved Isaac at the end, and anyway, that's not what living sacrifices is about -- you don't know why you're thinking about that story. Living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God. That's about your body not belonging to you -- which yours doesn't. It's just that your body is supposed to belong to God, not your older brother.
You glance over at Joe, but he's looking at nothing, like he's not even listening. You wonder if he ever feels guilty, but that's the kind of thing you never talk about.
You sing another song to close, and then you have two hours of free time before you have to get on the road. Kevin goes down to the hotel pool. You and Joe make it through a twitchy hour of doing anything but what you really want to do, before Joe finally gives in and bends you over the bed you're sharing.
**
You're fifteen years old and selling out arenas. Your dad says he always knew you had it in you, but don't get cocky. You can always do better -- you've got the fans and the cover of Rolling Stone, but now you've got to get the credibility, the respect. You practice harder than ever.
On stage the lights are so bright you can't really see the fans anymore -- just the first row or two if you squint, the lights hot on your face. It's probably just as well -- it's always weird to look out and see girls screaming like they're in pain just because your brother's making that face he makes when he's having sex. That face you shouldn't know is the same face.
Now when you're on stage it's like the stage itself is this isolated world, this bright world of just you and your brothers and the band, cut off from everything, safe and contained.
Joe jumps up on an amp, so he's up above you, between you and a light so you can't make out his features at all, so his body's just a haloed outline. He stretches out his arms so his body makes a T, a cross, and the screams get louder.
From where you're standing with your guitar, for a second the light glares in your eyes and Joe's arms look almost like wings, the brightness haloing like white feathers, spread out like he's going to take flight, fly away from all this. For a second you think of open sky, the world spread out far below you, just you and Joe, looking down on the arena as you leave it behind.
But then Joe jumps off the amp and he just looks like Joe again, playing the rockstar, and when you finish the set, backstage your parents are waiting for you. Your dad tells you to watch your breathing on "Tonight," and back at the hotel you lock the door behind you and suck your brother's dick, and another day goes by.
**
END