post for Mistee - move along; nothing to see here.

[itthinghardon]

Kellen and I...

I never met him, before he was fourteen. I was twenty-one when my father first contacted me. I didn't believe him at first, having by then convinced myself that I was either the child of Tom Waits, or the product of one of my mother's bought-and-paid-for trysts. And no random John would bother, after twenty-two years of not knowing his son, to contact him. But he knew too much about Ma, and even about me - you see, through the entire pregnancy, my ma was waffling about whether she wanted Nick around. That's his name, my father. Nick White.

Nick said he'd been fully willing and ready to marry my ma, after having knocked her up. He was in love with her. But ma was only 16, she didn't want to get married. She didn' want to have a kid, either, but she refused the ideas of abortion or even adoption. It wasn't some ill concieved Catholic moral system that made that choice for her, it was simply the thing that pissed her parents off the most. Within the first tri-mester, they - my grandparents - disowned her. She shortly moved in with her sister, who was at the time going through beauty college and renting a tiny one bedroom apartment in a bad Italian area of Boston. But the Italians liked her well enough, and they also enjoyed my mother's barely-there clothing, so they left them alone. Nick would come visit them here, plead for my ma to move in with him instead, to marry him, to let him support her and her unborn child (me.) She continued to decline. I don't know what she thought she was going to do, at 17 with no family to fall back on and a baby.

Nick told me in one of our first conversations that he went to only one sonogram with her. You see, it was a difficult pregnancy, and the doctors were concerned because the baby (me, again,) seemed not to be maturing fast enough. But at this sonogram, things had taken a turn for the better. While still undersized and somewhat underdeveloped, the fetus they displayed on the grainy screen was starting to look like a human. They could determine the sex, and ma wanted to know. Told she was having a boy, it's said she sobbed for weeks on end. I imagine during this time, she had second thoughts about abortion - but it was too late in the pregnancy to go back.

I suppose hormones are to blame for the way she became more and more indecisive as time wore on. Some nights, she would stay at my aunt Lillian's house, sleeping in her bed as Lillian had agreed to take the couch while she was expecting. Other nights, she would show up at Nick's tiny apartment, near the bike shop he worked at, practically sobbing with the love she had for him and begging him to forgive her for being so callous. Back and forth it went, right up until January 21, 1983. Nick informed me that she went into labor early that afternoon, around 3 PM. Though she hadn't had the foresight to pack a hospital bag or have a plan, Lillian - no doubt during one of her speed binges - had done both for her. They piled into Lillian's run down Ford Escort, Ma sprawled in the back, and went off to Boston General. Once there, and with my ma settled into a bed for pre-labor contractions, Lillian called Nick. Whether Ma asked her to or not, I never did know.

Needless to say, Nick rushed to the hospital in a state of elated panic, and found my ma's room. The labor took hours, and hours. Nick was there through each contraction, according to him, letting her squeeze his hand until it nearly broke, telling her she was strong and beautiful and amazing. I'm sure it was a very touching scene, even if my ma was screaming at him the entire time for being a careless asshole and 'haven't you ever heard of fucking contraception, jackoff?' Sometime around ten PM that night, they accepted that she wasn't going to dialate past six centimeters, and decided on a cesarian section. Loaded up on a spinal drip of morphine and exhausted, they wheeled Lorena Briggs into surgery, Nick by her side in full protective scrubs. He could no longer hold her hand but stayed above the curtain, hiding the spot where they were cutting her up, stroking her hair though she was scarcely aware of it.

At 11.13 PM, I was yanked from my mother's womb, silent and still. Still born, actually. I was a tiny baby, pale enough that my veins were visible blue through my skin. The doctor slapped me on the ass a few times, then, when that didn't work, ordered the nurse to place me in an incubator, stat. I imagine all sorts of tubes were stuck down my throat and other wires attached. This time, it was Nick's turn to sob - his first son, born dead. But somewhere along the line I decided to wake up, promptly before brain damage could set in, and he rejoiced. Ma asked for more morphine.

For five days she stayed in the hospital, I stayed in my incubator, Nick slept in an uncomfortable chair in her room. By the second day, they were allowed to hold me. Nick marvelled at how tiny and perfect I was (according to his story 22 years later,) and Lillian told me that Ma lamented how small and weak I looked. Not only did she have to produce a male, but one that would undoubtedly get picked on in school and grow up to be a pansy.

The last two days of their stay in the maternity ward, I had grown much healthier. Healthy enough to scream loudly enough to shatter wine glasses and ear drums, I'm told. Ma was too weak to breast feed, so she was pumped, and Nick says he gave me most of the bottles - Ma claiming she was too tired, too sore to hold me. The fifth night, Nick went home to ready his apartment for the arrival of the new family member, as they said they'd be releasing Lorena the next day. And they did release her the next day - at 9 AM. She had phoned Nick, told him that she wouldn't be getting out until 11. When he showed up at 11, he was told that we were gone. He went to Lillian's house, and though he could hear that ear-splitting scream I've mentioned, no one answered the door. No one answered the telephone. Notes he left on the door were found crumpled on the sidewalk when he returned again.

Ma had finally made up her mind. She was too proud, too stubborn to let this man have anything to do with the rearing of her child. Not long after I came 'home' for the first time, Lillian found a better apartment, and they moved. Nick somehow aquired the phone number, but not the address, but each time he called he recieved the same cold response from Lillian - 'Lorena doesn't wish to speak to you right now.' Months later, Lillian moved again - to Colorado - and Ma found her own tiny apartment.

My childhood is irrelevant. To put it concisely, I had a whore for a mother, whom I only glanced the rare times she was not yet at work when I got home from school; or the even more rare times that she would stumble in, at 4 AM, shower for an hour and then inexplicably come into my room and curl up in my bed. Sometimes she would talk about her customers from the night, sometimes she would give me valuable life lessons, sometimes she would say nothing at all. The years wore on, and so did Ma. She fell more and more into drugs, 'losing' rent money so often that we typically moved at least once every six months, staying in hotels in the interem. Eventually, she owed too much money to her current pimp, and after raping her, he shot her. I covered the body, packed a few necessities, called 911 and left before the cops could show up. 3 weeks I lived on the streets, before being caught attempting to steal soda from a convenience store. Discovering who I was, the cops promptly passed me on to CPS. I spent three and a half of the worst months of my life in an orphanage, before Lillian (having by then changed her last name to 'Page,' after her idol Betty,) was contacted and finally came to retrieve me.

My teenage years were lived in Colorado, marked with intensive therapy sessions, and as my ma predicted, plenty of school suspensions thanks to getting into 'fights' of which I always came out the worse. I made one close friend during this time, a boy my age named Maddox Reed who was the polar opposite of my weakness. He stood up for me, always ready for a fight, and before long I wasn't getting suspended as much. During these years I also began dealing drugs, in small quanities, which I found I was very good at. Lillian, as well as her girlfriend Rose, never paid me much attention, doing plenty of drugs on their own and not really having any need for an adolescent child. However, they did apparently have need for an infant. When I was seventeen, Rose gave birth to the artificially insemenated Gypsy, and I was ignored more than ever. Thusly, I dropped out of school, and moved back home with no warning. Maddox still has not forgiven me this.

I was lucky enough to find a man to move in with, a very giving older man named Scrap. He took wonderful care of me, and without his encouragement I never would have gotten my GED or enrolled in college. There are many colleges in the greater Boston area, but the one I chose was a small, mostly unknown school of the arts. I began studying the performing arts, theater, but when I was eighteen Scrap presented me with a guitar. He had long known my obsession with music and though I claimed I had no ear for it, he thought I should give it a try, anyway. It was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for me, and that evening I had sex willingly for the first time. Rearranging my college schedule, I began to learn to play the guitar, and found I had quite a knack for it. My major changed to musical theory, though I kept a focus on performing arts, and in time learned not only to play the guitar, but also the bass guitar, piano, drums (a bit,) and the dulcimer. But nobody plays the dulcimer anymore. Scrap was the only one who attended my graduation, and despite his usual emotional vapidity and reservation, there were certainly tears of pride in his eyes.

I had planned to stay in Boston, and to join a band, or perhaps make albums on my own. I did make a few demos, but they did not impress the labels I sent them to enough for me to get a contract, though they told me I should keep trying. Likewise, none of the bands I attempted to join appreciated my broad spectrum of tastes though most admitted I was an 'excellent musician.' Unemployed, with no income except that I got from the drugs I was once again dealing, I felt a burden to Scrap. He insisted that I was not, but guilt has always been a heavy part of my life, so before long, I left. I still feel guilty for the hurt this must have caused him - for I'm certain now, though I couldn't see it then, that he was in love with me - but I am too much of a coward to try to hunt him down and apologize. With no other avenues of employment open to me, I came across an ad for a small private Catholic school on the outskirts of Boston. They were wanting a drama teacher, with some credentials, and were pleased enough by mine - as well as my musical talents - that they hired me. I was twenty at the time, young for a teacher, and my multiple tattoos and bizarre sense of style did not endear me to the brothers that worked there. It did, however, endear me to the students - mostly misbehaving boys who had been sent to St. Ulric's in hopes of being reformed. I had several near-law suits for statutory rape and sexual harassment in my first year or so, but thankfully none of the kids I may have done indecent things with ratted me out, and I was forgiven, allowed to continue teaching there. It was at this time my father contacted me.

Nick was living in New Jersey, with his wife Shanna and two children, Keiran and Kellen White. In the beginning, most of our conversations revolved around me, or else my ma. Nick was saddened to hear of her death, and horrified that I had witnessed it. In time, however, I began to find out more about this man that claimed to be my father. I deduced that his children were loved in the typical suburban, material way, Keiran preparing to go to Brown after high school, and Kellen being a complete brat, acting out and rebelling any way he could. After some months, I consented to a DNA test, which Nick travelled to Boston for. He stayed two nights in a hotel, until the results came back. I am in fact Nick White's son. Not long after this discovery, Nick went through a bitter divorce with his unfaithful wife. She kept most of everything, and they split the children - Keiran preferring to stay with her mother, and Kellen preferring nothing but being shoved into his father's care.

As Kellen's freshman year of high school came to an end, and as his father set up his very own customs shop, his behavior was coming to a head. He was staying out all night, drunk or high every day, and doing very poorly in school. Pulling some strings, I managed to get Kellen into the private school I work for at a discounted tuition. However, Nick did not wish to relocate to Boston, having his shop set up and gaining repute. Therefore, Kellen was sent to live with me, blowing off the few remaining weeks of school. Though awkward at first, we quickly began to take to each other, both laid back and somewhat Devil-May-Care. It's still shocking to me that though our lives growing up were so disseparate - his in a nice suburban neighborhood with seemingly doting parents, though he claims that he was always ignored in favor of Keiran-the-Overachiever; mine in inner city Boston and later Colorado, raising myself, certainly being ignored by any parental figures - that we have turned out so similar. Kellen is, nearly, an exact copy of myself at his age in appearance. He's already an inch taller than I'll ever be, and somewhat stockier, with blue-green eyes instead of blue, but the differences stop there. We've the same pale skin, incredibly similar facial structures, the same long, thin fingers, the same gracefully thin necks, the same piercing gaze, the same messy dark hair. Our tastes, too, are similar, in everything from music to our senses of humor. Kellen was fourteen when he moved into my apartment.

It was in the summer prior to his sophomore year that things took a completely unforeseen turn. Kellen, I knew, felt closer to me than he had ever to any of the rest of his family. It was not only our similarities, but that I treated him as his own person, and accepted him not in spite of his flaws, but because of them. Nick never said as much, but I'm certain he's jealous of the bond I'd formed with his younger son, though I could never claim to be a father figure to him. Though we're close, Kellen has never been open about his emotions, reminding me starkly of Maddox in that respect. Also like Maddox, he never was on the losing end of the fights he picked, never hesitated to pick them, and is known for his brutal honesty and scorching, snide sarcasm. Therefore, I was shocked when one night shortly before term started that he came to me in the middle of the night. He had done this before, usually only to request a cigarette or else Xanax to help him sleep. But this time, he simply hovered in the doorway, sillhouetted by the light from the hall.

I was at least a quarter asleep, but small noises in my direct vicinity have always had the ability to wake me up in a snap since my ma's death. I sat up, peering at him curiously as he stood still in the door, finally querying of him. "What do ya need, kid?"

Kellen didn't answer immediately. He swayed side to side, seeming more sensual than nervous, but he rarely displayed uncertain actions such as these. Finally he responded in a flat voice that was becoming more like my own all the time. "Can't sleep."

"C'mere then," I offered. Kellen has never been the I-had-a-nightmare I-need-a-glass-of-water Can-I-sleep-in-here-tonight type, but I carelessly accepted this change of events, scooting over on the large matress on the floor to make room for him, though both of us scarcely take up enough room to fill even half of the space. Kellen loped over with his usual lazy, cocky swagger absent, collapsing onto the bed in his striped blue boxers and worming his way closer to me. I lifted a hand to turn on the lamp near my bed, but the second the room was illuminated, Kellen squinted and spoke again.

"Keep it off." It wasn't a request, it was a command. Kellen's very used to people obeying him when he uses that tone, and although I typically blow it off, this time I did obey. I lit a cigarette and passed it to him before lighting my own, replacing the green glass ashtray on my bare stomach for easy access.

"So what's up?," I inquired after a long stretch of silence, getting another long stretch of silence in return. Then Kellen broke it, his voice unlike himself, quiet and hesitant but still blunt as ever.

"Think I'm gay," he responded, punctuating the statement with a long draw from his cigarette.

Not knowing what response he expected from me, I tried for humor. "Yeh? Me, too." I had known this since I was 10, if not earlier, and Kellen was well aware of it, too, so this wasn't news. He didn't laugh like I'd hoped he would, only trying to blow smoke rings through the dim yellow streetlights sneaking through my blinds, towards the ceiling. I expected him to perhaps ask the usual questions young boys will when doubting their sexuality, but he didn't. He became verbose all of a sudden, though his voice remained that low timbre, almost a whisper, very intimate.

"I made out with a couple guys before, at parties," he began. No pause this time as he continued. "I like it. I like it better. They don' got all that waxy flavored shit on their lips, they taste like whatever they've been doin. Beer or cigarettes or food or whatever. An' they feel better, too, all lean and hard instead of curvy and squishy. And it's like, a fight, to decide who's in control. With chicks, y'know, I always know that I'm in control. They're jus gunna sit there with their mouths open while I kiss em, or lay on their backs while I fuck em, they let me make the plans and decide what we're doing and they let me make the first move, all the time. But with dudes...it's like anything goes."

Waiting a moment to be sure his monologue was finished, I nodded to indicate that I understood - though I had no comparison, since I'd never been with a woman at all. "I can see how that'd be...more enjoyable, fer someone like you." Kellen liked a fight, he liked conflict, he liked earning his dominance instead of having it handed to him.

"I gave this guy head, last night," he stated blankly again. "Well, I mean, he gave me head too, like at the same time? Sixty-nine er whatever. I thought it'd be gross but it really wasn't that bad, 'cept the taste. But what he did...it felt lots better than when girls do it."

"Why's that?," I asked, again not having any idea what a girl may do when giving head that would be different from a boy. A mouth is a mouth, after all.

Kellen fidgetted, an unprecedented event, twisting his fingers in the bright pink sheets he lay on. Cigarette dangling from his small mouth, he went on. "Jus, I guess, cuz he knew what he was doin, y'know? He knew what would feel really good and what wouldn' matter. And he wasn't scared, either, like chicks get scared sometimes. They don' wanna touch your balls cuz they think it's gross, and they don't wanna try to go all the way down cuz they're afraid of choking and making that noise and seeming unattractive, and they jus'...aren't enthusiastic."

"Enthusiasm is important," I agreed, for I was quite knowledgable on the subject of sucking dick. It was Scrap who'd given me the nickname 'Leech,' and it was, according to anyone else I'd sucked off, quite accurate.

Kellen nodded his agreement into the dark, too, and fell silent for a little while longer. Eventually, he reached over to grind his cigarette out on the ashtray on my stomach, before turning to face me. "But I can't have sex with a dude."

Putting my cigarette out as well, and replacing the ashtray on the side table, I glanced out of the corner of my eyes at my half-brother. "How come?"

"Well, I wanna...I wanna get fucked. I mean, I don' wanna be on top, I wanna know what it feels like from the other end," he explained, and if it were light enough, I was convinced I would be able to see a blush on his cheeks. His voice was lower than ever. "But, y'know, I can't jus...give up control like that. I don't trust people enough for it. And I...um...doesn't it hurt?"

So there, finally, was one of the naive questions I'd expected. Stretching my legs out, I too turned to the side to face Kellen, giving a half-shrug, half-nod. "The first time it will, guaranteed. Unless it's some guy with a tiny dick. But there are ways to make it easier."

"Like what?," Kellen pounced on my words, sounding more like his eager, curious and demanding self. I nearly laughed.

"First off, there's lube," I said, though he probably knew this already. "Pretty much if ya don' use it, any time you get fucked will hurt like a bitch. But jus' a little of it, makes a world of difference." Kellen nodded to say he was following, those blue-green eyes, colorless in the near dark, locked on mine intently like one of my more apt pupils. "And then...well, stretching. You gotta get those muscles used to the intrusion before you just go shoving something that big in there."

"'Stretching,'" he repeated. "What does that mean? Like, dildos or somethin?"

Another shrug, and I replied. "That's a big first step. I'd go with using fingers first. Jus one, then two, scissor em to kinda stretch stuff out, then three..."

Kellen interrupted me. "You mean someone's gotta put their fingers up my ass?"

Out of the mouths of babes. I did laugh, this time. "Yeh. That's why it's a good idea to keep that shit clean. Enemas or whatever, even jus fingering yourself when you're showering."

At that moment, I reflected that it was probably an odd discussion to be having with one's younger brother. But at times, I still had trouble processing the fact that Kellen was my brother, or that I had a family at all. It was a first for me, not technically, but essentially. I may have wondered about my father when I was younger, but siblings were something I had never considered. Kellen was glowering at my laugh, and I figured he'd probably hit me, but he didn't.

"So can you...do that yerself? Does it feel good?"

"Yeh, you can do it yourself. 's a little awkward, but..." I paused, snagging his hand from where it rested on the blankets. Uncurling his long fingers, I pressed my own palm flat against his to gauge the difference in length. There was virtually none. "With yer fingers I don' think you'd have any problem findin' what yer aiming for."

"Prostate," he stated knowledgably, and I nodded once more, before he went on. "But how do I find that?"

"I could draw ya a diagram, but it's easier just to sorta...poke around. You'll know when ya find it."

"How will I know?," Kellen demanded, letting his fingers wind their way between mine, our joined hands falling to the sheets once more. I was used to these sorts of random expressions of affection by then.

I gave the boy a crooked half-grin, not even realizing at the time that it was the same sly, coy expression I gave some of my students before bending them over my desk for some extra credit work. "Oh, trust me. You'll know."

There was a beat. Kellen glanced at our linked hands. Then up at my face. His eyes resembled mine more than ever before, for they had the same wide, innocent, and beseeching expression I've never been able to rid myself of. His small pink tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, before he spoke once again in that low voice, though it was not so much nervous like before, but something else. Something deep, something emotional, something very weighted. "I do trust you."

I opened my mouth to respond. Snapped it shut. 'But, y'know, I can't jus...give up control like that. I don't trust people enough for it.' Oh. Oh my. As I, dumbfounded, tried to put another meaning to the four heavy words, Kellen released my hand. He wended closer, he slipped that hand over my bare hip instead, coming to rest just above my tailbone. His thumb lightly caressed the small of my back, tiny circles, his eyes still locked on mine and showing more than either of us usually did. Finally, he tilted his head to the side, one strand of overgrown black hair falling from his forehead to obscure one of those bright cyanide eyes as he questioned, quiet and weighted as before. "Can I?"

All I had to do was nod. One simple movement of my head, and this gorgeous, lithe little creature - my brother - would be kissing me. A tiny twich of the head and his mouth would be on mine and I could be discovering even more ways we were similar, the taste of his mouth compared to mine, the set of his teeth.

I inhaled deeply. I nodded.

Kellen has never known the meaning of the word 'hesitate.' Before I was even done with the movement, his mouth was on mine, already open. And then his tongue was there, prying mine open as well, delving into it near desperately. The muscle scanned over the roof of my mouth, the ridges of my teeth, then tangled itself with mine. I finally had sense to respond, sliding my tongue from under his and trying to ease the pressure, the intensity of the kiss, but Kellen wouldn't allow for it. Next time I'd instruct him in the art and joy of subtlety.

Probably I shouldn't be considering 'next time.'

He forged on more forcefully than ever, enough that I found myself on my back with his near identical form looming over mine. His hand on my hip, curled until his nails dug in, his left leg pressing between both of mine and I had an epiphany. He'd been planning this, wanting it for a while. He had wanted me for a while. How long? Since we'd met? Since he moved in? Were those boys, the ones he made out with, gave head to, replacements? Or was everyone Kellen seduced treated to this overwhelmingly mind-fucking affection? I couldn't think for feeling.

As Kellen tilted his head to the side, repositioning the angle of the kiss, I became of aware how perfectly our mouths fit against each other. The same thin lips, narrow jaws, practically the same mobile tongue. And I imagined that mouth on me, imagined being capable of feeling what everyone I'd ever given head to felt, because Kellen was surely capable of all my tricks just as well as I did them. I imagined other ways we might fit perfectly together, imagined being plastered against his narrow back with sweat, our hips precisely aligned at the same width, I imagined our hands locked together against the bed, as they'd been moments earlier, and imagined him calling my name, screaming it until he was hoarse. I must have made a noise, at this thought, for Kellen echoed it with a low, rolling moan, suddenly rubbing himself against my thigh harshly so I could feel just how much he did want this.

As if brought back to reality by a slap to the head, I wrenched mine to the side, breaking contact with the younger mouth. I was near panting, but so was Kellen. His forehead pressed against my neck, wild hair tickling my jawline, and I had no choice but to twine a large chunk of it between my fingers, holding the boy there, holding my brother as close as possible. Rolling my head back farther on the pillow, I squeezed my eyes closed, taking great gulps of air and pleading to a God I never believed in for strength. Any strength I may have had broke when Kellen's voice, somehow childish and naive, brushed over my collarbone.

"Show me?"

No command this time, a plea. I knew what he meant. I swallowed hard, twisted his hair harder between my fingers and grasped at his back with my free hand. I didn't ever want him away, not again, but I knew I should never have let him this close.

"Nick...would kill me," I stated, a weak defense.

Kellen's head lifted. His lips curved into a grin, a crooked half-grin, sly and coy and coquettish as all hell. He licked my cheek, then whispered breathlessly against my ear. "Nick doesn' gotta know, Leech."



The thick, half-drunk sounding voice of Billie Holiday is lulling Leech into a groggy, unreal state that is no good for his work. It's well past midnight, but he has a stack of chord charts that must be checked over and corrected before tomorrow. If he learned from his mistakes, he would have graded them long before; Leech is the sort who always repeats history instead of learning from it, though.

Popping his head from one side to the other, he stretches thin arms above his head, trying to shake off Lady Day's spell on his mind and wake up. It doesn't work quite as well as he'd hoped, so he slides out of his chair, tugging on the hem of his lacy, femme boyshorts as he ambles out into the kitchen, unwittingly finding himself following his brother. Though Kellen doesn't turn to see him, he seems to sense Leech behind him as he opens the fridge.

"Yer up late," the boy notes astutely, and Leech nods.

"Grading." He watches Kellen fish a beer out of the crisper drawer, sidling past him to reach for an Amp. The soft skin of the younger boy's side brushes his arm, raises goosebumps where the hairs should be. "You?"

"Porn," Kellen answers simply, cracking the beer open on the edge of the countertop and tilting his head back, exposing the clean, pale line of his throat, Adams apple moving languorously as he gulps down a good quarter of the Guinness.

Summertime croons in the background, reminding Leech that the living is easy, and the swallow of Kellen's throat, the wipe of the back of his hand across his mouth as he lowers the beer spins a spell to rival Billie's. Casual as possible, Leech leans back against the counter and flips the lid on his soda, taking a long drink himself in an attempt to wake up, snap out of it, as his brother crawls onto a barstool at the high table, straddling it backwards. Eyes glinting green as emeralds; trustworthy as a snake with an apple. They lower, taking in the ribbed black shirt hugging Leech's tiny form, the panties he insists on wearing. "Nice pants."

Leech lifts a thin eyebrow, innocent surprise. He hadn't touched Kellen since before Mark. Before Jake. He wasn't sure he was allowed, anymore. His gaze drops, taking in Kellen's undone black Dickies, come stain just to the left of the zipper. Mouth crooks into a comma of amusement. "You, too." He pushes off the counter, heading back for his office.

But no. Of course not, things are never that easy. Not with his little brother.

At the last possible second, strong but slender fingers catch his wrist, a little too harshly, but not hard enough to recall the bruises Mark's fatter fingers had left. Pointedly coy, Leech looks back over his shoulder, meeting those hypnotizing green eyes, under lowered lids, thick lashes. His own a pale but sharp blue, wide, wondering. Kellen pulls him back, finds his mouth like coming home. His tongue slides past the matching lips and the sound of the can of soda hitting the floor, fizzing over the hardwood, goes unnoticed.

Somehow, without realizing it, Leech is in his lap. Against the stiff back of the barstool, against the familiar smooth surface of his brother's chest. Kellen was never as sharp as him, all angles and flat planes. He was soft, giving, in contrast to his harsh personality. His mouth is still locked to Leech's, taking demandingly, possessive. Reminding him who he belongs to. That other man, with the heavy hands and the gunshot wound in his thigh, he doesn't exist anymore. All there is, is this. Kellen's impossibly soft skin and hard teeth and serpentine tongue, everywhere at once. Leech's hands grasp pointlessly; shoulders, ribs, hips, neck.

Kellen gives a growl that sends a shiver up Leech's spine, fierce enough to make him pull away from the kiss, but Kellen continues without stopping. That practiced mouth moving down his neck, fingers now playing at the lace covering the uppermost part of his thighs. Leech's arms finally encircle his little brother's neck, back bowing towards the all too similar form. They move like snakes, like waves, each undulating and coiling depending on the movement of the other, like a symphony, never ceasing, crescendoing and tapering off though nothing more indecent occurs that Kellen's thumb grazing the growing hardness under Leech's lace. Teeth scrape collarbone, and a shudder leaves his lips.

"Oh, god, Kellen..."

Kellen doesn't respond, but something in him finally breaks and he sinks his teeth into that thin, alabaster throat and draws a rough cry from it. Recalling easily how sensitive the area is, a hand lifts to play at choking, never really restricting airflow, but doing enough to make those moans come more often. He inches forward on the seat, pulling Leech's lean hips closer to his own, his cock, nearly exposed through the undone fly of his pants, rubbing firmly against the crease of Leech's ass. Enough to make him cry out again, louder. Surely they'll wake the kid, but Kellen could care less. Leech doesn't even consider it. He just keeps tight hold, swaying with Kellen's ministrations, following his lead.

Fingernails scraping down his thighs, tearing lace away, not all the way off, just enough. Cool liquid between his thighs, Kellen for once putting his liquor to better use than getting inebriated. It's rough, but Leech has had plenty of rough lately, and this is better. Kellen fits him like lock and key, pulls him down close in one swift movement then cradles the slighter form against his chest, giving him time to get used to the intrusion. Leech whimpers against his inked skin, mouth brushing over it distractedly, fingers still locked together behind his neck. After a moment, he straightens, causing a hiss to move through Kellen's teeth before suddenly they're moving again, dancers at Carnival, ceaseless movement, hips twisting separate from each other, everything fading except the movement. Though Kellen's voice has not, may never, lower to the rough timbre of Leech's, their cries are similar, reverberating off the ceiling, louder all the time, forgetting neighbors and certainly little boys upstairs; little boys downstairs, watching from the arched entrance to the kitchen with slack mouths.

Leech comes first, surprising himself, back arching impossibly as his head cranes with the curve of his neck. Kellen curls with him, leaning forward over him and twisting his head to the side, snapping teeth around the column of his throat and sucking on it, leaving a perfectly circular bruise in the center of his neck. Leech's normal screams are muted, mouth open but no sound coming out, nails digging into Kellen's back as waves of perfection and elation course through him, over him, ebbing and throbbing smoothly like the jazz music in the other room. Kellen doesn't follow too far behind, mouth breaking away from the soft, bruised skin to exhale a stream of expletives against it as his hips twist and twitch under Leech's. He stays curled over him, almost protective, twining his neck around Leech's and pressing their cheeks together. Leech whispers awed words in German, maybe Dutch, nothing Kellen understands but he knows, anyway, he nods, he continues murmuring his bad English in return.

Chair seat soaked with stout and semen, Leech continues clinging to Kellen for a few more moments. Kellen never cuddled, but he allowed these few moments. He'd missed having Leech this vulnerable, missed having Leech at all. The thought of Mark's hands on his brother made him at once too nauseous to think and too enraged to speak; it was probably smart that Leech had revealed those wounds to the kid rather than him. Kellen may have just killed Leech for his stupidity. But now he was here, safe and relatively whole and still his, so Kellen holds on, just for a moment, before he leans away. The parallel of their bodies finally broken, Leech remains curved over the low chair back as Kellen straightens, regains his Guinness and takes another long swallow. Leech watches his throat again, raising a hand this time to draw a finger down along the side of it. Kellen watches him with that eternally suggestive look, eyes swirling more back to their blue now that he's sated, before setting down his beer. He gently moves Leech off of him, situating him side-saddle instead and fixing his underwear for him as Leech collapses, tiny shoulder against his chest. He doesn't want to move from this spot, not ever.

But Kellen whispers in his ear, low and teasing like a dirty suggestion, "Grading."

Leech groans, dropping his head some in a half-nod, murmuring in contrast to his secret, foreign whispers moments ago. "I hate you."

"I know you do," Kellen replies fondly, shuttling Leech off his lap, waving at the boy in the hall. "Hey, Jake. Beer?"