2 comments/ 15668 views/ 1 favorites When You're Gone... By: big_brown_blowjob_eyes I close the door, another evening over. It gets harder every time he has to leave. We both know it has to be this way, and least for now, but the temptation is getting harder to resist; impossible to deny. I lean against the wall opposite the door of my flat and close my eyes, sighing. The alcohol has made my head slightly fuzzy but I'm sober enough to know that the desire I'm feeling is real. How can he get me so worked up with a few kisses? God knows even a look is all it takes when I'm with him. Even now, as I hear him walk down the stairs outside my front door and leave the building, my knickers are damp. If there was anyway, I'd call him back and let him have me, right here and now. If only... The thought of him fucking me against the wall only makes me even hotter for him. I know I'll never be able to sleep like this. After turning out the lights I walk into my bedroom and shut the door. I undress slowly, teasing myself as I go. Running my hands over my soft curves as I lift my top over my head, squeezing by breasts hidden away in my bra. Stroking my smooth thighs as I slide my jeans down and step out of them. My hands glide over my soft skin and I work my bra straps over my shoulders before reaching behind me to undo the fastening. Allowing my white see through DD bra to fall to the floor I run my hands over my breasts, squeezing firmly as my thumbs roll over each nipple, making them swell. I long for his touch, his hands where mine are now, and closing my eyes I let my mind wander and imagine he's there with me now. My head tilted back slightly I stand, pinching and rolling my pink nipples as I think of his hands doing the same, his lips raining kisses all down my neck and over my shoulders. I shiver thinking about his body pressed against mine, pushing me towards the bed... I make myself comfy on the bed, letting my hands wander down my stomach and over my thighs, just brushing the damp white fabric covering my soaked pussy. Oh how I wish it was his fingers sliding under the elastic to stroke my smooth shaved lips. Hooking my thumbs under the waistband I pull my knickers down my thighs and of over my feet, legs in the air, laid on my back. I can smell him on my skin, where his hands were, his lips... Dreaming of his tongue on my skin my fingers slide between my wet folds of skin, dipping slightly inside, getting my finger wet before I slide it slowly upwards towards my throbbing clit. I work my finger in slow circles over my clit, wishing so badly that it was his tongue there instead. My left hand slides over my breast and squeezes slightly before raising it to my face so I can lick my nipple softly, where his mouth was only minutes before. Sending thrills through my body, I think of his teeth gently nipping as he sucks on me. I've got my knees pulled up high, thighs spread, craving him between them. My fingers are working harder now, faster, my hips rocking back and forth as though he were inside me, fucking me at last. Rubbing my clit over and over, pinching my nipples hard, but it's not enough, I long for him inside me. Letting go of my tit I reach just under the bed and find what I am looking for. My left hand slowly works my favourite toy up and down my slit, getting it wet before pushing it slowly inside me. In my mind he is entering me, stretching me open with his cock. I ease it in and out a few times gently before shoving it in as hard as I can, my other hand pinching, rolling, stroking my clit all the time. I fuck myself hard and fast with it while tormenting my swollen pink clit, so close now. Eyes closed, breathing shallow, imagining he is with me now as my climax rushes through me; feeling my pussy gripping the vibe hard, I'm wishing it's his cock, moaning his name as I cum, and cum and cum. A few moments later, as I catch my breath, I pull the covers around me and settle into my pillows, knowing I'm going to dream of him tonight. When You're Gone Away "When You're Gone Away" The first installment of the The Brothercest Series, by Justin Tyler. **************** Part I: "I Am The Lie" Everyone thought they were doing the right thing, throwing the biggest bash Hollywood had seen in years for the occasion of Harley's twenty-fifth birthday. They were wrong. Dead wrong. Jake Blythe - the late thirty-something British actor, Harley's best friend, frequent co-star, and former lover - had been the ringleader, naturally, renting out the Viper Room club for the night. Jake had hired an old friend of his wife Evelyn to cater the affair. A mutual friend, make-up artist Natasha Paloma, had been in charge of the guest list and seating arrangements; the daunting task of surreptitiously finding out whom was not speaking to whom, at the moment, amongst the frequently fickle Hollywood set. The big night arrived, and everything was perfect. Everything except the guest of honor, that is. Harley didn't want to be there, plain and simple. It had been six months to the day since Trey had moved out; out of the home they had shared for over a year, and completely out of his life as well. Harley had seen his older brother only once since that night, almost three months ago. It wasn't planned, merely a random bumping into each other at the Starbucks on the corner of Sunset and La Brea. It still made Harley feel lightheaded and sick to his stomach when he thought of that chance encounter. He couldn't forget the way he'd felt when he'd hurriedly turned from the cashier with his grandé iced cinnamon hazelnut latté, extra sugar, extra milk, and physically bumped into Trey. 'Sissy coffee', his brother called Harley's favorite concoction. Strong, black, hot, and coffee-flavored was Trey's caffeine fix of choice, he himself being a militant 'coffee just as God intended' sort. Harley sat in a corner booth at the rear of the noisy club. He was alone, huddling himself in a bulky, grey, cable-knit sweater as if he were freezing to death despite the warmth of the spring evening. He had grown up in an area where even the warmest summer months still held a chill in the air, and he'd felt that Los Angeles was far too warm for his taste from the very start. Ever since Trey had left, Harley had been cold, so very cold, the kind of chill that cuts right through to the bone and just won't go away. He had chalked it up to some sort of bizarre psychological response to his brother's absence, although he had neglected to share that little tidbit of information with his therapist. He'd never shared much of anything anyway with the head-shrinkers that his publicist and his brother had insisted that he see in order to keep himself grounded and centered. This was something far too personal to share with anyone, so he'd simply taken to wearing heavy sweaters lately to fend off the freeze. Trey hadn't even said goodbye to him, the coldest cut of all. His older brother had simply... left. Harley took a long pull from a cold bottle of Guinness, his sixth or eleventh of the night. He'd lost count. "Well, if you're going to drink yourself into a bloody coma, at least you're drinking better stuff these days." Jake slid into the booth beside Harley, leaning into him and giving him a friendly nudge. "Much better than that American cat piss you were drinking when I first met you. Now you just need to learn how to drink it the right way: warm." Harley lifted the bottle and wanly saluted his friend, then took another drink of the thick, dark brew. He wasn't exactly hammered, but he had arrived at that stupid, regrettably drunken place where melancholia sets in, grabs you by the heart, and just won't let go. A salty, sorrowful tear slid down Harley's cheek. Jake reached up and gently wiped it away with his thumb. "I'm assuming this is not a result of you having to relinquish your twink card to the fag police last night," the Englishman smiled warmly. Harley sniffled, bravely attempting to vanquish the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He failed miserably. "I miss him, Jake. I miss him so much. What am I going to do?" Jake slid his arm around Harley's slim waist and pulled the boy closer to him, kissing him softly on the temple. There was a time, not so long ago, when Jake would have been much more careful about being so physically demonstrative with Harley, especially in public. A long, tearful, heart-to-heart talk with Evelyn several months prior had laid everything out on the table. As was her character, she understood and accepted yet another unusual facet of her husband's rather wild life. Evelyn now knew that Jake loved Harley, and she had come to love the young actor as well. Very differently than her husband did, but no less. It was all very odd for Jake, actually. Once the air had been cleared and his wife was aware of his long-term affair with Harley, Jake no longer had the compulsion to drag the boy into bed at every opportunity. He still loved Harley, and still desired him on some level, but the love and desire were no longer the undeniable, intoxicating narcotics they had once been for Jake. As a result, their relationship - Jake's and Harley's - had evolved into something more closely resembling that of father and son than that of impassioned lovers. "I don't know what to tell you, Love," Jake said quietly. "It's been six months. I don't think he's coming back. I'm dreadfully sorry you've been hurt, but I have to be honest. I'm not sorry it's over. It wasn't healthy, Harley, for either one of you. And I believe you know that, deep down." Harley put the bottle of Guinness to his lips and polished off the remainder in one quick swig. "All I know is that I love him, Jake, and that I can't live without him. I don't want to live without him." He sat the empty bottle down on the table with a loud thunk. "Do you know what it's like to love someone like that? To love somebody so goddamn much that it hurts when they're near you, and fucking unbearable when they aren't?" Jake sighed and locked his grey eyes on Harley's azure blues. "As a matter of fact, Love, I do." Harley nodded, acknowledging his friend's not-so-subtle reference. "Then you know I can't let this go, Jake. I can't just snap my fingers and stop loving him... needing him... wanting him." "I know, Harley," Jake consoled. "I know. I'm so sorry." Harley shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his fists underneath his armpits for warmth. "Jake, can you please drive me home? I'm so tired and I'm so cold, and I didn't want to come here in the first place." Jake patted the younger man firmly on the back and slid out of his seat. "Let's go, Love. I'll sneak you out the back; my Jeep's in the alley. I'll call Evelyn on my cell when we get outside. I'm sure she won't mind catching a lift with her caterer chum." Harley stood up, teetering slightly. Jake slid his hand around the boy's waist for support and led him out the back door of the club, unnoticed by any of the guests. He opened the passenger door of the Jeep and helped Harley into the seat, buckling him in snugly. As Jake turned the vehicle around the corner and onto the street, he flipped on the heater. Harley leaned over and rested his head on Jake's shoulder. "You're such a good friend," he sighed. "Of course I am," Jake grinned. "I'm just a big fucking Boy Scout at heart, you know that." Harley laughed half-heartedly, and then began to sob. --- "You're sure you're alright?" Jake asked, standing on the front porch. Harley was already inside of his house, his hand resting on the door jamb to steady himself. He was drunk, no doubt - but not nearly drunk enough to take advantage of his dearest friend, despite his aching need to wrap himself around another warm, familiar, male body. "I'll be okay," Harley replied tiredly. "I'll just get a quick shower to get the bar smell off of me, then I'll get into bed and pass out." Jake chuckled. He reached out to grasp the back of Harley's neck, never having been one to miss an opportunity to wrap his fingers in the long, silken, honey-gold curls that rested there.The boy's hair was now well below his collar line. Amongst other things, Harley had neglected to get his hair cut since Trey had moved out. "Call me tomorrow," Jake instructed. "If you're up to it, you can come over and we'll do the cookout thing with Evelyn and the kids." "Okay," Harley responded, fighting off a yawn. "'Night, Jake. And thank you." "G'night, Love. Rest well." Harley closed the door, shut his eyes, and sank down to the floor in a sad, drunken heap. --- A hard, thirty-minute cry later, Harley collected himself enough to make his way upstairs to the master bathroom. He turned on the shower, running his hand under the fine spray of water until the temperature was just right. Not hot enough to burn, but just hot enough to sting a little. The boy removed his clothes, more layers than anyone in their right mind usually wore in the balmy warmth of a southern California spring. He tossed the garments haphazardly around the room, the grey sweater landing in one of the double sinks, olive drab khaki pants finding a home on the toilet tank, socks and shoes and his favorite shirt - the media-mocked, way too huge, dark purple polo - ending up scattered on the stone floor. Naked and shivering violently, Harley stepped into the shower stall, luxuriating in the sensual warmth of the hot water, the only thing that was able to make him feel truly warm as of late. He threw his head back and let the steaming water pound onto his chest, his neck, enjoying the sensation and the blessed, elusive heat. The noise from the running water muffled the scratching sound of a key, searching in the darkness for its companion lock on the front door. --- Harley was a hot water slut, make no mistake. Nothing soothed his raw nerves and relaxed his tired body more than a long, lazy, hot shower, or a steaming sit-down bath if he felt so inclined. And God forbid if there was a hot tub available. One of the perks of growing up in a fairly privileged community in the Great White North was that everyone had a Jacuzzi built into their backyard deck. Harley, as a very young boy, had read the entire Hardy Boys collection while soaking in his family's hot tub. The books were rendered useless as hand-me-downs because they'd gotten wet as a result, the pages all swollen up from the heat and the water. Funny, but even at the age of nine and ten when he'd devoured those books, Harley had read between the lines, sensing something there that the author of the brother detective pair most assuredly had neither intended nor anticipated. It was at that time in his life when Harley had started to feel something for his elder brother Trey, something magical and wonderful, but decidedly unnatural and unquestioningly forbidden. Harley had his first orgasm then, by his own hand of course, thinking about his beautiful, older brother. Not yet physically mature enough to ejaculate, he came hard anyway, his body feeling sensations that were truly amazing and his mind knowing, even then, how wrong it was to be feeling like that about his own sibling. Harley missed everything about Trey, but right now in his depressed, inebriated state he missed his touch the most; the way they wrapped themselves up in each other bodies, fucking frantically like rutting animals or making sweet, slow love depending on their moods. Harley soaped himself up. As the hot water relaxed him, his hand strayed down his chest, along the firm muscles of his stomach, coming to rest on his cock, hard and aching for his brother. It felt so good, his own hand wrapped around his dick. He hadn't had sex with anyone in the six months that Trey had been gone, and neither had he masturbated, not even once. A hell of a long time for a young man to go without release of any sort. Harley leaned back against the shower wall for support, his legs trembling, gripping his cock at the base. He felt like he was going to come already, and he wanted to prolong the inevitable. He closed his eyes, and right away an image popped into his mind; the image of Trey on his knees in the shower, hot water splashing off of his shoulders and back as he sucked on Harley's swollen dick. As his hand slid up and down his erection, Harley could feel his brother's mouth on him; the way Trey's lips and tongue felt on him, the erotic scratching of Trey's beard stubble on his stomach and thighs. The way the head of his cock would feel electrified every time it hit the very back of Trey's throat. The way his brother would pull off of him momentarily to lick and suck on his smooth balls. The way Trey would suck hard on only the head of his dick like a fucking Oreck on a sixteen-pound bowling ball just when he knew that Harley was about to unload. Trey had always claimed that his favorite part of sex was fucking Harley, but goddamn... you just didn't suck cock like Trey did if you didn't actually enjoy it. With a vision of Trey looking into his eyes as he came in his mouth, Trey swallowing every drop, Harley came hard. His back, wet with a combination of hot shower water and sweat, slid down the shower wall as his knees gave way, his ass slamming hard onto the porcelain shower floor while the powerful orgasm racked his body. He began to cry uncontrollably, his head pounding and his ears ringing as skeins of semen spurted copiously from his dick. Harley was physically sated, but emotionally bankrupt. Part II: "Coffee-Flavored Coffee" Harley finally stopped crying and turned off the shower, reaching for the thick, thirsty towel he'd hung on the wall rack just outside of the stall. He dabbed at himself with the towel, drying off hurriedly but not completely. He wrapped the towel around his waist, tucking in an end to secure it; not out of modesty in an empty house, but simply out of habit. He'd left his cigarettes and lighter on the coffee table in the living room. Harley, if nothing else, was a creature of habit. He was smoking almost non-stop these days, mostly from stress and boredom, but there were three types of smokes that he absolutely couldn't do without. The one after a hearty meal, the one after an orgasm, and the one after a long, hot, lazy shower. Two out of three most definitely required a smoke. Harley descended the spiral staircase and padded into the living room, still dripping wet with the towel snugged around his waistline. Trey was seated on the couch, his blue-jeaned knees spread apart with his elbows resting on them, his head clutched between his hands. Harley, covered with only the soggy towel, had never felt more naked, more vulnerable, or more exposed in all of his life. Trey ran his hands through his closely cropped, light-brown hair, settling back into the sofa cushions. "Hi, baby brother," he whispered. Harley had two choices, he acknowledged to himself as fight-or-flight adrenaline surged through his body. Be a coward and run upstairs, not looking back and locking the bedroom door behind him, or be a man and stand there, dripping wet and wrapped in only a towel, reaching for his Camels and Bic lighter. The latter won out. As much as Trey had always been the more dominant partner sexually, Harley had actually been the strong one regarding the nature of their relationship. He was the one who accepted it for what it was, embraced it. Despite being eight years Trey's junior, Harley was the one who had quickly gotten over the inherent guilt associated with it. "It's good to see you, Trey," Harley said softly, tears welling up and stinging his eyes. "I've missed you." Trey ran his hands through his hair again, and Harley couldn't help but smile at the familiarity of his brother's signature stress habit. "I've missed you too, Harley." Trey swallowed hard and sighed deeply, his face contorting into a mask of unbearable pain. "God... I can't even say your name without it hurting." Harley grabbed the edge of the towel encircling his waist, shoring up the tuck of terry cloth that held it precariously to his slender frame. "I love you, Trey. I always have. Why did you leave me? You didn't even say goodbye." Trey rested his elbows on his knees again, leaning his head into his propped up hands. He couldn't summon up the courage to look at his brother as he spoke. "It was all a lie, Harley. You are so wonderful, so precious, and I love you like I'll never be able to love anyone ever again. But it was all a lie. It was wrong, what we did, in every conceivable way that something can be wrong. You're my brother., my goddamned little brother. My own flesh and blood. It doesn't get much more wrong than that." Harley walked to the dining room and dragged an upholstered wing chair into the living room, taking a seat and making himself comfortable despite the damp towel. "Do you love me, Trey?" Harley asked pointedly. There was no hesitation in Trey's reply. "Yes, Harley, I do. Completely." "Then I am the lie, Trey. You can hide it, if that's what you need to do. I'll protect you. I'll guard your soul, I promise. Just.... please, don't ever leave me again." Trey shook his head in his hands, still unable to look at his brother. "How can you be so calm about this? Why doesn't this bother you?" Harley exhaled sharply, reaching down to adjust the towel between his legs. "I love you, Trey. I love you so much, in so many ways, that I just don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks." The younger man took a deep breath before continuing. "I freely admit that I'm not the brightest person in the world, Trey, as the press is so very fond of reminding me. But I know this, my brother. Until someone proves to me otherwise, this life is my one and only shot here on this fucking, unforgiving rock. If I can't spend that time loving the one person who means the most to me, the one I cherish above all others, then what the fuck is the point of living at all?" "God, Harley..." "God has absolutely nothing to do with this, Trey!" Harley interjected with a sardonic smile, and did an admirable job of blinking back his tears. "This is about you and me. We are the only ones who need to make peace with this." "I don't know if I can do that," Trey tearfully admitted, finally looking his brother in the eye. "Well, you'd better goddamn try, because I already have, a long time ago," spat Harley. "Let me put it this way, Trey. How do you feel when we're together? When we're holding each other? When we're just sitting on the couch together, eating bad, frozen pizza and watching a fight break out into a hockey game on television? When we're naked and wrapped up in other's arms, close and warm? When we're folding laundry, or cleaning out the fridge, or something stupid and ordinary like that? When we're fucking or making love, when you're inside of me?" Trey was crying hard now, rocking forward on his arms, his hands threading through his hair even more tightly than before. "It feels good, baby. All of it does. It's all good. It feels so fucking right. But then after the sex is over... after I've watched your face when you come... and dear God, Harley, the way you look when you come... oh fuck... that's when I remember that you're not just my partner, my lover... you're my brother. My goddamn little brother! Jesus Christ, Harley... I'm supposed to be protecting you from people like me!" "Do you love me, Trey?" Harley asked again. Trey stood up gingerly, reaching out for his younger brother. Harley put a hand on the towel around his waist, not wanting it accidentally fall, or worse for Trey to pull it off. He took a step back, just beyond Trey's reach. "I'm going upstairs to put something on," Harley announced. "Why don't you go put on a pot of coffee. We can talk some more." When You're Gone Away Exercising very little in the way of self-control, Trey took a step forward, sliding his hands around Harley's waist, un-tucking the towel and letting it drop to the floor. Trey's hands traveled up the boy's back to caress warm, smooth skin, feathering his fingertips over perfectly sculpted shoulder blades. "My God... you're so fucking soft." Trey's eyes fluttered closed, his breath quickening as his hands explored his brother's chest, softly tracing the elegant, exquisite collarbones framing it. Harley tensed, unmoving and stoic beneath his brother's touch. Trey retracted his hands and stepped back, confused. "What's the matter, baby brother? I thought you wanted me?" Harley looked down at the carpeting and shook his head, dejectedly picking up the towel and re-fastening it around his waist. He looked up at his brother with pleading eyes. "Are you going to stay this time, Trey?" Trey wrinkled up his nose and bit his lip. "I don't know, Harley. I'm really not prepared to make that kind of decision." "And I'm not prepared to be your fucking whore," Harley snapped, his demeanor hardening. He stared into Trey's eyes for a long moment, then walked past him and climbed the stairs, not looking back. Trey ran his hands through his hair, not bothering to turn around to watch Harley leave the room. He went into the kitchen to go about the task of making a pot of coffee. Strong, black, hot, and coffee-flavored. Just as God intended. Part III: "The Looking Glass" "Damn him!" Harley leaned back against the master bathroom door, having already turned on both sink faucets and the shower full force to muffle the verbal tirade he knew he couldn't restrain. Not that he liked the sound of his own voice. Quite the contrary. Harley actually despised it. Way too high-pitched in his own estimation, for a man well into his twenties and over six feet tall. To compound the issue, his voice had a rather girly inflection that he'd never been able to overcome, and an all too frequent crack that made him sound as if he were still in the grips of puberty. "I just don't understand this!" Harley seethed aloud to no one. "Nobody ever has to know, nobody is being hurt by it, and it makes both of us happy. Why doesn't he get that? What the fuck is his problem? Shit..." Harley pushed himself away from the door and leaned over the sink, considering his own reflection in the mirror. He looked haggard and thin, from lack of sleep and from not eating well during Trey's long absence, and damn... did he need a haircut. "I can't keep chasing after him," he spoke to his own image in the mirror. "I can't keep putting myself through this. Either he stays and we move on with this, or he has to leave tonight and not come back. God, I hate ultimatums..." Harley washed his face and brushed his teeth. He gathered up the clothes he'd thrown off earlier and stuffed them into the hamper. He scooped up his sneakers and walked into his bedroom - their bedroom - and placed the shoes neatly on the rack inside of the walk-in closet. Harley was a slob by nature, but when Trey was home he tried his best to conform to his brother's fastidious standards. Thank God for the cleaning service that came to the house three times a week, a service that Trey had insisted upon when they'd first bought the place. If not for them, Harley smiled ruefully, Trey probably would have walked in tonight and done an immediate about face had housekeeping been left up to his little brother. The young actor opened his armoire and retrieved a pair of baby blue sweat pants and a matching hoodie from the top drawer. Slipping the garments on, he checked himself in the cheval mirror that stood next to the door. He ruffled his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame the errant, honey-gold curls that were now cascading well below his collar line. Harley smiled wanly at his own reflection. He's always loved me in this color. --- "Damn him!" Trey hissed under his breath, forcefully plopping an extra scoop of Starbucks house blend into the paper filter for good measure. "I just don't understand this." Trey filled the water reservoir and pressed the start button on the coffee maker, a Christmas gift he'd given his brother last year in a horribly failed attempt at introducing the boy to the pleasures of real coffee. "Someone will eventually figure this out, and too many people stand to be hurt by it, no matter how happy it makes the both of us. Why doesn't he get that? What the fuck is his problem? Shit..." He opened an overhead cupboard and grabbed a pair of matching coffee mugs. Catching his reflection in the shiny chrome of the six-slice toaster on the countertop, Trey smoothed his hands over his head, attempting to tame the short hair that he'd been nervously grappling all night. "I can't keep running away from him," Trey said to his image in the toaster. "I can't keep putting him through this. Either I stay, and stay for good, or I have to leave tonight and never come back. God, I hate ultimatums..." Trey smiled wanly at the image reflected back by the chrome appliance. He suddenly noticed that he was wearing the garish, bright orange shirt that Harley had bought for him during his last trip to Florida. He's always loved me in this color. Part IV: "I Can't Seem To Let You Go" Harley paused at the foot of the spiral staircase, craning his neck to peer around the corner. Trey was sitting on the couch, two identical mugs of fresh, steaming java resting on cork coasters on the coffee table in front of him. Well, this is it, kid, Harley thought. It either begins again or it ends right here. Right now. Harley blew out a sharp breath, bracing himself for what he knew was to be their final confrontation, his brother's final decision regarding their relationship. And it was, ultimately, to be Trey's decision. It had to be. Harley didn't have any doubts remaining, and he hadn't for a very long time. Trey was the one with issues, for a change. Harley entered the living room, resuming his seat in the wing chair. Trey didn't say a word; he simply picked up one of mugs and offered it to his brother. Trey's little brother accepted the drink with a nearly imperceptible nod of thanks. He blew into the cup to cool the surface, taking a small sip and trying his best not to make a sour face. Harley truly detested plain black coffee, but God almighty, how he did love his brother. Trey took a sip of his coffee, returning the mug to the table and leaning back into the soft cushions of the sofa. He sighed, hard and loud. "So... what do I do now, baby brother?" he asked with a sad smile. Harley placed his mug on its coaster. He settled back into the wing chair, tucking his legs up to rest his chin on his knees. "You have to decide what's more important to you, Trey," the younger man stated calmly. "What you're worried that other people might think, or what you know in your heart to be true. What we feel." "It's not that simple, Harley." Trey ran his hands through his hair for the umpteenth time that night, oddly wondering whether or not the habit was going to be a contributing factor of premature baldness. "But it is, Trey," Harley said, wrapping his arms around his legs and pulling them in tightly against his body, his bare toes wiggling. "It is that simple. Either you love me and you want to be with me, always and in all ways, fuck what anyone else might think on the off chance they should find out - or you don't. It really and truly is just that simple." Trey closed his eyes and sighed harshly. "I wish I knew why this has been so easy for you, and why it's so hard for me." Harley smiled, that devastatingly pretty movie star smile that caused girls and women to openly swoon, and boys and men to discretely question from which side of the plate they batted. "It hasn't been easy for me, Trey." Trey was puzzled. He tilted his head to one side, like a Golden Retriever unable to comprehend the basic meaning of the word 'sit'. Harley smiled again, subtle dimples and all. "I had a moment of truth, I guess you could say, just a few weeks after the first time we had sex. My alcoholic friends call it 'the dark night of the soul'. The moment of reckoning." Harley's smile faded, his face taking on a decidedly serious and somber appearance, his eyes glassing up with unshed tears. "I reckoned that I love you, Trey. More than I care about anyone or anything else. More than I care about anyone knowing about it." "You're so young, Harley, and you're smart, despite what the media has fed you." Trey dragged his fingernails through his hair. "And goddamn it, you're prettier than any human being deserves to be. You can do so much better than me, baby brother. You'll find someone to love you, someone that you won't have to hide like me." "But it's you that I love, Trey," Harley replied. "It's you that I need, who I want, who I crave, who I spend endless nights dreaming about when you're gone. I know it's weird, and sordid, and wrong. You think I don't recognize that, that I don't know that? I do, honestly I do. The difference between you and me is that I don't fucking care!" Harley released his grip on his own legs and slid out of the wing chair. He walked the few steps to the couch and knelt down between Trey's knees, lightly resting his long, slender, piano-perfect fingers on his brother's thighs. "Don't throw this away, Trey," Harley pleaded, allowing his tears to flow in front of his brother for the first time since Trey had returned home. "Please... give us another chance." Trey reached out to gently stroke Harley's hair, badly in need of a trim. "This could end your career, Harley, if anyone found out. We could lose everything." "Screw my career," Harley smirked. "It's not like I enjoy it anyway. It's not something I love. It never has been. I just happen to be good at it. But I've played my cards right, Trey. We don't ever have to worry about money. I'm really not as stupid or naive as people think. I went for percentages, every time. My last film alone will support us very comfortably for the rest of our lives. I don't care about the work. It's never been important to me. It's just a fucking job, like anything else. I don't need it. But I do need you. Terribly." Harley leaned his head into Trey's hand, the older brother's fingers twining through the boy's shiny, dirty-blond locks. "You... deserve so much more than... than I have to give," Trey stammered, tears spilling down his cheeks. Harley took Trey's face in his hands. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, big brother. You've pretty much ruined me for anybody else." Trey cringed tearfully at his brother's words. "I didn't mean to, Harley. I'm sorry." "I'm not sorry," Harley smiled, that damnable, killer smile. "I can't think of anything more special, more wonderful, than being ruined by you." There was a long, pregnant pause before either of them spoke again. "Tell me what to do, Harley. What am I supposed to do now? God, I'm still so confused." Trey used both hands to swipe away the tears drenching his face. Harley, still on his knees between Trey's legs, leaned forward, pressing himself against his brother's chest, into his arms. "Don't be confused, Trey. I'm not." Harley was crying hard, fully releasing the emotions that he'd kept under wraps ever since he'd discovered Trey back in their home earlier in the evening. "Love me," he whispered, "just love me, Trey. Fuck everything and everyone else." Trey was torn. Torn between his intellect and common sense, both of which affirmed how wrong this was, and between his heart: the heart that told him how right, how cruelly and impossibly right this was. "I don't know what to do, Harley. I feel like no matter what I decide, it's going to be the wrong choice." Harley wrapped his arms around Trey's waist, clinging to him, not wanting to ever let go. Hot, wet tears streamed down the boy's face, all pretense of strength now gone. "You need to decide, right now," Harley said, his tears continuing to trickle down his gaunt cheeks. "If you're coming back to me to stay, tell me now so I can relax and be happy. But if you're not, tell me now so I can start trying to figure out a way to deal with it. Please, whatever you do... please just don't leave me in limbo again. I'm running out of ways to make it through the day without you." Trey closed his eyes and sighed. "I can't, Harley. I can't make a decision like this on the spot. I need time to think about it." "You've had almost two years to think about it. How much more time do you fucking need to know what's in your heart?" Harley patted his brother's legs, using them for support to stand up. He smiled sadly at Trey, knowing that his brother wasn't going to commit to anything, one way or the other, right then. Harley reached down to the coffee table, picking up the pack of Camels and the Bic lighter that he'd come downstairs for in the first place. He remained there for the longest minute, just standing there, looking at his brother. He wrapped his arms around himself, the cold, familiar chill piercing his body again. "I'm going to bed, Trey. It's already three in the morning, and I've got a nine o'clock with my publicist. I'm cold, and I'm tired. You know where the extra blankets and pillows are, if you want to crash here on the couch for the night." He started to walk away, but then turned around to look at his brother. Perhaps for the last time as far he knew. "Do me a favor, okay?" the younger man asked. "If you're not planning on staying here with me - for good, this time - please don't be here in the morning when I wake up." Trey stared at his lap and picked at a hangnail, unable to look at his brother for fear of making a choice that he'd later regret. All he could do was nod a goodnight, a see you later, maybe a goodbye forever. He didn't know what the hell it was. Harley sighed, turned, and made his way to the staircase, glancing back one more time. "Please know that I love you, Trey. I always have. I always will." Trey responded without looking up, still picking absently at the hangnail. "I know. I love you, too." Harley grabbed the banister, chuckling softly, the sound melancholy, harsh, and forlorn. "It's not enough though, is it." He uttered the words as a rhetorical statement of fact, not as a question. His heart broke because he already knew the answer. Trey didn't say a word. Part V: "Suddenly, I Know I'm Not Sleeping" Harley pulled down the bedspread, blanket, and sheet, and crawled into bed. He yanked the bedclothes tightly up to his chin, curling up on his side and nestling his face into the soft, squishy, goose-down pillow. He felt like he needed to cry, but he didn't have any tears left. All he had was a crushing, suffocating weight pressing on his heart and his soul. It was over. Finished, He knew that now, as surely as he'd known anything in his life. Trey loved him, of that Harley was certain. His older brother simply couldn't reconcile the admittedly frightening nature of their relationship, couldn't justify it in his mind, couldn't find the balance of risk versus reward, couldn't rationalize the complexities of it. Harley smiled into his pillow, remembering something that Trey had said to him once, when he was fifteen years old and was trying to figure out a gentle, rational way to break the news to their parents that he was gay. "You can rationalize anything, Harley," Trey had said to him. "A person can go days without water, weeks without food, and forever without sex. But no one can go more than a few hours without a good, solid rationalization. Don't worry, baby brother - you'll think of something to say." Harley, until this night, had thought that telling his parents about his sexuality had been the most difficult thing he'd ever had to deal with. That situation, as hard as it had been, didn't even remotely compare to this. He was ruined. He had not been exaggerating when he'd said that. Harley would never be able to love anyone ever again like he loved Trey, never. There was a part of him that wished he'd never felt that way, that overpowering, intoxicating, needful combination of love and lust for another person. It would have been easier to bear, of course, had that other person not been his own brother. Harley loved Trey, so much so that he was willing to give up everything for him; his career, his friends, the rest of his family, his life. Ruined. A mere twenty-five years of age, and Harley knew that he would never again be able to let someone into heart, into his soul. Not like that. Harley reached over and pulled the pillow next to him against his face. The cleaning service did a great job, but they didn't do the laundry. Disgusting perhaps, but Harley had yet to change the sheets on the bed since Trey had left him half a year ago. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to wash away the last thing that had remained of his brother. The scent of him on that pillowcase. --- Trey had stayed on the sofa, motionless, for well over an hour after Harley had gone upstairs to bed. Harley. Bed. Not the two words that Trey wanted to place in the same sentence at the moment. With his coffee cup empty, his soul in pain, and his brain frazzled, Trey finally left the comfort of the couch and made his way into the kitchen. He wasn't ordinarily a drinker, definitely not anywhere near the pro his little brother had become. Harley's elder sibling needed to get snockered now, though. It was almost an imperative, the need to get liquored up, the need to lose himself in the bottom of an impersonal bottle. The need to not feel. Opening cupboard after cupboard, Trey eventually found Harley's alcohol stash. From the impressive selection he finally chose an unopened bottle of Patrón tequila. He hated the taste of the Mexican import, but from prior experience he knew that it did the job, quickly and effectively. Grabbing a clean shot glass from the drain board next to the sink, he poured himself a full-to-the-brim drink, downing it quickly. Then another, and another. And still another. Trey closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of the liquor burning his throat, landing in his brain to dull his senses. Feeling nothing, at this point, was far preferable to what he'd been feeling for the past six months, for the past fucking decade, in all honesty. Trey loved Harley. He'd never had any doubt about that. What he doubted was his ability to love the boy like he needed to be loved: fully and completely. Heart, mind, body, and soul. Heart, mind, and soul had never been an issue for Trey. That kind of affection didn't cross a line when it came to loving his brother. That kind of love didn't violate trust or societal convention. It was the 'body' part of the equation that was problematic for him. I've been fucking my own brother, Trey thought in his blind, drunken haze. What does that say about me? He caught his reflection in the shiny toaster, not entirely liking what he saw. He closed his eyes to shut out the vision, liking what he saw then, inside of his head, even less. Harley on their bed, once again on his hands and knees, his lovely, firm, pale ass raised up and pushing back against his brother's cock, wanting it, wanting it inside of him, wanting it bad. Trey felt the memory, the feeling of his hands resting on his brother's silky, warm skin, touching that incredibly soft, maddening place that drove him crazy and made him lose all sense of propriety and right and wrong; that perfect, elegant place where Harley's sinewy tendons and his tight, young muscles joined his hip to his thigh. In his mind, drunken stupor notwithstanding, Trey heard his brother's voice, those dangerously erotic sounds he made when his body was being pleasured, those exquisite moans and perfect little whimpers. He saw Harley's face, the boy's eyes fluttering closed, the thick, lush, dark eyelashes so long that they rested on his own cheekbones. When You're Gone Away You're not the only one who's been ruined, Trey slurred aloud to his own image in the toaster. Harley's older brother pushed the small appliance away, not wanting to regard himself in it any longer. He leaned over the stainless steel sink and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. He cupped his hands to take a drink, in order to ward off the alcohol-induced dehydration that was already setting in. Trey grabbed the floral tea towel that Harley had hung neatly over the edge of the drain board, smiling affectionately at his brother's attempt to conform to his own compulsive sense of orderliness. He dried his face with the towel, the cloth imprinted with a picture of potted violets. He turned and leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly from the alcohol buzz. Closing his eyes again he sighed, convincing himself that he was about to do something not out of drunkenness, but out of serious deliberation. For better or for worse, Trey had made his decision. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, searching for a number that he rarely ever dialed if he could possibly help it. If there was one person who could reason with him and talk him out of what he was about to do to his beloved brother, his lover, this was the one. Trey glanced at the clock on the wall as he listened to the phone ringing in his ear. It was four-twenty in the morning. The phone rang six times before anyone answered. "This had better be a fucking beautiful woman," groused the man with the English accent. Part VI: "I Realize I'm Never Gonna Quit You Over Time" Trey clicked off his cell phone, glancing at the time on the color display before closing the clamshell. Six a.m. He'd spent the better part of ninety minutes talking to Jake, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was actually beginning to like the Brit. The man, who usually just annoyed the hell out of Trey, had been kind and compassionate, and had given him some very sound advice. Regardless, Trey was petrified. Harley had always been unpredictable, and his older brother had no way of knowing how the boy was going to handle the news. Yes, Trey had made his decision, and Jake had confirmed the wisdom of it. Now all he had to do was summon up the courage to share it with Harley. Trey reached for the half-empty bottle of Patrón, pouring himself another healthy shot. The glass had barely touched his lips when he sat it down on the kitchen counter. This was the most important thing he'd ever have to do, and he acknowledged that he needed to do it without any additional Dutch courage. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, rinsed out the shot glass, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs. --- Trey sat quietly in Harley's ratty, velour recliner for two hours, watching his brother sleep. When he'd first sat down on the worn cushion, he had to smile at the recollection of the horrible fight he'd had with Harley when they'd bought the house and began furnishing it. Harley had insisted that the old, harvest gold chair be placed in their bedroom. He'd told Trey that it was his script-reading chair, and that it had been lucky for him, besides being comfortable. Trey had been furious; he'd gone to a lot of time, trouble, and expense to decorate their new home perfectly, and the ugly chair, aside from not matching the rose and cornflower blue color scheme, was... well... it was just plain fucking ugly. Harley had not played fair that night. As he was prone to do, he dangled the prospect of sex in front of his older brother to get his way, and in the midst of Harley giving him the blow job of the century - with Trey seated in the ugly old recliner, no less - Trey had apparently capitulated, agreeing that the hideous chair could stay. If nothing else, Trey was a man of his word, even if that word had been given under duress. Trey nearly jumped out of his skin when the alarm clock began screeching at eight o'clock. Without moving anything else, Harley slapped his arm across the bed, feeling around for the clock on the night stand and finally locating the snooze button. Three, ten-minute snoozes later and Harley finally rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows. "Trey." "Yeah," the older brother smiled wanly, "I'm still here." "I didn't expect you to be." Harley pulled off the bedclothes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He reached over and turned off the alarm clock, then walked into the bathroom, scratching beneath the waistband of his plaid boxers as he closed the door behind him. After the sound of a flushing toilet and water running in the sink had stopped, he came back into the bedroom. He sat down at the foot of the bed, facing his brother and ruffling his fingers through his long, tangled up curls. "You look terrible, Trey," Harley commented. "You look hung over." Trey snickered. "I'm not hung over. I'm still drunk." "Then perhaps this isn't a good time to talk." Harley folded his hands on his lap, staring down at them. "I'm not that drunk," Trey said. He smoothed his hand over his hair. "I had a long talk with a good friend of yours last night, after you went to bed. He gave me some pretty good advice." Trey sighed. "He loves you, you know, Jake does," he admitted. "I know he does. I love him, too." Harley closed his eyes, his pretty eyelashes batting as he opened them again to address his brother. "But not like I love you." Trey's eyes began to sting and his vision became blurry. Not from the alcohol, but from the tears that were now threatening. He suddenly stood, walking over to Harley and taking a seat next to him on the edge of the bed. Harley looked down as his hands again. Trey dropped his gaze to his own hands resting on his thighs, the pesky hangnail still there, his finger sore from picking at it. "I'm so scared, baby brother," Trey said with a shuddering breath. "I am really and truly scared." "So am I," Harley stated sadly, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm scared you're about to tell me that you're leaving and you're not coming back." Trey put his hand on his brother's back, between his sharp shoulder blades, the boy's skin almost hot from having been buried under a heavy blanket and a bedspread on such a warm night. A gasp escaped Harley's lips at the touch, the touch he'd missed so badly during the long, agonizing months that had gone by since Trey had left him. Harley blinked, tiny tears dripping onto his cheeks from his blue eyes. "If you're going to go, you'd better leave now." Harley felt his brother's hand slowly sliding up his back to grasp his shoulder, his body being pulled in close to the other man. Trey rested his head on Harley's shoulder, tilting his face so his mouth was near the boy's ear. "I'm not leaving, Harley," he whispered, "not now, not ever." Harley made a noise when he heard those words, a squeaky sort of whimpering sound, somewhere between a choked-up sob and a high-pitched wail. His eyes closing again, he felt Trey's fingers on his face, tilting his chin up. He felt lips - warm, soft, and nearly as pouty as his own - pressing against his, the faint aroma of tequila still lingering on his brother's breath. As his brother gently lowered him onto the mattress Harley sighed, his heart threatening to pound clear through his chest. "I've got a nine o'clock with my publicist," the boy said, half speaking, half moaning. Trey lay down next to Harley, running his tongue down the boy's neck, sucking and biting at his pretty collarbones, lapping his way over his chest and stopping to take a playful nip at the soft, supple flesh of his belly. He looked at his little brother, grinning, happy for the first time in a long time. "You're going to be late." *********************** © Copyright 2006 Justin Tyler. All rights reserved. Publication or distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of the author.