Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2070726.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      America_(Hetalia)/England_(Hetalia), Canada_(Hetalia)/Cuba_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      Canada_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), America_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), England_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Cuba_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest, Human_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-03 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 11850
****** Under Our Roof ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Three broken people, one broken family, each trying to find their own
     peace.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Matthew
What was I looking for up there?
I paused at the top of the stairs, leaned forward and stared into the
blurriness of the world without my glasses. I heard something and it made me
stop. I put my hand on the banister, peered down first one end of the darkened
hallway, and then the other.
Toothpaste. The bathroom downstairs was all out of toothpaste and I forgot to
brush my teeth earlier, so I needed to get some. That's why I was upstairs that
night.
I dug my bare toes into the carpet and made myself ignore the childish fear
that made me want to turn on every light and destroy every corner of darkness
in the house. I took a deep breath and debated simply returning to my bed.
But, then I saw the light under Alfred's door. Then I saw Alfred's door partly
open. I took a step closer, because light meant good and safe to my childish
mind, and that was when I heard the sounds.
Now I know why Dad put us on different floors. I didn't want us to go to
different rooms, but Alfred did. I didn't want to be on the first floor, while
Dad and Alfred were on the second. They gave me a good reason. I don't remember
it. They're liars.
It's hard to put the sounds into words. It was metal creaking and it was heavy
breathing and it was little "mm's" and it was the slick rubbing of flesh on
flesh, but it was more. It was awful and ugly. It was scarier than the dark. It
was the thing in the dark.
Because I knew there was something there, I needed to assure myself that there
wasn't. I walked to the door, my feet crunching on the carpet as loud as on
autumn leaves or broken glass. I paused, my toes about half a foot from the
door. I didn't breathe. I listened to the sounds. I stared at the yellow blur
in the crack of the door.
When I was little, I would get out of bed in the middle of the night and stand
outside Dad's door. I was afraid of the dark and being in the darkened hallway
made me even more afraid. But, I was more afraid to wake him up, and see his
not-angry-but-not-caring eyes asking me "What do you want?" I waited outside
Dad's door with silent tears trickling into my mouth, not breathing.
I went over the scenario I wanted in my head, telling myself it was real. I
pushed open the door, saw Alfred bouncing up and down on his bed, headphones in
his ears, clacking at the keys of his laptop, happy, ignoring his stupid
worrying brother. That is what will happen, I told myself. That was what
happened.
Alfred's door never creaks when you open it. I pushed the door open two inches
and I pressed my eye to the crack. I saw.
Shut the door. Walk away. Stupid. Stupid.
Alfred and Dad were on the bed. They were naked. Alfred was on his back, his
head on a pillow with stripes on it. He was bent up at the hips, his legs in
the air. Dad was on his knees. He was in front of Alfred, and his arms were on
Alfred's hips. Alfred's legs were on his shoulders. Alfred's arms were on his
back. The way Alfred's bed is, I saw them from the side. Dad was in Alfred. He
pushed forward and pulled back, and Alfred shook in response. He was inside
Alfred.
He was fucking him you mean. Your father was fucking your brother.
Dad's eyes were shut. Alfred's eyes were open. They both made little sounds,
deep and inhuman. They sounded like animals, and breathed like they were
running. They moved faster. They were glossed in sweat. Alfred's hair was a
mess and he wasn't wearing glasses. Dad rose up slightly and he pushed down
with quicker, sharper, harder movements and he made little grunts to go along
with them. That made Alfred's eyes close, and his hips rose as well, breaking
union with the sheets that I had put through the laundry yesterday.
A normal person would have shouted.
I watched.
A normal person would have done something. Your father raping your brother. You
have to take care of him. Were you afraid, or did you know already that the
look in his eyes was joy and not pain?
I didn't breathe. I don't think that I could. I tried to believe that I wasn't
seeing what I was. I couldn't believe I was seeing what I was. I thought about
what it would have been like if I hadn't seen this. I tried to make that real,
instead of this. But, I was still watching.
Like the dark, I had to make it go away. I stepped away from the door without
shutting it. I didn't breathe. I stumbled back to the stairs, a few steps away.
There is a little hollow formed by the first step and the wall where the second
floor overlooks the living room of the first. I sat down there, curling myself
into something small and unnoticeable. I breathed, and it came out hard.
They were a few feet away from you. Your father, fucking your twin brother' s
asshole, his big, thick body violating Alfred's young, slender one. His hips
moving harder and faster as he moved towards climax. Alfred biting back whorish
moans and thrusting back. Father and son. Your father, your brother.
I could still hear them, the slapping, the creaking, and the animal noises.
Somewhere along the line I started crying. The tears were fat and clean and I
let them roll down my cheek to my mouth unimpeded. A few rolled down my jaw and
far enough to touch the top of my shirt.
Why was I crying?
There was no complete thought, just reactions. Just the horror of it, just the
wrongness, just the unquestionable reality.
It wasn't happening. I stood up.
Stop them.
I walked downstairs.
Don't let it happen.
I opened the door to my room.
What will they do if they see you?
I lay down in my bed.
He's your brother.
I left the lights on. They left magenta and purple patterns on the insides of
my eyelids when I closed them.
Save him! Save him!
My body was rigid, with no allowance for sleep. No sleep until thought.
My father was fucking my brother.
Too big. Too much. Tears were easier. Tears and unnamed emotion that drew a
physical pain in my chest.
Why does it upset you? What is wrong?
The light didn't help. The same things were in the dark that were in the light.
They appeared whenever I shut my eyes, and then they hid. They were always
behind my back, at the corner of my eye.
Daddy. Al. Stop it. Don't. I'm scared. Stop, stop.
There, that was my refuge. Childhood. Fear without reason.
"No," I whined aloud in a voice that even I could barely hear. "Stop, stop,
stop… I don't want you to."
Still fucking above you. Father and son. Daddy and Al. Above you.
Somehow I slept. I never remember going to sleep or waking up. I simply am
awake one moment and awake the next and hours have slipped away without my
noticing. But, I knew that somehow I had slept after seeing what I did. I knew
I was lying on my side in my bed and there was sun behind my curtains.
There was no respite in morning haze. I remembered instantly what had happened.
It was so ridiculous, it had to be a dream. But, I remembered getting up so
clearly. I thought about it for a while. I knew it wasn't a dream. It happened.
I saw it.
And then I screamed.
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Alfred
I chewed thoughtfully on my cereal and looked across the table at my brother.
Matthew wasn't meeting my eyes. He was staring at his bagel more than he was
eating it. I looked away and waited for him to be ready to talk.
His scream woke me up, huddled in the warm wall of Arthur's arms. I started so
violently I almost fell out of bed. Arthur groaned, wrapped his arms around me,
grumbled in my ear, "Go back to sleep."
"Matthew," I explained. "I need to go see Matthew." I disentangled myself and
pulled on some pants before going downstairs.
Matthew was sitting up in bed, looking mortified.
"Dude, Matt, are you okay?" I asked, scrubbing at my crusty, stinging eyes.
"I'm fine. Nightmare." His voice was tense and fearful. The haziness around his
eyes made it seem like he was still half in the nightmare.
I grinned at him. "Yeah, well, I hope you're prepared to explain that to the
police if you keep hollering like that. "
"Yeah…" he said faintly. He stared indistinctly at his hands lying slim and
pale on the red blankets. I stared at them too, watched them slowly curl into
the blanket and pull it back from his bony legs.
"Alfred…" His voice was hazy, dreamlike.
"Yeah?"
"I—No, sorry. Forgot. Never mind. Sorry."
I grinned again, but he wasn't looking. He had his hands to the sides of his
head, pale fingers buried in his yellow hair. I didn't need to be psychic to
know my brother didn't want to talk. Must have been one hell of a nightmare.
He seemed better at breakfast, but still a little out of it. Like maybe he
hadn't had enough sleep. He chewed slowly and deliberately, as if he had to
motivate himself to make his jaw work. Matt was usually quiet, but this was
different. Like, I got the feeling he couldn't talk, even if he wanted too.
But, I didn't want to bug him. I figured he'd tell me if there was something
wrong.
I shifted around on the chair, feeling that little ache, not bad enough to be
genuinely painful, but just uncomfortable enough to keep me from forgetting it
was there. It was kind of thrilling to think about, that secret thing that I
knew, but Matt didn't.
I used to hate keeping secrets from brother. But, this thing was even better
when it was just me and Arthur. It was horrible and dirty and secret and
happening right under the same room that my brother slept.
It was all wrong. So great and wrong. Great because it was wrong.
Wasn't always like this. I didn't always rejoice in the wrongness. I love my
daddy, and I thought that it was the same way that everyone loved their daddy,
like Matt loved his daddy. Daddy was tall and strong and I got that strange
feeling in my stomach when he had that expression like at first he was angry
and then there was that little bit of respect, like he couldn't stay mad. He
never looked at Matt like that.
I heard a tired groan and it sent a thrill up my spine. I turned and saw Arthur
standing in the doorway of the kitchen, scrubbing at his eyes and scratching at
his disheveled blond hair. I admit, I could have cared less about Matt at that
point.
My eyes slowly scanned his body, the body that had been naked, curled around
me, over me, in me only a few minutes ago. That's something new I learned about
clothes since I started sleeping with Arthur. Only I knew what was under those
clothes. That was my secret. All mine. Ours.
"Good morning," I chirruped. Arthur smiled raggedly. He walked inside, touched
my hair, and then went to make his morning tea.
"Morning yourself," he said gruffly. I watched as he filled the kettle, flicked
on the switch. I heard Matt pick up the orange juice and pour himself a glass.
In that moment, I was faintly annoyed at Matt for being there, intruding on me
and Arthur. There are times that I wish that he would go away, so that me and
Arthur never had to hide what we were at home. But, I don't like to think that,
because Matt is my brother.
I think Arthur would get rid of Matt if he could. If I asked him to he would.
But I won't, because Matt is my brother.
My ass was still hurting. I twisted around in my seat and made sure that Arthur
could see me. That he knew I could still feel him inside me. Tonight, I
decided, I was going to be inside him.
I watched him watch me for a moment, and then smiled in satisfaction and turned
back to my cereal. Matt was staring at his hands flat on the table. He hadn't
reacted to Arthur's entering the room.
I figured that he must have been really out of it. When I asked him about it,
once Arthur had dropped us off at school, he stared at me for a moment,
blinking, and then made a little smile and muttered something about a big test
in his Lit class.
Then, we separated and went off to our different classes and friends. I forgot
about anything to do with my brother within a few minutes. Matt has that effect
on people.
There were days when everything else started to become dull and overlong, and I
spent all day just looking forward to night, when I would make my way to
Arthur's room and we could finally be together.
It's wrong. He's your father. You can't sleep with your father. That's why he
won't open his eyes. It's your sick obsession. You made him do it. You're sick.
And you don't believe any of that, do you? You'll keep doing this until someone
makes you stop.
And it won't bother you at all.
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Matthew
Alfred hangs out with the cool kids. I don't. I don't mind that. I especially
didn't mind when I couldn't look at him without getting sick to my stomach.
Katya and Lukas were sitting at the lunch table with me. Katya and Lukas are my
friends from drama class. They're actors and I'm stage crew. Alfred is on the
football team. Katya has short hair and teary eyes. Lukas has spiky hair and is
too tall.
Lukas sat across from me, eating half of my sandwich. Next to me, Katya was
struggling with a baby orange. She and I are both too anxious to have nails, so
she had to give up and pass it to Lukas who laughed and teased us before easily
peeling the skin off in one piece.
"Come on," he complained as she tried to grab the fruit back. "No praise? That
was awesome!"
"You're amazing," she said sarcastically, snatching the orange back. She tore
it into thirds and offered one to me. I shook my head.
"What's up with you?" Lukas said, taking the orange out of Katya's hand.
I stared blankly. I don't think that I could have told them if I wanted to,
couldn't vocalize the horrible thing, anymore than I could think beyond the
bald, ugly picture of it, seared in my brain. Besides, I didn't want to tell
anyone. It was the sort of thing that could only exist in secret, like a
horrible, poisonous thing living under an ancient rock.
I shook my head again. "Didn't sleep well."
"Are you feeling okay?" Katya said, maternal beyond her years. I was surprised
she didn't press the back of her hand to my forehead to take my temperature.
"Fine."
"Don't get us sick!" Lukas feigned horror and made a cross with his fingers.
"I'm clean!" Katya laughed and I was glad that stopped her fussing.
"Alfred!"
I should have recognized that voice first, but I was too on edge. My heart
pounded and burst out in a slightly louder voice than usual, "I'm Matthew!"
I turned to see Miguel blinking at me. "Oh. Stupid. Sorry." He sat down beside
Lukas, across from me. Miguel is in stage crew too. He has dark eyes and he
keeps his hair in a ponytail and I can always smell smoke on his breath. He has
something against my brother, something to do with Alfred being his usual
innocently destructive self, I suppose.
Alfred is my twin. We look too alike for most people to tell us apart at first
sight.
"Matthew's depressed," Lukas said obliviously tactless.
Miguel raised an eyebrow at me. "Really?"
"I'm fine."
"Anyone have food?" Miguel said. I passed him the other half of my sandwich. I
didn't think that I could keep it down if I tried. The thought of Dad's lips
mashing onto Alfred's made eating an impossibility.
The eyebrow rose again. "Don't you want it?"
"I'm not hungry."
"See," Lukas pointed out. "On death's door."
I think that shy, submissive people generally surround themselves with loud,
dominating personalities simply as a matter of course. I know that I do and I
usually like them. Today I couldn't take it. I wanted to hide in a corner and
let the horrible thought impress itself onto me.
My father was having sex with my brother. My father was having sex with my
brother. My father was having sex with my brother…
"Mattie?"
"Huh?" Katya was looking at me in concern. So were Lukas and Miguel.
"You sure you're okay?" Miguel asked.
"I'm fine." I have physics class with Alfred. I'd have to sit in class with
him. I'd have to spend an hour looking at him, knowing what he did. And then,
after school, I'd see Dad again. Dad, who drove us to school, who talked with
Alfred, who looked at him, as if nothing were wrong.
He's not my father. I don't know who he is, but he's not my father. He's the
stranger who hurt Alfred. My father went away and this horrible man took his
place. I hate him. I hate him. I hate them.
"Hey," I said, and I was surprised that my voice still worked. "I think I'm
going to sit in on rehearsals today." I didn't need to be there, but I couldn't
be alone with Alfred and that man.
Katya smiled. "Sure. We're going out for lunch afterwards. You can come with
us. It'll be fun."
"I'm driving," Miguel said. "I can take you home." Miguel has a car. It's small
and it also smells like smoke, rich and heavy. When I'm in that car I want to
drink in the smell greedily and fill my mouth and throat and lungs with it, and
I have to be careful that Miguel doesn't notice me being weird.
"Thanks."
I didn't want to go back at night. What if they did the same thing? But I can't
ask to stay over at someone's on a school night. And I couldn't do it the night
after that. My house was dark and frightening now. It was that man's house, not
mine.
They started eating and talking about the show. I made myself talk too.
Anything to stop from thinking.
Thinking about Dad and Alfred. Dad touching Alfred. Alfred's long, slender legs
over Dad's shoulders. Sweat on the muscles on Alfred's chest. Dad's teeth
gritted, his hips moving.
From three seats back, I watched Alfred's shoulders move. I watched him tap his
pencil, smile, pass notes to his friends, just like everything was normal.
I quietly asked to be excused from class. I walked down the hall into the
bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet just before I threw up.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Arthur
"Stop it, Alfred."
"Look at me."
I kept my eyes on my shoes, and not on Alfred, my son, standing in the middle
of my room, naked.
I could still feel his eyes on me. "Please, Alfred," I said quietly. "Put your
clothes back on."
"I found the pictures." I knew he had. They were clutched tightly in his hands.
Pictures of boys, young boys, some under fifteen, naked or near so,
provocatively posed. Carefully hidden in a recess under the drawer of his desk.
Either Alfred had searched for hours, or he had seen me looking at them.
"Look at me," he repeated.
I did. He was still standing there, body pale, lean, muscled, young, blue eyes
narrowed and savage.
I swallowed. "I'm looking at you. Now stop it. Dress and talk to me."
"You were looking at this stuff." He shook the crumpled pictures. "While you
were raising me. Me and Matt. While you played with us and tucked us in at
night and gave us baths."
"Alfred, please. Whatever I've done I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I
never meant—"
"Do you look at me like you look at these pictures?"
I stared. "No, Alfred. Of course not. You're my son. You're my ison/i."
"You don't think about me?" Was that hurt in his eyes? Was that a trembling in
the arm the held the crumpled kiddie porn?
"I—Not like that, Alfred. Please."
He walked forward, too close. I stepped back. My heels hit the wall. He was
within two feet of me. Too close.
"I know what I'm doing," he said seriously. I don't think Alfred's voice had
ever been that serious.
I shook my head, looked away from him. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do." He edged a bit closer. For a second, I had a flash of panic that
Matthew would come through the door and find us. But, no. Matthew was away…
somewhere. Matthew was taken care of. He took care of himself. He wasn't an
issue.
"Ever since I was little."
"Stop."
Alfred took a deep breath. "Tell me that you want me."
"Alfred."
"I know that you're my father. I know that I want this. I know that I'm not
going to let anyone stop me. I know that you want this too. Just…"
His fingers gently brushed my forearm, and my stomach turned to jelly. He
looked at me with furious, burning eyes.
Tell him to stop. Tell him to get dressed and go think. Leave the house. Go.
Don't do this. Don't be weak.
He kissed me. My son's lips, soft, pink baby lips, on mine.
I used to brush his teeth when he was too little. When both of his soft,
fragile hands fit comfortably in mine. When those blue eyes were oversized and
guileless, and I once closed my hand in a desk, because I found myself thinking
of them in a horrible way, and the pictures never filled that particular void,
but there was no way that they could, because it's so wrong.
I put my hand on his back. I let him push harder. I kissed him back.
He is my son. He is my son. He is my beautiful little boy, I promised to
cherish and keep and protect from the horror of the world.
I touched him. I kissed him. I put him on the bed, and held him close, and told
him that he was my favorite. That he was a wonderful, brave, pretty little boy.
That he was mine. Mine.
"Yes," Alfred said. His voice was frank and joyful at the same time. He nuzzled
my neck and smiled and laughed with little tears standing out at the corners of
his eyes, as if this was all that he ever wanted, being delivered to him all at
once.
I just gave him what he wanted. I had to. I love my son.
And it's wrong. It's so wrong.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
Alfred
"Open your eyes."
I folded my hands behind my bare back, and grinned at Arthur, propped up in bed
on a stack of pillows, his arms behind his head. He grinned back at me.
"I'm looking." He was. His eyes travelled from my head to my toes, up and down
again. Still smiling, I tore off my jeans and boxers and walked over to bed.
Arthur held up the blankets to let me in. I settled in beside his warm body and
wrap my arms around his chest. I kissed him.
"You're pretty today," I said.
"I could say the same thing about you." He touched my shoulders, trailed his
hands down my chest. His hands closed on my hips. I rolled over on top of him,
and I wrapped my fingers around his wrists. I pushed my hips against his. I
smiled at his gasp. My stomach was hot and open. I kissed him again.
"I thought about you in class today. You're very distracting."
"Well, I'd hate to think I was distracting you."
"You can make it up to me." I kissed his throat and my hand slipped down to
stroke his erection, which was sharp on my stomach.
"Alfred."
His voice made me stop. I looked at him impatiently. "Yeah?"
"Your brother was acting very strange this morning."
What about Matt? Oh. Yeah. I forgot.
"Yeah. Matt gets kinds weird sometimes. I think he's gotten over it by now."
"Sometimes I worry about him finding out."
"Don't." I kissed his jaw. "Don't ever worry about that. No one's gonna find
out." I tried to kiss his mouth, but he turned his head away.
"He lives under the same roof as us. He's bound to suspect some time."
I groaned in frustration. "Stop it. Matt doesn't suspect anything. He's too
much of a goody-two shoes to even think about awful, dirty things like this."
"But—"
"Stop talking about Matt. It's not him you're sleeping with." I felt a cold
flare of sadism in my chest and I leered down at Arthur. "Unless you want to
bring him in. That would solve that problem, right? Have little Mattie join the
fun. That way you can have both your sons at once. Can't be worse than what
we're doing right now."
"Alfred, stop that."
Guilt. "I'm sorry." I nuzzled his chest in apology.
"It's not the same, and you know it," he continued. He stroked and tangled my
hair as he spoke. "Matthew isn't the same as you. Nowhere near it. You're
special for me."
"You'd never do this with Matt." I knew he wouldn't, but I wanted to hear him
say it.
"Never."
"Good." I started stroking him again, hard and fast
I don't want to talk about Matt. Matt is my brother. He has nothing to do with
what I do with Arthur. They're different worlds and it's illogical to think
they would ever intersect. This is joyfully dirty and sweaty and shameful. My
brother is clean and pure and sexless.
"I want you in me," Arthur whispered in my ear, and all thoughts of my brother
fled. I might not have had a brother for all that I thought of him in that
moment.
"Sure." He took the bottle from the bedside drawer and passed it to me. I drew
back so that I could prepare him.
He is my father. He is my father and I am the only person that he will allow to
do this to him.
He was in the process of turning around and bracing himself against the
headboard. I grabbed him and pulled him around, dropping him back onto the
softness of the pillows. I grinned and kissed his nose, before pushing into
him.
"Open your eyes."
They were already shut. He opened them the tiniest bit, smiled and kissed me
and then I didn't care. We moved. I moved in my father. We had to stay quiet. I
wished that the house were empty so we could make any noise we wanted.
Under the blankets we moved together. The day of waiting made it feel even
better. The best part of it was that we had all night. Maybe, if I asked,
Arthur would say I was sick and let me stay home from school.
He would. If I asked him. He acts angry and snappy at me, but he'd do anything
I ask. He did this. When I asked him.
I came into the warmth of my father, and then, as I lay on top of him, my hips
jerking, he released onto my stomach. We stuck together. Held by come and
blood.
"I love you," I groaned, slipping off of him and pressing my nose into the
crook of his neck.
"I love you," he answered, stroking the back of my neck calmingly.
I felt gleefully happy. My father was taking care of me, giving me what I
needed, making me happier than anything else could.
That was right, wasn't it?
Why does it feel wrong? Why do I like it when it feels wrong?
He kissed me and pulled me to his side. "You're so good to me," he whispered.
"I try," I said confidently, nipping at his ear. He sighed happily.
 
***** Chapter 6 *****
Matthew
I had to make it stop. I had to get rid of the thoughts.
Reading didn't work. My mind couldn't focus on the shapes of the letters. Not
when I knew what was happening upstairs. Eating didn't work. Neither did music,
nor trying to sleep.
The blankets were over my head, and my hand was in my pajama pants, and my eyes
were shut.
Upstairs, my brother and my father are having sex.
At first I just imagined faceless pornographic bodies fucking. It didn't do any
good—I couldn't keep up the image. My mind kept wandering to dangerous,
sickening places. So, I replaced the bodies with my friends and me.
Pervert.
I imagined Katya, naked on my bed. Her slick, plump arms, under my fingers, the
taste of her large, round breasts. But, Katya was the one who asked me how I
was, and fixed my hair when it was askew. She was like a big sister. She was
like a mother. She wasn't erotic, or sexual. She was Katya, not a moaning
whore.
Lukas was sexual. Lukas would moan. Lukas made lewd comments about the middle
school girls. Sometimes, when they were waiting backstage, Lukas would fondle
me and grope me, playfully, I suppose. Lukas likes girls with flat chests and
pigtails and putting people off guard.
I imagined Lukas for a while. I imagined his mouth on me, his hands on me, his
tongue between my legs. Him rolling in bed with me, laughing, hands on my
wrists, pushing me back against the wall roughly.
But, Lukas wouldn't push me. He would wait for me to push him. He wouldn't
direct me. He wouldn't force me.
I imagined the smell of cigar smoke over my face, smothering me. Miguel would
push me. His large, dark hands would circle around my skinny wrists. He would
wipe away my worry and shove me into bed and pull off my clothes, and tenderly
trace my throat, push me back if I tried to leave.
And I would love it.
I rose up onto my knees, the blanket still pulled over me like a shroud, and I
pulled my pants and boxers down to my thighs, as I continued to jerk off,
investing more and more in the fantasy.
I imagined his hands on the back of my head, scratching at my scalp, the weight
and heat of him, pushing me, forcing me, but still whispering gentle
encouragement, stroking my hair and pushing it out of my eyes.
"Good boy," he muttered in my mind. "Good job, baby."
The image shifted. Not me and Miguel. Not his dark, gentle hands on the base of
my skull. Other figures, familiar ones, seen through a crack in the door, a
tiny sliver of yellow in the darkness.
"Daddy."
No. I don't want to think that. I want Miguel back. I don't want to see you.
Stop it! Stop feeling that! No, it doesn't feel good. No, it doesn't. No, no,
no, no, no…
I bit my lip to control a grunt as the wild pleasure in my stomach reached its
apex. Warm and wet was on my hand, on my thighs. Quickly, I grabbed an old T-
shirt from the end of my bed and cleaned myself off, the rush of self-loathing
making my chest ache.
Your brother, you sick fuck. Your brother and your father. You're as bad as
them. Pervert. You got off on it. That horrible thing and you got off on it.
Sick. Sick. Your brother and your father.
Miguel was the one that I liked. He was the one I always wanted. I wanted his
intelligent dark eyes, and his gruff chuckle and cigar smoke. I thought I was
sick because I wanted a boy, now I know I'm normal.
I am normal. I am normal.
I fell back onto the pillows, wallowing in the sticky salt smell under the
blankets, furious tears prickling at my eyes. I wished that I had never opened
that door. Never went upstairs that morning. Lived in ignorance.
Ignorance would have been wonderful. Let Alfred do whatever he wanted with that
strange man. Just don't involve me. Don't make me think about it.
I fell asleep and woke up angry, hating my brother and my father. Outside it
was dark. My legs were still sticky, so I ran to the shower. I put the water
punishingly cold, and slumped against the tiles, my eyes shut.
Why is it that Alfred is so happy? Alfred is sleeping with his father and he is
happy, but I am crying alone in the shower. Why am I guilty and he isn't?
What's wrong with him?
What's wrong with me?
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
Arthur
Alfred was seventeen, young and vigorous, and full of fantastic energy. He
would leave me cheerful and exhausted in the mornings.
After our night together, I sat propped up on the pillows, watching him dress
up in his clean clothes for school tomorrow. My golden boy, angel-faced,
debauched in a way that only I knew.
He grinned at me. "Man, that was great. I can't wait till school is over. You
think you can get Matt to go somewhere for the day? I'm up for it."
I raised an eyebrow. "Again in one day? You'll be the death of me, boy."
He pouted. "Please?"
"What will we do with you when you go away to college, eh?"
"I'll go to state school nearby and come back to see you all the time." He
smiled slyly. "Unless you're eager to get rid of me."
"Don't you dare entertain the thought." He pulled on that old leather jacket of
his, gave it a cheeky shake. I never knew where he got that jacket. It dated
back to that period from when he turned thirteen to when we began sleeping
together when he was sixteen. That period when he seemed to always be angry
with me, for reasons I could never understand at the time.
"I'll see what I can do," I said. He smiled.
I remember when Alfred was around fifteen. I was out drinking. I did that a
lot, then. I was with my old friend Francis. Francis twirled his drink, Francis
with his sly smiles and his cartoon French accent. I think he might be the
boys' godfather, but I don't remember.
"You need to find someone, Arthur, dear," he opined without my solicitation.
"It's been long enough for you to get over her."
I tensed. Her. My wife. My ex-wife. I don't talk about her. I don't think about
her. She's gone. In mind, at least, she is long dead.
"I'm fine," I said.
"Arthur—"
"What I need is to be drunk." I emptied my glass to emphasize the point. "I
have two children to look after. I can't go gallivanting away with my pick of
jailbait like you can."
He was right though. I did need someone. Just, it was the one person I could
never have. But, now I do have him, even though I shouldn't. As guilty as I
feel, and I felt so guilty sometimes I thought I would die of it, I still want
him. It still makes me feel good.
Sometimes I think that I'm making myself feel guilty. If I let myself, I
wouldn't mind it at all. I would be like Alfred, who seems not to feel a jot of
guilt. He is happier than I have seen him in years.
He needed me too. He isn't desperate, like me. He is handsome and popular and
funny. He could have anyone he wanted his own age, any pretty girl or strong
boy. And he chose me. And he chose his father.
So, you're both insane. This whole family is. We're just waiting for the day
when Matthew chooses his own particular brand of perversion.
"C'mon," Alfred whined. "Get out bed. Unless you don't want to take me to
school. I'm cool with that."
"Oh?" I said playfully, sitting up in bed. "Are you sick?"
He nodded. "Yup. As a dog. You'll need to give me my medicine." He bounded into
bed again.
"Do I now?" I ruffled his hair. "And how will Matthew get to school, then?"
He shrugged. "I think one of his friends has a car. That Cuban guy who has
some, like, grudge on me for some reason."
"And why would that be?"
He shrugged again. "I guess it's my fault. I dunno."
I sighed. "Sure." I lifted myself out of the bed with a groan. "I'll get
dressed and tell Matthew."
He stretched out his legs. "Hurry back."
 
***** Chapter 8 *****
Matthew
I was still in my anger phase, and I found that more comforting than wallowing
in angst. They couldn't bother to take me to school, now. How did I not notice
that before? Maybe I was so used to being ignored that I couldn't differentiate
between people ignoring me as a matter of course and people ignoring me so they
can run off and fuck.
Huh. Almost doesn't bother me anymore. Just a dull twinge deep inside my brain.
Almost.
"Thank you," I said quietly, twisting my hands, and not looking up at Miguel,
as we rumbled along the road to school.
"Huh?"
"Thank you," I repeated, slightly louder.
Miguel grinned. "No problem. It's cool hanging out with you." I smiled at him.
I thought about my fantasy last night. I breathed in cigar smoke and felt
strangely comforted. I should have felt embarrassed, but somehow I could
separate the real Miguel and the fantasy Miguel in my mind. This crush was a
wonderful thing in something this horrific time.
He frowned at me. "Are you okay?"
"Fine."
"You look tired."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Is it 'cause the show's in a week, or something?"
I'd forgotten about that. Bigger things, I suppose. I smiled anyway. "Yeah. I
think I'm absorbing some of Katya's excess worrying."
"No fair," he laughed. "You've got enough of your own without helping her out."
I laughed as well. It was good to laugh with Miguel, instead of thinking about
Dad and Alfred.
"Hey," he said. "Do you want to come over to my house after school today?"
A grin jumped to my face, joy tinged with surprise. "Oh, sure. Why?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. You're probably my best friend and we don't spend
enough time together."
My stomach swelled. He didn't ignore me. I was his best friend. He cared about
me and where I was and what I was doing. He wouldn't forget that I lived under
the same roof as him.
And every second away from that house was a second I didn't have to deal with
the problem.
I took a deep, rich, smoke-filled breath. "You too. Thanks."
He smiled. "Cool."
I smiled back, and briefly an insane thought entered my mind. I could trust
him. I could tell him. I could get his help. I didn't have to deal with this
chaos all by myself. And, Miguel would understand. He would help me. He could…
But this was my problem. It was a nightmare, and Miguel didn't deserve to be
involved in the insanity. I couldn't stop it, I knew I was too weak for that,
but I could contain it. I could keep it inside me, and inside that horrible
house and it would only taint us three, me and Alfred and Dad.
And, here was Miguel offering to rescue me, unknowingly. Let Alfred and Dad
have their sickness. I didn't need to let it twist me too.
I swallowed as much of the smoke-smell as my lungs would take and tried to
pretend that all of that was true.
 
***** Chapter 9 *****
Arthur
He's my son.
I stroked his leg gently, the other hand braced on his side. Out of my mouth
came a stream of meaningless comforting words.
"Okay, okay. That's good. Good job, baby. Keep going. Keep moving. Shh. I'm
sorry, I'm sorry…"
He gasped, mouth open and gulping for air. He grunted and pushed back onto me.
My pretty baby. My own flesh and blood.
I leaned in closer. My tongue traced his forehead.
"Yes, God, yes!" he exclaimed. "Keep going!"
"Hush."
"It's so good, Daddy."
I make myself stop, hips quivering with the effort. "Arthur," I muttered
hoarsely.
He stared at me. "Arthur," he repeated.
That doesn't make it any better. I couldn't—I can't—lie to myself that the boy
gasping and writhing beneath me was my son. It was my son's virginity that I
was taking, with sickly selfishness, my eyes shut, buried in the pillow,
grunting, pushing further and further in, knowing that with every thrust I was
losing a part of myself, a part of myself that still had some sense of morality
or civilized society.
He bit down on my shoulder to stifle a cry as he reached his finish on my
stomach. I sobbed and hated myself.
I groaned, clutched his arm in a bruising grip at my climax.
No turning back now, I thought with a calm, existential finality. I rested
heavily on top of him, breathing as if I was dying. Alfred's fingers trailed my
shoulder blade.
"Thank you," he whispered roughly into my ear. "Thank you, Arthur."
My emotions swirled. A powerful, painful guilt that made my stomach ache warred
with a decadent pleasure in the fundamentally wrong and indecent.
He is my son. Curled against my chest, slim and sweaty and sated. A remnant of
myself inside him, made of the same stuff as the blood that we share.
I nuzzled my mouth on his hair, and I shut my eyes.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered.
"Don't be," he whispered back, and then kissed me. Part of me wasn't sorry, the
part that wanted to pretend this wasn't a problem, that, as wrong as it was, we
could make it right. But, part of me was guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. I am
the adult. I should know better. I shouldn't let him do this to me.
I tell myself this every time. Whenever I am in him, or he is in me, or we are
touching each other, or feeling each other with tongues and teeth, I tell
myself to stop. And I keep doing it anyway.
Because, Alfred always smiles at me. He murmurs, "thank you," or "keep going,"
or "please."
And so I keep going. And so I'm going to keep going. And only when the
authorities come knocking on the door can I see myself stopping. Sometimes I
think that I'm hoping for them to. Then, Alfred laughs and kisses my shoulder
and I know that I'm lying to myself.
 
***** Chapter 10 *****
Alfred
Arthur never thought that I was, but I was always aware of the danger. Whenever
I went to school, or went out with my friends, it was in the back of my mind
that I had a horrible secret hiding inside of me. Sometimes, when I was
dressing for football practice, I would notice someone's eyes catching on an
oddly placed bruise and I would feel a rush of panic.
Sometimes, it would occur to me in the middle of sex with Arthur that Matt
could walk in on us at any point. Sometimes, the morning after, I would realize
that the door had been unlocked or slightly open and I would feel briefly sick
with horror.
At breakfast, I looked into my brother's eyes and I wondered.
That's why I like to be in the house alone with him. No lying. No hiding. When
Matt goes to college, I'll finally get to be alone with just him. Just him and
me.
I love him. I really do. Even if it's wrong, even if he's my father. I really,
really love him, in every way possible. He's not taking advantage of me. I
seduced him. I made the first move, because I wanted him. I wanted it.
Matt was getting closer to his friends and farther from his family. Sometimes I
hardly talked to him once in a day. I missed my brother, I missed the funny
little conversations that we had, where I only realized halfway through that
Matt was making fun of me with his quiet little interjections, and then I had
to jokingly hit him over the head, while he laughed wildly.
But, I got to spend more time with Arthur.
It wasn't always sex, anymore. It was a lot less, and somehow I didn't mind. We
sat at the kitchen table, talking and laughing. I ate a cheeseburger, while he
had French fries. He said that if I kept eating that many cheeseburgers, I
wouldn't be on the football team anymore. I pulled a face at him.
We watched TV—soccer—and curled up on the sofa. I rested my head on his chest,
and he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead.
I like this. These slow and comfortable days of openness and freedom. Arthur
hardly seems guilty about what we do. It's like we're normal.
"You know," Arthur breathed into my hair. "Matthew has been back home for about
five hours each night for the last week or so."
"Yeah," I said. "He's too cool for us now. I think he might have a crush."
Arthur laughed. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Maybe that girl from his drama class. The one with the big knockers." I
laughed again. "Don't get jealous, now."
"Wouldn't think of it." He still gently whacked the back of my head.
"Hey!" I yawned. "Or, well, I'm not gonna make assumptions. Maybe that loud kid
with the gelled hair. Or that guy who always drives him everywhere. It's kinda
cute." I turned slightly to look at him. "And we get to spend more time
together."
"That is good," he agreed.
I kissed him. My neck hurt twisting at that awkward angle, so I shifted onto my
stomach on top of him. His hands twisted in my hair. The soccer game was still
playing in the background.
I love days like this.
 
***** Chapter 11 *****
Matthew
Of course, Miguel made the first move. He would.
It was after a late day of setting up for the show. My shoulders ached from
lifting bits of scenery. Miguel punched me hard in the arm as I got into the
passenger's seat of the car. I made a pained noise.
"Wuss," he said, but he gently pressed his palm to my shoulder, kneaded it
soothingly.
I smiled. I was going to say sorry, but then he was moving closer. His hand
moved up my arm. I breathed the smoke on his breath.
He paused. "Matthew. I… Is this…?"
And then he pushed his mouth onto mine. There was no grace to it. Our teeth
clacked, and I would have drawn back in surprise, but Miguel pressed his hand
to the back of my head and made me stay in place. After a second, I relaxed
into the kiss and it became gentler.
When he let go of my head and abruptly jerked back, I could taste his salty,
tobacco-infused spit in my mouth. He looked away awkwardly.
"Matthew—" he began.
"Thank you," I whispered, smiling. He looked at me a moment, then he smiled
weakly back, and smiled back and pulled me close for another kiss.
We drove to his apartment and he pulled me into his room. I sat down on his
bed, while he closed his door. Then, he went back to me, sat down, and
hesitated a moment before kissing me roughly. He repeated the same things that
he had said in the car, about how much he had wanted me, how hard it was
keeping it a secret, how wonderful he thought I was.
I murmured quiet "you too's" and he laughed, pushed his hands into my hair,
kissed again. Lots of kissing. Neither of us could get enough now that we were
free to. It must have been a long while, kissing with wet, open mouths and then
breaking apart to gasp for breath and nip at cheeks and necks.
Miguel had a bit of stubble. It scraped painfully against the sensitive skin of
my throat. I swallowed my gasp and pulled my chin back to expose more of my
neck.
He pulled my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric catching awkwardly on my nose.
Then, he slid his hands inside my shirt, while nuzzling at my jaw. He rubbed my
chest, toying with a nipple between calloused fingers.
"Is that all right?" he breathed uncertainly.
I couldn't make coherent words, but managed to nod. I put my hand on the back
of his head, stroked his thick hair. My eyes were shut tightly.
It felt wonderful. Even without any touch below my waist, it felt amazing. I
wanted to beg him for more, more, but thought that if I opened my mouth I would
scream and cry.
This is how Alfred must have felt.
I whimpered. No, I begged myself. Don't do this. Please. Don't think about it.
No. No. No.
Arthur's hands are strong. You've felt them on your arm or patting your head.
They're almost as strong as Miguel's. They're your father's hands. And they
were on your brother. Touching your brother. Making your brother moan.
No.
Does Alfred feel Dad's stubble tear at him? And does he gasp like you do? Does
Dad's touch feel like this? Father…
No. Miguel's hands were still on me, his tongue still tracing the line from the
corner of my jaw to my lips.
Miguel's hands. Dad's hands. My father pushing me down. Alfred moaning,
grunting. My brother.
"Stop!" I might not have said the word. I might just have let out an
inarticulate panicked sound. I grabbed his wrists and pushed him back, jerking
my face away.
"Matthew…"
The hot tears in my eyes were childish and stupid, but they sprang up
uncontrollably. I swiped at them and averted my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I tried to say, gulping around sobs.
"No. My fault. " Hesitantly, he placed his palm barely on my shoulder. I
started and began to jerk away, but made myself stay in place. He pulled me in,
moved me close to his chest. My head was on his shirt. A button pressed into my
cheek and I could hear his heartbeat. "It's okay. It's okay."
I let myself cry into his shirt. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay." He stroked my hair and rocked me slowly. He didn't ask why, just
told me it would all be all right.
He should have kicked me out of room for acting so weird. I don't know why he
would want to touch me after that. But, he let me cry into his first his chest
and then his stomach, for almost as long as we kissed. He petted my hair and
murmured comfortingly in mingled English and Spanish, until reason replaced my
panic and my tears dried up.
I wasn't crying, but I didn't want to leave the comfort of his lap and his arms
circled around me. I was safe here. Safe from my brother and my father.
After a few minutes, I realized how childish and needy I was being. To make it
up to him, I moved my hands to the zipper of his jeans and started to pull it
down.
Miguel wrapped his hands around mine, stopping me. "Shh," he whispered. "It's
okay. Don't worry."
He let go of my hands. I wrapped my arms around his middle, pressed my face to
his stomach, and breathed in the comforting smell.
Stupid Alfred. Stupid Dad. Fine. I'll let you have your sick little affair, but
don't bring me into it. Don't ruin this. This wonderful thing that I have with
Miguel. Leave me alone.
I sighed. "Thank you," I whispered. He leaned down and kissed my hair,
whispered something in Spanish that I didn't understand. I shut my eyes and
felt him stroke my back in big, slow circles.
 
***** Chapter 12 *****
Alfred
I woke up alone after the first night. I blinked up at the stucco and felt my
strange, new body, sticky and naked and quietly aching.
"Arthur?" The name was thrilling. He was still my father, but I wasn't a child,
and he allowed me to use his real name.
He didn't answer.
I got to my feet and walked to the bathroom. I pushed open the door and saw
Arthur in a pair of pajama bottoms, sitting on the toilet lid, his head buried
in his hands. He looked up at me briefly, his expression agonized, and then he
looked back down.
"Alfred," he croaked. "Alfred. Oh, God…"
"What's wrong?" I knelt in front of him, tried to meet his eyes.
What do you think is wrong? You just slept with your father. Incest. That's
what's wrong.
"Oh, God," Arthur repeated. "I'm so sorry, Alfred."
I felt a flutter of annoyance, and I grabbed Arthur's wrist. "What are you
talking about? I said thank you. I meant it. Look at me."
I kissed his wrist, but he pulled it away and still wouldn't look. "What I did.
It's wrong." I thought I saw his eyes for a moment, but they were quickly
hidden. "Oh, Christ, you're so young. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have—"
That made me angry. I grabbed both his wrists and forced them down. "What do
you mean? I'm sixteen and I can make my own decisions. You didn't force me into
this! You didn't make me do anything! I wanted this."
He stared at me, and his eyes were wet. That made my stomach twist. That was
strange.
Why is this getting to you? You saw your father grunt and grit his teeth as he
fucked you, why is it that seeing him cry is so strange?
I kissed him. He went pliant under my lips, and I thought that everything was
all right again. I pulled back, pressed my forehead to his. "I love you."
"It's wrong."
"I love you."
"Alfred—" I kissed him again. That made him stop. He couldn't argue with that,
if it made him feel half as good as it made me feel. One of his hands
hesitantly rested on my back. I pushed closer to him, tried to get more
contact.
He sighed. "You need a shower."
"You need a shower," I retorted.
A smirk flickered in the corner of his mouth and he walked over to the tub on
the side of the room. He turned on the water, and then looked at me and paused.
He hesitated a few moments, and then took off his pajamas. I took a sharp
breath, felt my fingernails dig into my palms.
He stared at me. I got to my feet and walked over to him, held his wrist, and
pulled him into the water with me. I smiled and wrapped his arms around my back
as lukewarm water cascaded onto us.
He picked up a washcloth and soaped it up while I watched. He held out my arm
and started to wash it, his eyes fixed on the little soapy circles he made. "No
one can ever know about this."
"I know." The cloth made its way up my arm to my chest, gently scrubbing my
sore, bruised skin. The soap stung slightly when it slid between my legs, but I
made myself not react. I smiled. "I swear. I won't say a word to anyone. Ever."
"Not even your brother."
I nodded seriously. I didn't like lying to my twin, but I knew that I could do
it. He sighed, rubbed the cloth on the back of my neck. "We can't keep this up
forever."
"Why not?"
"Alfred…"
"I told you." I wrapped my fingers around his arm. "I love you. I really,
really love you, and I want to do this. I won't let anyone find out. You love
me too, right?"
His mouth was open, searching for words. He stalled by soaping up the dishcloth
again, and then pressing it to my other arm. "You're my son."
"I know I am."
"You're my son," he repeated, as if talking to himself. "You're my baby boy…"
I stepped back from him and crossed my arms across my chest. "I'm not a baby,"
I said crossly. "You know that, right? You remember. Look at me."
He did. His eyes slowly trailed my body, and then came back to my face. "Yes,"
he whispered. "But…" He shook his head. "Alfred, I'm your father. I held you
when you were just a newborn."
"Like you did that much holding," I muttered, still angry. "Isn't that why mom
left? Because you couldn't be bothered to come home from work enough to take
care of your family? Isn't that it?"
He looked away to hide his pained expression. I felt instantly guilty and
reached out to touch his arm. "God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I reached forward
and pulled him into a tight hug. He tensed, and then relaxed against me. His
fingers buried into my wet hair.
"I love you," he said in an agonized whisper. "I love you so much. It's wrong,
and I can't stop it."
"Don't." I rubbed his back slowly, buried my nose in the crook of my father's
neck. "Stop thinking so much."
He held my hair more tightly. "I love you."
"Arthur."
I made myself stay silent as he washed every inch of me. Then, he kissed me,
without me having to make the first move. I let him hold me and touch me, as
slowly as he wanted.
His eyes were shut, but I didn't let it bother me. If he was making do, I would
as well. As long as I had this, it was okay.
 
***** Chapter 13 *****
Arthur
It was a little past midnight when the door was quietly opened. I reached over
from my armchair and turned on the light, revealing Matthew standing in front
of the door, stock-still, eyes full of panic, tightly clutching his backpack.
"Dad," he said.
"You're in late," I said calmly.
"I… Play," he lied softly.
"How did you get home?"
"Um, Miguel drove me." He stood awkwardly, worrying the sleeve of his
sweatshirt. I can't say that I expected anything else when I decided to stay up
and wait for him to come home this night. But, I needed to know
"Is that where you've been this past week or so? I've hardly laid eyes on you."
"Sorry."
"I've been worried about you." I felt a twinge of guilt at that. I hadn't been
that concerned about Matthew's personal safety, not so much as I was about what
he knew or what he could tell someone else.
He shrugged. "I'm fine. Sorry."
"Hm."
He shuffled around awkwardly for a moment, scuffing his feet. "Dad…"
"Yes?"
"I need to talk to you."
I took a deep breath through my nose. "Okay." I gestured with my head towards
the chair across from me. "Sit down and talk."
Chewing on his lip, Matthew walked over to me and lowered himself into the
seat. He sat tensely on the very edge of the chair, as if he was ready to run
at any moment. He blinked at me and wrung his hands.
"Dad…" I had to lean forward to hear his whisper. "…I'm moving out."
I clutched the arms of the chair. "Why are you doing this, Matthew?"
He looked down at his shoes and shook his head. "I… can't stay here."
"Matthew, you've got to be more specific than that."
"I don't feel safe here." He looked at me, and I knew. I saw it in his eyes,
big and soft and blue, but somehow entirely unlike his brother's. I could see
it all, the accusation, horror, betrayal, and utter confusion. I looked away,
and he knew that I knew.
"Where are you going?" I said, more roughly than I intended.
"I'll be staying with Miguel. My boyfriend."
I wished that I were a normal father that could have been angry with his son
for being gay. As it was, I didn't have an inch of moral ground to stand on. I
nodded. "Okay. When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow." He stood up. "Or, today I guess. I'll pack everything up and have
Miguel drive it over. I promise I'll be safe."
"All right."
He hesitated a moment, and then started towards his room.
"Matthew."
He stopped, and looked over his shoulder at me.
"You'll tell your brother." I knew my own weakness. I knew what I couldn't do.
I couldn't tell Alfred that my depravity had lost him his only brother.
I saw Matthew's eyes go wide in the semidarkness. He swallowed audibly. "Yeah.
I'll tell him before I go." He turned back around and kept walking towards his
room.
"Matthew," I repeated. He looked at me again. "I'm sorry," I said in a cracking
voice.
There was a long moment of silence. Then, Matthew whispered, "Yeah. Sorry."
He walked faster and I head the door shut, before I could say anything else. I
leaned back into the chair and pressed my palms into my eyes.
What a father you are. You've turned one son into a lover and driven the other
away. And you don't even feel that sorry, do you? You're relieved that he's not
going to tell on you, and you're almost looking forward to living without him.
Sure, you love him, in a way.
But, he's not Alfred. For his shyness, for his quiet voice, for whatever
reason, he is as unalterably different from his brother as if they were
strangers. Thank God for him.
I got up to make myself a cup of coffee. I knew that I wasn't about to go to
sleep tonight. I remembered Alfred's pout when I told him that I too tired for
tonight.
"Old man," he had teased. I had thrown a pillow at him.
I sighed and leaned over the counter. Alfred would miss his twin brother. But,
he would like being alone and free of scrutiny. And, we shouldn't have expected
Matthew to stay long under this roof, with this going on.
You knew there had to be a consequence for your sin. And here it is. That
destroyed look in Matthew's eyes. That disbelieving shake of his head. That
silent, once-innocent "Why? Why did you do it, Daddy?"
"I'm sorry." I don't know if I said it aloud, but I felt it in my very bones. I
didn't know which child I was speaking to, and I don't know which I owed it to
more.
"I'm sorry."
 
***** Chapter 14 *****
Alfred
It was Saturday, but I woke up early, because Arthur wasn't there in my bed
with me. I sat up, yawned, scrubbed at my eyes, and walked to the bathroom.
There was a note taped to the mirror.
"Gone for breakfast. Be back soon. —Arthur."
I smiled at the note and tucked it into my pocket. I went downstairs to make
myself some coffee.
Matthew's room is right by the base of the stairs, tucked quietly underneath,
out of view. As I moved towards the kitchen, I could hear him moving around
inside. I had nothing better to do, and I had barely spoken to my brother for
days. I opened the door without knocking and stepped inside.
The room was filled with a quiet, kind of chaos that fit my brother, like only
the tiniest ruffle through the neatness and order. It was a lot barer, besides.
He was in the middle of going through his dresser, taking out pieces of
clothing, folding them and placing them in a gym bag on his bed.
He looked up at me, his eyes widened. "Alfred."
"Hey, Matt," I said hesitantly, moving into the room and shutting the door.
"What're you up to?"
"I…" His voice died out and he looked down into the gym bag. I noticed that a
full, heavy backpack was resting by his feet. I realized what he was doing.
"What're you packing for?"
"I…"
"Matt?"
He took a deep breath, worried his sleeves, and sighed. "I… I'm leaving, Al."
I blinked at him. "Leaving where? Is this for a drama thing? Or something?"
"No." he looked up at me with large, sad eyes. "I'm moving out. Permanently,
Alfred. I'm not living here anymore."
I stared. "Matthew… What… Stop it."
"Alfred…"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I shouted, anger covering confusion. A
horrible idea twisted my stomach. "Christ, did Mom call you? You're not going
to live with her, are you? What the hell does she—?"
"I haven't talked to Mom since I was six, Alfred," Matthew mumbled seriously.
"Same as you."
"Then where the hell are you going?"
"I'm going to stay with my boyfriend," he said calmly. "Miguel Carriedo. He
shares a house with his older brother, and he says I can stay with him as long
as I want."
"Jesus Christ, Matt." I walked around the bed and grabbed my brother's
shoulders tightly. "Since when have you been going out with him?"
"A couple of weeks," he mumbled. He tried to squirm away, but I dug my fingers
harder into his arms.
"A couple of weeks," I repeated. "And you're moving in with him? What the hell,
Matt?"
"I need to do this."
I let go of his shoulders and looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean,
Matt? Is that bastard making you do this? Is he—?"
"Miguel's not making me do anything, Al," Matthew said, and his voice was
stronger than usual. He stared at me intently. "I really, really like him, and
he's doing me a big favor, letting me move in with him."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he interrupted me. "Alfred, I have to leave,
because I can't stay here anymore. I can't live in this house. I—" His voice
caught and he shook his head. His fists were clenched and quivering. "I saw
you," he whispered.
My stomach felt empty. My heart went too quick. I couldn't think. "You…?"
"I saw you and Dad," he said more loudly. He looked up at me with streaming
eyes. "I saw you. What you did. How could you?"
He saw you. He knows. He saw you and Arthur fucking. Shit, shit, shit…
"Matt…" I tried to touch him but he pulled away. He turned and went back to his
packing.
"I can't," he muttered. "I'm not gonna tell, but I can't be here. I can't—I
can't be under the same roof as this. I need to get out of here. I need to…"
"Matt, let me explain—" But, I didn't have any explanation for him.
I love my father. I want my father. We've been sleeping together for more than
a year, and I don't feel guilty at all.
"No." He put a handful of socks and underwear into the bag, and then began to
zip it up. "No. I don't want to know. I want to pretend this never happened,
okay? I don't ever want to think about it again. And I can't do that until I
get out of here."
I could see in his expression that there were no excuses and no lies to make
this better. All that I could say was a quiet, "I never meant to hurt you,
Mattie."
Matt leaned over the bed, with his elbows on the gym bag. He sighed again. "I
know, Al."
He let me pull him into a hug this time. He clutched my back and slumped
tiredly against me.
"You won't tell?" I murmured.
I felt him nod. "I'm going to forget," he said flatly.
Me? Will you forget me, brother? Maybe you should. That would be better. I'm
sorry, Mattie. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
We both jumped at the sudden car honk from outside, but there was an undertone
of excitement in Matt's voice when he said, "That's Miguel. I've got to go."
He pulled back and looked around the room. "I think I've got everything."
"I'll get anything you've missed back to you," I said, and my voice seemed
strangle unemotional.
He nodded dully. "Okay." He turned back to me, and I briefly thought that I saw
a flicker of a smile in his mouth, but then it was gone. Still looking at me,
he put the backpack over his shoulders, and then picked up the gym bag. "Good-
bye," he said.
"I—Yeah. Bye."
We both hesitated. The car honked, and again I saw that brief, joyful glimmer
in his eye.
He's happy with this guy. Really happy. This is how you feel with Arthur, but
Matthew has that without fucking his father. He's normal, and he can't stand to
live under the same roof as you. How does that make you feel?
He walked past me to the door, opened it, and walked out into the hallway.
After a second, I followed him. He was standing at the door, paused. I watched
him.
Without turning around, he said, quietly and clearly, "I hope that you're
happy, Alfred."
Before I could decide whether he was being sincere, or bitterly sarcastic, Matt
left the house, closing the door behind him. I stood in the hallway, in my
pajamas, mouth slack, staring at the place where my brother had been.
My hands shook. I made them into fists.
I wanted Arthur here. I wanted him to comfort me and tell me it was all right.
Matt's boyfriend was probably doing that to him, right now.
I hope he does forget. I hope he forgets all about me and Arthur and that
horrible thing he saw. I hope he leaves this house and never comes back. He
just leaves me and Arthur alone, with no watchful eyes, and no sense of right
or wrong to tell us to stop.
The truck was very loud as it pulled away from the curb. I stood there until I
couldn't hear it anymore, and then I walked into the kitchen and turned on the
coffee maker.
The house felt very empty now. I sat in one of the armchairs in the living
room, curled my arms around my chest, and waited for Arthur to come home.
 
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