by neko

We usually make love face to face, but sometimes I want him like this. I can still feel him inside, intimate and knowing, his strong arns wrapped around me. I could happily spend an eternity like this. Surrounded and penetrated, I am controlled and in control. Here, we are equal.

I have always been a shadow to his light, fallen while he rose above. It was never a problem; I quietly observed the successes of others, expressing myself only indirectly through art. He was the focus. Adored by all, he loved only me, and I guarded him selfishly. Even as children, we were closer than any others. I was his weakness and his strength.

Those envious of him knew this, that I alone could break him. He, in turn, broke every one that had touched me and promised worse on any that might again. I still wear the crossed markings of that pain and sin, and he still regrets each time he sees them. Yet that perceived failure brought us closer, joining us then in body as we already had in mind and soul.

The pleasure of that act was indescribable, an exhilerating release of the love and hope and pain and guilt boiling over inside. Even then, I knew that it would be the two of us against the rest of the world, but I didn't care. He has always been so beautiful, inside and out, and this was yet another way to appreciate him. We were always most comfortable together; I could not imagine being with anyone else.

Indeed, when our parents found us in a rather compromising position, they reacted harshly, shocked that their perfect son had lowered himself to my level. Had they not aimed their barbs at me, the matter might have been resolved peaceably, but he responded to their violence in kind, taking us both from that life and home to find our own way. We have never seen them since. Even now, I wonder about them, if they are well, but not often; they abandoned us, and we do not need them.

Long a trusted friend, the young man who would become Illusion took us in, comforted and loved us, helped us to create our theatre. We three moved into the city, left our pasts behind, and made a name for ourselves. It's quite romantic, but the sadness and fear still show through, hinting at a darkness that no-one will admit to.

So we all live our lies, broken boys searching for relief. This pretense is all we will be allowed, but it's enough, for now. And who could tell if it weren't, if we're acting off stage more than on?

A shift of my brother's hips distracts me from my dark thoughts. I feel him hardening again and tighten deliberately, pushing back against him, encouraging, pleading, wanting. He growls quietly into my ear before nipping it, hands gripping and stroking, hips moving faster now. I lose myself in the moans and cries and frantic beats toward ecstasy.

After all, it's only a stage, and we're only players, and when the curtain comes down and the applause is silenced, what is there?