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If there’s one thing Dave is good at, it’s making really terrible comics.
And if there’s one thing Bro is good at, it’s reading those terrible comics.
He might forget to pay the bills, or neglect to buy milk, or stay out for three days without explanation, but he stays on top of Dave’s comic updates without fail. He pays more attention to Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff than to just about anything Dave says or does and maybe that’s not a good thing but Dave has gotten used to it. He’s cool with it.
He makes comics for fun, because he always gets a kick out of it, but it’s knowing that Bro will inevitably read them that makes him work that much harder to create such complete pieces of shit. He churns out these pixelated monstrosities and waits for Bro to react. He can go without seeing the guy for a week straight, because their schedules conflict or just because they’re ignoring each other, but no matter what he’ll always find feedback from Bro in one way or another. A note on the blender, a one-shot message online sent while he’s still passed out from late nights bashing bad games with John, or a simple thumbs up in person. It all comes down to the same idea, always the assertion that Dave did something right.
He feels pretty legitimately good about those comics, which is sort of hilariously sad of him but it’s just something he’s got to deal with. A personal flaw.
He makes comics and waits for a thumbs up and, once he’s safe behind his bedroom door, smiles, out of sight.
When Bro asks him if he wants to try animating some of that artistic gold, he says sure, sort of excited at the prospect. He doesn’t know jack shit about animation, but he figures he can puzzle out the basics and really, it’s not like it’s got to look good. That’s basically the point actually, to not look good.
He gets his hands on the shitty old animation software Bro stole for him (or maybe he just got it from somewhere else but whatever, Dave will just keep thinking his brother got it on a righteous fucking online piracy mission for him,) and sets to work.
He’s got the time to work on it. He’s got a lot of time to himself, actually, and this sort of thing seems like a natural way to pass hours when time differences are keeping his friends offline and he’s bored out of his skull.
The program is pretty simple and the results are pretty hideous. Essentially, perfect.
He creates jumpy, blocky, awful animations from existing comic panels, skewers it all together into a horrible mash of jarring color and quick scene changes. He uses a set of standard sounds, cats yowling and sirens blaring, totally out of place.
He finds an effect called ‘trance,’ the most jarring, hilariously bad set of flashing lights he’s ever seen, and applies it to the title sequence.
He masters the art of seizure inducing animation pretty quick, and tests it out on his friends.
It’s agreed that the resulting cartoon is uncomfortable, possibly damaging to one’s eyesight, and mildly to moderately disorienting.
Jade says she’s seen worse in magical girl transformations, and that he isn’t such a hot shot really.
She follows it with a doofy little smiley face though, thank god, or his pride might be hurt.
He ups the contrast on the last two frames and shuffles them back into the mix, speeds up the bit in the middle until it’s perfect, hideously perfect, and then he posts it.
The next day, when he gets up and wanders into the kitchen there’s a note stuck to the fridge.
Nice. Shit’ll get banned in Japan for sure.
Dave doesn’t think anybody in Japan reads his comic but whatever. The ‘nice’ is all he was going for anyway.
He earns a ‘sweet’ for the next animation, a ‘solid work,’ for the one after that. Bro leaves him notes quoting the same cartoons he just made and it gives him the stupidest sense of pride.
He starts to think animation is the way of the future because fuck still comics, that shit is so old and tired. He can throw all kinds of hilarious business into these little animated ventures and that’s fantastic. He starts splicing random things in with his own drawings, really awkward screen caps of Dawson’s Creek, pictures of pug dogs because why the fuck not. He edits in pieces of an Australian McDonald’s ad from the 90s and thinks it’s a hilarious coincidence when Bro comes home with a bag of cheeseburgers the next night.
But he’s not an idiot. He catches on pretty quick. It’s not exactly a coincidence.
Because after the cheeseburger situation comes the library card situation (Sweet Bro’s room is wallpapered entirely with ‘reading is fun’ posters,) the Gilmore Girls marathon (“Ladiez TV Advepture,”) a night of Bro humming “Till There Was You” and looking really annoyed when he can’t get it out of his head (the music running through the whole five minute cartoon has the chorus on loop, deep and distorted, unrecognizable.)
It’s a series of weird coincidences that he thinks might be jokes until he realizes Bro isn’t laughing.
There’s something else going on.
Dave edits a barely-there image of a bottle of apple juice into the background of every fourth frame of his latest project, and when there’s an unopened bottle of the stuff in their fridge the next day, nestled in next to some swords, he knows he’s not just imagining this.
He checks in with Rose, who regularly reads his blog simply so she can keep his “inflated but ultimately devastatingly fragile” ego under control. When she admits that yes, she has a glass of apple juice in hand and yes, for some reason she did ask her mother to pick up the third season of Gilmore Girls at her earliest convenience, his suspicions are confirmed as fuck.
He’s manipulating his brother with shitty cartoons.
Whoops.
It makes sense, he works out, when he sits down and seriously thinks it through over a glass of juice and a box of vanilla wafers he had jokingly spliced into an animation about ‘bul fightlying’ last week.
It’s how ads on television work, quick bits of information that worm their way into people’s heads and stick, stir some desire for new shoes or a car or something. Except ads on television are 30 seconds long, 15 at the least, not these awkward half-second blips of information in acid toned deformed images and warped sounds.
That’s like….subliminal advertising. Which he’s pretty sure isn’t allowed on TV.
He looks it up and sure enough, that shit is about as legal as driving your car through the front windows of a megamall. Ads can’t contain images that move faster than the eye, and while he’s pretty sure his Bro moves fast as hell in every other regard, his eyes are forced to operate on a human level to keep his brain from overheating. Probably.
Which means he’s been feeding his brother accidental subliminal messages for weeks. Other people to, he realizes, whoever takes the time to read his shitty comics and watch the new animated features.
He wonders how many people he’s got checking out their local libraries and listening to The Music Man, feels a little smug, a little bit special when he thinks that this might actually be a thing.
A thing he’s caused.
He decides to cut out the weird subliminal shit in stuff for the site, since even though it’s kind of cool he figures it could actually cause trouble. He’s responsible like that.
But the next animation he makes, he slips in a suggestion to buy new headphones, throws in a ten second intermission set to ‘trance,’ just an experiment really, and sends it to Bro.
He’s really, really irresponsible like that.
Two days later, he’s got a pair of headphones tossed at him from across the room, lightning fast and aimed to hurt. He half-catches them, saves himself from any serious damage, and when he asks Bro what they’re for, he gets a shrug in response.
“Just thought you’d want them.”
“So you just went out got them for me.”
Bro stares at him like it’s obvious, like he’s an idiot, “…sure.”
“For me.”
“No Dave, I got them for the Albanian lady two floors down.”
“Like a gift.”
Bro frowns, shrugs like, yeah sure whatever.
Interesting.
He experiments some more.
He sends Bro animations with plain text in them, flashed fast behind moving pictures so they’re barely there, not even noticeable.
bring home pizza
sell the pink smuppet
call out today
It’s not until he’s nibbling pepperoni at a thankfully smuppet free counter with his bro, home today for no particular reason, that he feels sure of it.
Of course that doesn’t mean he’s not worried as fuck. He figures Bro is on to him, must know what’s going on. He’s going to turn around any second and flick Dave in the ear and tell him he’s a pretentious little douchebag trying to trick him like that, maybe secretly admire the attempt just a little, he hopes.
But the moment never comes and he just gets more daring.
cancel your date
stay home
watch a movie
take down the death traps
Text on repeat in a flash in a background so blinding with lens flare effects that you can’t tell one scene from the next but it works, it comes together and the next night Dave finds himself on the couch with his Bro, watching some awful Canadian film where a woman’s husband is secretly a serial killer having an affair with the nanny, mocking the script at every turn- just plain hanging out for the first time in a long time and it feels good. It’s a nice change.
He starts to wonder what else he can change.
He throws together a series exclusively about Peaches the dog, a three part special focusing on the finer points of him being a swell goddamn pooch, warps it all under a trance setting and sends the finished products to his brother, waits impatiently.
say bye when you leave
Bro calls a quick ‘see you later’ as he flashsteps out.
put the puppets away
Bro packs them all up, all but Lil Cal, and leaves them in a box in the corner.
get a gift
Bro drops a bag of black and white film in his lap and shrugs it off, sort of uncomfortable when he says he just thought he’d want some, maybe needed it or something.
Which is incredible and weird because Dave didn’t even have to specify who or what. Bro just automatically got something for him, something he, would like, and he’s not sure if it’s because they’re his animations to start with or if Bro is just used to dealing with him more than anyone else or what but it’s really cool.
Really cool and really addictive.
come home early
sleep in you need it
give him a hug
He’s pushing it with that last one and he knows it, but that’s kind of the point. It’s not the kind of thing Bro does, not since he was like five and giving a half-hearted shoulder to shoulder bump of affection was necessary to keep him feeling like he was just as good as all the other kids in his class, the ones with mothers who squeezed them too close and fathers who picked them up and gave them these awful, squishy, bearded bear hugs.
It’s not even like it’s something he really wants. He’s too old for it and it’s pretty lame anyway, who even hugs anymore? A simple fist bump is the way to go, maybe a high five if you’re feeling old fashioned, but a hug? Bullshit.
Convincing himself of how little he wants it doesn’t make him feel any less weird and warm and tight inside when Bro gets home and drops his house key on the counter, comes up behind him at the futon and just looks at him awkwardly, seeming to shift from one foot to the other before leaning down, slipping his arms around his shoulders, giving him this quick, tight squeeze that makes Dave hold onto his game controller for dear life.
He forgets to breathe for a second and then it’s over, Bro is walking away and doing his own thing, ignoring him again, looking distracted.
Dave sits alone and tries to face the fact that maybe a hug is something he really does want. Maybe something he needs.
Hella Jeff gets locked in a laundromat for a month long saga of epic proportions while Sweet Bro is on a fucking holiday in the Bahamas (bamahas) and that little shit of a squirrel stores a metric ton of weed in their house.
share the couch
dont be a dick
hug him
hug him a lot dammit
They share space on the futon, though Dave sits closer than he really has to.
Bro asks if he needs quarters for something, looking confused even as he says it and it takes a minute but then Dave remembers, shakes his head.
Hella Jeff needs quarters, not him. All those conksuck machines are totesally useless without any damn BREAD.
But hey, the messages get mixed sometimes and that’s okay. As long as Bro still leans over and puts an arm around him in a half-hug that Dave is willing to complete, it’s okay.
When he presses against his brother’s chest though, tries to finagle them into a near snuggle, that’s not okay. Bro won’t go for it, gives Dave a little nudge when he gets too close and tells him he’s being fucking clingy.
For a second he looks like he might really shove Dave, twist his arm and remind him who’s in charge, but he seems to reconsider, frowning and looking back at the television to get lost in a mini-documentary about jet propulsion.
Grudgingly, Dave backs off.
He animates Sweet Bro on the way back from the bamahas on a plane full of snakes and sharks and tries to fix things.
touching is okay
cuddling is okay
you can cuddle
if you want to
which you do
And the next time he gets Bro on the couch he can put his arms around the other’s neck, press his cheek to his chest and Bro holds him securely, doesn’t even look up from the television when Dave squeezes him a little tighter, lets go, a little tighter, lets go, like a pulse.
In the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to finish radiating their food, he hugs Bro and Bro hugs back, unquestioning. But when he moves to nuzzle into the other’s neck, there’s some hesitation.
“Kinda weird, bro,” He says, cool as ever, straightforward, the barest hint of confusion behind his words.
Dave gets sick of that shit pretty fast.
So when he animates “Geromy Meets the Aliens part 2 or something,” he goes for something broader, turns on the trance effect halfway through and matches a word to each pulse of light and sound.
its all good
touching is okay
not weird
all good
just go with it
And then it’s not a problem anymore.
He nuzzles into his brother’s neck and keeps close to him, keeps him home at night and on the couch with him, sharing a bag of Fritos and when Dave scooches backward into his lap, curls up like the most contented kitten in all of cat town, his Bro doesn’t say a damn thing about it. He pets Dave’s hair which is something he didn’t even ask for, insist, whatever, and the fact that it’s coming from left field makes him positively shuddery, inside and out.
He kisses Bro’s palm, just above the leather of his gloves, on the bend of his fingers, and his brother pulls his hand away slightly, unsure.
Dave grabs his hand back, murmurs against his skin, “Just go with it,” and Bro does.
He catches Bro on the way out of the apartment in the morning, before he even gets to say goodbye.
He kisses him on the cheek, very lightly on the mouth, and when Bro looks at him quizzically, definitely a touch more than hesitant, Dave stutters, fumbles, searches for the right words until he swears it’s all good.
“It’s all good,” he promises, puts his hands up in defense, and after a second Bro smiles, smirks, kisses his cheek in return and leaves.
Leaves him churning in a pit of worry and weirdness and absolute rapture.
He drops down in front of his computer and starts drawing, stops halfway through, feeling sick with himself, and starts up again late in the day, works in the words he hopes will keep him from the brink of flipping the fuck out.
its all good
just listen
listen to him
just go with it
He works slower, stays shut up in his room a while, and when Bro finally knocks on his door, two quick taps against the thin wood, Dave shuts off his monitor and lets him in, lets himself be held.
Days later he kisses Bro again, backed against his turntables and pushing a well-meaning embrace a little too far, and this time Bro doesn’t move away. He doesn’t look hesitant.
He doesn’t look like much of anything at all and Dave has to urge him forward, feels weird doing it.
“It’s okay,” He assures, murmuring the words an inch away from his brother’s lips, breathless from his own nerves, jittery and unsure even as he speaks with conviction, “It’s all good, just…kiss me.”
He brushes his lips to Bro’s again and finally there’s a response. He relaxes (Dave hadn’t even realized how tense he was,) cups Dave’s cheek with one gloved hand and tips his head back, kisses him deeper than Dave really knows how to kiss anyone.
He goes with it though, the same way Bro is going with it, stumbles his way through a lesson in how to work two mouths together in a way that feels amazing, so their teeth don’t clack and his tongue slides over Bro’s, makes them both shudder.
He gasps and backs off, feeling too hot, and when Bro frowns and asks if he’s okay Dave says it’s all good.
He doesn’t push any further because he’s not sure if he wants to. He’s half hard inside too-tight jeans and of course he’s wondering if he could convince Bro to give him a handjob, to just go with it, but the idea freaks him out a little so he lets it go.
He gets himself off instead, safe in his bedroom, and puts together a mental list of commands.
kiss him
kiss him you want to
you want him so bad
just go for it
go with it
He dangles a sticky hand over the side of his bed and rattles off a mental list of pleas.
dont think too hard, please
dont hate me for this, please
just love me please, please, please love me
They don’t make it to the final cut of his next SB+HJ installment.
He runs into Bro late at night, out in the hallway, and even in the dark his brother doesn’t look right.
He flips on a light and is startled to see him without his shades. They’re folded up neatly and shoved in the pocket of his pants, and the eyes on display are heavy lidded, pink creeping into the whites and when Bro blinks at him for a moment like he’s never seen him before in his life, he realizes he’s stoned.
Which doesn’t make sense because Bro stopped smoking years ago, sat him down and told him when he quit even, saying it was basically a giant waste of time, screws you up in a strife, and Dave’s never seen him looking anything less than sober since.
He remembers the jokes in his comics, in his cartoons, and cringes.
That fucking squirrel and its metric ton of weed. Shit. Why did he ever think that would be funny?
He nods in his brother’s direction, a silent greeting, figuring he’ll just let him take a long shower or sleep this off or whatever it is he’s supposed to do, but Bro says his name, sort of slow, really heavy, like he’s got bad news or big news, something, and steps forward to touch him.
He puts a hand on Dave’s shoulder, backs him up so he’s against the wall and then suddenly he’s on him. He kisses Dave like he wants him, needs him, works a hand under his shirt and drags at him, scratches the skin, pinches a nipple so hard Dave actually squeaks and it’s not until Bro is halfway down his neck, biting dark, angry spots into his skin that Dave gets his footing and gasps out,
“Stop!”
Bro stops. He looks at Dave with tired, pink rimmed eyes and doesn’t say anything at all.
Dave swallows hard. His neck is stinging. He’s flushed as fuck and uncomfortably hard, breathing in, out, shaky as he says, softer, “N-not right now.”
And for half a second Bro looks like he’s going to argue the point, like he’s going to pounce again and break Dave down into a million whimpering little pieces, but then he slides his hand out from under his shirt and steps back, lets his arms hang limp at his sides.
“Just…just…” Dave starts, and Bro tenses, watches him, suddenly alert, but when he finishes with, “Go to bed. Okay? Just go to bed,” Bro loses his marine-stiff posture, nods and runs a hand back through his hair, displaces his hat, sleepy and frowning with confusion.
“Yeah…yeah alright.”
He walks back down the hall to his room and once he’s on the futon, Dave creeps back to his own bed, heart pounding.
He flops face down into his pillow and listens to the low, throbbing pulse in his head, ignores the feel of the one in his dick.
He’s not going to kiss his brother while he’s high. He just can’t.
That would be wrong.
…more wrong.
Dave doesn’t make any more drug related jokes in his comics. He’s more careful about the jokes he makes in general, really.
He doesn’t even put any suggestive text behind his newest animation, leaves it alone for a while, and when he crawls across his brother’s body while he’s stretched out on the futon and murmurs that it’s all good, the muscles under his hands tense. He whispers the words into his ear again and says that now is a good time, and he’s just so relieved to see that the Bro is still receptive.
He tells Bro to kiss him like he did in the hallway, like he wants him, because he does want him, right?
Bro answers in a quick, sharp ‘yes,’ pulls Dave close and turns him over, presses him up against the back of the futon and his hands are under Dave’s shirt in seconds, shoving the fabric up and his body down, pinning him so when he kisses him hard on the mouth Dave’s got nowhere to go. He’s trapped, breathless and overwhelmed, dizzy off the sensation. He struggles to keep up and when Bro rocks his hips forward, leaves him gasping, Dave breaks away and tells him to hold the fuck on.
Bro stops. Stares at him.
Dave stares back, bent at an odd angle against the back of the futon, already getting a crick in his neck, and asks if Bro wants him, really wants him.
His brother rocks his hips and confirms it, “Fuck yes.”
Dave shifts, cracks his neck and works himself under Bro’s body, lays flat on his back and breathes as deep as he can with the weight of another person on him, and asks why.
Why does he want him?
His brother’s brow furrows and for an awful second he thinks he’s going to say ‘because you told me to.’
Which really, if it were anyone else, if it were some random guy and Dave was just fucking around, would be awesome. It’d be delicious and twisted and he’d be perfectly happy pretending like he’s good at being in control, like he can handle a little power.
But this is Bro and it’s different.
“Because you’re you.”
Because he’s him.
The him, the one in the acid-green and stark black and blinding white flashes of text that come too fast.
Because he’s telling him to but whatever, this is Bro and it’s different. He’s not some brainless, desperate freak lusting over him or something, he’s just
He’s different.
“You want to fuck me,” Dave says, not a question, and after a moment of pause, consideration, Bro slides a hand up to hold his hip, answers, “Yeah.”
It’s a little hollow, a little lost. It’s missing something but whatever, just whatever. Dave tells him to do it then, fuck him, the way he does to other people. Girlfriends or boyfriends or one night stands, whatever it is he does with his sex life outside of looking at weird shit online.
Which maybe is sort of a bad move on Dave’s part because Bro does as he’s told and treats Dave just like he were anyone else, like he’s a fuck buddy , not an inexperienced, quietly terrified teenager.
He wants this, he does, it’s just- Bro moves too fast, not even flashstep fast, just a normal speed but Dave doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s doing and he can’t keep up. He can’t take the rough bites and frantic undressing, the slick press of fingers inside him and he has to beg, no, tell Bro to stop. To wait.
He tells him to treat him like a goddamn blushing virgin instead because he basically is, and that’s a little better, not much.
He gets a condescending smirk and a low laugh, careful fingers finding his prostate and pressing, rubbing, dragging the most damning, humiliating noises from him, teasing till he’s going mad and digging his nails into the couch to keep from screaming.
He tells Bro to just, to just, fuck, ugh, just treat him like, dammit he doesn’t know, just treat him like himself, like Dave, and Bro’s smug confidence drops into nothing.
His expression is blank, more than a poker face, a void of emotion that twinges only slightly with uncertainty, turns to discomfort.
“…treat you like Dave.”
“Fuck, yeah, sure, why not?”
Breathing hard, Dave looks up and sees the tightness in his brother’s jaw, the tense set of his shoulders and he remembers why not.
Because he’s Dave, the little brother, the meteor baby, the pain in the ass eating up time and money and probably never really doing well enough and Bro would not fuck Dave.
Panic claws at his throat and he rushes to correct himself.
“Wait! W-wait, no just- Listen-“ He watches Bro straighten up, like he’s picked up on some unknown radio signal and he struggles to remember the words he’s used before, the exact ones, “Fuck, just, just listen. It’s all good. Just….go with it. It’s okay.” He swallows, wets his lips, wriggles his hips just a little as he speaks lower, “You want me- him. Him. You want him so bad. So fucking bad. Just listen. Just…go with it.”
It’s probably more than he needs to say, but once it’s all out, Bro moves without thinking, without pause, ducks down to kiss him and Dave moans his relief into the dark of his brother’s mouth.
“Haven’t made anything in a while, huh?”
Dave looks up from the enormous psychology book Lalonde sent him, the one he’s laboring through just so he can pretend to have not read it for years and then pull out a direct quotation when she’s least expecting it, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.
“Comics, dunkass,” Bro says, “You’re slacking.”
Dave scoffs, shrugs, says he’ll get around to it.
“Rude to keep your adoring public on pins and needles, bro.”
Dave puts down the book, glances at his brother from across the room.
He doesn’t have much of an adoring public. Maybe just one really big fan, and that’s a complicated matter on its own.
“Hn. Just haven’t been in the mood to make anything new.”
Because it’s been a while since he put together an animation and Bro is acting more and more normal, less like he’s waiting for a word, a phrase, more like himself.
And Dave likes him as himself.
But being himself means that he’s not cuddling Dave on the couch, accepting a kiss without complaint, pressing him up against the wall of the shower and making him stifle a shout in the palm of his own hand so it won’t echo off tiled walls. He’s not stripping down to nothing but his shades because Dave tells him to, letting Dave climb into his lap, still dressed from a trip to the store, sneakers on even, holding him steady as he works his hips and demands praise.
It means he’s treating him like Dave and even if he is still being nice, stops and tenses and listens when Dave says to listen, it’s not enough.
He tries to start reading again, looks the same two sentences over five times before he gives up, closes the book with a sigh and changes the subject of a conversation dropped over a minute ago.
“So listen,” he says, and Bro turns to look at him, drops the freaky plush thing he’s been sewing all afternoon, tense and focused, “I was just wondering something stupid. I mean, really stupid,” He almost wants to ramble, keep babbling and get a rhythm going and see how long it takes for the initial effect of that attention grabbing word to wear off, but he knows he should just cut to the chase so he does, “But be honest. Do you love me?”
Not want, just love.
“Sure,” Bro answers, and he sounds like himself, lightly amused and like he might just follow that answer up with an insult. Something inside Dave uncoils, calms.
“…and do you want me?”
Bro tenses again, looks like he might jump into action, jump Dave right in his rolling chair and make him a mess.
Dave rolls himself over, saves Bro the trouble. He only lets him take one kiss, two, three before he pulls away and shifts in his seat, drapes himself sideways across the chair so he can rest his head in his brother’s lap, close his eyes as he asks, “Did you always want me?”
He knows the answer before he hears it,
“…no.”
Of course not. Of course not of course not why would he, that would be stupid, he’s an idiot for even asking, he’s setting himself up for failure but he can’t stop.
“Why not?”
Bro snorts a cold laugh and the calm, uncoiled thing inside Dave curls back in on itself, makes his stomach ache, “You’re just a kid.”
Dave flushes, tries to correct him, “Was a kid.”
He’s grown, he’s in that gray area between child and adult and hey, in some countries he’d be married with kids right now probably.
If he wasn’t romantically involved with his brother.
If this even counts as being romantically involved.
He opens his eyes and glares up through two sets of shades, waiting.
Bro half-laughs, says, “Sure.”
“Listen,” Dave says sharply, fixing it, and when Bro is definitely listening he tells him, “I’m not a kid.”
“ ‘Course not,” Bro agrees, all seriousness.
Of course not.
Of course not but it doesn’t hurt to reinforce that fact, or any other facts.
“Touching is okay, you know,” Dave reminds him, and Bro’s fingers thread instantly through his hair, pet him gently, soothingly, keep on petting as Dave reconfigures and ends up on the floor, nuzzles his cheek into his brother’s lap, teases him until he’s flushed and panting and Dave thinks he can get away with anything.
Bro’s hands guide him as learns to use his tongue, learns to swallow and suck and not gag. They stroke his cheek, his neck, and Bro murmurs that he wants him so bad, so bad, over and over, until Dave stops and takes a breath and corrects him.
Then Bro murmurs that he loves him, so much, so fucking much, over and over, and it’s hollow and halting with heat, broken off in places and Dave tries hard to not care.
.
.
.