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There was something beautiful about places where you would only find the worst of the worst that humanity could give. A bar full of laughter and alcohol sloshed messily from the tall glass; the light barely touching a tragedy in their veins; a silent bartender with hardened knuckles; pretty women with sharp claws and misery in their backbones; children who grew up too fast, who drew knives from the sheaths as easily as breathing; a lone man with empty eyes, tracing the rim of his beer bottle with a sort of detachment that made him look honest—made him look broken.
Jake sucked in a deep breath full of desperation and wickedness, let his legs carry him to where Steven was sitting on the corner of the bar. His baby brother looked like an absolute shit, and Jake knew that Steven would smell like one, too. He didn’t give a fuck about what his brother did, but it was hard not to slip in the questions here and there about Steven’s wellbeing. Jake knew he wasn’t eating well, that he tried eating steak that one time and threw up on the side of the road; knew that he slept restlessly and his screams often times echoed through the corridor; knew that he kept getting fired from one job to another because he couldn’t focus enough; knew that things started going downhills when Steven finally, finally caught wind of Marc’s whereabout and had his relief and triumph promptly trampled down by the news of his marriage.
Jake remembered what their momma used to call his brothers: monsters, she would say, pointing her trembling fingers at Marc, who was shielding a crying Steven behind his back. Jake would watch from afar, tapping his finger against the banister and smiling bitterly to himself when Marc closed his eyes as Momma’s hand collided with his cheek. He was used to this—they all were. It was like a morning routine: Momma would stare with an empty gaze with a bottle of wine clutched between her fingers, Marc and Steven would stumble upon her, and the moment she saw them, saw the monster who had killed her precious RoRo and another face so painfully similar to Marc’s, innocent yet condemned all the same, then violence would fill every inch of the house until no one could breathe properly.
The problem with them was that Marc and Steven were idiots. Jake got slapped instead of Marc, kicked to his stomach until he retched, and he stopped coming anywhere near Momma. He learned, and he learned quick: a mother’s sorrow was unstoppable, unending. Dad could say all the bullshit he wanted about Momma getting better, but Jake knew better. They were all too afraid, too guilty to ever put a stop to her suffering. So, he spent his days learning how to throw punches, how to bite down on his cigarette when his lips were trembling from uninvited turmoil, how to blend in seamlessly between the crowds and listen in on what sort of things they would say when they thought that no one was listening. He didn’t care much about others, but there was this sort of voyeuristic satisfaction of knowing others’ secrets when his own were too heavy to bear.
Marc and Steven, the idiots, stayed. Momma might blame Marc, Dad might despair at Marc’s stubbornness, but Jake knew that it was all Steven’s fault. See, the thing was, Steven had a heart too soft, too lovely for the world he was born into. It was a fatal flaw, and Marc was the one who had to pay for it. Their oldest brother, who had taken to Steven like a moth to flame—instinctive, natural, as if there was nothing else he could do better than gravitating towards his baby brother with his whole being; who had loved RoRo all the same, yet unable to deny the favoritism that seemed to be inherent; who condemned all three of them just because they shared the same face.
Jake wanted to say that he hated Marc, but it was hard to truly hate someone who had never been there in your life. It was funny, now that he looked back to his early days, how the tasteless joke about forgotten middle child rang true in their family. He didn’t know whether he should be mad at Marc for not being a good enough brother to him, or at Steven for unknowingly taking all of Marc’s attention and affection for himself. He supposed he should be mad at Momma and Dad, too, for not trying hard enough, for not being selfless enough—for letting their family break apart at the seams, turning a blind eye with grief as the sole justification.
(But sometimes, the only one Jake was mad at was himself. He thought that maybe Steven knew, that maybe it was the reason why Steven always held him so close, as if Jake was breaking apart, each time they met.)
So, he didn’t say anything in the end, deciding to follow his parents’ footsteps and looking away when Marc screamed from inside his room, and Steven was wailing as he pounded on the locked door with his tiny fists. It was akin to seeing a renaissance tragedy, ones painted so beautifully on canvases and the ceilings of cathedrals. It was hilariously dramatic, for some reason. Perhaps because Jake saw it all through the eyes of a bystander, watching with detached interest at his brothers’ descend into madness, into the abyss. It was hard not to come to the conclusion that their childhood would destroy Marc into pieces, and with him, Steven. What emerged from the abyss years later would be an abomination that no one else would be able to bear witness to.
Jake watched it happen, the start of something twisted and entwined between Marc and Steven. He was there when Marc stopped curling on the floor and started fighting back, when he slowly turned from an abused child into a feral animal, trapped and cornered and baring fangs dripping with poisons. Marc wanted to flee, wanted it all to end, Jake could tell. But while Steven was unquestionably devoted to Marc, he was also reluctant to leave their parents.
Steven was born out of impossibilities. The ultrasound only ever showed two embryos, and yet he still came out to the cruel world, crying and carrying a heart he wore on his sleeves, dripping red and fractured. He was weak, both in body and will; Marc was the only one he would ever fight for, belying his gentle nature and tenderness. But Momma loved Steven so dearly, before RoRo—Steven, her miracle child, her angel, sent from heaven to balance out the brewing violence within Marc and Jake.
(Jake used to think the same way, but then he grew up, and Steven gave him enough reasons to believe otherwise.)
Steven was reluctant to let the memories of his mother go, the mother who loved them all without questions, who wouldn’t raise her hand and wouldn’t say such vindicating truths with clear intent to hurt, to destroy her child to the roots. He wasn’t blind, Jake knew this as much, but he was indecisive, and this hesitation was what brought them to the night when Marc packed his things and walked out of the door without ever looking back, even when Steven had begged on his knees.
He wondered, if he were to ask about it now, when Steven was surrounded by the bottles, looking like he was a touch away from breaking into a million, unsalvageable pieces, what would be his baby brother’s reaction? Would he cry, like he did so many times since Marc left? Would he be silent and stew in his guilt and repressed anger? Would he look at Jake with disappointment and hurt? Would he finally retaliate against all the pain that he managed to box inside for far too long?
Jake was used to gathering information, trade it for the right price, no matter where that information might end up in, who it would end up with. He understood the thirst for knowledge, though his reasoning was less personal, and more of a habit built over the years from his job. But there was something utterly fascinating about figuring someone out, see what made them tick, how to make them speak, what exchange had to be given to balance out the scale of giving and receiving. For all their lives, he had known what Steven was like. And yet, there were still unseen variables that hadn’t been brought to the table, and something in Jake itched to find out what the consequences of rousing those hidden secrets would be.
He kept his curiosity close to his chest, and his gun even closer. Steven wasn’t a threat, not yet, but his baby brother seemed to have this uncanny ability of attracting danger when left unattended, and he had been left alone for too long, save for sparse contacts Jake had established within the years. It wasn’t enough, for someone who needed a lot of attention and love the way Steven was, but Jake wasn’t Marc. He wasn’t there to be a knight in matted armors—no, he was just there for mere curiosity.
After all, Marc and Steven were two sides of the same coin, and Jake knew that Marc turned out to be a monster in the end, just like what their mother had said. It was only natural to question whether Steven would end up the same, or even worse.
There had been people eyeing Steven, counting with Jake on how many bottles the man had downed. It was impressive, in a sort of pathetic way, that sweet little Steven who would only treat himself to more than two glasses of wine on special days, would end up to be this inebriated, lost in heartbreak and denial. Jake hid his mocking smile and sat in front of Steven when he saw that one of the men who had been watching his baby brother tried to make a move. Steven might be a mess, but at the very least, in a sort of faraway, almost unacknowledged way, he was still Jake’s mess. Kind of.
Steven looked up, and for a heartbeat, his eyes widened. Jake grimaced; he could see it in Steven’s eyes, almost in a slow motion, how his baby brother’s hope rose through the haze, only to be pushed back into the murky water when he realized that it wasn’t Marc he was seeing. He couldn’t quite hide the tremble of his lips, the heavy sigh he let out as he smiled half-heartedly.
“Jake,” he slurred, trying to grab at him, and failing miserably. He knocked several bottles down to the floor instead, and they shattered without any care of the state of their previous holder was in. The sound should be loud, but it was drowned instead by the noises in the bar. Some people still eyed them with distaste, and Jake gave them a sharp grin, adorned with teeth and visible threats. They looked away pretty quickly after that. “I miss—I missed you,” Steven mumbled, still not giving up in his quest to hug him.
“Wrong brother, Stevie,” he sneered, but took Steven’s arms nonetheless. Time to haul this little shit out of his pool of misery and cheap beer. “You smell like shit.”
The idiot actually frowned at that, attempting to smell his armpits awkwardly. He couldn’t quite reach them, but he did defend himself with, “I showered this morning.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Jake replied, not really looking at Steven as he navigated them through the crowd. “Gotta remind you that it was twenty hours ago.”
“Oh, bollocks. It’s that late?” Steven blinked, then sighed. His breath smelled like shit, just like what Jake had told him. Stubborn little shit. “I forgot to feed Gus.”
“That one-finned fish?” he asked as they stepped into the sidewalk. “He’s still alive?”
“Of course he’s alive,” Steven said, offended. “I take care of him well.”
“Too bad you can’t say the same about yourself,” Jake laughed, and unceremoniously dumped Steven into the backseat of his taxi. “Now shut up and don’t throw up on my car. I’ll throw you out of your sad apartment building if you do.”
“Don’t know if I can,” Steven said honestly, already gagging from the sudden change of position. Jake rolled his eyes and opened the door from the other side, pulling Steven out and letting him puke all over the pavement. He graciously stepped away from the danger zone, pulling out his cigarette and flicking his lighter as he waited for his brother to finish throwing everything in his stomach back out. The acrid scent was familiar to him, though it had never stopped being unpleasant. As Steven started dry heaving, he crouched down to pat the man’s back, gentler than he expected himself to be. “I feel like my mouth has gone through seven different tours to world’s nastiest dumpsters.”
“What’s so different than usual, then?” he asked, just to be an asshole.
Steven’s lips curled, but he didn’t say anything as Jake pulled him upright. He kept his silence as they drove through the night, the windows open to let fresh air into the car. It smelled like cigarettes and sweat inside because Jake hadn’t cleaned it, but Steven didn’t complain like he usually did. Instead, he just leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His hair was windswept and he looked even more disheveled now. Jake glanced at him from the rearview mirror, and reached into the compartment for some tissues and water. “Clean yourself,” he said, throwing them towards Steven’s prone figure.
His brother didn’t open his eyes as he chugged down the water, and wiped his mouth and forehead with the tissues. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at Jake with a certain kind of coldness that was only present in his eyes when he was too inebriated to manage his manner, to let out his gentleness and kindness out of the cage of his broken heart.
He didn’t say anything, still. But Jake knew that he would. He always did each time this happened. Sometimes, it was when he was still surrounded by the bottles; sometimes, it was in the car; sometimes, it was in the elevator, as they waited for it to reach the correct floor, eyeing each other from the mirror; sometimes, it was within the empty corridors where the walls were listening, yet uncaring. This time, it was when Jake had him against the door, holding him upright as Steven collapsed into him.
“I missed him,” he whispered, like he always did.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said brusquely.
Steven sighed, and leaned his head on Jake’s shoulder. “He’s married, with this beautiful, smart, amazing woman. I think he’s happy, now.”
“Should I pretend that I care?”
Steven didn’t answer for some time, before he looked up, the same cold look in his eyes—eyes that were too sharp and clear on someone who was supposed to be drunk, as he said, “Yeah.”
Jake laughed, high and mocking. It didn’t deter Steven, it never did. Instead, he waited, and Jake wondered just when exactly did he get roped into this twisted game that his brothers had started. Was it when he started noticing that Marc’s touches lingered on Steven? Was it when Steven started following Jake around, asking for lessons in fighting because Marc refused to hit his beloved baby brother? Was it when he walked out of his room one day and heard the way Steven speak so softly, so lovingly as he tended to Marc’s wounds and bruises?
(And maybe, just maybe, it was when Steven looked at him in the eyes, and Jake saw no one but himself in his gaze. Not Marc, not the person Steven would bend and give the world for, no one but Jake—the forgotten child, the one whose fist had collided with too many faces, who knew all the secrets within their house, and never said anything about them. But he felt like he was seen that day, and perhaps, he was still a child inside, yearning for love, reaching out for a helping hand that never came.)
Jake could never tell, he never did.
And yet, as he thought that he was a bigger fool than any of them, he put Steven down and cupped his face gently, nosing around his jaw and whispered, “Want me to slick back my hair and pretend that I’m Marc, too? Pretend that you’re the only that ever mattered, that you’re the only one I want? Want me to say that I love you, baby brother?”
There was a hitch in Steven’s breath. It was the first time Jake had ever pushed this far. He was mean, they both knew that. It was something born out of anger and abandonment, of a child who grew up too fast, thrown into the harsh world while his family was too busy living up the telenovela inside that bleak house. Surprisingly, it was Steven who knew just how angry, how cruel Jake could be, had become. There was a certain thrill in knowing that a part of himself was discovered, that after so many secrets were kept within his callused fingertips, it was his turn to have one of his own being held by someone else.
“I…” Steven began, closing his eyes when Jake traipsed up to share a breath with him.
Steven was beautiful, that alone was plain to see. Perhaps, not in the most conventional ways. It was akin to seeing a lonely child, a bird with its wing broken, the haze of mist in the dawn, the heartache that was so apparent yet so muted. He was lovely in all the wrong ways, and Jake could understand why Marc was so enticed by this man. This person who shared the same blood, the same face, the same kind of twisted fate as they all did.
But Jake had never loved Steven the way Marc did. Maybe that was the reason why this realization still made him breathless for a split second. But above all, it was the way Steven was so helpless, yet so determined; so pure, yet so tainted. A power over someone else always felt so heady, no matter where the source came from. And Steven had always surrendered so beautifully, hadn’t he? Enough to make Jake yield, enough to make him keep seeking his baby brother out whenever he was too lost in sorrow to ever pretend that he was alright, that he didn’t miss Marc dearly the way he was missing a stolen heartbeat—enough to touch him gently, pretend that Jake wasn’t a replacement and Steven wasn’t the bane of all of their existence.
“I miss you, mi vida. I’ve missed you so dearly,” he whispered, slow and tantalizing, caressing the shell of Steven’s ear until he shuddered. His eyes were closed, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, and Jake wondered if he ever looked like this: delicate, fragile, begging to be tarnished. “I always think about you, when we’re apart. Your eyes, your lips, your heart—don’t you want to remind me of how they taste like on my tongue?”
There was still a touch of objection, of hesitation, in the way Steven clutched at his shoulders. Jake knew better than anyone that Steven was too kind to ever admit that he had imagined Marc in Jake’s place all this time; that he had never wanted to hurt someone else more than he already did. But this longing that he cradled between his lungs, the desires that he held in the cusp of his trembling palms, they had existed for far too long inside him.
On some days, Jake didn’t know who to blame for that. Whether it was Marc, who had started all of this, or Steven, for taking his brother’s hand in their descend to the land of the damned. All he knew, was that he was a fool for partaking in this madness; willingly, voluntarily.
Was it for curiosity, he wondered? Or was it because Steven had wormed his way deeper than Jake could anticipate, staying under his skin, undetected yet felt all the same?
(He knew, but he had never let himself admit the truth—he never did.)
No, he could read on the tip of Steven’s tongue, ready to fall down. Yet he swallowed it, and pulled Jake closer, closer still, and whispered, “Please.”
“Anything, mi amor. Anything for you,” Jake said, and he thought to himself that he could pretend that he meant what he said. It wasn’t something new. Steven was impressively perceptive about the oddest of things, and Jake had gotten really good at acting this wretched thing out. What really made him surprised was the slightest touch of sincerity in his voice. It was another question of whether he did it for Steven’s sake, or if Jake was slowly losing touch of his impeccable control in this game.
“Then- then touch me,” Steven begged, eyes wide and lashes brushing gently against his skin. “Hold me, please.”
“You can call me by his name,” Jake told him, because Steven usually did by this point.
He cradled his baby brother’s face when there was no answer instead of the immediate complacency. This was something different, something that he should nip at the bud before he was paralyzed by the thorns. But the shine of determination, of self-loathing, of desperation in Steven’s eyes made him dizzy, made it a little difficult to speak properly.
“No,” Steven said softly, looking down as his fingers played with the short hair on Jake’s nape. “I want—I want you to touch me.”
Then why couldn’t you say my name, little dove?
He looked at Steven—the slope of his nose, a bit crooked from a fight that none of his brothers knew about, not until years later, at least; his jaw, clean shaven because Steven surprisingly had the best hygiene between the three of them; his lips, bitten-red and wanting. Even after years of watching this man from afar, knowing things that no one else knew about him, there were still things that caught Jake off-guard.
He didn’t say anything, but he put down his hat, and set his fingers to unbutton Steven’s shirt, slowly, gauging his reaction. His brother sighed out something close to relief, something close to a sob. He cupped Jake’s face when the shirt slid down from his shoulders, leaning forward with no finesse nor gentleness. This was one of the things that unsettled him—how Steven’s desperation was able to change his demeanor completely, how it made him the most honest he could ever be.
The kiss was sloppy, messy in all the best ways, because by now Jake already knew how Steven liked to be kissed. Slowly, thoroughly, as if he was being devoured; the way Steven surrendered control yet still demanded for a lot more was enough to drive him crazy, sometimes. A little nip on his lip, the tangle of tongues, the whispers of pretty lies between their breaths, Jake had mastered them all, had known how to play Steven’s body like an instrument he was trying to break to create the most beautiful melody.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered into the crook of Steven’s neck, an endearment so familiar to both of them, though remembered differently.
It was the summer of their middle school, when Marc didn’t come home fast enough to stop Momma’s hand from marring Steven’s body with misplaced bruises. Jake flicked his lighter, open and close, open and close, as Steven bit down his sobs, and Marc took care of him with careful fingers and reverent whispers. Promises of protecting him, of staying by his side; confessions of how Steven was the most important thing in Marc’s life, of how he was the only one.
Sweetheart, Marc had said, cradling Steven’s face, pulling him close, the way Jake snapped his lighter close, and walked away with another secret held between his fingers.
“Sweetheart,” he repeated, years later, after Marc had broken all of his promises, and Steven reacted the way he did the first time. A hitch in his breath, yearning so apparent on his face, greedy fingers pulling Jake down as they stumbled to the bed.
The kiss turned rough, animalistic in its haste to deepen, to devour, to consume the heat burning bright in their guts in its entirety. Steven’s, born out of love; Jake’s, born out of the power he had over the knowledge that he was the only one who had ever touched his baby brother this way. Not even Marc had, not anyone, no one.
It was morbidly funny, hilariously twisted, that despite everything that had happened, Marc had never really let out his desires upon Steven’s body. Perhaps, it was something noble—perhaps, it was fear, cowardice. He had believed that he was a monster, anyway, why bother with useless boundaries? Useless, because even if he knew that what he felt was wrong, still he called out Steven’s name so sweetly; still, he looked at Steven as if he was the wonder of Marc’s world.
The way Marc spoke, the way he gave out endearments without reserve, the way he moved, the way he thought, Jake could replicate them. But Marc had never touched Steven this way, and so, the touches that he placed on their brother’s lips, his chest, his hips, his thighs—it was all Jake.
He didn’t know how exactly Steven wanted to be touched, at first. He had thought that the man wanted it slow, gentle, loving. But guilt was as powerful as love, and Steven’s love was driven by desperation. It turned his desires to be held gently, to be revered, into something with sharper edges, jagged teeth.
Jake touched him with harshness that Steven believed he deserved to be inflicted on. Strong fingers pushing into his carotids, careful yet unabashed; teeth nipping on the skin of his neck, leaving marks that Steven would try his hardest to remember that they came from the person he wanted the most; a rough clench on his hips, leaving indents that would stay for days; the unforgiving snaps of hips that would make him cry out a name that they both pretended they didn’t hear.
Jake touched him with a certain kind of roughness that was still held back by detachment and a faraway affection.
But tonight, Steven hadn’t asked for Marc, didn’t ask to be touched the way he wanted to. So, Jake touched him, the way he wanted to touch Steven: with cruelty, with hatred, with confusion about memories long forgotten.
“What were you doing on that bar, Steven?” he asked sweetly, twisting Steven’s shirt until it could properly restrain his arms. “Hmm? What were you looking for? Marc wasn’t there, and you knew it. Were you looking for someone else to touch you like this?” he continued, flipping Steven on his stomach, lowering himself down to mouth at his baby brother’s nape. “You were out there, vulnerable and alone, in a place where you knew that no one would bat an eyelash if you were to be dragged from there, kicking and screaming.”
Steven struggled a bit, and Jake pushed down harder, aligning each part of their bodies together. A part of him liked that Steven didn’t just take it, that he gave a semblance of a fight. It was... exhilarating.
“But I—” Steven said, muffled by the sheets as his arms wriggled in their restrain. “But I didn’t, and I wasn’t alone. You were there—I knew you’d be there.”
Jake laughed. If only Marc could see Steven like this. But he couldn’t, and he wouldn’t, and another part of Jake rejoiced at the truth. “Spoiled little princess, you think I’m gonna babysit you all the time? I’ll let them take you next time, let them drag you by the hair and have you on the floor like a fucking dog. Would you like that, sweetheart?”
Steven stilled, because the threat in Jake’s voice was real. He might be stubborn, and he might quack in fear in the face of something even the slightest bit scary, but Steven was familiar with danger. His breathing slowed, his struggles ceased. Then, he turned his head slightly, looking at the mirror on the side of the bed, and said, “But you wouldn’t.”
Jake smiled, sweet and cold. Spoiled baby brothers were the bane of his existence, indeed. But just like the way that Steven was honest with his desires when he was like this, Jake was, too. “No,” he said, not with kindness. “I wouldn’t. You took too much effort to take care of, and I’m not about to let some dogs snatch you up. If they want you, they have to pay for it.”
There was an answering smile on Steven’s lips, and Jake wondered just how the hell Marc had been so blind to the madness brewing within their baby brother’s lungs all this time. Steven was still someone too good for this world, but he wasn’t without fault. It just lay on a different part of him, showed itself when no one was looking. But Jake had seen it, had been the only who saw Steven for everything that he was—had seen the fear in Steven’s eyes the first time he had ever punched someone, had seen the curious satisfaction crossing his face when he was left as the last one standing, had seen the burning desires in his eyes when Marc held him close, too close. Jake had seen the way Steven could be so cold, calculating and terrifyingly intelligent in the face of turmoil and danger; had seen the way he detached himself from his more vulnerable emotions and thoughts, and emerged as something made out of twisted desires and willingness to set aside everything he had for Marc. Because Steven had missed that chance, once, when he was too soft, too kind, too reluctant to let go of his past, and now he might never get that chance anymore.
But still, Steven hoped, and still, Jake watched over him. He really couldn’t figure out which one of them was the worse idiot.
“You’re a nasty piece of shit, baby brother,” Jake told him earnestly, and descended upon him once more.
Steven was loud in the haze of his lust, the way that he could never be in his daily life. Gone was the polite, mild-mannered man who stuttered and trembled when people raised their voice. Here, lying amidst the sheets with his hands behind his back, with Jake whispering terrible, terrible things in his ears, fingers easily spreading him apart, wet with lube and rough with intent to hurt, he was something far more beautiful than he could ever be.
He pushed back against Jake’s fingers, chasing the burn of too soon, too much, sighing ever so sweetly as Jake bit into his skin until he could taste blood. He was rock hard, dripping wet on Jake’s callused palm, seeking for friction and release. There was no holding back, now; no use of being gentle when it had never really existed between them to begin with.
Because gentleness had been left behind, in the memory of Jake’s hand guiding Steven’s to hold a bat, a knife, a gun properly. It was proven to be too dangerous to leave him alone, too much of a hassle of looking out for two people as Steven shrieked and skittered away from the fight he had followed Jake into. Jake had told himself that it was only because of pity, but his patience and the way he picked Steven up from the ground after too many times of him falling down said otherwise. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on.
So, he didn’t, and instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of alcohol and sweat, of longing and heartbreak, and spread Steven’s legs apart, shoving two fingers into his mouth that Jake knew would be bitten later on. So, he curled his fingers and mercilessly teased the spot Steven favored the most, drinking in his muffled moans and whines, feeling a little lightheaded from how well his baby brother took his touches.
So, he stopped thinking, stopped remembering, and instead let himself feel.
Please, Steven begged, sucking and licking on Jake’s fingers, sloppy and messy, like a dog. Jake wished that was true, but Steven had sharper fangs and claws than a well-trained house dog. He would know—he was the one who shaped Steven that way, away from Marc and his suffocating protectiveness. Jake knew better than anyone that you had to be hurt to really know how to survive, how to handle even more pain coming your way, and maybe something inside him delighted at the fact that Steven turned out to be something even more monstrous than their brother.
(And, perhaps, it wasn’t true. Because Jake knew, from numerous associates and tireless information gathering, that Marc had a long list of body count under his belt, that he could kill someone as easily as breathing. But Marc had always had violence within his veins, the way Jake had though his was wired differently, and he had never known how it felt to be something so good, yet choosing to tread the path of the grey anyway. Because while Marc was a monster created out of tragedy, Steven was one created by willingness, and it was the only difference that ever mattered.)
“How do you want it, baby?” he asked, because he was curious, because no matter how much he tried to deny it, he, too, was yearning for something.
“I want to- want to see you,” Steven said breathlessly, on edge and already so tense, so desperate for something more. The sinewy line of his back was an allure of its own, muscle so tense from holding his arms on this position, the veins on his neck grazing beneath the surface of his skin the louder he moaned. Jake wanted to tear him apart, find whatever it was his sentimentality was looking for, and savor it for an eternity.
“You might see him,” he teased, cruel and honest.
Steven moaned low and deep, reverberating through his chest, and pushed back harder against Jake’s aching wrist. “No,” he said, certain. “I want to see you.”
Don’t remember, Jake told himself, but it was futile, when the shape of his old room had flooded his mind, when the suffocating silence now choked his throat all the same, when Marc’s absence was more acute than ever, and Steven’s embrace was warm and encompassing. It’s alright, Jake, he had said and it was an obvious lie if there was ever one, but Jake believed him, anyway—foolishly, maddeningly. It was a secret he had kept so tightly without ever letting go.
And, oh, there it was. The same relief and gratification, the telltale greed and desires to have Steven completely, without reservation, even just for a moment.
So he pulled the shirt away, watching Steven as he groan in relief, flexing his arms to chase away the numbness. The lube was cold despite having warmed it with his fingers, but he put a generous amount of it on his cock, because he wanted the slide to be easier, wanted to truly possess Steven without waiting for a pause. He had waited long enough, and maybe he wasn’t just talking about this night.
Steven turned and leaned back against the pillows, spreading his thighs and taking Jake’s hand into his own, pulling him closer, caging him in. Neither of them knew where the key was, if they ever wanted to find it after this. It was a trap as much as it was an open invitation: to be something more than a replacement.
(But it had never started that way, hadn’t it? Because Steven had seen him, had called his name, and Jake was the one who took his baby brother into his arms, pretending to be someone he dearly loved. Maybe Jake really was the bigger fool here. Maybe he and Steven were another case of the coin, arm in arm in their denial and yearning.)
But you still won’t call my name, little love.
He brushed his palms over Steven’s knees, feeling the shape, slipping underneath to haul them, let them curl around his waist. He leaned down, touched the lips slick with saliva, said, “Call my name, little dove. Call my name, if you dare.”
Steven’s smile was ladened with wistfulness, a little sad, a little regretful. He caressed the side of Jake’s face, and trailed kisses from his temple, to his eyelids, down to his nose, whispered against his lips, “Hold me, Jake.”
(Teach me, Jake.)
(Take me along, Jake.)
(Don’t leave me alone, Jake.)
(Can you hold my hand, please, Jake?)
(I’m here, Jake.)
He surged forward, meeting Steven in a harsh kiss that was colored by recklessness, by a sense of defeat, yet victorious all the same. He took the thighs by his hands, clenching them tight as he pushed in, groaning in mind-numbing pleasure at the unbelievable heat surrounding his cock, clutching it tight, unwilling to let go. There was no control to consider when none was wanted, so he took what he had been given so graciously for; took it and took it and took it until they were breathless.
He swallowed Steven’s cries, cradling them close into his lungs to be remembered along with the memories he tried to forget. The legs around his waist were pulling him down, and he leaned his entire weight against the willing body underneath him; feeling the slide of his cock in Steven, the sweat shining on their skin, the grapple of lips and hands and nails making indents into skin. His mouth wasn’t stagnant, in constant movement of kissing and marking, of biting and whispering secrets in a language Steven didn’t understand.
Mi vida, he whispered against the damp curls. Mi cariño, he breathed into Steven’s ear. Mi cielo, he told the space above Steven’s heart. Mine, mine, mine, he promised as he kissed Steven as if there was nothing else he could ever do better than this—better than holding this man in his arms, than being seen as who he was, than finally taking the plunge into the abyss along with his brothers.
(But they wouldn’t be alone, something whispered in his chest, curling and smiling so cruelly. There would always be the three of them in the hell they had willingly descended into. Always.)
The hatred, the cruelty, the desires of tearing his baby brother apart, it all morphed into a single-minded desire to see Steven writhe in pleasured agony, to hear him shout out Jake’s name into the night, to taste his tears and his lips, to have him clinging so desperately to a brother that had always been forgotten.
When Jake thrust harder than before, when he reached deep inside, closer than they had ever been together, it was his name, choked up and stuttered, that lingered on Steven’s tongue as he came. When Steven held him close, so gentle and so tender, as if Jake was breaking apart, he let himself shatter.
(But who was to say that it wasn’t his jagged pieces alone that his dear baby brother held between his fingers?)
“Will you stay the night?” Steven asked, fiddling with Jake’s hand as they lay down, catching their breaths and letting their aching bodies rest.
He thought about it. Thought about the last step into the void, thought about Steven’s voice saying his name without hesitation nor a shadow of another man, thought about Marc and the way he had rooted himself so deeply into Steven’s heart. Thought about the malicious voices, thought about stepping back into the shadows and watching Steven from afar, cradling this precious memory and treating it like another secret he would never let go. Thought about forgetting this night, about picking Steven up from another bar, about remembering the shape of his name from the curve of Steven’s lips when no one else was around—
—thought about it, and let himself make a mistake he could never take back, the same heartache that Steven felt, looming on the horizon.
“Yeah, sure,” he said around a yawn, and didn’t let himself smile when Steven did. “About time you pay me back for always carrying you out of those shitholes. Give me some of those British hospitality, or shit like that.”
“Thank you,” Steven said sincerely, earnestly. And then, when Jake was already away into his dreams, he said, “I’m sorry, Jake.”