(no subject)
Title: Everything
Rating: PG - 13 - R
Disclaim: I own nothing. Just posting random fic for the hell of it.
Summary: He is your everything.
Warnings: One sided incestous thoughts, disturbing themes.
Pairing: Alan/Edgar (Frogcest)
Everything
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Brothers are the most important things in the world.
You know that. You live by that sentiment. It's what makes you *you* and brothers protect what is there's.
Edgar is yours, and you are his, and the world is right when you share that understanding.
You share a home, a room, a bed, a world. Your parents are too careless to give you separate beds, or separate rooms, or separate clothes, or anything separate. You don't mind. You never have minded, really, and you find as you get older you mind even less.
Edgar sometimes flinches away from all the sharing you two have to do. He presses away from you in bed, making sure flesh doesn't slide across flesh or his head doesn't lean into the perfect crook of your shoulder. He even begins to dress away from you, in the fungi splattered tiles of the bathroom. Or he pulls the closet door at a weird angle, and ducks behind that, thick fingers fumbling his jeans awkwardly. Sometimes you teasingly poke your head over the top of the cupboard door, smirking all the while, and Edgar squirms, goes red, and yanks his top over his head quickly.
It makes you grin. Typical baby brother (although there is less than a year between you) but it also makes you angry. It doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter. You're brothers. You see him in his boxers, or when he leaves the shower, skin flushed with the blistering heat of the faulty boiler. You share everything, and you know every inch of *him.* Every dozy sigh in sleep, every grunt and strain of your training; down to the wiry strength in his arms, the thickening muscles in his midriff, the developing impressiveness of his chest.
Maybe it's weird that you notice these things. That you take pleasure in the personal power it gives you. You know Edgar, he knows you, and you don't need anyone else. And you've shared everything before. So why you can't share *this* baffles you.
But maybe it doesn't. You're not a fool. You know there are things such as boundaries, privacy, and that thing called independence. And sure, it's fine that Edgar can take care of himself. It's just so you can be there making sure he takes care of himself properly.
You feel as if something is sleeping inside you.
You look at the bumbling idiots in strappy tops and awful shorts, licking ice cream off their fingers. You look at the gabbling youth in logoed t-shirts and wild hair; with black eyeliner and incriminating glares. You look at the gangly biker boys, the tanned jailbait, the screaming children and worn mothers and indifferent fathers, and Jesus. Is that humanity? A giant cess pool of life and sweat and the space between now and then, before you die and just rot in the earth? Is that it?
Sometimes you look at them, seriously look at them, and wonder what they would be like inside out.
And then Edgar is beside you, a strong hand on your shoulder, and you find yourself again. You would never be so selfish as to leave him behind, even into the chaotic whirlpool of your mind, where there are dreams and images that are simultaneously wonderful and frightening. You don't know what they mean, but you feel you will someday, and somehow, that fails to scare you.
The sleeping...thing, or whatever the hell it is, seems to awaken and crackle at Edgar's arm brushing yours, or the innocuous glint in his eye when you lean over him in bed to switch off the lamp.
He tightens himself into a little ball, binding the covers around him, and bites back a growl (or sometimes, it even sounds like a whimper) when you reach for him. You peel back the duvet, close one hand over his elbow, and pull him close. Occasionally he kicks and curses, making half hearted jokes and insipid threats, but he never stops you. He shivers against your chest, his face nestled beside your neck, and sometimes, he'd fiercely grip your old t-shirt or loosely tries to pull away. It's rare for you to be close like this, as you both don't believe in hugging or any other less than manly shit, but you count the days and prospective of your brother until you see it is appropriate to do so.
You wonder if Edgar looks at girls. Maybe he'd been approached by several offers, as he is getting older and gaining physicality that is getting harder to ignore. You feel cold at the prospect of your brother allowing in another person into his world, that has been *yours* and only *yours.* You don't care if he fucks them. That's different. He has needs, and a fuck means nothing.
In this shithole of a town, a lot of things mean nothing.
He's safe, here, encased in your room and your bed and your arms, hidden with the steel plated bubble of your word, and you realise you care about nothing except him. Edgar is vulnerable despite his gruff shields, deadly against a vampire yet innocent to the depravity of others. Edgar is your world, is your everything, and you know it's the same for him. It wouldn't make sense if it was otherwise.
You love him so much it hurts.
You wonder what it'll be like to take care of everything. To slip testing fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, to trace the skin on the inside of his thigh. You lean forward until your lips questioningly brush his.
In a split second, he bolts out of your arms and hunches, trembling, on the other side of the bed. The moonlight highlights every curve on his face. He's hurt and confused and looking a little wild, and the sleeping beast inside you stirs at the sight.
"Edgar?" In a heartbeat, you sit up and force confusion into your voice. "What's wrong, bro?"
"Not me," Edgar clenches the headboard beneath a shaking hand. It looks like the only thing keeping him steady. "You're being weird."
Even from here, you can feel the heat staining his cheeks. You smile, and under the streetlamps from outside, you know your teeth glint.
"Don't be stupid, Edgar," You say. Accidents happen all the time. Man's hands brush women's breasts on the train. A person can stand too close to another. A platonic embrace can become awkward if certain body parts meet. You open your arms, and when you speak again, there is a hard insistence in your tone. "C'mere."
Edgar sucks in breath through his teeth, looking lost. He glances at the door, than back at you, and your smile widens to such an extent your face aches.
"I..."
You shrug.
"It's okay, bro. If it makes you uncomfortable, then I guess..." You drop your hands to your sides, and flump on the bed, your back turned away from your brother. "Goodnight."
Edgar is silent. He grinds his teeth in frustration.
"Alan..."
You smile against your pillow, eyes firmly closed. You don't respond.
"A-Alan..."
The bed creaks as he crawls over, and you feel his hand on your arm. His touch is hesitant and light and you loll your head to the side, feigning sleep.
Edgar's tone is irritated.
"Don't be an ass."
"Hm?" You stare at him in the darkness. "Something wrong, Edgar?"
Edgar doesn't apologise to anyone, but only you.
"Didn't mean to freak...it was just..."
He looks away, skin flushed, and you smirk up at him.
He burrows beside you, face turned toward your chest, and you stare up at the ceiling, humming a tune under your breath.
This is *your* world. He is your brother and you will be everything to him, as he is everything to you. You belong to him, he belongs to you, and he is yours.
Within you, the sleeping creature rumbles its agreement.