FicWad

Fletcher didn't say anything as the doors opened and his brother came outside, didn't say anything at the strained smile or the heavier purse that was tossed at him. He only smiled back, a little less forced and a little more brighter, following Russel inside and upstairs, ignoring the man behind the desk as he follows them. This was a nice Inn, people like to make sure you're happy and approve of your rooms in places like these, right? He nods quickly to himself, and runs up to match Russel's pace, letting his hand brush his and meet his startled expression with a smile.

Russel couldn't help but flinch at the sudden contact, staring into that smiling bright face, perfect and still hopeful. He doesn't even try to fake another smile, those eyes behind him were still watching, were still counting the steps to the room he got for free. Free along with money enough for food and another day's lodging in Central and a few books here and there. He grabs Fletcher's hand and squeezes it, thumb rubbing across his palm, tracing lines and curves and coming to a point. He hopes he'll understand and the nerves and bile he swallows doesn't hurt as much as it should when Fletcher squeezes his hand back.

They reach a door, and he stops. He doesn't want to open it but it opens and he follows Fletcher inside and pulls his suspenders down, angrily flinging his shirt across the bed.

He levels an angry, self-hating look at the floor, holding his sobbing breaths in and when he runs his hands through his hair, he looks fine.

"Fletcher..."

He hates how calmly he can walk over, how gently he can run his fingers through that hair and across that face, he hates how this isn't as hard as it should be, how he didn't say no to this. "Look at me. Fletcher, just look at me." And he leans down to kiss him.

Somewhere inside that wasn't angry or broken, he smiles at realizing his brother's lips were as soft as he thought they'd be. So he kisses him harder, hands softly against his collarbone and moving up to caress his neck before pulling off the green hat. The whole piece inside gets smaller as he feels Fletcher's reaction, not moving and very still. He presses closer, pulling his mouth away to press desperate kisses against his neck, lips moving. Don't look. Don't look. Understand. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. And then he reaches for the many buttons keeping him from that perfect body. That is moment that his hate is the greatest. The moment Fletcher shudders and his shoulders curl inward and his arms wrap around Russel's shoulders for answers and comfort. He doesn't deserve this or anyone's forgiveness.

But he doesn't stop and sidesteps them, pressing his younger brother back towards their bed, onto the bed. And they both flinch at the sound of a chair creaking; Russel forces his eyes open and smooths his hands across Fletcher, one calmly smoothing his hair, the other fully ridding him of his shirt. They're hip to hip and chest to chest and he's already hard. His hate grows and he presses them closer, hands having dropped to the covers on either side of his brother, clenched and white-knuckled, as he kisses Fletcher's forehead and flashing him a broken smile, swallowing hard as there is no attempt to smile back only confusion and struggle.

He forces his hands still and relaxed and he sits back, legs still straddling, as he undoes his pants and slides them down. The room is hot and claustrophobic and filled with a pointed gaze and harsh breathing. But the bed they're on is cold and silent and tenuous at best. He flinches at the soft gasp from beneath him. Another kiss, more kisses across his neck and chest and stomach. Lips begging and loving and crying words. sorry. sorry. sorry. don't look. look at m-- no, don't look. It'll be okay. I'll save you from this. You won't break. Don't watch me break. sorry. And he bites back the hungry groan when his kisses bring him to thin fabric, the last great barrier stopping him.

He lifts himself up and gently drapes himself over Fletcher, one hand petting him and smoothing over his side, the other hesitating before moving to start undoing the pants between them. One more yank and there is nothing but skin and he can do nothing but swallow the blood in his mouth and slow his movements. It doesn't do anyone any good if this doesn't last; he's being paid and isn't allowed to rush, not with the amount that was given to them; and he'll never get another chance.

So he doesn't chance a look at Fletcher's face as he presses closer and draws his legs up and spread around his waist. He only stops to rest his forehead bowed against his brother's, eyes squeezed tightly and his hair curtaining them both, hiding a stray tear and Fletcher's small sniffle. He damns himself with a kiss and a distance, hands gently positioning himself as his larger frame shakes with the effort and hate. For the second before he enters that beautiful heat, he hates Fletcher for burying his face against his neck and the soft murmur across his skin, then everything is blinded and stopped and he's inside.

Then everything comes slamming back into clarity and Russel can't make out anything, everything is hot and soft and smooth angles and loud noises and he's dizzy from it all but he cannot--won't-- stop. He tries to stay focused and pace himself but he's young and nothing has ever been this good, this wrongly perfect than his brother on his back and surrounding him. His breathing is erratic and he swallows broken glass --shame, he'll call it later-- and shamelessly moans as he's inside and pulling and then thrusting back in. His body remembers the rhythm from nights awake and hot in the next bed over. He breaks himself over and over again, at Fletcher's silence, the man watching from the chair with his hand down his pants, the way he's almost glad for this chance.

And when his hands reaches between his brothers thighs, he's already broken but is still playing the game like a good toy. Then there's a gasp as smaller hips move against his. The friction, just right before, has gotten better and he wants to believe this lie. Too soon the body beneath him shudders and there's a splash of sticky between them and then he loses his sight, his body tight tight and then there is only his mind's eye of Fletcher and light. He slumps forward, both Tringhams unmoving.

Of course they don't notice the man leave.

When Russel can move, he does immediately, body regretting knowing that which he'll never let himself taste ever. And he trains his eyes down, his shirt a makeshift towel, gently hesitantly wiping them clean. Unable and unwilling to look at his brother until he is allowed, if ever. Doen't matter, he thinks, he'll pay this price for his sin and buying back what they lost, the light behind their eyes, the shattered glass that settled in their stomachs and their love, dirty but still golden.

Fletcher sniffles and crawls up to lean against Russel, who doesn't look and doesn't hope and just holds him sadly until he falls asleep.