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# Fraternal: CH. 1
- URL: https://adrianthorne.com/fraternal-chapter-1/
- Published: 2026-06-02T19:08:14.000Z
- Updated: 2026-08-14T15:41:22.000Z
- Description: Gay Erotica, Twincest, Love Triangle, 18+
- Author: R. Adrian Thorne
- Tags: Fraternal, Fiction, Queer Fiction, Adult Fiction, Erotic Fiction, M/M Romance, Serial Fiction, Gay Erotica, Incest, #Migrated-1783026506603, #Import 2026-07-02 21:09

## CHAPTER ONE: OVER A CLIFF

---

### ASHER

## Prologue

---

**EZRA’S BREATHING IS** ragged under me, the kind that fills the whole room, bouncing off the cinder‑block walls of the dorm like a second heartbeat.

“Jesus, Ash…” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, breath shuddering out of him. “This is insane—your cock feels so fucking good.”

“Yeah,” I manage, just as breathless, my voice coming out rougher than I expect. “Your hole’s amazing.”

The desk lamp throws a crooked circle of light across the floor, catching the edge of a spilled drink and the heel of someone’s abandoned sneaker. Everything about the room feels slightly off‑balance, like the night tipped too far in one direction and now none of us are sure how to steady it again.

Because there are exactly three things I never expected over the last couple of weeks.

First: that Ezra and I would end up in our dorm room, fucking at two in the morning, adrenaline still buzzing through both of us, the two of us trying to untangle how a harmless idea managed to spiral into something this complicated.

Second—and this is the part that still feels surreal—Ezra isn’t just some random guy whose life got tangled up with mine during a stupid late‑night decision.

Ezra Hale is my twin brother.

Same face. Same height. Same stubborn streak that’s gotten us both into trouble more times than either of us would ever admit out loud.

Which means whatever mess we’ve created tonight isn’t just awkward.

It’s family.

And family, in my experience, has a way of making even the smallest mistake feel impossible to walk back.

“Ash—fuck me harder,” he moans, the words breaking out of him between breaths.

“You got it, bro,” I shoot back, already driving forward harder, the challenge in his voice hitting that same reckless nerve it always does.

And the third thing.

“You guys are so fucking hot,” a voice says from somewhere off to the side, breathless and a little disbelieving, like he’s still processing what he walked into.

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I glance over.

Elliot stands near the edge of the bed, one knee pressed into the mattress as he leans closer, flushed from the heat of the room. His hand is wrapped loosely around his thick cock—more instinct than intention, like the sight of us pushed him past whatever restraint he had left.

“C’mon here,” Ezra moans, voice rough, head tipped back on the pillow as he looks up at him. “Don’t just stand there—come here. I want you to fuck my face.”

Elliot doesn’t hesitate. He shifts forward, climbing onto the bed beside Ezra’s head, the mattress dipping under his knee as he steadies himself on the rumpled sheets. When he presses his cock into Ezra’s waiting mouth, the movement is instinctive, almost desperate—like the energy between the three of us finally found somewhere to go.

“Fuck,” Elliot groans, the word tearing out of him the second the contact lands, shoulders tightening as the rush hits.

“This is so hot,” I say between breaths as the rhythm between Ezra and me drives forward again. The bed creaks under the shifting weight, lamplight trembling across the walls as the room fills with heat, noise, and the reckless momentum of three people who have clearly stopped asking whether any of this is a good idea.

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/07503a26-9651-4b95-ac33-5a1e32f54c8c_1716x247-heic-2.jpg)

My thrusts grow rougher, harder, the sensation of Ezra’s hole tightening around me starting to drown out everything else—thought, restraint, even the awareness of where we are. The rhythm turns messy, urgent, the kind that takes over your body before your brain can catch up.

“Shit, bro—” I moan, the word tearing out of me as the pressure builds.

He can’t answer. His mouth is full, but the sounds he makes—low, strained, completely unfiltered—vibrate through him and back into me, the kind of reaction that tells me exactly what I’m doing to him without a single word.

“Yeah,” Elliot says hoarsely, watching us with wide, hungry eyes. “Just like that… fuck.”

“My brother sucks good dick, doesn’t he?” I say, the words coming out half‑taunt, half‑brag as I watch Elliot’s reaction.

“Hell yeah he does,” Elliot answers immediately, voice rough with it, one hand braced on the mattress as he looks down at Ezra like he can’t quite believe what he’s getting away with.

“Fuck, bro… you’re so fucking tight.”

Ezra moans under me, his legs hooked high over my shoulders, ankles locked behind my back as if he’s trying to pull me even deeper. One of his arms wraps tight around Elliot’s waist, fingers digging into his hip while he drags Elliot’s cock farther into his throat with a needy, reckless determination that’s pure Ezra.

“Mmhm—mummhm,” he moans around him, the sound thick and vibrating, more feeling than language.

His other hand strokes his cock in slow, desperate pulls, his fingers slick with spit and precum that strings between his hand and the head as Elliot thrusts steadily into his mouth, every movement drawing another wet, hungry sound out of him.

He pulls away just for a moment, gasping for air, spit shining on his lips as he lifts his head and looks straight at me. His eyes are blown wide and reckless, that familiar Ezra intensity burning through the haze of the moment. The desk lamp throws a dull amber glow across his face, catching the sweat on his chest and the shadow of my body over him. “C’mon, Ash,” he pants, voice rough and needy. “Give me that dick, man—don’t hold back. Give it to me good.”

“I got you, bro,” I say, the words coming out low and confident as a slow, menacing smile spreads across my face—the kind that says I’m more than ready to give him exactly what he asked for. The mattress shifts under us when I lean forward again, springs creaking somewhere deep inside the cheap dorm bed.

“Yes—yes, oh—mmhm, fuck!” he grunts, the words breaking apart between breaths as I start fucking him in earnest, the rhythm turning deeper and harder now that he’s begging for it.

Ezra’s back arches under me, his body tightening with every thrust, the sound of it—skin, breath, the mattress creaking—filling the small dorm room. The air feels thick, humid with sweat and the faint smell of cheap beer from the spilled drink drying on the floor near the desk.

“Come here,” Elliot says, voice rough with heat as he grips a handful of Ezra’s hair and draws his head back toward him. “Yeah—like that. Keep sucking my dick.”

Watching Ezra suck him off only makes me harder, even with my cock already buried to the hilt in his ass. The sight of it—the way Ezra’s jaw works around him, the wet sounds, Elliot’s breath catching above us—feeds straight back into my body. The lamplight wobbles slightly when the bed knocks the wall, shadows jumping across the cinder‑block like the whole room is moving with us, tightening everything and making the heat between the three of us spike even higher.

Just then I feel Ezra jerk under me—sharp and sudden—like I must’ve hit that spot, the one that makes the edges of his vision spark and sends that helpless look across his face. His head rolls back for a second, eyes squeezing shut, his whole body tightening around me as his cock jumps in his hand, leaking more precum down his fingers while he pulls away from Elliot just long enough to catch his breath, still stroking himself.

“Ahhh, fuck! Right there,” he gasps, voice cracking as the words tumble out of him, equal parts praise and pleading. “You fuck me so good, bro… so, so good.”

“Yeah?” I say, breath coming heavy as I watch his reaction, the way his body keeps clenching around me. “You like it?”

“I love it!” he whimpers, the word breaking out of him as his hips twitch back toward me like he’s chasing the same feeling again.

“So fucking hot,” Elliot mutters, sounding half amazed, half turned on as he reaches down, guiding Ezra’s head back toward him and pulling his mouth onto his cock again.

Elliot shifts just enough to reach me, hooking one arm around my neck and dragging me down into a kiss. It’s messy and full‑bodied, the kind that happens when nobody’s thinking anymore. His mouth is warm and open against mine, breath still ragged, his tongue sliding across mine before he pulls it deeper, sucking my tongue into his mouth like he wants to taste everything that’s happening in the room—the sweat, the heat, the reckless energy that’s been building between the three of us all night.

So fucking hot.

He pulls away for a second, breath catching, then leans down and slides his cock from Ezra’s mouth. Ezra barely has time to inhale before Elliot is kissing him instead, the two of them crashing together in a sloppy, open‑mouthed kiss. They trade spit and the taste of precum between them, Ezra’s hand still wrapped around himself while Elliot steadies himself against the mattress beside his shoulder. Watching it—watching my twin kiss the guy who just had his cock down his throat—sends another sharp rush straight through me. I’m already close, already riding that edge, and the sight of them together pushes me even closer because I honestly didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on than I am right now in this exact moment.

So yeah, I guess you probably want to know why I’m fucking my twin brother. And who the hell this other guy is. Fair question. I can explain. Ezra is my fraternal twin, but as luck would have it, we came out nearly identical. Same build, same dark hair, same stupid half‑smile when we’re about to do something reckless. It happens sometimes.

While family and close friends can usually tell us apart, most strangers don’t catch it right away. Most of the time they just assume we’re the same person, especially if they don’t see us standing next to each other. You usually have to see us together before the difference clicks. And that’s where Elliot comes in. He was the mark. The whole thing started as a dare—a little brotherly competition that was supposed to be harmless. Something dumb. Something easy. But now here we are in our dorm room, me pistoning inside my twin brother while Elliot face fucks him.

So I guess you’re wondering how all of this actually started.

For that, we’d have to go all the way back to the beginning. And the beginning of this particular disaster started at Surge—a popular gay nightclub a few blocks off campus, the kind of place where the bass hits so hard it rattles through your ribs and the neon lights never quite let your eyes adjust. The dance floor is always packed shoulder‑to‑shoulder, bodies moving together in the half‑dark, sweat and cologne and cheap vodka thick in the air. And the bathrooms… well, on most nights they’re open, the scene in there looks like something ripped straight out of a porno—guys disappearing in pairs, doors slamming, the muffled sound of someone laughing or moaning over the music bleeding through the walls.

For some people, the place was the stuff of nightmares—too loud, too crowded, too close to the edge of whatever trouble a person was trying to avoid. But for me and Ezra it was perfect. Surge was cheap, chaotic, and full of guys who were just drunk enough to stop asking too many questions. We could drink without emptying our wallets, flirt without worrying about running into anyone who actually knew us, and usually walk out with a story worth laughing about the next morning. Win‑win, right?

Well… it stayed a win‑win right up until the moment we spotted Elliot across the room.

Because the second we both noticed him—really noticed him—the look that passed between Ezra and me said everything. That familiar spark of competition. The same reckless idea forming in both our heads at exactly the same time. And just like that, the stupid little Faustian deal we made with each other had chaos written all over it.

---

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### ASHER

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/98f55127-e42a-4ebd-8a88-1079efbce5c0_1920x1080-heic.jpg)

**THE BASS HITS FIRST.** It’s always the same—before the lights, before the bodies, before anything else—the low, pounding thud that settles somewhere deep in my chest like a second pulse. By the time Ezra and I push through the door, the air inside Surge is already thick with heat and movement, the kind that sticks to your skin the second you step into it.

I don’t slow down. I never do.

Ezra’s right behind me, close enough that I can feel him without looking, the way I always can. We move through the crowd like we’ve done it a hundred times before—because we have—shoulders brushing strangers, hands catching briefly on hips and arms, slipping through gaps that don’t really exist until we make them.

After enough shuffling, shoulder-checking, and muttered apologies that no one actually means, we carve our way to the main bar. It sits dead center in the room—a glowing circle of light and movement—like everything in Surge eventually funnels back to it.

Five bartenders move around it in constant motion, passing bottles, sliding drinks, barely looking as they work. There’s a rhythm to it—fast, practiced, almost mechanical—the kind that only comes from doing this night after night until your body knows what to do before your brain catches up.

On the other side, the dance floor stretches out in a dense, shifting mass of bodies, everyone moving to the same relentless beat. Beyond that, the DJ is perched above it all in what looks like a crow’s nest, half-hidden in shadow, controlling the entire room with small, precise movements.

Above us, a mezzanine wraps around the space, lined with low seating and another dance floor that overlooks everything below. From up there, you can see the whole room at once—the bar, the crowd, the chaos—but down here, inside it, all you feel is the press of bodies and the constant pull of the music.

Ezra orders the first round without even asking—rum and coke for me, vodka cranberry for him. It’s muscle memory at this point. The bartender barely looks up as he slides the drinks across the slick surface of the bar, and Ezra catches them both cleanly, passing mine over without breaking stride.

He tilts his head toward the stairs.

I nod.

It’s safer that way. Nursing a drink down here is basically asking for it—too many bodies, too many elbows, too many people who’ve already had enough but keep going anyway. We’ve learned that the hard way more than once. Nights cut short because someone stumbles, sloshes half a drink across your shirt, turns around like it’s your fault. It’s not worth it.

Upstairs, you can actually breathe.

We peel away from the bar and push back through the crowd, angling toward the narrow staircase tucked along the side of the room. The air shifts the second we step onto it—still loud, still heavy, but less suffocating with every step up.

By the time we reach the mezzanine, the space opens up just enough to feel like a break. Not quiet, but looser, like the noise settles into something you can actually move inside without fighting it. The railing runs along the edge, overlooking the chaos below, and we settle into a spot like it’s ours, shoulders resting against the metal as we take our first real look at the room.

From up here, everything makes more sense.

You can see patterns. Movement. Who’s with who, who’s drifting, who’s looking. It’s the best place in the club to get a read on people before you ever have to say a word.

The perfect place to scout.

The perfect place to choose.

“They got a decent DJ tonight,” he says over the bass.

I only catch about half of it, the rest lost somewhere in the music, but I don’t need to hear him clearly to know what he’s saying. I glance over, catch the tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flick toward the booth above the crowd, and it clicks. It always does.

He’s right, too. The transitions are clean, the kind that keep the floor moving without people even realizing why. No dead air, no awkward shifts—just one track bleeding into the next until the whole room feels like it’s running on a single pulse.

I nod, taking a slow sip of my drink, letting it burn a little on the way down.

Ezra and I are fraternal twins. He came out exactly one minute and twenty-two seconds after me—something our mom never let either of us forget growing up, like it meant something more than it did.

We’re not supposed to look this similar. Not really. Fraternal twins aren’t meant to be identical, but somewhere along the line we landed close enough that most people don’t question it unless they’re given a reason to. Same height, same build, same dark blonde hair that never quite sits right unless you mess with it.

And as luck would have it, we ended up the same in other ways too.

Same taste.

Same instincts.

Same tendency to want the exact thing the other one’s looking at—even when that thing happens to be a person.

We’re both looking in the crowd scanning for something—something with a nice tight body and that’s when I spot him. He’s at the bar attempting albiet unsuccessfully to get a bar tenders attention.

He’s got dark hair—thicker on top, pushed back like he’s been running his hands through it all night—a toned build that shows even through the way his shirt clings to him, and a strong jawline that catches the light every time he turns his head. Olive skin, just a shade darker than most of the guys around him, like he actually spends time outside instead of just talking about it. He’s probably right around six feet, maybe a little more, and the way he stands there—half patient, half amused while the bartender keeps missing him—makes it hard not to keep looking.

And yeah—he’s hot. Not in the obvious, trying-too-hard way. Just… enough to pull your attention without asking for it.

And without missing a beat, we both say it at the exact same time—“Dibs.”

“I saw him first,” Ezra snaps, already turning toward me, like saying it faster somehow makes it true.

“Oh like hell you did,” I shoot back, not even looking away from the guy, tracking the way he shifts his weight at the bar.

“He’s not even your type,” Ezra fires back, leaning in a little, trying to get me to break eye contact.

“He’s breathing and upright,” I say. “That’s my type.”

That earns a sharp look. We square up just enough to feel it—shoulders angled, that familiar edge sliding into place between us like it always does.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Just staring.

Measuring.

Then Ezra’s mouth twitches, already knowing exactly how to push it.

“Scissors, rock, paper,” he says, dragging it out with that same wry smile.

I groan under my breath. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

He just shrugs, like that’s the whole point.

It is.

Ezra’s always had this way of getting under my skin—little things, stupid things, like saying it wrong on purpose because he knows it’ll bother me. He’s been doing it for years. And it works every time.

“Okay,” I say, still watching him, already feeling the idea settle into place, “let’s make a bet. We let him choose.”

Ezra turns his head toward me, brow pulling tight. “What does that even mean?”

“First one to get him in bed wins,” I say, like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided.

“We are not doing one of your stupid bets,” he shoots back, but there’s hesitation buried under it—just enough that I catch it.

“Then no one gets him,” I reply, finally looking at him, letting that hang between us.

That does the trick.

It always does.

“Dude,” Ezra exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back toward the guy at the bar, “I’m just trying to get laid.”

He steps in beside me, closer now, both of us leaning slightly over the railing like we’re sharing the same line of sight. From here, I watch what he does, how he owns the space he takes up—how he lifts his glass when the bartender finally notices him, says something I can’t hear but gets a quick smile in return, then waits instead of pushing in again. He checks his phone once, thumbs a message, tucks it away without getting pulled into it. When someone bumps him, he steadies them with a hand on the elbow, easy, no attitude. Then he drifts a step off the bar, scanning the room like he’s deciding whether to stay or call it.

It’s small stuff, but it stands out. He’s not chasing anything. Just… moving through it.

“I bet he’s got a massive cock,” Ezra mutters, more to himself than to me, still watching him.

“Well,” I say, taking another sip of my drink, “too bad you’ll never know.”

He scoffs at that, nudging his shoulder lightly into mine. “So how do you wanna play this?”

I don’t hesitate.

“Hyde.”

Ezra lets out a short laugh, shaking his head like he already knew where this was going. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

Of course he did.

We’ve done it before.

Years ago, we came up with it—something that started as a joke and turned into something we actually used more than we probably should have. If one of us needed out of something, the other stepped in. Classes, conversations, situations we didn’t feel like dealing with. We’d switch without anyone noticing, slipping in and out of each other’s lives like it was nothing.

And then it bled into nights like this.

We called it Hyde—a half-joke, half-reference, something pulled from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde that stuck because it fit. One name. One version of us. No difference unless you were really paying attention.

Sometimes we used it just to see what would happen—who could get a guy to lean in first, who could get him to stay, who could push it further without getting caught.

It always worked.

And standing here now, watching the same guy from the same angle, feeling that same pull between us—

I can already tell this time isn’t going to be any different.

“And we’re flipping a coin,” I say, already digging a quarter out of my pocket, holding it up between us so it catches the low light. “Call it in the air.”

Ezra exhales through his nose, and I hand my drink over to him, his eyes still flicking down to the guy like he might disappear if we look away too long.

I press the coin against my thumb and send it up.

It spins through the light, flashing once, twice—

“Tails,” Ezra says immediately, not even hesitating. “Because that’s exactly what he’s getting tonight.”

I let out a short laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

The coin drops back into my palm. I catch it clean, flip it over onto the back of my other hand, covering it without looking yet.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Just that small pause.

That familiar tension.

I drag it out a beat longer than I need to.

Then I lift my hand.

Heads.

I glance up.

Ezra’s jaw tightens just enough to give him away, even if he tries to play it off.

“Guess I get first crack at him,” I say, taking my drink back from him, already turning before he can argue it.

He doesn’t stop me.

He never does.

I move for the stairs, slipping back into the flow of the crowd, letting it carry me down instead of fighting against it this time. It doesn’t take long to find my way back to the bar, the same rhythm in reverse—shoulders, hands, space opening just enough when I need it to.

And then I’m there.

Closer.

Close enough to actually see him without distance softening anything.

Up close, everything sharpens—the details, the way he moves, the small shifts in expression you miss from above. It makes it real in a way it wasn’t a second ago.

For a half second, I just watch him.

Then I step in.

Now all I have to do is make him want me more than anything else in this room.

“Hey—what are you drinking?” I say, leaning in just enough to cut through the noise.

The second it leaves my mouth, I regret it.

What are you drinking? What is this—Casablanca?

“What?” he shouts back, turning toward me, one hand cupping his ear like that’s going to help.

Of course he didn’t hear me.

I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head at myself.

Okay. Try again.

“I like your shirt,” I say, a little louder this time.

Smooth.

I didn’t realize how bad I was at this until right now.

“Yeah?” he says, glancing down at it like he forgot what he put on, then back up at me with the hint of a smile.

The music swells again, bass cutting through anything else we might’ve said, forcing us closer just to keep the conversation alive. We’re practically shoulder to shoulder now, voices raised, timing everything between beats.

There’s a half second where I think I’m going to have to keep this going—say something else, something better—but then he shifts, like he’s already made up his mind.

“Do you wanna dance?” he asks.

Relief hits faster than I expect.

Oh thank God.

“Sure,” I say, not giving myself enough time to think about it, or whether my legs are actually going to cooperate once we get out there.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just takes my hand—firm, easy—and pulls me with him.

The crowd closes around us the second we step onto the floor, heat and movement swallowing us whole. There’s no space to think, no space to hesitate—just bodies, music, rhythm.

His hand finds my waist like it belongs there, steadying me for half a second before he starts to move, matching my rhythm—or at least my version of it—as the beat takes over everything else.

He turns, with the ease and grace of someone who’s done this a thousand times, his back settling into me like it was always the plan. Not rushed. Not accidental. Just a shift—subtle enough that anyone else might miss it, but close enough that I feel it everywhere at once. I feel my cock start to harden through the denim, the pressure building slow and steady, close enough that there’s no way he doesn’t notice.

His hips find the rhythm first, rolling back into me in time with the bass, controlled, unhurried—like he knows exactly what he’s doing without needing to prove it.

Fuck.

Yeah. He knows. And his ass…his ass is perfect.

I adjust without thinking, hands hovering at his waist before settling, matching him beat for beat, letting the music do most of the work. There’s barely any space between us now—just heat, movement, the press of bodies on all sides—but the way he moves keeps everything locked in, like we’ve done this before even though we haven’t.

I shift with him, left, right, forward, back—feeling the crowd disappear around us until it’s just this. Just him. Just the rhythm. Just the slow, unmistakable tension building every time he presses back into me a little harder than before—a tent that is becoming increasingly noticable.

We stay there a beat longer, suspended in it—his hips dragging slow, steady lines back into me, the crease of his ass finding my cock again and again while I hold steady and pretend he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Like he can’t feel it. Like I’m not already one roll of his hips away from blowing my load in my pants.

He turns back to face me, smooth and unhurried, and for a second the world narrows to just his eyes—something flickering there, curious, a little amused, like he’s notricing me the same way I’ve been noticing him.

He steps in and pulls me into him, not tight, just close—arms loose around my neck, easy, familiar. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, smell whatever he’s wearing under the sweat and the air and the crowd.

His mouth brushes near my ear.

“You always get this excited from dancing?” he says, voice low enough that I feel it more than hear it.

It’s rough in a way that isn’t forced. Grounded. Confident. The kind of voice that doesn’t have to push to be heard.

I swallow once, steadying myself, matching him without thinking—lowering mine just enough to meet him where he is.

“Well,” I say, letting it sit for half a second before I answer, “that ass of yours isn’t giving me much of a choice, is it?”

He smirks.

“I’m Elliot,” he says, smiling like he means it.

“Hyde,” I say, the name coming out easier than it should.

It drops between us like it belongs there.

At the time, I think it’s the biggest lie I’ll have to tell him.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“It’s getting late—I gotta go,” he says, like he’s already halfway out of the moment.

It steals my breath away.

“So soon?” I ask, and yeah—there’s no hiding it. I sound needy. I hear it the second it leaves my mouth.

He smiles, just a little, like he noticed it too but isn’t going to call me on it. “Yeah. Got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Right.

Of course he does.

“Well,” I say, trying to recover, forcing something casual back into my voice, “this was fun. Maybe we do it again?”

There’s a pause—just long enough to feel it.

Almost awkward.

Just… hanging there.

He studies me for a second, like he’s deciding something.

Then—

“Well, are you gonna ask for my number,” he says, one brow lifting slightly, “or should I ask for yours?”

I let out a short breath, tension breaking. “Oh—yeah. Of course.”

I’m already reaching for my phone, fingers moving faster than my brain as I pull it out of my pocket.

We step a little closer again, just enough to make it easier to see the screen, shoulders brushing as we exchange numbers. His name sits there for a second before I save it—Elliot.

I glance up, just once, toward the mezzanine.

I don’t even need to look that hard.

I can feel it.

Ezra’s watching.

Burning a hole straight through me from across the room.

I ignore it.

Or at least I pretend to.

Elliot leans in, close enough that I think he’s going to say something else—but instead, he presses a quick kiss to my cheek. Light. Easy. Like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

“Thanks, handsome—see you later,” he says, already pulling back, already turning.

“Not if I see you first,” I call after him, louder than I mean to.

He glances back over his shoulder, that same low, easy smile pulling at his mouth.

“You’re cute,” he says, voice carrying just enough before the crowd swallows him again.

And just like that—he’s gone.

#####

Ezra and I don’t say much in the Uber back to Seton Hall.

The driver has something low playing on the radio—talk, not music—and the city slips by in streaks of light through the window. Normally, one of us would fill the silence. A comment, a joke, something to keep the night going a little longer.

Not tonight.

Back in the room, we fall into the routine without thinking. Shoes off. Phones on chargers. One of us in the bathroom while the other brushes teeth and floss. Steam fogs the mirror, the smell of soap and whatever cheap body wash we bought last week hanging in the air.

We take turns like we always do—shower, sink, swap—moving around each other in the small space without bumping, without needing to say anything to coordinate it.

We’ve always been like that.

Ever since we were kids, there’s been this… awareness. Not mind reading. Nothing like that. Just a sense. Our parents said it started when we were babies—one of us crying, the other following seconds later. We didn’t really notice it until first grade, when they split us into different classes for the first time.

I remember sitting there, feeling off without knowing why.

Then looking over at the door like I expected him to walk through it.

It never really went away after that.

And standing here now, in the thick of the quiet between us, I can feel it again.

“Ezra, you already—” I start, catching him in the mirror.

“Yeah, I know,” he cuts in, not looking at me. “I’m just… jealous. It’s no big deal.”

It is, though.

I can hear it in the way he says it. Flat. Controlled. Like he’s already decided to bury it before it gets any bigger.

“I’m not gonna run off with him,” I say, softer this time. “You’ll have your chance.”

He lets out a breath I don’t think he meant to.

“I know.”

A beat.

Then he steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug.

It’s not dramatic. Not heavy. Just… there.

Familiar.

He’s completely naked, still damp from the shower, not even bothering to dry off before stepping out. Water beads along his shoulders, drips down his back, and for some reason that’s what throws me—not the hug, not what we just said, just the fact that he didn’t even think about drying off.

“You and this whole air drying is cool, but some warning would be nice.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks.

That’s Ezra.

Always a little careless in the small things.

We pull apart, and just like that, it’s over.

We finish up, kill the lights, and climb into our beds.

This is usually the part where he starts talking again. Something random. Something deep. He’ll throw out a question like it’s nothing—would you save me or six strangers, would you lie for me, would you help me hide a body—and we’ll go back and forth until one of us falls asleep.

Tonight, he doesn’t.

He just lies there.

Quiet.

And for some reason, unknown to me that bothers me.

“Ez?”

He’s quiet a moment before he answers, “what?”

“Come lay with me?”

Another beat and the rustle of sheets. He pad across the carpet and climbs into bed with me, his arm wrapping around me. His hands caress my bare chest in that all familiar way.

I kiss him on the forehead.

My brother and I have a very interesting relationship.

My hand slides down, slower this time, finding the curve of his ass and settling there, firm but not rushed—like I’m reminding myself he’s real, that this is real. He exhales, the sound low and soft against my chest, something that almost disappears before it fully forms. His hand follows a second later, dragging down the center of my chest, fingertips grazing just enough to make me feel it everywhere at once before continuing lower, purposeful now, until he finds my cock already hard beneath the fabric.

We shift laying side by side, he hooks his one leg over mine and I reach over and grab his cock and pull long strokes out of him making him moan my name.

“Fuck…Ash”

I might not always, but I know just what he needs and just as I know what he needs, he knows what I need. He pulls back the covers and lowers his head, his lips grazing the shaft of my cock.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah,” I say, steady.

He drags his tongue along the length of my shaft again, slower this time, taking his time with it, letting the moment stretch instead of rushing through it. When he reaches the tip, his tongue flicks lightly, just enough to make me tense under him.

His fingers follow, brushing over the head, catching the slick there and pulling back slightly, like he’s testing it, watching how I react more than anything else.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused, before leaning in and taking my cock back into his mouth, steady and unhurried.

He bobs steadily, the rhythm evening out, the sounds growing deeper, more pronounced in the quiet of the room. My body tightens without me meaning it to, that low, distinct sensation building in the pit of my stomach—tight, coiling—before it spreads, heavy and warm, pulling low and blooming outward in slow, inevitable waves.

One of his hands slides up, slow and unhurried, until his fingers find my chest again—thumb and forefinger catching my nipple, rolling it just enough to send a sharp line of sensation through me.

“Fuck—” I breathe, the word slipping out before I can stop it, my voice dropping into something closer to a moan. “I love it when you do that.”

He moans around my cock, the vibration subtle but just as intense. It’s not just what he’s doing—it’s how controlled it is, how he adjusts without thinking, like he’s reading me in real time.

I’ve been with other guys. Plenty.

None of them come close to this.

Not because they don’t try—but because they don’t know me like this. Not the small tells. Not the way my body tightens right before I do, or how to slow down just enough to stretch it out, to make it last.

Ezra does.

He always has.

Better than I do, most of the time.

He pulls off of me.

“You wanna cum?”

I nod, barely, and pull him up into a kiss—slow, steady, something that builds instead of rushes. It lingers, deeper than it should be, grounded in that same familiar connection that’s always been there between us—unspoken, instinctive, impossible to ignore no matter how much we try to pretend it’s just one thing or another.

He starts to jerk me, slow at first and then faster, he knows just how I like it, giving it a nice tight squeeze before jerking it again.

“Fuck—I’m close,” I say.

He turns just enough—just enough—to open the space between us, to give me access. I reach for him, hand closing around his cock with a familiarity that doesn’t need thinking, and he meets me there, matching the pressure, matching the pace. We don’t break eye contact. Not once.

It’s quick at first—fast, instinctive—but it settles into something more controlled, more deliberate, our movements syncing without needing to be said. Tight, steady strokes, breath catching, the room falling away until it’s just this—just him, just me, just the rhythm we’ve known for longer than we can remember.

“Shit—I’m cumming!” he cries.

And it hits at the same time—like we’ve been building toward the exact same edge without even realizing it. There’s no space between it, no hesitation. Just that sharp, rising swell tipping over all at once, pulling it out of both of us in the same breath.

My body tightens hard, everything locking before it breaks, the release hitting in heavy, pulsing waves that don’t let up, each one dragging another out of me before I can even catch up to it. We both shoot three, maybe four heavy ropes of cum, splattering our stomachs, chests, and legs, but we don’t stop, not until we’ve milked every last drop of cum from each other’s balls.

He jerks with me, matching it, our movements falling out of rhythm for the first time all night as it takes over—messy, uncontrolled, real.

“Fuck—” I breathe, the word breaking apart into something closer to a moan as it leaves me.

He lets out a small, breathless laugh, glancing down between us. “We’re gonna need to shower again.”

I huff out something close to a laugh myself, still trying to catch my breath, chest rising and falling as everything slowly comes back into focus.

We stay there for a minute, neither of us moving, just breathing, letting it settle.

He leans over again, presses a slower kiss to my mouth this time—less urgent, more grounded—then drops back onto the mattress, one arm falling over his eyes like he’s already halfway gone.

Some brothers bond over sports. Others over video games. Ezra and I—this is what it looks like for us. Not just the act of it, but the knowing. The way we read each other without asking, the way we feel the shift before it even happens. There’s never a question of timing or want—we’re already there, already in it, because we always know.

He’s my brother—and I love his crazy ass. Not in a way that needs explaining. Not in a way that fits neatly into anything anyone else would understand. It’s just there. It’s always been there.

Years ago, we got matching tattoos across our right ankles—Over A Cliff. We said it like a joke at the time, like something reckless and easy. But we meant it. Still do.

If he goes over, I’m going with him.

No hesitation.

No question.

And I know—without ever needing to hear it—that he’d do the same for me.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**