Previously…

Fraternal: Chapter 2

Previously…

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne ⏾⋆.˚

CHAPTER 3: TRUTH TAKES TIME

Asher

I WAKE UP HORNY and while that in and of itself isn’t anything to write home about what could be is the date that I have with Elliot later tonight. I still don’t know what the plan is, apparently it’s a surprise. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still horny.

I roll over and see Ezra. He’s on his phone, scrolling through reels or shorts or something. Whatever he’s watching must be funny, because he can’t seem to stop laughing long enough to catch his breath.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“This,” he says, holding his phone out for me to see.

It’s a video of a girl doing a little shimmy dance. The caption reads, “Sister who dealt with her problems.” Nothing outright funny. Then the clip cuts and a new caption reads, “Sister who couldn’t cut it,” but no one’s there. It takes me a second to realize the camera’s locked in on a headstone.

“Oh shit,” I say, half laughing, half caught off guard. “That’s not morbid at all.”

Now that he knows I’m awake, Ezra lets himself laugh fully. He scrolls through a few more videos, chuckling at some, skipping others. Ezra is one of the most serious and sincere people I know, and yet his humor is darker than a smoker’s lung.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, still scrolling.

“Fine, I guess,” I say.

“What’s up?” he asks, picking up on the shift in my tone.

Instead of answering, I lift the blanket to show him the raging hard-on I’ve got.

“Damn,” he says.

He goes right back to his phone.

I lie on my back and let the blanket fall, tenting over my cock. I close my eyes and try to think about what I’m going to wear tonight. Henley? Jeans? Should I dress like Ezra or like myself? Usually, when we do the Hyde thing, we wear whoever’s clothes went first. But truth be told, I hate Ezra’s style.

When we were kids, our mom made a point to dress us in the same clothes. I was never sure if it was because it was easier to grab two of the same thing or if she just wanted us to look like identical twins. Either way, as soon as we started picking out our own clothes, we made a deal—never to wear the same thing again.

My eyes are still closed when I feel the blanket shift, and then Ezra’s hand—slow, familiar—massaging the front of my underwear. I open my eyes and turn my head. He’s still scrolling with his free hand, like this is just part of the routine.

My breathing hitches—he really knows how to turn me on. A moment later, he slips his fingers underneath the waistband of my briefs, slow and deliberate, until he’s touching my cock with his bare hand. I let out a soft, breathless moan, trying to keep it contained even though there’s no real reason to.

“Fuck,” I say, quieter this time. His finger swipes over the tip, and it’s instantly too sensitive—already leaking precum. He uses it without thinking, spreading it along the length as he starts to rub up and down my cock, setting a pace that’s easy, familiar, like he’s not even trying. I jerk my hips slightly at the sensation, not enough to stop him, just enough to let him know.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He sets his phone down without looking away for long, attention shifting fully now as he slides his underwear off under the blanket, working them down his legs and tossing them onto the floor beside the bed. I follow suit, pushing mine down and kicking them free, the movement automatic, like we’ve already decided where this is going without saying it.

I grab his cock and he sucks in a shallow breath, a quick intake that he tries—and fails—to hide. I start to stroke him, taking my time, making sure to run my finger along every ridge, every place I know will get a reaction. He pulls his forehead against mine and rests it there, holding the contact like he needs it.

“Shit,” he says under his breath.

He pulls at my hip and I know exactly what he wants. The connection we have is undeniable—so much so that it feels like magic sometimes, like we’re moving off the same signal without ever having to say it. I follow the motion of his pull and shift over him, landing on top. I lean down into the crook of his neck and press my hips forward, my cock sliding across his as I settle into place. He hooks one leg around mine, locking me in closer.

He moans again and grabs my ass, pulling me in tighter, like there’s still space left to close. If we get any closer, we’re going to be fused together—and if I’m being honest, in this moment, I’d be fine with that. As our cocks slide across one another, more precum slicks between us, making every movement easier, hotter.

“Yeah, don’t stop,” he says.

I look down between us and the sight of our cocks—slick, pressed together, moving in sync—nearly sends me over the edge.

“Mmhm,” I moan.

“Just like that,” he whispers.

I keep fucking his cock with mine, the movement steady, almost automatic. My thoughts are all over the place—splintering between the moment we’re in, Elliot, the date tonight, and the fact that we have a class in forty-five minutes. It all overlaps, like I can’t decide what matters more or what I’m supposed to be focusing on. And even with all of that running through my head, my body doesn’t slow down—it just keeps going, locked into him, like the rest of it can wait.

“You close?” I ask.

“Yeah—you?”

“Yeah,” I say.

I pick up the pace, tightening my grip, keeping us right on that edge. Yeah, this is the best way to wake up. Some people grab a coffee, some donuts—we jerk each other off and frot. And since frotting is one of my favorite things, this really is the best way to wake up, no contest.

An hour later, we’ve showered all the cum off, moisturized, deodorized, gotten dressed, and are ready to take on the day—like none of it was anything out of the ordinary.

Class is both interesting and uninteresting at the same time. More contract stuff—breaching contracts—but the one thing that sticks out is a term Dr. B. reintroduces to us—specific performance. The last time I’d heard the term was in my Business Law class in undergrad, but I remember it from then too, the way it stuck because it actually meant something.

“Specific performance,” says Dr. B., “is just one of many damages parties can seek from the courts in the case of a contract breach.”

He paces a little as he talks, letting it land before continuing.

“In these situations, the courts may require the at-fault party to fulfill their obligations as specified in the contract,” he says, then adds, “but only when money damages aren’t enough—when the thing itself actually matters.”

I write it down anyway, even though I already know what it means—or at least I thought I did. It’s not just about following through; it’s about being forced to follow through when walking away isn’t an option.

It’s not the definition I’m thinking about—it’s the idea of it.

After class, I meet Ezra in the quad. He’s got a coffee in one hand and what I can only imagine is an everything bagel in the other, still warm by the look of it. What I don’t see is one for me.

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have gotten me one?”

He hands me the coffee first, like that’s supposed to make up for it, and then pulls a bag from his hoodie pocket.

“I drank mine already,” he says.

I take a bag, open it, and pull the bagel free, the smell hitting me as I do. I toss the bag to the side without thinking.

“Dude, the trash can is right there,” says Ezra, already bending to pick up the bag.

“So, I’m kinda nervous about this date,” I say, taking a bite from the bagel, chewing as I watch him.

“Nervous? About what?”

“I don’t know—what if he’s weird?”

“He’s not weird,” he says, and there’s an edge to his tone now, almost defensive, like I’ve said something I shouldn’t have.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that was about,” he says, “you’ll be fine.”

“Are you going to study section later?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he replies, “I was wanting to get started on study guide.”

“You wanna take the exam for me too?”

“Dude--go pound salt.”

Ezra and I hang out in the quad until I next class. We’ve got two more classes today and then I can mentally prepare myself for this date.

Later, back in our room, Ezra is lost in his laptop review notes, while I’m trying to find an outfit that’s sensible but will also make Elliot drop his underwear for me. But there’s the bet and the rules. No funny business until date number two. I keep that in mind as I cycle through options—shirts on, shirts off, checking the mirror, second-guessing, then going back to the first choice.

Just then my phone chimes. It’s Elliot. Ezra’s attention snaps from the computer, quick, like he’s been waiting for it.

“Is it him?”

“Yeah, he wants me to meet him outside.”

“Well, are you going or not?”

I realize I’m just standing there, halfway dressed, thinking instead of moving, and a moment later I respond to Ezra, more to get myself going than anything else.

“Right—wish me luck.”

I grab my flannel and head for the door, tugging it on as I move, running a hand through my hair like that’s going to make a difference.

“You’re wearing that?”

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, glancing down at myself, checking it again like I might see what he’s seeing.

“I mean, it’s a choice.”

Either he’s trying to psyche me out or I’m making questionable fashion choices. I decide it’s the former.

“Screw you, dude,” I say, and then I’m out the door, pulling it shut behind me before he can say anything else.

Outside, a silver Jeep Grand Cherokee is parked at the curb. The passenger window slides down, and I see Elliot waving me over.

Okay, kid, here we go.

As I approach the Jeep, my stomach turns. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I just am—like I can’t stop overthinking everything, every step, every word I’m about to say. Ezra and I had a pretty solid debrief, although I still feel like he left something important out, but I never questioned or pressed him on it. If I needed to know, he would have told me—right? That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked.

I grab the handle, open the door, and sit down, adjusting in the seat like I’m trying to settle more than just my body—my hands, my posture, the way I’m holding myself.

“So are you excited?” he asks, a big smile plastered across his face.

He’s got a great smile. Should I compliment him on it—has Ezra already done that? These are the details he’s supposed to remember. I don’t think he mentioned it. Did he? Fuck. My brain is a mess, jumping ahead, doubling back, trying to keep track of things that should already be handled. And now he wants to do surprise dates. Was Ezra this nervous, or is this just me? Am I already behind?

“I don’t know, surprises tend to leave me feeling anxious,” I say, trying to keep it light, like I’m joking more than admitting something real.

“There’s no need for that,” he says.

And for some reason, that puts me at ease, just enough to breathe, like he’s certain in a way I’m not.

About a mile down the road, we make a left on Vale Ave, then a right on Douglas St. Hmm, we’re not headed for the highway, so we’re doing something in town. I start fitting the pieces together, mapping it out in my head, retracing routes I’ve taken before. Douglas is a frontage road that runs parallel to the highway. It dead-ends at Figueroa. If we turn left, we’re going to the movies; if we turn right, we’re going bowling...or Costco.

Costco.

I mean, I’m not opposed—sometimes Ez and I come just for the free samples when we’re feeling particularly peckish, making a lap like it’s a plan instead of an excuse, seeing how much we can get away with before someone notices.

My train of thought is cut short when he reaches over and grabs my hand. It takes me by surprise, and my first instinct is to pull away, but something in me catches itself and lets him take it. Like we’ve done this before. Ezra didn’t say anything about hand holding, so this must be new. And not just hand holding—he’s interlaced his fingers with mine, locking them together.

His hand is warm and his grip is firm, like he wants to hold it—like he wants to keep me close. It’s almost intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting. He looks over and smiles as we get to the intersection, like this is easy for him. He clicks on the blinker.

Left.

Now let’s hope he springs for the popcorn.

We walk up to the window and he pulls two tickets from his pockets. Well, someone likes to plan ahead. This is the kind of thing Ezra does—buys movie tickets as soon as they go on sale. He’s also very specific about which seats he picks. One time he dragged me to a movie theatre in the middle of the day and asked if he could take measurements inside the theatre, and they actually let him. He used a laser level on a tripod to measure out the optimal viewing angle, and now the availability of those seats is how we pick which showing we’re going to.

Elliot hands the tickets over, the cashier scans them, and then waves us inside.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“Well, the only other thing out this way is a Taco Bell, and I figured you had a little more class than that,” I say.

He laughs, which is both a relief and a little disarming.

“But the movie is still a secret,” he says.

“Ooh, the mystery,” I taunt.

Okay, that was cheesy, but it gets a smile out of him. And the other thing—when he got out of the car, it was like he couldn’t wait to take my hand again, and he’s been holding it ever since. That same steady, firm grip, like he doesn’t plan on letting go.

“Popcorn?” he asks.

“Wow, a man after my own heart,” I say, slapping my free hand over my chest.

There’s hardly anyone here. I mean, it is a Wednesday night, and I don’t even know what’s been advertised lately. There’s a row of movie posters, but I can’t tell which are already out, which are not yet released, and which ones they should’ve taken down months ago.

He orders a large popcorn and two large sodas. I’m not surprised the total is $22. He’s pulling out all the stops.

“If you’re trying to impress me, you had me with the Jeep,” I say.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he replies.

I wonder what that means.

He grabs the bucket of popcorn from the woman at the concession stand and hands me two empty cups. “We need salt and butter,” he says.

“I’ll grab yours—what do you want?”

“Surprise me,” he says.

I walk over to the soda machine while he goes to the condiment stand and starts loading the popcorn up with enough salt to make a salt lick. And the butter—my god, we’re going to be sick. I’ll be sensible and not get him a suicide—a drink made from every flavor of soda. I go for Mt. Dew—can’t go wrong with the Dew. I lid the sodas and meet him at the condiment station. He grabs a fistful of napkins, and we head back to the auditoriums.

“We’re in eight,” he says.

As we walk down the hall, I glance up at the numbers and the corresponding marquees with the movie names, letting my eyes track each doorway as we pass. When we get to eight, I look up at the name.

“Summer of the Wilds,” I read.

“Hope you like romantic comedies,” he says.

“Love ‘em,” I lie.

Ezra loves romantic comedies. I’m action-adventure all the way. But I just need him to believe I love them long enough for him to ask me back to his place tonight so I can seal the deal on the bet.

The auditorium is completely empty.

“I guess we have the run of the place,” I say, my voice carrying a little more than it should in the open room.

“Yeah, that just means we can sit in the middle and manspread,” says Elliot.

“I’ll never turn down an opportunity to give my junk space to breathe,” I laugh.

We sit down just as the trailers start, the screen lighting up the room in flashes of color.

“So you like trailers?” he asks.

“They’re the best part of the movie,” I say softly.

“Right!” he says, a little too loud, then corrects himself into a whisper.

“Elliot, why are we whispering—no one’s here,” I say.

He glances around like he needs to confirm it for himself.

“Oh, right.”

He looks at me with an expression that says he wants to ask me something but he doesn’t know how. Don’t ask me how I know—I just do.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Okay, Mr. Perceptive,” he says, “there’s something that I’ve been dying to do ever since you got in the car.”

“Please tell me I don’t have something hanging out of my nose?” I say, on the brink of mortification.

“Not exactly,” he says.

But before I can reach up to touch my face, he leans in and kisses me. That catches me off guard more than the hand holding. At first, I just hold there, not moving, letting it happen while my brain catches up. The kiss isn’t a peck, and it most certainly isn’t a first kiss. A first kiss is different. A first kiss is a mutual understanding between two people—a silent contract that both parties sign mentally. He notices my reticence almost immediately.

“I’m sorry, should I not have?” he asks.

Ezra, you lying sack of shit. You’ve already made out with this dude.

“No, it’s fine. Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“The first time was just so, I don’t know, magical—I wanted to relive it all over again,” he says.

“That’s sweet,” I say.

And now I feel bad, and Ezra cheated, which for some reason is upsetting to me and I’m not sure why. But I lean over this time and he meets my kiss without hesitation. My hand finds the back of his neck and I pull him deeper into the kiss, closing whatever space is left between us.

He moves the bucket of popcorn to the seat on his other side without breaking the kiss. With the space empty, he leans in closer, like he’s been waiting for the room to give him permission. My cock is straining against my pants, but this kiss is something else—slower, heavier, harder to ignore. And if Ezra is going to cheat, then so am I. With one hand still on his neck, I slide my free hand to the inside of his thigh. He moans into my mouth, the sound low and immediate. I slide my hand further up, slowly, testing how far I can go.

With his free hand, he grabs my hand and pulls it to his cock.

No need for the preamble, I see.

This kissing is deeper now, and my hand has fully enveloped his cock, and like my own, he’s stiff and straining against the denim. Ezra has lost this bet. I can tell he wants to get laid tonight. His hand finds my cock and he’s massaging it from the topside of my pants, firm and full of purpose. I reach up and pull at the waistband of his jeans. My fingers brush through his pubic hair.

“Mmhm,” he moans into the kiss.

“You like that?” I ask, a smile creasing my face.

“Maybe,” he says, smiling, kissing me again.

A moment later, the lights dim. We pull apart. We’ve kissed through fifteen minutes of trailers.

“Guess we’re not gonna know what’s coming to a theatre near you,” I joke.