Fraternal: CH. 7

CHAPTER SEVEN: BROTHERLY LOVE

ASHER

We wake up the next morning sticky with dried cum. It's flaky and uncomfortable, crusted on our skin in a way that makes the shower feel less like an option and more like a necessity. Despite the fact that our lives somewhat blew up in our faces in the most epic fashion possible—despite Elliot walking out with that loaded promise hanging in the air—I can easily call last night one of the greatest sexual experiences I've ever had in my entire life.

That orgasm wasn't like any I'd ever had before. It was raw and all-consuming, the kind of thing that rewrites your understanding of what your body is capable of feeling. The kind of thing dreams are made of, or something close to it.

I just stare at Ezra. Both of us are still riding some kind of high from last night, and I'm not entirely sure how we got to that point so fast, but I'm not mad about it. Obviously I'm trying to read his mind—twin telepathy and all that—but my powers are failing me at the moment. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between satisfied and shell-shocked.

"Ez?"

"Ash?" he replies.

Yup. That's just what I expected. The quiet of the room and the morning sunlight filtering through the blinds are all that seem real right now. Everything else—Elliot, what we did, what it means—I don't know.

"Now what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper in the dim light of the room.

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy in the stillness between us. "Ash—I don't know what makes you think I have all the answers all of a sudden." There's a weariness in his tone that I haven't heard before, something deeper than just physical exhaustion. It's like he's carrying the weight of everything that happened last night, trying to make sense of it the same way I am.

"Because I don't have any," I say, rolling over to face him properly. The sheets rustle beneath me as I shift my position, propping myself up on one elbow so I can see his face more clearly. "Which usually means you do."

His eyes meet mine for a brief moment—dark and unreadable in the half-light filtering through the blinds. But he doesn't move. Doesn't turn toward me, doesn't reach out, doesn't offer any of the reassurance I'm desperately searching for in his expression. He just lies there on his back, perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling as if the answers might be written somewhere in the texture of the paint above us.

"So what do we do now? Pretend like it didn't happen? Try and act like everything is normal," I ask.

"Is that what you want?" he says, finally turning over to face me

I stare at him for a moment just a moment, and then I have a realization. I've gotten my powers back.

I lean over and kiss him and he kisses me back.

It's different this time.

No Elliot watching. No performance. No bet hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles waiting to drop. Just me and Ezra in our shitty dorm bed with dried cum still flaking off our stomachs and the morning light cutting through the blinds in thin strips.

His mouth opens under mine immediately—no hesitation, no second-guessing—and I feel something settle in my chest that's been rattling loose for weeks. Maybe longer. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I press closer until there's no space left between us.

I notice everything.

The way his breath hitches when I bite his bottom lip. The rough texture of his jaw where he hasn't shaved in two days. The small sound he makes in the back of his throat—half moan, half sigh—that goes straight to my cock.

My hand slides down his side, tracing the line of his ribs, the dip of his waist, the sharp jut of his hipbone. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and when my fingers brush over his stomach he tenses, then relaxes into the touch.

"Ash—"

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing?"

I pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, lips already swollen from kissing, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes my chest ache.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "But aren't you tired of pretending?"

His eyes search mine for a long moment, and I can see him trying to figure out what I mean. What I'm asking for. What is this?

Because I don't know either.

All I know is that last night Elliot watched us get each other off and then walked out without giving us any answers. All I know is that we're still covered in the evidence of what we did—what we've been doing for months now—and I'm tired of acting like it doesn't mean anything.

I'm tired of pretending this is just something we do.

He nods—just once—and pulls me back down.

The kiss is different this time. Slower. More deliberate. Like we're both trying to figure out what it means when there's no audience, no competition, no excuse.

I shift my weight, pressing my thigh between his legs, and feel him already half-hard against my hip. When I rock forward deliberately he gasps into my mouth, and I do it again—harder this time—just to hear that sound.

"Fuck—"

"You want me to stop?"

"No." His voice comes out rough. Almost desperate. "Don't stop."

So I don't.

I kiss him deeper, my hand sliding down his chest, over his stomach, until I'm palming him through his boxer briefs. He's fully hard now, straining against the fabric, and when I squeeze he makes this broken sound that goes straight to my cock.

"Ash—"

"I know."

I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down just enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and leaking, and I wrap my hand around it without hesitation. The weight of him in my palm is familiar—I've done this a hundred times—but it feels different now. Like I'm actually paying attention instead of just going through the motions.

I stroke him slowly, watching his face. The way his eyes flutter closed. The way his lips part on a breath. The way his hips lift into my hand like he can't help himself.

"Look at me," I say.

His eyes open—dark and unfocused—and lock on mine.

"There you are."

I tighten my grip and pick up the pace, and he groans—low and wrecked—his hand coming up to grip my shoulder. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, and I fucking love it. Love that he's losing control. Love that I'm the one making him fall apart.

"Fuck—Ash, I'm—"

"Not yet."

I slow down, dragging it out, and he makes a frustrated sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. His free hand finds my cock through my briefs, palming me roughly, and I hiss through my teeth.

"Two can play that game," he says, breathless.

"Yeah? Prove it."

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