Lucky Chances

By: XPud
(© 2018 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

xpud@tickiestories.us

Author's Note: Credit goes out to NeverAnywhere for helping with formatting, editing, and suggestions.

Chapter 2

A lance of sunlight cuts through the blinds on the back window of the room and lands directly on my eyelids, waking me up. I open my eyes to find my brother (that’s still weird to say) sprawled all over the bed, one arm across my chest, a leg over mine, the blankets and sheets tossed aside, with a bit of drool dampening the pillow near his mouth. I suppress a laugh at how absurd he looks, before noticing that he’s got a raging case of morning wood. This, in turn, gives me a raging case of morning wood. Dammit.

I want to get up, but I don’t want to disturb him and I have no idea how light of a sleeper he is. I know I sleep decently once I actually fall asleep, but I have medication helping me there. I actually have no idea what kind of sleeper I’d be without it, but with my anxiety, I’m sure I’m easier to wake up than he is. Still, I can take some time here before I get up, just in case he decides to move.

So. I need to review yesterday; what a huge chunk to take in. First, I find out that I still don’t know my real parents, which means Chance doesn’t know his. Second, his dad is transgender, and also kinda hot, which makes me all kinds of confused. ...Y’know, I’m just going to ignore that one.

New second, I had sex. I’m 13 and I had sex. Like, both ways. I’m not a virgin in any way now. I...somehow don’t feel any different than before. Like, they always make it out as if you somehow become some entirely new person or something, like a butterfly from a caterpillar, but I am definitely just me with a slightly sore sphincter (hooray alliteration?). I don’t feel older, or more ‘manly’ or whatever. Just...slightly wrong.

Which brings me to the third point: I just had sex with my brother. A brother that I didn’t grow up with, and who I didn’t know until just recently, so it’s basically like I just met a new person. Except that he’s my twin brother, and so I also basically just had sex with myself. Except that I find myself stupid ugly and would never have sex with myself. Except that I did. Jesus Christ, this is confusing.

And (because nothing is ever easy in my life), number four: I think I’m falling in love with my brother. My twin brother. My twin brother whom I have never met until this week. My twin brother whom I had sex with last night even though I have known him for less than a week. I mean, how sick and fucked up is that? Aren’t I supposed to, I dunno, NOT fall in love with my own family members? Is there something wrong with me? And if I’m feeling this, does that mean he might be feeling it, too?

Wow. That thought both excites and horrifies me. I am definitely fucked up.

I sigh heavily, more loudly than I intend to, and as if in response, Chance shifts his position and uses the arm that was draped over me to rub his nose a sec before shifting himself over away from me. Freed from my prison, I slowly get up and crawl over the foot of the bed, being careful not to disturb Chance. I get dressed and go pee, looking at myself in the mirror afterward. I see a nervous, confused, anxious boy staring back at me, one who looks exactly like, and somehow nothing like, the boy taking over the bed in the other room. The one I’m staring at now seems awkward and...flawed, like someone tried to make a copy of the one in the other room, but once they finished the outer shell, they filled it in with a bunch of, I dunno, random leftovers. ...Whatever. That analogy didn’t work, but neither does my brain right now. All I know is that I think I’m going to need to double my dose of the anxiety meds, because all this confusion is going to give me a meltdown.

I numbly head downstairs, aware of the smell of coffee and toast permeating the air. I turn the corner and almost bump into Carly, or Mrs. Lockhart, I guess, as she rummages in the pantry for something.

“Oh!” she says in startlement, “You took me by surprise there, Luke.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” I reply, “I didn’t--wait. How did you know which one I am?”

She smiles in amused sincerity. “Darlin’, Chance doesn’t own any of those clothes, first off. Second, he sounds like a herd of angry buffalo when he comes down the stairs, no matter how often I tell him to treat them with a bit more respect.” I get the squeaky giggles at that one. “Third, he’d’a been callin’ halfway down askin’ if I made any breakfast. Oh, and he’s usually not up for another hour on the weekends.”

I nod slowly, but in all my social eloquence, I have nothing to respond with. In fact, I really have no idea what I even came downstairs for. So, I just stand there, awkwardly silent, until she gets a bag of sugar out of the pantry and closes the door. “Well,” she continues, “you’re welcome to anything in the house. There’s cereal and milk, there’s bread for toast, or I could cook up some eggs if you’d like.”

“Um, no thanks. I’ll just wait for Chance for breakfast. Um, before I have breakfast.” My cheeks heat up at the accidental pun.

Pouring the sugar into a Tupperware container on the counter, she laughs lightly and responds, “That’s fine, as long as you eat. No child of mine skips breakfast if I can help it.” Child of hers? She must have expected my reaction because she looks over with a sly smile and says, “You may not be our adopted son, but you’re one of our children now as far as I’m concerned, even if you live with your other parents. You’re always welcome over here.”

I smile bashfully, unsure of what to do other than say, “Thanks.”

“You don’t happen to like coffee, do you?” She pours herself a cup and spoons a hefty helping of sugar into it.

“No thank you,” I reply. While I do occasionally like coffee with the french vanilla flavored creamer that Papa Davy puts into it (and a lot of it), I’m pretty sure a lot of caffeine is a bad idea for me right now. “Um, is it okay if I go out back?” I ask, eyeing the last bit of sunrise over the trees outside. It’s the kind of thing I try to write poems about and end up with trash, but oh well.

“Of course, hon! Go right on ahead.” As an afterthought, she adds, “Just don’t go swimming in the creek. I don’t know how many eyes the crocodiles have these days.”

O...kay. I don’t respond; I just head out the door onto their back porch. It’s a nice little open-air wooden deck with plenty of plastic deck chairs and a wobbly-looking table to go with them. I pull a chair to the edge of the porch and sit down facing outside, admiring the sky as the sun continues to climb over the treeline in the distance. They have a wrought-iron fence that goes quite a ways out, but the land starts to slope sharply after maybe sixty feet or so, so the fence closes off right there. There’s a hand gate installed on that side, though, so I guess if someone wanted to go swimming with the seven-eyed crocodiles, they could. The creek itself is another fifty feet out from there, and it looks like it has a little walking trail of sorts that goes alongside it. Other than that, the neighbor’s backyards seem pretty similarly constructed, just claiming a chunk of land without doing a whole lot to it. That, and the fences are short enough that they really only would serve to keep small kids from accidentally getting lost in the backyard. An adult (or me, if I really felt like it) could easily climb over them.

I’ve always loved nature; it usually just sits there, without bothering you, without asking you a ton of questions or trying to bully you or make you do homework. Really, it doesn’t want anything from you other than to leave it alone. A lot like me, especially when I get anxious. A lot of my poetry that I write is inspired by really pretty nature scenes. (The rest is usually about angsty things, but y’know.) I sit outside for a while, enjoying the still-bearable morning air before the day gets uncomfortably warm.

I’m not sure how long I sit there before I hear the back door open behind me. The door sticks a bit, though, so the sudden sound it makes when it’s opened makes me jump a bit. (Lots of things do, though, so there’s that.) I turn and see Chance, dressed in plaid shorts and a t-shirt that has a Batman symbol made of Legos, standing at the door. After a pause, he asks, “Can I come sit with you?”

“Yeah, of course,” I reply, and turn back around to keep enjoying the view. He drags a chair over next to me and sits down, staring off as I am.

He lets the lets the silence sit for a bit before asking, “So...whatcha doing out here?”

I blink a few times, looking aside at him. “Just...relaxing. Thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” he asks, not looking back over at me.

“Oh God, everything.” I sigh under the weight of it all. “Actually, I thought about it all, and now I’m trying to stop thinking about it. I tend to get obsessive over things sometimes.”

He doesn’t have a ready reply, so the birds fill in the empty spaces for a bit. Eventually, he stammers, “So...I really enjoyed last night.”

Ah, shit. I’m not ready for this discussion. Not mentally, not emotionally. But I don’t want to brush him off, and maybe he’s--okay, okay. Just... “Good.” No, that’s not enough. “I mean, I did too.” Yep, I’m an idiot.

An awkward pause fills the space; even the birds seem to stop chirping, just to rub it in. “I, y’know, hope it’s as good as that when I have a boyfriend.” He stares out into the distance, but I look over to see the redness creeping out from his cheeks.

Instead of a response, I end up with a hurricane of emotions, too many to even pick apart. It was bad enough this morning, but with what he said right there, something just triggers in me and leaves me extremely anxious for a moment. I try my absolute best to maintain outer calm while I take a few slow deep breaths to try to control myself, but I can tell he notices. Before he gets a chance to speak, I hold up a finger and say, “Hold on, random anxiety. I’ll be fine, just...” I take a few more deep breaths and focus on the breaths, like I was taught. Inhale, exhale. Inhale...exhale.

He looks at me with genuine concern and asks, “Is this like what happened that first time? In the class?”

I shut my eyes a little tighter, nodding quickly. Not that I need to remember that right now, I almost have control and don’t need to go back there. Inhale...exhale. Once more. Okay. “I think I’m good now. Sorry, just sometimes my thoughts go crazy and it gets me all anxious. I’m fine. Sorry.”

“No, no it’s fine, I just wanted to make sure, y’know, you were good. Just lookin’ out for ya, y’know?” He gently taps the back of his fist against my arm in a show of friendship.

Another small silence settles in, which is great, since I need to figure out what the hell caused that. He said that he hopes it’s as good when he has a boyfriend. So that means it was good, so there’s that. That means he’s...I guess he’s okay with being gay? Is he sure? And it also means that...god dammit. That’s why the anxiety attack happened. Even thinking of him having a boyfriend is making me jealous. Hey, brain! I can’t go out with my damn brother, are you insane!? “I should...probably get going home,” I mention carefully.

“Aw, already? I was gonna ask if you wanted to play more Smash Brothers.” He looks genuinely hurt when he says that, though.

“Yeah, I gotta do some chores and homework, and we like to go do family things on Saturdays.” While technically true, I don’t think we have anything planned for today specifically. I just need to be away so I can process some things.

He stares at me for a moment. “Did I do something wrong?”

Dammit! He can read me like a book! Why am I trying to hide things from my twin, anyway? Sighing, I say, “No, you’re fine, I promise. It’s just...a whole lot of things just happened, and I can’t talk to my parents about it, and I just need a lot of time to think things through, usually. It’s just something about me, is all. I promise you didn’t do anything wrong; you’re fine.”

He looks partially relieved, but offers, “You can talk to me about it.”

“Well, yeah, but...” God, he’s such a sweetheart. That’s just one more reason why this hurts so much. “...Not all of it.” I blink an unbidden tear out of my eye.

“O--okay,” he stutters, and looks as if he’s about to say something else, but eventually he gives up. “Maybe we can hang out later this week or something.” He sounds completely bummed out.

“Yes!” I blurt out quickly, taking him a little by surprise. “That would be awesome! I’d...I’d really like that. Later this week would be great.” Maybe I should repeat that a few more times to sound like a real idiot; I dunno if I made it clear enough.

The amusement shows on his face, but is quickly replaced by genuine excitement. “Awesome. I can’t wait.” He then gets a devious look on his face. “Hey, I have an idea. You should totally take a set of my clothes home, and one day, we can, like, swap places at school.”

I stare at him blankly for a moment. “But we have uniforms.”

He looks at me for a few seconds, and then swiftly slaps his face in an epic facepalm. “Wow. I am stupid.”

I can’t help but crack up for a moment as I put my hand on his shoulder. “But hey--that will make it super easy to do, though.”

He rolls his eyes, still ashamed of his faux pas. “Still. You sure you don’t at least want to have breakfast?”

“Hm. You have a good point. Let me text Papa Chris and let him know.”

We go back inside and tell his mom that we’re ready for breakfast; she cooks up some biscuits and sausage gravy, which is WAY better down here than it ever was up north. I stuff myself stupid on biscuits. By the time Papa Chris gets here, I’m asking for a stretcher or a wheelbarrow to get me over to the car. Everyone has a nice chat, I grab all my stuff and hug all the parents, and we prepare to go.

Chance runs over to me outside as we’re about to go. “Hey!”

I stop as Papa Chris closes the driver’s side door. “Yeah?”

“Later this week, right?”

“Right.”

He comes in a bit closer and speaks softly, not like anyone is around to hear. “Um, thanks. A lot. For last night...I don’t think I woulda been okay with all that if you weren’t there. So really...thanks.”

For all his bluster and charisma, he really goes soft when he talks about his own issues. He almost seems like a younger version of me, somehow, when he’s like this. I can’t help but open my arms for a hug, which he accepts readily (and almost painfully). Even when I’m ready to let go, he holds on for a few seconds longer. “See ya later,” I finally say when we let go.

As I get in the car, he smiles and waves, watching us as we drive down the street. Why the hell does he have to be so nice and friendly? My mind swims with questions and anxious thoughts on the way home.

After we get home, I pretty much head straight up to my room and plop down on the bed, staring blankly at my ceiling while my mind continues to unravel the dense knot of stuff that happened yesterday. Shortly, I hear a knock at my door.

“Yeah?” I call out.

“Housekeeping!” comes a mousy, high-pitched reply. That would be Papa Davy with his favorite door joke.

“Come in,” I reply with mock exasperation.

He opens the door and peeks in, darting glances left and right before “sneaking” in and closing the door. After he’s done being silly, he stands up and considers me as I lay on the bed, still staring upward. “You okay, Big Guy?”

He loves calling me names that are exactly the opposite of what I am. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Now see,” he says, “there’s a difference between ‘I’m actually fine’ fine, and ‘I’m staring at the ceiling because I’ve got something on my mind’ fine. I’m having a hard time telling which one this is, but I have a hunch.”

I glance over at Papa Davy, who is standing in his ‘sassy/defiant’ pose, but his face is soft and concerned. “Well, yeah, of course I have something on my mind. Yesterday was probably one of the craziest days of my life, maybe even more than when I met Chance for the first time.”

He swivels my computer chair around and takes a seat facing me. “Yeah, I can imagine. How are you taking it all?”

I hold a hand up and wobble it back and forth in the ‘so-so’ gesture. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Well, how is it going with you and Chance? Everything okay between you two?”

“Yeah, yeah we stayed up and played games and talked and stuff.” And found out that we’re both gay and had sex with each other and aren’t virgins and now I think I have a crush on him. Nothing out of the ordinary, just regular brother stuff. God, I’m fucked up.

“Okay,” he says, though he sounds unconvinced. Probably because he can read anybody and I’m also a terrible liar. Oh well--that’s all he’s getting from me on that note. He scoots closer in the chair. “I hope you aren’t mad at his parents for what they--for how they handled things.”

I shrug. “I mean I guess I can see why, kinda, but...it was rude of them to think he couldn’t handle it.”

“Maybe they weren’t thinking about him as much. It could just be that they were afraid.”

“Afraid?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Sure. Coming out is always hard, even if it’s to your children. People are people, and sometimes it doesn’t matter how old they are, or if they’re related or not--that even makes it harder, sometimes.” With that, he gives a dismissive shrug. “Not that I had that problem. My closet has always had the clearest glass door that anyone has ever looked through. The more to admire me, really.”

His sheer stupid absurdity always makes me giggle. If only he knew how right he was, though. I can’t even figure out how to come out to my two gay dads, and let’s not even talk about the other part. “I guess so,” is all I can figure out to respond.

A moment passes. Suddenly, Papa Davy gets the “Eureka!” look on his face. “Hey, at least you have a brother that you don’t have to live with. I hated every last one of my sisters and brothers until I moved out, and then they were all of a sudden the coolest people. So, you get to skip the “annoying brother” part and just start out liking him. Lucky Lucky--your nickname rings true.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can see that I’m boring you, so...I’ll just go now.” He stands up.

“You’re not boring--”

“I’m just teasing you, Luke. Don’t have too much fun now, ‘kay?” With that, he leaves the room. I really do love my dads, even if they’re a little too personal sometimes.

I go through the same sort of conversation with Papa Chris later on, though it’s a bit more summarized. Other than that, the day seems as empty as my mind is full. I occupy myself messing around on the computer, but nothing seems to interest me. I finally decide to sit and write a poem, hoping that it will help me at least get through the wall of confusion in my head. Actually, I kinda like that phrase. Let me see:

Behind a wall of confusion, I sit
Imprisoned, but protected
From the maelstrom of uncertainty,
Of anxiety and fear.
The storm wears my face and smiles
It opens its arms, and cries when I refuse it.
If I embrace it, will I become it?
If so, what will become of me?
Of us?

Ugh, so melodramatic. I do like the word, ‘maelstrom,’ though. I’ll save it and file it away for when I’m not so damn confused. I do feel a little less anxious, though, for what it’s worth, so there’s that.

I feel kinda bad for saying it, but I’m glad that Chance doesn’t text me or anything for the day. I don’t want to look like I don’t like him or that I want him to go away, but I just...I need some time. It’s just that...whatever. Anyway.

So the parents and I don’t actually do anything for the rest of the day, even though I wasn’t lying earlier--we really do go out on Saturdays pretty often. In fact, Papa Chris asks me if I want to go out to dinner, and Papa Davy almost dies when I say no. So he ends up making some Chop Suey Casserole, which is both ridiculously good with crushed-up Ritz crackers in it, and ridiculously bad for you (even though they’re normally pretty health crazy). I guess he figured out that I wasn’t ‘fine.’ Honestly, though, I don’t care at this point, because it’s freaking delicious.

After dinner, I go back up to my room and read the book I checked out from the library for reading class. It’s a young adult fantasy novel: all of a sudden, everyone within a few years of eighteen years old starts getting magic powers, and it’s about how the world changes because of it. The best part is that the main character doesn’t really have any powers that he can tell, until he--well, I don’t want to spoil it.

Anyway, I read it for maybe an hour or so, but even though it’s really interesting, I just really need to release some tension, so to speak. Even starting to think about it is enough to start getting hard, so I put the book aside and get undressed; it’s close enough to bedtime anyway. “Little Lucky” presses himself against my belly and crawls his way up as he gets fully hard. I spend some time slowly dragging my fingers over the skin, watching as it reflexively tenses up. If I were in the shower, I’d rub my palm over the top of my dick head, which for some reason always makes me need to pee. I move down to my balls, tickling the underside and watching them scrunch up out of the way. It’s really like it’s a separate creature, sometimes--more so now that I’m at the Age of the Awkward Boner.

I reach into the bottom drawer of my nightstand, way in the far back past my old pajamas that sadly still fit me, and pull out a bottle of conditioner. I told my dads that I had used it all up, but I love taking the last bit and keeping it for when I’m really horny and not in the shower. I squeeze a line of the thick stuff out onto my dick; the sensation and the cold temperature make it flex again in response. I rub it all in, the electric feeling setting my brain (and groin) on fire. I gently start to stroke from base to head, only occasionally rubbing my fingers over the sensitive glans. I do, however, use my thumb to massage the little super-sensitive area underneath the head, which makes it ooze precum. I think back to my standard memories and fantasies, usually involving my old friend in Connecticut. Sometimes I just remember how we jacked off together, and sometimes I imagine us doing more. I imagine me belly-up on the couch and him kneeling between my legs, slowly pushing his big dick into me, riding it up until he’s pressed against me.

The thought of it lights everything up a little more, but it doesn’t push me over the edge. Eventually, even the usual ideas kind of fade out, and I can’t get over the “plateau,” as they call it. (I did a lot of online research. What? It’s interesting.)

Then my mind immediately replaces the view with last night: looking at Chance facing me with his dick pointing straight up; me showing him what a blowjob feels like, and the feeling of his dick in my mouth; the moment that he let out that whimper and pushed deep into me, his warmth on my back, his dick throbbing as he shot--

My entire body locks in place like lightning struck me; my dick spasms violently and rapidly as three quick globs of cum fly out, with a fourth dribbling down my dickhead and thumb. Five more dry throbs and one freaking amazing orgasm later, I’m out of breath and I swear my abs are going to be sore tomorrow.

I take a moment to catch my breath. Good God, that was one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.

And it was while thinking of having sex with my brother.

I officially, definitely have a crush on Chance. I’m the worst kind of person on Earth; I’m pretty sure people would tolerate murder more than incest. If not, I’m right up there. This was a bad idea, moving down here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here realizing how fucked up I am. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with the image of myself like some narcissistic, backwater redneck. A gay backwater redneck.

You know, I take that back. I shouldn’t insult country folk like that. I’m the damaged one. This is all on me. Maybe if I stayed in Connecticut, I wouldn’t have found out about how repulsive I am, but does that change things? I’d still be the same fucked-up person. What am I gonna do? What am I supposed to do when...when...

I take a sock and wipe off the cum, my mind racing in circles. I put on my pajama bottoms from the drawer, sit on my bed, and cry into my hands. I am trapped. I don’t know what to do: I’m in love with my brother and I can’t be, but I can’t just turn it off. Worse, I can’t tell him, and I don’t want to see him because it’ll be awkward, but I can’t tell him that I don’t want to see him, either. It would break his heart, and it’s not his fault that I’m the broken one.

Maybe they’ll take me to a mental institution. Maybe that would fix me. If not, at least I’d be somewhere where I’m not going to affect Chance.

Okay, okay, maybe you’re overreacting a bit, Luke. It’s been literally less than a week, and you’re probably just still emotional about it all.

Yeah, but it doesn’t stop me from being a freak. I shouldn’t feel that way at all.

That doesn’t mean you’ll keep feeling that way. People get crushes and lose them all the time.

But that’s usually because the other person stops being amazing, and Chance is fucking perfect. He’s basically what I wish I was.

I’m ripped from my reverie by the sound of a knock on my door. “Go away,” I respond as calm-voiced as I can.

“I heard you crying in there; is everything okay?”

“Go away!” My voice cracks high in the middle of the words; if they didn’t know I was upset before, they damn well do now.

Papa Chris sighs on the other side of the door. “Luke, I’m coming in in ten seconds.”

I groan heavily, wiping the tears of my face rapidly, tucking my legs in and wrapping my arms around them so that I can hide my face in my knees.

Papa Chris slowly opens the door and looks at me, heavy concern etched into his face. “Lucky-Luke, what’s wrong?” he says in the most pitying tone of voice possible.

“Nothing.” I’m well aware that’s completely unconvincing.

He stares at me, unmoved. “Seriously, what’s bothering you? Is it an anxiety attack?” He steps closer.

“No!” I respond emphatically. “It’s just...” I literally can’t think of a single thing I could finish that sentence with that wouldn’t give away that I’m the scum of the Earth.

“Just what?” He sits at the foot of the bed.

“Just nothing,” I say into my knees.

“I understand that you need your privacy and space, but I’m worried about you. We’re worried about you.” Papa Davy peers his head into the doorway. “You know you can tell us anything.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t!” A renewed wave of sobs overtakes me; Papa Chris moves over and starts rubbing my back soothingly. “I’m sorry,” I whimper, “but I can’t.”

“You can’t talk to us?”

I shake my head.

Papa Davy asks, “Is this about Chance?”

As I curl up even tighter in response, hoping that I can just squeeze myself out of existence, Papa Chris takes a serious tone. “What did he do? I swear, if he hurt you--”

“No!” I screech. “He didn--didn’t do...anything. It’s not--not him.”

“Well, what is it, then?” Both of them are staring at me, I can feel it.

I look up to see that it’s true; and yet here we are, where I can’t tell them what’s going on, and I can’t even tell them why I can’t. I stare at Papa Chris until my eyes tear over too much to see. He scoots closer and wraps me in his arms, hugging me silently.

I sob uncontrollably for a bit longer until I’m basically out of tears, and he continues hugging me for a minute longer. After I calm down, he asks, “If you won’t, or can’t, talk to us, will you consider going to a therapist down here?”

Sure, Papa Chris. I’ll go tell a therapist that I want to be boyfriends with my brother so that he can tell you how fucked up I am and commit me. That sounds like a great idea--I’m so glad you thought of it! “I don’t think it’ll help.”

“Is it the medication, then?” Papa Chris sounds concerned, but I can almost detect a hint of frustration in his voice.

“No. Just...forget about it. Please. I’ll talk when...if...I’m ready.” I give him a look of “and that’s final,” and keep my mouth shut.

“Look, I’m just trying to help--!”

“Chris.” Papa Davy puts a heavy emphasis on the word; we both look up to see him leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed and a seriously disapproving look on his face. “Our teenage son can make some of his own decisions, like when he’s ready to talk about something.” Nearly every word he says is carefully pronounced.

Papa Chris stares back at him for a tense moment, but relents. “You’re right. Luke, I’m sorry. I just want to fix everything and make it okay, but sometimes things aren’t ready to be fixed yet. I still need to learn that.”

Seeing Papa Chris so vulnerable is a strange sight for me; he’s normally the rock around here. “Thank you,” I say meekly.

“Please, though,” he adds as he stands up from the bed, “just remember that you can tell us anything. We promise we’ll love you all the same.”

I stare at him for a moment, deciding on what to say; I just end up nodding, instead.

Satisfied with the response, he says, “Have a good night, Luke.”

“Goodnight, Papa Chris, Papa Davy.”

They close my door softly; I hear their feet plod down the hall. I sigh heavily, realizing that my pajama pants are basically soaked at the knees with tears. I slip them off and find a pair of gray briefs to put on for bed. At least now I’ve managed to drain my brain of all its nervous energy; maybe I’ll be able to get some sleep.

***

I spend most of Sunday getting over myself, finding ways to do things instead of mope around and hate myself. I figure I’ll either find a way to stop crushing on him, or I’ll just suck it up and never admit it for the rest of my life. I mean, I can’t really think of any other alternatives, here. I nearly finish the book I’m reading--it gets really interesting about halfway through--and do the basic pre-algebra homework we have, and then fart around on the computer for a little while. Chance does text me, but it’s only to say that he’s excited to see me at school tomorrow. I swear, that boy. I answer back the same and then put my phone away; that way it looks like I wasn’t ignoring him but maybe got distracted or something. (Yes, I really do over-analyze things like this.)

Soon enough, it’s Monday again. I show up in the cafeteria and hear myself talking across the room; Chance is definitely louder than I am. I head over and “Jay” (I found out last week that his name was actually Ty) stands up from the table. He looks back and forth between Chance and me and just shakes his head. “I’m still not used to this,” he admits.

Chance gets up and turns around to see me as a smile paints itself on his face. “Me neither,” he admits, “but it’s still awesome.”

I roll my eyes, smiling. “Good morning, Chance. Ty.” I nod my head at both, and take a seat at the table. Also at the table are Lucas and his emo-haired friend whose name keeps escaping me. “So, Ty, I meant to ask: why did you tell me your name was Jay?”

“Huh?” he asks before his brain catches up. “Oh yeah! I was just gonna test to see if there really were two of y’all, or if you were just playin’ me.”

I think about it a moment. “How would that have worked?”

“So like,” he begins, “if it was just Chance here yankin’ my chain, I figure he’da slipped up somewhere and called me Ty.”

“But...if he was ‘playing’ as Chance, he’d just call you Ty, and then as Luke he’d call you Jay. How does that prove anything?”

He stops for a moment, thinking. “Man, I dunno! I didn’t have a lot of time to think it up, okay?!”

This sets the table laughing, Ty included. Chance remarks, “Now you just have to worry about whether we’re pretending to be each other. Right, Luke?”

Ty gets an honestly concerned look on his face. “Y’all wouldn’t dare.”

I raise an eyebrow. “All right, Luke,” I say to Chance, “You can knock it off, now. He’s onto us.”

Chance looks completely baffled for about a split second, but he catches on before rolling his eyes and saying, “Dang. Come on, though--I do a pretty good Chance impression, right?”

I give him the “not bad” expression and nod sagely. “You should probably be a bit louder, though; I know I get a little crazy sometimes.”

Lucas and “Emo” are dumbstruck. Ty continues to look at us like we literally teleported to each other’s spots or some other sorcery. He sputters, “No--no way. Seriously?!”

Chance gives me a mischievous look and adds, “Yeah, I guess so. But then everybody shoulda known you were Chance; your vocabulary wasn’t nearly high enough to sound like me.”

A long second passes as Chance and I stare at each other, both of us trying desperately to keep a straight face. Simultaneously, though, we both deflate in peals of laughter. “Vocabulary? Seriously?!” I ask as my voice spikes into the sky.

“Man, I dunno!” Chance replies, his cheeks lighting on fire from the laughter and from being exposed. “But you’re right--I am kinda loud.”

Ty figures out that the whole thing was a ruse and scoffs. “Man, y’all be some sons o’--”

His sentence is cut off by the sound of the bell ringing through the tiled cafeteria. We all head to class; Lucas and the other kid walk with me to science class as Ty and Chance split off in other directions. On the way, I mention to the emo-haired boy, “Hey, I’m sorry, but I totally can’t remember your name.”

“Oh, it’s Brandon.”

I blink and frown. “I could swear I thought it was Scott.”

“There’s a Scott that sits behind me.” It’s definitely not the Scott from lunch; I think he’s only in sixth grade, anyway.

“Ah.”

Lucas asks in his characteristic slow manner, “So...what’s it like? Having a twin. Like, now, after all these years.”

I shrug. “Kinda like meeting a good friend that happens to look exactly like me.” And is hot and you want to bone him--brain, shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.

“Man, that’d be cool,” he states. “Like, my brother is just kind of a douche.”

I snort in unexpected laughter. “Ha! Is he older?”

“Yeah, three years.”

I nod. “Well, Chance seems pretty cool, so far.” I add playfully, “Hopefully I don’t ruin his reputation.”

We chuckle a bit as we enter the science classroom. Sadly, that’s the only laughter to be had that class; it ends up intensely boring and soul-sucking, and the lab isn’t much better.

At least after half a day of science boredom, I get to go to orchestra class. Today we find out which instruments we’ll end up with! We got to request certain ones, but of course usually everyone wants to play the double bass just ‘cuz it’s gigantic, and there’s only one of them in this orchestra, so there will be some people playing a tiny violin who are all jealous.

As Mrs. Ortiz calls people over to pick up their instruments, she starts with the violins. As expected, I watch the boys (granted, there aren’t a bunch of boys in the orchestra; it’s like 80% girls) who got violins pout and huff about it. One of the girls, though, pumps her fist in the air and hisses, “Yesssssss!” when she gets a violin. I like her already.

Then she moves on to the violas, nothing exciting there. But seeing as my name hasn’t been called yet...

“Cello: Lucas Chatham.” I make a show of fist-pumping and hissing out a “Yessssss!” all the same as I retrieve my me-sized instrument. Quoc ends up with the double bass, walking among the pouty-faced boys without an ounce of smugness or superiority, just taking it, thanking the director politely, and returning to his seat with it. I have a feeling this makes the other boys even more jealous, honestly. Ah, well.

The class is mostly about how to hold the instrument itself and the bow and all that; I actually took private lessons on cello some years even before I went into the orchestra at my old school, so I’m fairly good at it. I’m no Yo-Yo Ma or anything, but at least it doesn’t sound like I’m using a dying cat to scrub a window clean. Maybe later on we’ll get to do something interesting with them, but today is the boring “Get to Know Your Instrument” day. Bleh.

Thankfully, there’s always lunch. As Quoc is heading out with me, the girl I was talking about earlier strides up to us. “Hey, y’all mind if I join you?” she asks in a perfectly Southern accent, brushing some of her auburn waves out from in front of her glasses.

I look at Quoc before answering--not that I expect he’d have an issue, but still. I nod toward the door. “Sure.”

We take the same corner table as always, with me facing away from the center. I’m more used to the place now, but it still raises my general anxiety looking out on a huge crowd like what one finds in a cafeteria.

I have my bag lunch as usual, but Quoc pulls a freaking beautiful Vietnamese rice bowl out of his insulated lunch bag. Well, the bowl itself isn’t beautiful--it’s just a round Tupperware-style bowl with a lid--but the veggies, the meat, the noodles, they just all look like he took the thing straight off of a menu in a restaurant.

The girl (I already forgot her name when she was called to get her instrument; I’m so bad at that) goes through the line and comes back with a tray of enchiladas. She sits down with it, takes a look at Quoc’s Bowl of Beauty, and then looks back at her questionable enchiladas. “I’m feeling a distinct sense of Lunch Envy right now,” she states.

I pull out a ziploc baggie with a PB&J. “No kidding,” I quip, dangling that and my bag of chips in the air a moment. Quoc just smiles a small, satisfied smile as he begins mixing all of the different ingredients together masterfully with his chopsticks.

Before taking a bite of her food, the girl announces, “Nice to meet y’all, by the way. I’m Erin.”

“Luke.” I nod to her. “And this is Quoc, or “He of the Envious Entrees.”

Quoc gives me a ridiculous, confused look, while Erin just laughs. She asks, “What do I have to do to get a title around these parts?”

“Be more enviable than that vermicelli bowl.” I point to Quoc’s food; Quoc narrows his eyes playfully at me and slowly slides his bowl away from both of us.

“A vermin-what now?” Erin asks, puzzled.

I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh, now I’m imagining a bowl of bugs and veggies. This sandwich is looking way better, now.”

Quoc explains, “Vermicelli. Noodles.” He picks some up with his chopsticks to demonstrate.

“Ahhh.” She looks at me right as I take a huge chomp out of my sandwich and furrows her brow. “By the way, did you buy your lunch?”

I raise an eyebrow with a full mouth, chewing for a bit before replying, “No?”

“I could swear you were in the line right in front of me.”

I blink. There’s no way... “Hold on,” I say after swallowing. I stand up and turn around, scanning the room for another me. Sure enough, I see a shock of red hair and radar ears sitting across the cafeteria--with Lucas and Brandon, no less. “I’ll be right back.”

I head over there, deciding whether or not to sneak up on him. In the end, the impulse wins out, so I carefully walk up behind him with my finger on my lips. Brandon catches sight of me but immediately looks back at Chance as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Chance is in the middle of a sentence when I arrive and put my hands over his eyes. “So yeah, they finally took me out of that stupid--”

“Guess whoooooo?” I say in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

He thinks about it a moment, blinking a few times (and tickling my fingers in the process). He replies in the exact same high-pitched lilting way, “It’s youuuuuuu!”

I reply, “No, youuuuuu!” When he responds by reaching back and sticking his fingers in my armpits, I recoil reflexively and snap, “Hey! Not fair!”

He laughs and stands up, turning around with his arms wide. “Hey, bro!”

I hug him for a moment, but hold him out at arm’s length to ask, “When did you get into this lunch? I didn’t see you at all last week.”

“Oh, I was actually just telling Bran and Lucas here that they moved me out of stupid choir class into computer class, or ‘tech apps’ as they call it. So my lunch got moved. I had no idea you’d be in this lunch, too!”

“Well, I mean there are only three lunches, so you had a 50/50 shot at it.”

“All right, Mr. Math.” He sticks his tongue out in mock childishness.

“I’m just saying...” I look at the other boys. “Hey, y’all wanna join us over at our table?” I gesture over to the other two, who are looking at us expectantly.

We all head over to the table and make our greetings to each other; Quoc remarks, “So the mysterious personality appears.”

“...What?” Chance asks, lost.

I roll my eyes and laugh. “The first day weirdness. We joked that you were just one of my personalities. The cool one.”

“Oh,” he says with no certainty at all. “I, uh, see.” He turns a bit red at the compliment.

I explain why it is that Chance is in our lunch now, and we regale Erin and Quoc with the ridiculous stories of our first week. Afterward, Brandon remarks, “It’s good they took you out of choir class. Choir is gay.” Lucas nods sagely.

Chance darts a glance at me, and then tells them, “Well, y’know, it’s not--it wouldn’t be that bad.”

“What do you mean?” Brandon says with derision on his face. “You know half the boys in there are gonna end up gay, if they aren’t already.”

Lucas adds with a small laugh, “I bet a lot of them go home at night and...” He finishes the thought by poking his two index fingers together.

Chance rolls his eyes. “C’mon, guys. I know some of them. They’re cool.”

I watch this whole cringeworthy fiasco unfold; Erin and Quoc are thankfully engaged in their own conversation about orchestra. I keep hoping that Chance will stand up to them, but his attempts to lead the conversation elsewhere get weaker and weaker. Eventually, he remarks, “Yeah, I mean, I guess choir is pretty gay.”

“See? Told you.” Brandon takes a bite of enchilada with a look of smug vindication on his face. My stomach sinks; I can’t believe he caved in. I thought he was stronger than that. And seriously, just after this weekend? Where we both admitted it out loud? Chance glances to me quickly with an inscrutable expression, but looks away quickly--I’m sure he can see the appalled disgust on my face.

I look up at the clock on the wall and see that there’s only a minute remaining. I stand up and throw my trash away, taking just enough time that the bell rings before I get to go back to my table. I use that as an excuse to take a wide berth around Chance on my way back to the orchestra room. I catch him watching me as I walk away, but I’m too offended to do anything else.

The rest of orchestra class is underneath my notice as I struggle with all the thoughts and emotions in my mind. Is that the guy I have a crush on? Someone who will just say whatever people want to hear? Maybe he actually believes that. I mean, how could he even think that was a good idea? He knows my parents are gay, I’m gay, he’s gay as far as he says--maybe he was lying about that. Maybe he just wanted to have fun, and he...was he just playing with my emotions? I swear to God, if he--

“You okay there, Luke?” Erin asks, breaking my train of thought.

I look at her for a moment, refocusing my mind into the real world. “Yeah...yeah, I’m fine. Just got a lot on my mind.”

“After that first week y’all had, I can imagine.”

“Yeah.” Something like that. Erin goes back to her violin, practicing the bow movements. It’s clear she has some practice, though: she starts doing scales, slowly but mostly in tune (which, for a violin, is saying enough).

I take a deep breath and try to push all the anger and offense out of my mind. Since we still have a few minutes until we have to put everything away, I take my bow, check the tuning of the cello a bit, and start playing one of my favorite songs (really the only good one I know by heart), the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. It’s a solo cello piece, and a very soothing one at that. There’s just something transformative about the arching lines and smooth phrases in it that I loved since the day I first heard it. In fact, it was really probably the main reason I got into cello lessons, so of course I practiced until I could play it.

A few lines into the song, and I realize that all the other random squeaky and dissonant noises in the room have stopped. So has the talking. The only sound is a bit of whispering (followed by a quick “Shh!”) and my cello. Crap, I didn’t want to have an audience. My heart picks up a tempo way faster than the song, and I feel the heat rise up my neck and through my face; if I stop, though, I’ll still be the focus of everyone’s attention, just with them yelling, “Why’d you stop?!” and all that.

With only one choice remaining, I close my eyes and continue the song, focusing on the motions of the bow and the dance of my fingers across the strings. It almost works: I hit a few wrong notes here and there (blame it on not having access to a cello over the summer), but I get to the last triumphant phrase, shaped like the beginning for a well-rounded song, with a final two-note harmony for the ending. I hold it out for effect, letting the lingering note drag out the moment between song and the incoming noise.

A second or so of silence keeps the room still; then, nearly everyone starts clapping at the same time. It’s not a huge amount of people in the room, thankfully, but still, I’ve never been the target of an entire room’s applause. I look around at everyone’s approving smiles and cheerful clapping, and smile stupidly. I wonder how many people are going to comment on how red my face is.

“Bravo!” Ms. Ortiz says, clearly impressed by the song. The clapping dies down, but now everyone is the room is either talking at me, or to each other about it. Good Lord.

“It wasn’t that good,” I say bashfully. “C’mon. I missed a bunch of notes and my tuning was all wonky.”

She doesn’t grace my rejection with a comment, instead turning to the rest of the students. “Please put your instruments into their cases very gently; if you need help, let me know.” Then she finally turns to me and remarks, “It’s a pity there’s not enough middle school interest to have multiple orchestras. You need to be in a higher level, definitely.”

“You really think so?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to get bored in class. At least ten of the students in here have never touched a string instrument, not even a guitar. In fact, would you like for me to find you some music to practice on in one of the practice rooms during class?”

“Uhhh...I guess?”

“I’ll check into it.” She smiles softly at me and turns away to help a student who’s whining about his violin not fitting right.

Quoc watches her walk away, and then turns to me. “You really are quite good.”

“Oh come on--not you, too.”

Erin looks at me with an amused smile, but when I meet her gaze, she looks obviously away with mock innocence. “I didn’t say anything, nope, don’t look at me. I didn’t say you were the best cello player I’ve ever heard. Nuh-uh. Not me.”

I close my eyes and shake my head, giggling nervously. “Seriously, guys, stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

The teacher gets our attention before they can paint me any redder. She directs us to where we can store our instruments during the day, but she expects us to take them home and practice as homework. This is perfectly fine with me, of course, but a couple of freeloaders in the class whine about it. Surprise, surprise. Shortly afterward, the bell rings, and my stomach resumes its position deep in my abs as I realize that I’m going to speech class next.

I get there pretty quickly; it’s actually not that far from the orchestra room, despite how long it took me the first time. I go in and sit down in the seat I chose before, and about thirty seconds later, Chance shows up talking to Joe and company. He walks past me, says something to Joe, and then comes over to my table.

“Hey,” he says tentatively, “Can I say something?”

I stand up slowly and face him. “Yeah?” I ask, making it clear with my tone of voice that I’m not really okay with it.

He runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t meet my gaze as he says, “Look, I was stupid at lunch, and I’m sorry. I just--”

I interrupt, “Just said that choir class was ‘gay’ like it was an insult.”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?” I ask, my tone rising. “Did you mean it like an insult to my entire family?”

“Wh-no! I just--I just said it because--”

“Because you thought your friends were more important than your brother and his parents.”

He looks straight at me, horrified. His lips move around unvoiced, unformed words, but he says nothing.

“Bell’s about to ring. Go sit down.”

He stares a moment longer, his eyes slowly filling with tears. He blinks them away, looks around, and ducks away to go sit down with his head on the table.

I sit down, and as the bell rings, I feel like complete, absolute miserable shit. I know better than that. That’s how I used to act before therapy. I know way the hell better than to lash out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Why the hell did I do that?! I squint my eyes tight, but the image of Chance slowly breaking into tears is burned into my retinas.

I just rest my head in my hands and breathe as the sting of fresh tears washes across my eyes. Brandi asks after a moment, “Are you okay?”

I lift my head and turn to look at her. “No. I’m a horrible person.”

“O...kay.” She turns away and ignores me. Whee! Another burnt bridge. I’m two for two today.

Wait. Y’know what, Luke? Stop. Just stop. You’re being stupid again. Sitting here crying into your hands is a great way to do nothing good for yourself. You’re only going to make people think you’re a damn crybaby-- which you are, but people don’t need to know that. So stop it. Take a deep breath. Don’t start crying. Besides, you were mad for a good reason. He insulted you, your parents, and himself. He’s an idiot. He needs to realize how much that hurts.

So you’re saying it’s fine for me to push my twin brother away, who has just gone through a deeply traumatic time, who clearly needs help, and who didn’t even mean those words? That’s a fine thing to do, then, is it? Sure, go ahead, scare off the only person with any connection to your birth that you even know of. Prove to him how fucked up of a person you are.

“Head up. You have an activity to do.” The teacher taps me on the shoulder and keeps walking around the room. I pick my head up out of my hands to see what she was talking about: we’ve all been tasked to make up a fictional story about the person to our left, as if we were their biographer. I take a deep breath and try my best to get out of my thoughts; I do like writing a good story, so maybe this will be fun. I take a look at Wahid (the boy across from me) for a moment, deciding what to do. He gives me a quizzical smile when he sees the mischievous look on my face. I start furiously scribbling down notes.

When it comes time to share, Wahid tells a story about Brandi having been a spy for the Russian government and killing hundreds of people with her sniper rifle. Pretty sure he’s a Fortnite addict, or at least a first-person-shooter player.

Brandi is unimpressed by her history. She goes on to tell my story: “Long, long ago, in a land shrouded in mists and hidden by mountains, there lived a tribe of people known only as ‘the Reds.’ One day their shaman had a vision. He said, ‘There will be a child born, one with the reddest hair of them all. He will lead our people to glory.’ And five days later, a woman gave birth in the tribe. Her child had the reddest hair of them all! Except he also had a twin brother, who also had the same red hair, so the prophecy wasn’t true anymore. And so the chief took one of them and threw him in the river so that the prophecy wouldn’t be broken.” She stops to wait for Wahid and me to stop giggling and snorting at the story. “The baby floated down the river for awhile until a wise woman from another tribe rescued him from the river. Then she dunked him back in to try to put out his hair.” Wahid is cracking up at this point; the joke is a little old to me, but the image is still pretty funny. It ends up with me moonlighting as the torch in the Statue of Liberty for extra money and having invented a hair dye that cures skin cancer. All in all, a pretty creative story for only about ten minutes of planning and scribbling it out. We both applaud her for the fun story.

I clear my throat and begin: “They knew the human race was doomed. They had known it for decades before anyone else. So they made a new being, one that would last forever, maybe even until another species became sentient. It had an artificial intelligence, but its emotions felt as real as any. They made it look like a young human so that people would find it harmless, perhaps even take care of it; all the while, it would furiously record the data about the human race so that when they all died out, it alone would know of their triumphs, their cultures, their humanity. And then they lost it. Nobody knew who was supposed to be watching out for the little guy, but he slipped out unnoticed and, eager to see the world, began to travel.”

This gets a few snorts from the table. I continue the story, having him travel with Gypsies, get taken as a civilian prisoner of war, and bear witness to horrible tragedies before he decides to package himself up and mail himself to America in hopes of a better life. In transit, he locks his other memories up and rewrites his memories to be a regular 12-year-old from <insert names of parents here>, “so that he can once again find happiness in the simple life of a human being, no matter how short-lived they may be.”

“Dude. I want to be an android,” Wahid states.

“That’s just what an android who has erased his own memory would say,” I point out.

He points at me, eyes narrowed. “Touché,” he admits.

I leave speech class feeling quite a bit better, or at least less obsessed over the crap that happened earlier. On the way out, though, Chance passes by me quickly without so much as glancing at me. A pang of guilt hits me in the chest, but he moves too fast for me to catch him, and yelling down the hall isn’t likely to stop him at this rate. Sighing, I shoulder my backpack, go get my cell phone from my first period class, and head to the bus.

Later on at home, I text him.

Me: Hey. Can we talk?

I get no reply. After around thirty minutes, my brain decides that I just scared Chance off and I’m better off never opening my mouth again. I do the same stupid things in my head that I did earlier, and soon enough, I’m crying like an idiot in my room, pounding the pillow in frustration.

And of course, my dads come up to see what’s wrong. I’m so worked up by this point that I can’t even respond for a while; Papa Chris comes over and hugs me this time, rocking slowly back and forth until I stop getting pissed off at myself over and over. I’d contemplate how much I hate my brain, but that would make things worse, so I quickly put the thought aside and continue just hating myself, instead.

Eventually, after I calm down, Papa Chris stays on the bed while Papa Davy takes the computer chair. Papa Chris looks at me with worry and asks, “Can you tell us what’s the matter, now?”

I try to take a deep breath, but I keep hiccupping. I hold up a finger as I hold my breath, trying to get the stupid crying hiccups to go away. Finally, I say, “I really hurt Chance’s feelings today, and--and now he won’t talk to me.” I mean, it’s so much worse than that in my head, I swear it, but when I say it out loud, I sound like a five-year-old crybaby.

“Aw, Champ, I’m sorry.” Papa Chris puts his hand on my knee and squeezes it reassuringly. “These kinds of things happen, sometimes.”

“It’s--it’s more than just that. It’s complicated.”

“Tell me about it,” Papa Davy interjects. “I mean, with all the things that you and he have gone through recently, I can understand, y’know?” He gives me a sheepish smile; it was a good try, Pops, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Luke,” Papa Chris says. “We’re worried about you. This is the second time in three days that you’ve been this upset. I don’t want things to go back to how they were before.” He means before I was on medication and all that; it was a pretty rough time, honestly. He continues, “What can we do to help?”

I stare at my crossed legs, fully aware of the answer. I thought I was past it, but with the changes in my life right now, I guess it’s time to go back. “I think I’d like to go to therapy again.”

Papa Chris rests his hand on my shoulder. “Absolutely. That’s a fine idea.”

Papa Davy adds, “It’s a good idea, definitely. Very mature of you to decide this for yourself, as well.”

I shrug. “At first it seemed like it was just gonna be all fun ‘n games, but...yeah. It’s hard dealing with a lot of this.”

We talk it through a bit, figuring out the best time for it and all that. Therapy is kinda good and bad, really: on one side, you learn lots of good ways to deal with things, and sometimes learn more about yourself; on the other side, you get to sit there and tell a stranger all sorts of awkward confession-type things and feel all exposed. But at this point, I’m already tired of feeling tired after having a freaking breakdown.

After the parents leave, I check my phone, just to see if I missed anything. Sure enough, there’s a text from Chance, not a minute after I gave up waiting for one.

Chance: Yeah sup

I take a deep breath. How do I want to approach this?

Me: I’m really sorry about today. I was a complete asshole.

He responds almost immediately:

Chance: Yeah but I deserved it

Me: No, you didn’t. I was way too harsh.

Chance: Yeah but I insulted you and your dads

Chance: And I shoulda said something but I just caved :(

Me: Right. You made a mistake. And I didn’t forgive you like I should have.

Chance: Im just glad you dont hate me

Me: Dude. I’m not going to hate your just because you went with something someone else said. That’s lame.

Me: not going to hate you*

Chance: Well Im sorry I did that

Chance: Ill tell them that wasnt cool

Me: It’s fine. We all learned.

Me: And besides, if there really are a bunch of gay choir kids, I bet they’re not all taken. :P

Chance: lololol

Well, that didn’t go as bad as expected, not counting the spelling mistake. Stupid autocorrect. Still, I feel a bit better about it. I don’t need to tell him that I had a panic attack; I’m sure that would only make him feel worse, even though he had nothing to do with it. Well, nothing to do with causing--you know what, I’m just gonna stop there.

I don’t actually get a chance to think much more about it, because just as I’m about to go get on the computer, I get another text from him.

Chance: Hey um are you like out to anyone at school??

Me: No, why?

It takes a minute for the answer to arrive.

Chance: Could you like

Chance: Not come out yet? Like wait for it??

That’s...an interesting thing to ask.

Me: Why? I don’t know when I will, but that’s really my choice to make, you know?

Chance: I dont want people to think that I am too

Chance: I mean know that I am

Chance: I dunno......forget I asked

Oh shit, he’s right. I mean I’m pretty sure that not all identical twins are both gay or whatever, but I’m a hundred percent sure that if I came out, they’d all say he was, too. ...Wow. That really sucks.

Me: I won’t come out right now, but maybe we should talk about that soon.

Me: In person.

Chance: Like maybe another sleepover??

Me: Like maybe another sleepover.

Chance: Yessssssssssssss!!!!

Chance: This weekend????

Me: Well, yeah, duh :P

Chance: WOOOOO!!!!!

I don’t have it in my heart to tell him that I find all the extra question and exclamation marks really annoying. I just leave it at that and go rot my brain on Minecraft for awhile.

Later that night, I lie awake with a bad case of insomnia; I can always tell I’m going to have trouble sleeping when I get a song stuck in my head and I literally can’t get rid of it. Like, I can’t change the song or anything. Usually when I start drifting off to sleep, the music stops, the thoughts break up, and I can’t concentrate. Right now, I just have that stupid “Stay With Me” song by Sam Smith on replay, along with an endless loop of wondering why I’m doing this to myself.

***

Most of the week actually goes by without crazy things happening, which itself is crazy, right? So I do get a chance the next day to talk to Scott (the blond one) at lunch again. Such a good kid. I sit down at the table with my bag lunch, where Scott is staring at a grilled cheese sandwich that’s been cut into two triangles. “Hi, Scott,” I say.

He is too busy intensely staring at his sandwich to reply. He rotates a triangle so that they’re mirrored, but shakes his head and resets their position.

Well, squares and triangles are definitely not circles, so I can only imagine what the issue is, here. “What’s the matter?” I ask, though I’m fairly certain of the answer.

Still staring his food down, he drags his finger across the corners of it, tracing a half-circle on each half of the sandwich. “I could make a circle out of it, but it would be two half circles, not a whole circle. It’s not the same.”

I take my PB&J (I’m not boring -- I’m consistent) and my crunchy Cheetos out of the bag and respond, “You could make two small circles out of each half.”

Never removing his eyes from his sandwich, he takes a moment to consider. “It’s not the same,” he repeats.

Hm. I wonder if I could convince the cafeteria ladies to make one that isn’t cut for him? I could -- wait. Duh. “Do you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” I ask, eyeing my whole sandwich.

He finally ends the staring contest with his sandwich to look over at mine. “Kinda.”

“Well,” I suggest, “what if we traded? I could eat the grilled cheese, and you could have my sandwich. You could make a big circle out of it. I mean, I think triangles taste okay, really, so I’d be okay with it.”

Scott looks at me, furrows his brow, and suddenly busts out laughing; a nice, hearty laugh from someone whose voice hasn’t even dropped yet. “Triangles don’t taste like anything, silly!” He keeps laughing at the absurd prospect.

His laughter is infectious, and soon I’m laughing at the moment, as well. “Okay, okay, you got me. I can’t taste triangles. But I like grilled cheese, and you want a circle sandwich, so let’s trade.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding in a jerky sort of motion that involves his shoulders, as well. He hands me his sandwich, and I trade mine to him. He studies it for a moment before biting off a carefully calculated chunk of sandwich from a corner.

We both dig into our food, no conversation necessary. He alternates between eating the corners off the sandwich and eating the grapes he had as a side item (grapes with grape jelly; why not?); as he takes each grape, he turns it on its side and slowly spins it to examine how circular each one is. He actually ends up rejecting a few that have dents in them, but for the most part, the grapes seem to be a hit. After he’s left with a perfectly circular sandwich (with no measuring tools, at that -- I’m impressed), he again shoves the entire thing in his mouth and chews it. It’s more than he should have put in his mouth, but he seems utterly undeterred. I almost spit Cheetos at how silly he looks, but he is content. Takes all kinds, I suppose.

After we finish, he asks, “Do you like triangles?”

I shrug. “I don’t like shapes all that much, I guess. Well, I dunno; I guess I like balls.” Right after the words come out of my mouth, I realize that, had I said that to anyone else, I’d sound like an idiot; and of course someone would have to say “That’s what she said!”

Scott nods in his particular way. “Balls are like circles.”

“They’re technically infinite circles.” I’m not great at math, but I know some useless trivia here and there.

Scott seems both unsure of the truth of the statement, and intrigued at how it could be possible. I continue, “So if you have a ball, like...think about a globe, right? So the longitude lines are circles, and you could draw one anywhere on the globe and go all the way around. Then, the latitude lines are all circles of different sizes, but you could still draw as many of those as you want. So basically, globes or balls are made up of circles. Infinite circles.”

“Do they use pi to calculate their circumference?”

I actually have to think about it for a moment. “Yes, of course they do. You are still measuring circles. But they also use pi for their area and their volume.”

Scott seems spellbound. “How do you calculate all of those?”

I blush a bit. “Um, I...don’t actually remember off the top of my head. You can look it up online, though, right?”

He stares at me -- or through me -- for a moment. “Yes. I can do that.” He thinks a bit more on it, and says, “You are smart, Looke.”

I can hear the pronunciation, still; it tickles me to know that is so important to him. “Well, I mean, I just learned it in math in seventh grade; it’s no big deal, really. You’ll learn it soon.”

We run out of things to say, so we go to throw our trash away shortly before the bell. As I stand up to leave, Scott says to me, “Goodbye, Looke-friend.”

I try to stay serious as I reply, “Goodbye, Scott-friend,” but I snort a bit at the end.

He doesn’t take it personally, or maybe doesn’t notice -- it’s hard to tell. He holds out a hand, which I shake firmly. He nods, satisfied, and leaves. On the way back, I see a teacher eyeing me conspicuously, but I’m not really sure why; Chance probably did something to piss her off last year or something.

Other than that, the novelty at school of us being twins is slowly wearing off, which leads to a lot fewer conversations about it. Chance decides to sit with his friends instead of me at lunch, but I suspect he’s doing it so that if they start saying homophobic things again, it won’t be around me. If that’s true, I feel sorry for him. I’m going to have to talk to him about that this weekend, definitely.

Speaking of the weekend, Saturday morning finally arrives, and with it, the excitement and dread of going over to Chance’s house. Papa Chris and Davy said they wouldn’t mind if he stayed over at our place, but Chance’s parents have a cool guest room with a bigger bed, the Nintendo systems, and all that. And oatmeal creme pies, and an awesome backyard...anyway, so I go to Chance’s place.

I say “dread” because I know I’m not going to want to have these conversations with Chance. Also, I know we’re going to end up doing things; I’m going to want to do them, and then I’m going to hate myself for it later. Hoo boy, that therapist is going to earn his keep when I start going.

As my dads and I walk up to the door, Chance flings it open and greets me wearing a tight pair of red shorts and a black collared shirt that fits his chest nicely. Dammit, it’s like he’s trying to look cute for me. “Luke!” he says jubilantly, throwing his arms out for a hug.

After being squeezed half to death, I say in a melodramatically strained voice, “Hi...” and stagger my way inside; Papa Chris chuckles as he and Papa Davy step in with me.

As Chance closes the door behind us, I hear his mom from the living room call out, “Howdy, Luke! Long time no see!” She comes around the corner and sees my parents. “Well, howdy to you too, boys! Y’all joinin’ us for lunch, too?”

Papa Davy places his hands on his sides. “Girl, I gotta keep a slim figure; Lord knows moving to Louisiana was a sin for my waistline.”

Chance and I give each other the same look: ugh. Chance interrupts, “Okay, well, y’all have fun, we’re gonna go play games until lunch. Bye!” and he ducks past them down the hallway to the stairs.

“Chance,” I hear his dad say as he also enters the entryway from the kitchen, “lunchtime is now, so don’t go anywhere.”

Chance freezes in place, balancing on one foot. “...Oh. Well, good. I’m hungry.”

The parents all chat for a little bit, and mine say their goodbyes as they head out. “So,” Mr. Lockhart announces, “I think we decided on Phil’s Grill for lunch. That sound good to you, Luke?”

“Uh...I guess? I’ve never been.”

“WHAT?!” Chance screeches. “How could you not know about Phil’s Grill?!”

I blink and stare at him a moment. “They didn’t exist in Connecticut.”

Chance opens his mouth to answer, pauses, and smacks himself in the forehead. “Right. Duh. Well, welcome to Louisiana -- time to eat real Louisiana food.”

We head out and hop into Mr. Lockhart’s sporty little car. It’s a two-door, so they let us in back while they take the front seats. It’s pretty swanky: leather bucket seats, fully digital dashboard, all the good stuff.

The car already begins backing out of the drive by the time I get to buckle my seatbelt. It’s a good thing I do, though -- Mr. Lockhart doesn’t drive Ms. Daisy. He runs this thing like the car it was meant to be, and I almost immediately get carsick.

I look over at Chance, who is just staring out the window placidly. How is he not completely green? I swear I probably match my eyes, right now. I mean, I’m not the worst out there about it -- I can deal with Papa Davy’s driving, and that’s kinda crazy -- but this ride is just...well, I’m glad I haven’t eaten lunch yet.

Chance looks over at me randomly, and his eyes immediately bulge. “Luke, dude, look out the window. Trust me.”

I stare out the side window close enough that I can’t even see the frame of the car. My breath fogs up the glass beneath my nose as I take measured breaths; surprisingly, it does end up helping a bit.

Mrs. Lockhart glances over her shoulder at me. She jumps a bit, as well -- do I really look that bad? -- and tells Mr. Lockhart, “Honey, stop driving like it’s a drag race. You’re making poor Luke sick.”

He slows down a bit, but responds, “Oh, hm. I can try, but it’s not the speed that’s going to make him sick, it’s the handling. I’ll try to be more gentle.” He raises his voice to talk to me: “Luke, are you going to be okay? Do we need to stop?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just never been in a car like this, is all. I...get carsick kinda easy.”

Chance’s mom nods. “Chance used to be that way, too. I suppose that makes sense, though.”

Chance leans over and mutters, “Years of being in the back seat of this car, though...”

My brain and stomach do a delicate dance for the remainder of the short trip, but thankfully neither one misses a step. We get out and I stand next to the car for a good moment, letting the world reorient itself. Once everyone is out of the car and properly situated, we head into Phil’s Grill, this tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant stuck in the middle of a strip center. I guess they hide “real Louisiana food” in the strangest of places.

Once inside, the aroma lets me know that Chance wasn’t lying: all of my nausea immediately shifts to hunger as the savory, smoky smells of well-cooked meat waft through the room. The cook glances over the low wall of the kitchen and beckons us to sit wherever, so Chance leads the way to the big corner table. Thankfully, it’s not like we’re clogging anything up; there’s only one other person here, an old man on the opposite side of the room with an empty plate on the table and the newspaper in his hands.

“I am so ready for this right now,” Chance says with a burning intensity in his eyes.

With a raised eyebrow, I warn, “This better be as good as you’re making it out to be, or my stomach will never forgive you.”

The parents chuckle; Chance stares me down and replies, “Your stomach won’t ever be able to thank me enough.”

“My stomach accepts your challenge, sir!”

“Would your stomach be interested in a beverage today?” asks the server, who startles the crap out of me with his ninja skills. I jump in my seat and turn to see a scruffy guy, the very definition of “hipster,” ready to take our order.

Chance deflates into peals of laughter as Mr. Lockhart orders a Diet Coke for himself and his wife. Chance orders an Abita root beer for himself and me. “You like root beer, right?” he asks retroactively.

“I, uh, sure. I don't get to have it often, but--”

“Awesome. This is the best root beer ever.” The waiter takes the order and heads to the back. Chance says, “Dude, you jumped like three feet.”

“Well, I'm not used to getting ninja waiters! Normally they, y'know, say, ‘Hi, my name is Scruffy McHipsterface -- you've probably never heard of me -- and I'll be taking your order today.’ I use the most obnoxiously nasal voice I can to really ham it up.

Chance laughs long enough to run out of breath. Gasping for air, he wheezes, “Scruff...Scruffy McHipppffffffffhahahahaha!!!”

I have to admit, that one was pretty good. Watching Chance suffocate on his own laughter, though, is golden. By the time “Scruffy” gets back, we're both stuck in Giggle Mode and can't keep a straight face for the life of us. Mr. Lockhart watches us for a moment and tells the waiter, “I...think we need a minute. Maybe a few.”

After a good minute or two more, we are able to calm ourselves down enough to look at the menu (but not at each other) and make some decisions. I stop once I see the fried chicken sandwich; that sounds utterly bad for me, which makes it sounds completely good. To celebrate my decision, I take the glass bottle of root beer (it actually looks like a beer bottle, funny enough) and take a swig. It's actually really good! Barq's and A&W are okay, not my favorite, but there's something about this one that's just --

Chance interrupts my thoughts with an exuberant, “I'ma get a gator burger!”

Root beer immediately comes out my nose, burning my sinuses with sarsaparilla and sweetness. “Wh--?! Gator?!” They eat alligator here?!

As I blot my face with my napkin, Chance's eyes go wide, and he almost sprays the table with his own mouthful of root beer. Red-faced, he once again goes without breathing for a dangerous amount of time, this time laughing at my misfortune. I can tell that Mrs. Lockhart is annoyed, but also trying her best not to laugh with us -- or at us, for that matter.

Chance recovers eventually; he takes a few deep breaths to calm down and finally replies, “Yeah, they serve gator sausage here. It's a little spicy and really good!”

“Huh. Well, I think I'll stick to chicken for now. Maybe when I feel more Louisianan.” Is that a word? It is now.

The waiter comes back and gets our orders; when he leaves, Chance's mom remarks, “I'm glad you two are getting along so well. It's almost like you've known each other your whole lives, I'd swear.”

“I dunno,” Chance responds, “I've heard a lot of friends talk about how much their brothers annoy them or just hate them. Maybe it's better this way.”

I shrug, “I mean, I heard that twins are different, though, so...I dunno. I'm pretty happy as it is now, though.”

“Me too,” he nods sagely.

The conversation dies down a bit, but it meanders through the typical topics: school, pastimes, hopes and dreams. Chance wants to be a firefighter, apparently, which makes me feel like an underachiever; first off, I don’t know what I want to be, and secondly, it damn well isn’t going to be something that saves people’s lives. I can’t even see my own blood and be okay with it, so that’s off the plate. That said, imagining Chance as a firefighter...add a bit more pecs, throw on the uniform...yeah. We’d look damn good. Well, he would.

The food shows up, and holy crap was he right -- it’s phenomenal! The chicken is tender and juicy, the breading is crispy, the bun melts in your mouth...I hold every urge back to stuff myself stupid on the (extremely tasty and crispy) fries so that I have enough room for the sandwich without exploding. That, and I’ve got to get back in the back seat of the Pukemobile, so I should be a little careful there.

After we’re done, Chance looks over at me smugly as I stretch myself out across the chair. “Was your stomach up to the challenge?”

I take a deep breath to help compact the food a bit, letting out a quiet burp. “Consider that the first thank-you from my stomach.”

“Toldja. This place is the bomb.”

I nod. “So that’s why I feel like I want to explode.”

He laughs, “Yeah, basically.”

We head out back to the car after paying, where his mom asks, “How would you two feel about hitting up the mall for a bit, maybe going to see a movie there?”

While Chance is hissing, “Yessss!” I’m more just surprised than anything else. Like, I didn’t expect today to be a party.

But, y’know, there’s a lot of good movies out right now, so... “Yeah! Let’s go watch the new Avengers!”

Chance hunches over. “I already saw that one -- sorry. Ooh! Let’s go see ‘Rollback!’ I hear that one’s really cool.”

“Wait, which one is that?”

Chance gets animated as he explains, “It’s this one where a kid, like, has magical rewind powers, like he can redo things when he messes them up. It’s got kickass fight scenes, and --”

“Language, Chance,” his mother warns.

Chance flinches at the tone of voice. “Right, sorry. But the fight scenes are awesome, and...” he trails off a moment, glancing surreptitiously at his parents. “Anyway, it’s PG-13, and everyone says it’s pretty awesome.”

I shrug, “Sounds good to me.” Actually, it sounds awesome, but I’m trying to play it cool. I don’t want to get on his parents’ nerves.

Mr. Lockhart suggests, “How about we do the movie first, then? Since we just ate, we don’t have to spend a full paycheck on snacks.”

And so it is. We head to the mall and check the times; there’s a movie in like the next 30 minutes, so we hurriedly get tickets, grab sodas -- Chance and I split a gigantic Dr Pepper with two straws -- and head in for the show. Unsurprisingly, we end up with nosebleed seats on the right wing, but I’m fine with it; it makes me feel a little less crowded when there’s not a mountain of people hovering over me.

The problem, though, is that there are only pairs of seats available in the area, not enough for all of us to sit together; the parents decide to head off to the opposite side of the theater and take a spot even farther up than us, leaving Chance and me alone. I know that doesn’t actually mean anything, but my mind grabs onto that and runs with it.

We settle in and watch the previews and all that; I glance over at Chance (that’s fun to say) once in a while, and see the perfect image of childish anticipation. I know we’re the same age (give or take a few minutes, or hours, or whatever), but he just seems so much more...hm. Not “immature,” at least not in this case. More innocent? More childlike. There we go. (Why do “childish” and “childlike” mean different things?) Either way, it fills me with glee to watch the rapt anticipation on his face, like there’s nothing in the world except for these scant few minutes between the previews and the movie.

Finally, the movie begins. It starts off pretty quickly, with a scene about the main character in the locker room of his middle school. We get to see pretty quickly how he can use his “power” to rewind things, or “roll back” as he calls it, so that he can make sure he says the right things and make things go how he wants. I have to admit, it’s a pretty damn cool power; I’d certainly kill to have it with how often I stick my foot in my mouth (seriously, I should get caramel-flavored shoes -- at least then embarrassment would taste good).

It goes on with some really cool moments in it, including some where his power ends up not helping him and all that. I don’t wanna give the rest away, but it ends up with a...you know what, never mind. I won’t tell you how it ends. It’s cool, though.

What surprises me, though, is that it’s a movie about middle school, like basically our age, but the main character is gay. Usually, moviemakers are scared to show that kind of thing at this age; they just somehow assume that people can fall in love at twelve years old, but they can’t fall in love with the same gender until they’re adults, or at least like sixteen. Seriously, what kind of crap is that? So the movie has a tense emotional scene where the main character saves this boy from...well, that’d be a spoiler, but he saves this boy, right? And then he finally confesses that he’s in love with him. It takes the audience by surprise -- me included -- and I look over to see how Chance reacts. I get the feeling that Chance came to watch the movie because of this: I see this sort of sad-but-happy look on his face, like, I dunno. It’s hard to explain facial expressions, but it looks like he wishes he were there (though I’m not sure which one he would want to be if that’s true). He turns to see me looking at him and then quickly looks back to the screen with a blank expression on his face. I do the same, embarrassed at myself and embarrassed for him, too. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t blushing as hard as I am; I’m glad it’s hard to tell in this light.

The movie is a real tear-jerker in a lot of points, and it does make me cry in a few points. I never really cared about being “manly” or whatever, so I own my tears. Chance hears me sniffle during one part and looks over at me; he places his hand on my thigh softly, giving it a little squeeze, and then goes back to watching the movie. My breath catches in my throat as my mind lights on fire. Seriously, just that touch and I pop a freaking boner. Play it cool, Luke; nobody can see it, and nobody knows how fucking sick and twisted you are for having the hots for your own brother -- your own goddamn body, you narcissistic freak. It actually serves as a nice point for me to go to the restroom, seeing as I don’t want to start crying and ruin the film, and I have to pee, anyway. I excuse myself and head to the thankfully empty restroom, taking the very last stall. I sit on the toilet and pee as I contemplate the situation, tears slowly filling my eyes while my brain rages. I recognize that I’m stuck in an unhealthy loop of thoughts, and I need out.

The problem is that I can’t find a way out. I can’t help that I’m crushing on my brother, but I can’t just abandon him, either. I’ve already established that I’m a sick, twisted perv, and that hurts enough, but if my own issues caused Chance to get hurt, I’d die. I don’t like hurting anyone else in the first place, and Chance is not only my brother and friend, but he’s the same kind of person as me. Insecure. Vulnerable. It would be devastating to him, and crushing to me, if I ended up hurting him. He needs someone strong to be there for him, and I think I might be the only person like that that he knows. I can’t violate that.

So what do I do? Do I admit to him that I think he’s hot? Good side, I wouldn’t have to hide it, and maybe he’d just take it as a compliment. Bad side, most likely he’d find me to be the fucked-up basket case that I am and everything would be ruined. This would hurt Chance, and then I’d go off and...well. Scratch that idea.

Do I keep the entire thing quiet? Then I get to look forward to a life of looking happy on the front and hurting on the inside. Good side, it won’t hurt Chance, and we can stay together. ...As brothers and friends, anyway. Also, I kinda do that now, anyway, so hooray practice? Bad side, I get to torture myself for the rest of my life, and when he actually gets a boyfriend, I...I’m not sure what I’d do. Probably go crazy. What about me getting a boyfriend? Can I even do that while I’m crushing on my brother? I’m pretty sure I’d just ruin it. It’s like I’m cheating on my future boyfriend already. So...no boyfriend. Well, wait. I don’t know that. Sigh. Maybe boyfriend. Still, this idea is better than the first one, I guess.

Do I mention this to my therapist? Good side, I get it out, and maybe he can help me. Bad side, I might get locked away, I will probably be told I can’t see Chance again because it would cause problems for my mental health (like it already is), and then it hurts Chance, and we’re back to Option One. Scratch that.

So, I guess I keep it quiet. I cry for a little longer in the restroom, thanking everything that there’s nobody else in here. I pull my pants up, flush the toilet, and head out to find a father and his little boy, probably six years old or so. How the hell did I not hear them come in? Was I that wrapped up in my thoughts?

“Are you crying?” the boy asks, staring straight at me. The dad, who is currently finishing up at the urinal, whips his head around to see who his son is talking to.

I nod my head. “Yeah, I was sad.”

“Why?” Ah, the innocence of childhood.

“Because I love someone that I can’t be with.” I mean, technically...whatever. It counts.

The dad watches the conversation silently as he goes to wash his hands. The boy continues, “How come?”

I look to the dad, who is studiously not watching, and back to the boy. “Because I’m not allowed to.”

“Is it because it’s a boy?” he continues. Damn, this kid is educated.

Before I can respond, though, the dad dries his hands off and announces, “Come on, sport. Let the young man go by. Sorry about that -- he’ll talk to anyone.”

The boy interrupts, “Mom says that, that you should love who you love, and it doesn’t matter who--”

“Sid, let’s go,” the man insists, taking the boy’s hand and leading him out of the restroom without another word. Well. That was interesting.

I make it back to the theater and sit down. “Did I miss anything?” I whisper to Chance.

“They both hugged, and said they love each other, and now it went to the next day.” He falls silent as an action scene starts up with the main character against a pack of bullies. This should be cool.

After the movie, we wait for the scene after the credits -- Chance makes sure of it -- and then we head out of the theater. Chance asks, “Where’s the bathroom? I hafta pee like Niagara Falls right now.”

I point it out and we head over there, where there’s a line of people from that stretches out the door. “Well,” I point out, “You did wait until the end of the credits.”

“Well, yeah, but...damn, I gotta go!” He starts squirming, and I start getting hard. This time, I’m not disgusted with myself for finding my brother hot; I’m only slightly disgusted with myself for finding people doing the “Pee-Pee Dance” hot. It’s a more tolerable disgust. Also, there are multiple people of multiple ages squirming, so I just silently enjoy the post-movie show, surreptitiously adjusting myself to avoid being too conspicuous about it.

Chance notices me, and gives me the stink-eye. I look around the hallway innocently, and as my eyes fall back on him, he’s still staring me down. “...What?” I ask without any hope of him believing my bluff.

He smiles mischievously, and uses his free hand to point to his eyes, and then mine in the “I see what you’re doing” gesture. Then his face scrunches up and he dances a bit more; I’m sure my face is about “third-degree sunburn” red right now.

“Don’t look at me!” I retort. “I went to the bathroom earlier.”

The line moves a few more people, and Chance limps forward in line. “Jesus Christ, I gotta go,” he whispers.

“Hm. Too bad you didn’t wear yellow shorts,” I quip.

“Right? Hah-augh! Don’t make me laugh!” He pinches tightly and bends over. The line finally moves us inside of the bathroom; by this point, he’s practically hopping in place, and I’m about to shoot in my pants. Okay, not really, but only because I haven’t touched myself. Yeah, yeah, I’m a dirty perv -- we’ve established this.

Thankfully, like three people finish all at the same time, and Chance nearly bowls some younger kid over on the way to the urinal. He frantically unbuttons, unzips, and lets fly with a jet that could probably cut through wood. I’ll be surprised if I don’t see the splashback all over his shirt -- good Lord!

He zips up like a full minute later, turns around, and as he’s walking away, he exhales deeply. “Hoooo, damn, that was good.”

“I bet,” I say, readjusting my stiffie.

He walks close and says, “Was it good for you, too?” with a knowing, naughty smile on his way to the sink.

I quickly think about elephants, and puppies, and really big sumo wrestlers, anything other than my brother flirting with me; I know I haven’t touched myself, but I don’t think I’d need to if I kept thinking about that.

I quickly walk outside to wait for him; I can feel the precum making a wet spot in the band of my briefs. He shows up afterward, patting his hands on his shorts to finish drying them. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ready!” We look over to see Mr. Lockhart waiting on a nearby bench, who points to the women’s restroom as Mrs. Lockhart walks in. We wait with him, chatting about the movie, until she returns, and we head on our way.

We browse various shops; the parents stop at one or two of their own -- Mrs. Lockhart claims to need a new perfume while Mr. Lockhart sappily claims that she always smells beautiful -- and Chance and I just kinda walk along, talking about how awesome the movie was.

“So,” I finally ask, “Did you know about the gay part in that movie? It looks like a lot of people were surprised.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, there were some interviews online that I checked out. They were talking about it, and, I mean, I wanted to see it first off anyway, but then when I found out that there was -- that the main character was gay, I seriously wanted to watch it.”

“Nice,” I say with a nod. “Hopefully it won’t end up with people going, “You’re gay if you watch that movie!”

Chance slows his walk, staring forward a moment. “You think they’ll do that?” he asks quietly.

Wow, he’s really paranoid about that. “I mean, I don’t really think so, no,” I reassure him. “I mean, that would be seriously stupid. The movie isn’t about gay love, it’s about a badass kid with time travel powers.”

“Yeah, but...” he trails off. “I hope not.”

“Dude, Chance...” I sigh. “You can’t just live your life in fear that any single thing you do might look ‘gay’ or whatever. You’re going to worry yourself sick -- and believe me, I know a thing or two about worrying oneself sick.”

He chuckles. “I guess that comes with the territory, eh? With anxiety and all that.”

I shrug. “At least I know what is worth worrying about. I’ve worried about everything, so I can tell you the good things to worry about, and the things that don’t really give you anything in return. Like worrying about pimples; as they say, ‘Zits happen.’ I just deal with it when it happens.”

“Hah! ‘Zits happen.’ Nice.” The conversation, as well as our walk, halts as Chance passes by a store called Cedar and Saddle. “Ooh, hey, c’mon!” he insists, beckoning me inside. I look back to the parents, who make eye contact and nod.

The store looks as hipster on the inside as the name is on the outside: it’s full of leather accessories and artsy little wood-crafted things, hence the name, I suppose. It almost reminds me of like a Renaissance Festival-type shop smack in the middle of the mall, which is pretty cool; it’d be cooler if they had giant turkey legs for sale, but I’ll take what I can get.

Chance darts over to a display rack and starts looking at a bunch of necklaces. As he looks through the selection, he starts rattling off explanations like a semi-automatic: “My friend had this really cool necklace and wristband, and I asked where he got ‘em, and he said it was from here, right? So, I hadn’t even been here before, didn’t even know it was a thing, and...no, that’s not it...anyway, so I totally forgot about it until right now when we passed it...was this it? No, wait...nah. So yeah, it’s pretty cool, and a lot of people are wearing...ah hah! Here it is!” He holds up a small black leather strap with an understated black metal pendant on it. “What do you think?” he asks as he puts it on; it hangs down across his chest, fitting perfectly in the unbuttoned V of his shirt.

“It looks really good on you,” I admit. It’s only half because it’s sitting against his chest, to be honest; it really does look cute on him.

“Awesome.” He takes it off and wraps it around his hand. “Okay, let’s see...got the necklace, now how about a wristband or something?” He starts scanning the shop for the wristbands.

“So...” I begin, following as he scouts the place, “is this just for the looks? Have you ever owned, y’know, accessories before?”

“Nah, but I figured this would be a good way for people to be able to tell us apart,” he suggests. “I mean, sure, we could swap them and have fun, but this way people could see the necklace and all that and know who is who. After all, uniforms don’t help.”

“This is true,” I admit. “So these are in dress code?”

“Yep!” He finds the wristbands and starts browsing. “As long as they’re not gang- or drug-related, or like obnoxiously big or whatever.”

“Are you sure there’s no Black Rectangle gang? I mean, you never know...”

He looks at the necklace in his hands and blinks at it. “I hope not. That’d be seriously stupid.”

“But imagine how easy it would be to tag places with your gang sign,” I point out.

He shrugs. “Yeah, but then nobody would see it at night, and that’s when you want people to know where your territory is, right?”

“Huh,” I say. “I guess so. Well, gangs are pretty stupid, but I guess you’re probably safe with that one.”

“Hopefully,” he agrees, though I can hear the sarcasm in his voice. “Ooh, here we go.” He slips a long, brown leather band with occasional round metal studs across his wrist and wraps it loosely a few times. “Hey, gimme a hand with the buckle?” he asks, holding his wrist out to me. I oblige, threading the strap through the buckle and clamping it down at a reasonable spot. It’s loose enough to slip off of his hand quickly, but tight enough that it won’t just fall off on accident. “Okay,” he announces, “What do you think?”

I nod, “Looks good, even with a black leather band around your neck. I like it.”

“Awesome. Hey, Mom!” The parents come over, and he shows them the price tags. “Can I get these?”

They look at the tags, and then each other. “They’re pretty reasonably priced, actually,” Mr. Lockhart says. “I was afraid this place was gonna be ridiculously expensive. I’m fine with it.”

“Woo!” Chance hoots, bouncing over to the cashier. He lets them ring it up, and Mr. Lockhart pays with a card. We walk out of the store, and Chance announces, “Here.” He hands me the bag with the two items he purchased.

I take the bag. “You going to the bathroom?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you...just not want to hold these? Why not just put them on?”

He keeps an utterly straight face as he replies, “Because they’re yours.”

Is...is he joking? No, he’s still staring at me, and he isn’t smiling. He’s serious. “You’re serious.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Put ‘em on.”

“I...I can’t do that,” I say, shaking my head. “These are yours. I can’t just--”

“They were mine when I bought them, and then I gave them to you. That’s a thing I can do with my stuff, right?” His face is utterly serious.

“I...” I look down at the bag, realizing that I now own gifts. “Thank you,” I finally say, my voice slightly wobbly.

“You’re welcome!” he says, suddenly completely cheerful. “Now show me how they look on you.”

I look to his parents to see their reaction to the entire scene; they’re both watching with the same expression you might see on someone watching a cat clean their kittens. It’s sickeningly cutesy. I sigh away my rising emotions and oblige, putting the necklace and wristband on. Of course, they’re both properly sized already for me, the sneaky bastard. I do a slow turn, showing off how they look.

“Niiiiiice,” Chance says, impressed. “They look even better on you than me.”

“You didn’t even see them on you,” I point out.

“Yeah? Well, I know what I look like,” he reminds me.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes to mind. “Touché.” I’m close to crying, but I couch it in comedy to blunt the force of the emotion. It’s a trick I learned some time ago. “Well, I can’t be the only one wearing something,” I insist. “Let’s go find you something different.”

“Deal!” He heads off, leading the pack. We don’t go far before we get to a decidedly more colorful and age-appropriate store called “Kev’s.” It’s like a Hot Topic for people who would only go to Hot Topic ironically, if that makes sense. If it doesn’t, then just imagine it as a place like Hot topic with fewer metal spikes on everything.

We go looking through things here and there, some shirts, some accessories. I gravitate toward the wristband selection, as he might as well have something in the same spot to differentiate us, right? So anyway, there are a few leather wristbands, but for some reason there’s this one that’s like a sea greenish sort of color that just stands out (and not just because it’s so bright). I take it off the rack and turn around, where Chance is already almost right behind me again. “Hey, what do you think about this color?” I ask.

He looks at it a moment and cocks his head. “Actually, I kinda like it,” he admits. He takes the wristband and examines it a moment.

“I think it fits your personality,” I say. “Bright and friendly, but not annoying. Then it’d be, like, neon orange.”

“Ewww,” Chance replies, “like traffic cone orange. Gross.”

“Danger orange.”

“Dorange-r?” Chance offers.

“Dange-or?” I try.

We both stop and stare at each other, suddenly breaking into giggles. “Wow, we’re stupid,” we both say simultaneously, which only makes us laugh more.

Chance finishes putting the wristband on and stands in front of a nearby mirror to check it out. “Yeah,” he says with a nod, “I like it. Good eye!”

“And now we’ll be able to find you in driving snow at night,” I point out.

He looks at me with a goofy smile. “Except that you’d never find me in driving snow.”

“Why, don’t like it cold?”

“Because it doesn’t snow here.”

I stop and think for a moment. I feel like he did when I pointed out the lack of Louisiana food in Connecticut. “...Oh,” I finally say. “Well, that’s probably the best news I’ve heard about Louisiana so far, honestly.”

“Better than me?” Chance says, faking a hurt pout.

“Okay, okay,” I say with an eye roll, “Finding a long-lost twin brother was better news than not having to shovel snow. But only by a little bit; shoveling snow sucks.”

“I bet,” he agrees.

We purchase the wristband, and on the way out, I note, “This is like some kind of weird date. Going to lunch and a movie, buying each other things...”

Chance stops and thinks about it. “Yeah, kinda is,” he says. “Well, it’s good practice for later, right?”

“...Right.” I’m totally on a date-not-date with my brother. That’s not going to make this day any easier.

We make a few other stops, mostly to look at video games and get ice cream. I get a simple chocolate-dipped vanilla cone, and he gets a waffle cone with caramel ice cream that has little candy bar bits mixed in. My teeth and stomach both ache just looking at it. Regardless, we both enjoy our sweet treats; I watch him lick at the thing like a happy little kid again, simultaneously enamored with his enthusiasm and turned on by his tongue. Don’t judge me.

Eventually, the parents suggest that we make our way home; Mr. Lockhart promises some damn good filet mignon for dinner, and that basically settles it. We head home to Chance’s place, looking out the window the entire car ride (which actually does help quite a bit). Dinner is amazing: the filet mignon, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus spears glazed with balsamic reduction. I had no idea asparagus could be that delicious; too bad for my pee, I guess.

Anyway, Chance and I head up to the guest room and load up the Nintendo Wii. He has this cool gaming chair that doesn’t have legs, the kind that you can just rock back and forth in, so he takes that one; I take over the huge dark blue bean bag they have set up in the corner, dragging it over in front of the TV. They also have this really freaking cool-looking wicker chair that is in the shape of a hemisphere that sits on a free-standing base, so you can move the chair and tilt it, and all that. I dunno why I didn’t notice it before (other than that a huge bean bag was taking the whole thing up), but like two people could easily curl up on the cushions in that thing.

Right, Luke. Focus.

We set things up and play Smash Brothers against each other for a while, cracking up stupidly at death after death.

“You think that’s fun?” Chance says. “Watch this.” He changes the setting in the game to only have items that explode, meaning there are like four types of bombs. He sets the life totals to where a single explosion could knock you off stage, but he selects a stage where there are surprisingly few places to go flying off. In short order we’re crying laughing as we continually throw bombs at each other and go flying around the screen like rubber balls. It’s the best kind of stupid fun.

Eventually, I tap out. “I quit! I quit! I can’t breathe!” My abs are gonna be killing me in the morning.

Chance takes a moment or two to stop cracking up, as well; after we calm down, he asks, “So, whatcha wanna do?”

I shrug. “I mean, I’m up for whatever.”

“Well, since we’re on a ‘not-date,’ the next part is usually watching TV or a movie together, right?” He grabs the remote off the TV stand and switches it from the video game display to Netflix.

...Oh. Oh, God. He means “Netflix and Chill,” doesn’t he? Are...are we doing that again? “I mean, sure, that sounds cool,” I say as smoothly as possible, though I’d be surprised if he didn’t hear me freaking the fuck out in that sentence.

He flips through the possibilities for a bit. “Hey,” he asks finally, “how do you feel about anime?”

“Depends. Are we talking ‘DBZ’ anime, or like, real anime?”

“DBZ ain’t real anime,” he points out. “I’m thinking like One Punch or something.”

“Yeah, sure! I love that one!” It’s absurd, but it’s still awesome.

So we start watching the show at the start of the newest season. I’ve seen these already, but they’re still fun enough to watch again.

Between episodes, he glances over to the beanbag. “Hey, move over,” he insists, hopping off the rocking chair.

I move over and he settles in next to me. There’s definitely still enough room for us both on this thing -- it’s friggin’ huge -- but it puts us shoulder-to-shoulder. “Is this okay?” he asks.

I play it cool, saying, “Yeah, I got room.” And if he can’t feel my heart pounding through my arm, then he’s numb.

Apparently, he’s numb. We sit like that and watch another episode of One Punch. We’re laughing at the fun parts, flinching at the punches, all the good stuff. About fifteen minutes in, though, I catch him, out of the corner of my eye, glancing over at me. I ignore it as best I can, but it takes effort just to keep my breathing regular.

“So...” he stammers, “I was thinking...that, um...” He finishes the sentence by placing his hand on my thigh and rubbing it slightly. “Since we’re on a ‘practice date’...”

“Is that what this is?” I try to ask coyly. I hope I didn’t just sound like I’m panicking, because I’m pretty sure I’m panicking.

“Well, basically,” he replies. “Like if I had a date with a boyfriend like this, then I think it’d go pretty good.”

“Heh, yeah, I can see that.” Oh God oh God oh God oh God --

“Um, so...” he trails off, still rubbing my thigh. I look over and can see that the front of his hot little red shorts is bulging dramatically. “Maybe we could try out a few other things. I, uh..watched some porn the other day -- I erased my browser history quick, though -- and I watched them doing a couple of things.”

Welp. This is happening. Sick fucker or not, I’m not the one who asked for this, so... “Okay. Like what?”

Instead of answering, he gets off the beanbag and unbuttons his shorts, slipping them off and adjusting his dick. He unbuttons a few more buttons on his shirt and takes it off, leaving him in just a cute pair of red boxer briefs. Dear God, they match his shorts.

He then slowly gets on his knees and, eyes locked on my crotch, reaches for the button of my blue jeans. He struggles with it a moment, giggling nervously -- I actually have problems with it, sometimes, so I get it -- and then unzips my pants. I help him slide them off, exposing my dark gray briefs (and straining erection). I adjust myself and shuck my t-shirt, staring at Chance eagerly.

“So, I wanted to try the, uh...I wanted to try giving you a blowjob again.” The look in his eyes is entrancing; it’s a mix of innocence and lust that -- I dunno how he manages it, but he does it well.

“Um, okay.” Well, that was a derpy answer. Whatever; I lift my butt and slide my undies off, exposing everything. I roll forward a bit on the beanbag to give him better access, and he slowly takes the tip of my dick and carefully puts his lips around it, making sure not to touch it at all with his teeth. The warmth and sensation of his lips and tongue are electrifying. He starts to move slowly down and back up on just the first half of it, keeping his tongue in contact with the underside of my dick. The feeling as he slides down and back up makes my spine jerk and my eyes roll. “Holy shit, that’s good,” I breathe.

He looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes, and gets back to work. Here I am, freaking out about falling in love with my brother, and then he voluntarily sticks my dick in his mouth like I’m some sort of sex dummy for him to practice on.

For now, I am okay with this arrangement.

I am not okay, however, with how fast my body decides that it’s time to shoot. I pop myself out of his mouth and clench my muscles tightly; he looks at me with confusion, but I hold a finger up to tell him to wait. “Hold on, too close...” My dick actually spasms once and dribbles a tiny bit of semen, but I manage to forestall the orgasm. “God damn, that was good. I almost came already.”

“Yay! I’m getting better!” he exclaims with glee.

“That, and I’m like super horny today apparently,” I say in a bald-faced lie. Well, okay, so yes I am super horny, but I’m not going to admit the reason out loud.

“God, me too,” he says, looking down at his boxer briefs. There’s a sizable spot where his dick has just been oozing precum. He takes them off, exposing his own Big-Headed Willie (Yes, I named mine when I was like 10).

“You. Bed. Now.” I point to the bed, and Chance hops to it. I follow over there, shoving him back onto the pillows playfully. I nestle myself between his legs and pop the whole damn thing in my mouth, tickling my uvula with his dick. He gasps and squirms, completely startled by my forwardness, I guess. I do go too far and gag once, but I play it off well enough that he doesn’t notice. I start slurping the thing like I’m pumping for oil (which, I mean, y’know).

He starts squirming, moving his legs and arms like he was some sort of turtle flipped on his shell, moaning things like “Fffffffuck” and “Hahh, that’s good shhhh--oh God” and the like. It brings me a certain sadistic glee to watch him like this. Again, don’t kinkshame me.

After a moment, he puts his hands on my ears and slowly lifts me away. “You gotta stop,” he says, panting for air. “I’m gonna shoot so hard if you keep it up.”

“And that’s...bad?”

“Well...” he sits up, dragging a finger across the head of his dick to wipe off the precum, “I kinda wanted to try to, um, y’know. To ‘69.’”

“Ahhh,” I say. It makes sense now. “So...which way do you...”

“Here, I’ll go this way,” he indicates with his head near the pillows, “and you can go the other way.”

I flip myself around and push him back a bit so that we’re centered on the bed. It’s a good thing this is a full-size bed and not a twin, or...y’know, why do they call it a “twin”-sized bed when both of us would barely fit on it? Hm. Anyway, so we both situate ourselves and sit there, preparing ourselves to make this work. I inhale deeply near his crotch, smelling that “clean” type of scent I mentioned before. I think maybe it’s pheromones or something, because I can’t get enough of it. “You ready?” I ask.

“Heh, that tickles when you breathe on my balls,” he says while tickling me by breathing on my balls, the bastard.

I respond by popping his dick into my mouth. A second later, I feel teeth on mine, but he quickly fixes it by moving his head back a bit. It’s weirder from this angle, but I find that this isn’t nearly as difficult to do as I was expecting. I’m sure that having the same height and dick size helps, but still. I go to town sucking on his, enjoying immensely when I rub my tongue over the top of his head, since it makes him moan, which vibrates my dick. It’s kind of amazing, really.

Then he starts doing the same thing to me, mimicking what I’m doing to him. The feeling is beyond electric, almost like the sensation of a full bladder, but centered on the top of my dick. Like, that super sensitive nerve sort of feeling. It makes me start moaning as well, and soon we both sound like a pair of cars racing each other to the finish line.

It turns out that the finish line isn’t that far off. I hear Chance’s moaning turn into more of a whimper, the same sort of whimper that he let out when he came the last time -- possibly the first time he had ever cum, now that I think about it. His dick gets thicker for a second or two, and then I feel the first jet of semen hit the roof of my mouth. The next few are in rapid succession, quickly filling the remaining space in my mouth (which is already pretty full of dick); I can feel the big tube part on the bottom of his dick pulse against my top lip as he pumps my mouth full of sperm.

At the first taste of semen, I lose it completely. Stars fill my eyes as I clench up, accidentally shoving my dick deep into Chance’s mouth with the first pulse of my orgasm. With my head still sitting on his tongue, each spurt is extremely sensitive; I’m not sure how many times I pulse in his mouth, since I’m not even sure I stayed conscious through the whole thing. I manage to swallow all of Chance’s cum, breathing heavily through my nose now that I can breathe at all. I can feel his dick still twitching in my mouth, though nothing more comes out.

Chance, though, I kinda feel sorry for; I know I accidentally made him gag when I reflexively stuffed my dick down his throat. I pop his dick out of my mouth and say, “Sorry...I, uh, couldn’t help it.”

I feel him slide off my dick, which makes my entire torso twitch. He says, “It’s okay. I kinda made a mess, though.”

I push myself up and look over to see a glob of cum sitting on the bed. “Oh crap,” I say. “Lemme get some toilet paper or something.”

Chance just sticks his mouth on the cover sheet and sucks the cum off of it, leaving only a small, circular wet spot. “Done!”

I blink at him. “I...guess that works. So, you swallowed it.”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t wanna leave a mess.”

“God damn, that’s hot.”

“Well, you did, too, you know.”

I shrug. “I mean, yeah...I didn’t wanna leave a mess.”

He laughs. “Damn, that was good.” He rolls onto his back, dick flopping against his belly.

I sit up and look at him sprawled out over the bed, not unlike that Sunday morning last week. “Yeah, it was.”

He looks up at me. “So...you need to go take your meds, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and brush my teeth and all that.”

“I’ll come with,” he says, sitting up.

We get at least our pants and shorts back on, just in case the parents are still up; when we go outside the room, though, all we can hear is the sound of the air conditioner. The lights are off downstairs, as well. We head to the bathroom, where we both do our thing, getting ready for bed and all that. He takes a piss right in front of me, which turns me on a little bit, but not enough to cause a problem, as it were.

We go back to the room, slip out of our clothes, and hop back into the bed; Chance turns off the TV and settles in under the covers. As I’m doing the same, though, he mumbles, “Um, Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

I snuggle in under the blankets and turn to face him. “Dude, thank you. The necklace and wristband are awesome, the movie was badass, the blowjob was...holy shit...”

He laughs. “Well, I learned from the best,” he explains.

“Pff. I wouldn’t say I’m the best...”

“You’re the best I’ve ever had.” He says it not with the intent to make it a joke, but with an authentic smile on his face.

“Well, make sure your boyfriend does it as well, and you’ll be fine, right?” I will never admit to a soul how much that statement hurts to make. He just laughs quietly. His smile slowly melts to a look of insecurity, though, which pains me to see. I ask, “What’s up?”

He takes a deep breath and sighs, chewing the inside of his lip for a moment. “Could I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure, anything. ‘Sup?”

“So the other time that you were here, I, uh...when you were asleep, I wanted to see what it would be like, to...to hold someone. So I put my arm around you and, y’know, held you while you were asleep. I--I hope that’s okay. Sorry if that wasn’t, I know I should’ve asked, but--but you were asleep, and--”

“I know you did,” I admit. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

His eyes shoot open wide. “You weren’t?!”

I raise an eyebrow. “No. It was kinda nice, though, so I let it happen.”

His fear slowly ebbs as he realizes it wasn’t the terrible revelation he thought it was. “Oh. Okay. Um. So...I really liked it, too. It felt nice.”

“So, what did you want me to do for you?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea where this is going.

He casts his eyes down -- or sideways, since we’re laying down -- and mutters, “I was wondering if you could do that. For me, I mean. If you could...hold me.”

This boy is breaking my heart. “Sure. I mean I kinda want to know how it feels to hold someone, too.”

The smile returns to his face, and he flips over quickly, his back to me. “Okay, go ahead.”

Even considering doing what he wants makes me start getting hard. “Uh, fair warning,” I say. “I...I can’t not have an erection if I’m up against someone like that.”

In response, Chance nestles himself into me instead, smashing his buttcheeks into my dick. “That’s okay,” he says, making himself comfortable.

I...well, then. I put my arm around him; he responds by lifting his own arm so that mine rests on his ribs, and then he hooks his around mine, holding it to his chest. And that’s that; I’m held in place by the crush of my life, my boner nestled in his buttcheeks, and he’s just gonna go to sleep peacefully. I’m just going to keep having sex with my brother, who’s going to use me as a practice doll for all of the things he’ll do when he finally gets a boyfriend and casts me aside like training wheels, and I’m going to love it -- and hate myself -- every step of the way. This is my life now.

Suddenly, he takes a shuddering deep breath, holds it, and sighs. “Thank you,” he says softly; it’s hard to tell, but there might have been a break in his voice. He takes a thumb and idly strokes the back of my hand with it. Despite the raging self-hate and conflict in my head, I also feel sort of...I don’t know, like a big brother. Again, I know it’s not really the same, but everything he does seems somehow younger than me. It makes me feel like...kinda like I’m his guardian. And right now, bundled up against him and hearing that, I know that maybe I’m doing something for him that he really needs. Sure, I’m being used, and the day will come when I’m not needed; for now, though, I’m holding the boy I’m in love with, and I’m making him feel better. Maybe that’s enough. I curl the fingers of my captured hand, using them to lightly caress the skin of Chance’s shoulder. He responds by squeezing my arm tighter. I guess he really needs this. We both need this. I continue brushing my fingers across his shoulder, gently stroking his skin, until I feel his thumb begin to slow down. I don’t know how long it is, maybe ten, fifteen minutes, but eventually his thumb stops and his breathing expands to the deep breaths of sleep.

I lie awake with Chance in my arms until my medication finally kicks in, but I can still tell that it’s going to be a long night: once again, I have Sam Smith’s “Stay With Me” stuck in my head on repeat. I spend the time focusing on the slow, deep breathing of my brother and wondering how things are going to end up between us.

To be continued...

Posted: 11/02/18