When he turned to climb back inside, he found himself face-to-face with his own reflection in the window's upper pane. His face looked pale and distorted in the glass, his hair hanging heavy and soaked across his forehead, his eyes a bar of shadow.
Last night he'd fucked his brother. He tried the words out loud to his reflection. "Last night you fucked your brother," he said softly. But the reflection just mouthed the words mutely along with him and then stared back, expressionless.
He'd never meant to go so far. But then he'd never *meant* any of this.
It had just been -
It had just been so *hot*. All week the sun had beat down and a dry baking wind had blown, sucking the moisture from everyone's skin until their lips cracked and their eyes felt like they'd been rolled in sand.
None of them had been able to sleep properly. The lights had stayed on in Grandad's workshop all night sometimes, and he'd produced a series of taxidermic horrors that none of them could stand to look at for long - a raccoon with extra legs and an owl's wings fixed to its back, a weasel with a snaky reptilian tail and long rabbit ears. Grandad was pleased with himself - he'd slapped Michael on the back and said "See? I'm an artist!" But when Sammy, as a joke, had sent one swooping down the stairs on a length of fishing line, Grandad had screamed as loud as the rest of them.
And Mom had taken to roaming the house at all hours in her cotton eyelet nightie, fixing endless jugs of iced tea and limply fanning herself with a cracked Chinese fan she'd found somewhere. She'd collected a pile of books set in cold climates, and was reading them with fixed determination. "It's all a question of attitude," she kept telling them, "Just think cool thoughts." But by Thursday her face was puffy, her eyes bloodshot, and her cheerfulness had frayed into brittle irritability. Friday night she finally dug out her old sleeping pills, and when Michael paused outside her room at half-past nine he could already hear her snoring faintly inside.
By half-past nine Sammy had been in the bathtub for almost two hours. He'd spent as much of the week underwater as he could, alternating between the pool in town and the bath, and by Friday his face and shoulders were peeling with sunburn and he'd started to look pale and puckery and bleached where he wasn't burnt, as though the water were slowly dissolving him.
And Michael... by Friday night Michael wanted to crawl out of his skin. He didn't suffer the way that fair-skinned Sammy did, but he felt drugged with the heat, his skin prickly, his limbs heavy, his thoughts disjointed and restless. It made him sluggish and tired, but sleep had been replaced by a sweat-soaked stupor that never quite shut down his buzzing brain.
And there was no relief to be found in the bath or the pool for *him*, as somehow the heat had found its way inside of him too, had shaped itself into a smouldering hunger that sat just below the surface of his skin. It scared him. He worried that it was visible somehow, that it showed on his face when he looked at his brother. He would have thought that *having* Sammy would defuse the force of his wanting, but the wanting just kept growing inside of him ... sometimes he felt it even when Sammy was in his bed, in his arms, a hollowness inside that made him hold on too tight, made him leave finger-tip bruises on Sammy's pale skin.
They'd had to keep their distance from each other this week, with Mom and Grandad so restless, and by Friday night Michael was filled with a tension that made him aware of every sweating inch of his skin and cranked his mind-buzz up even higher.
He walked away from Mom's snoring and paused outside the bathroom door, listening to the sound of more water being run into the bath for a few moments before retreating to his own room and throwing himself sulkily on the bed. He thought about sneaking one of Mom's sleeping-pills, but the effort of getting up again suddenly seemed too immense to even contemplate, and he shut his eyes, let a restless doze steal over him, a doze that went on for hours and was all heat-prickle and buzz and phantom touches that made him toss and turn.
Then one of the phantom touches took on sudden substance, and he opened his eyes to see Sammy standing at the side of his bed. Sammy's cheeks were flushed and marked with pillow-creases, his hair wild, as though he'd been sleeping as restlessly as Michael himself.
Michael opened his mouth to speak. He meant to tell him he should go back to his own room, that Mom was just down the hall, Grandad was still downstairs. But Sammy just said "Michael?" and there was a soft husky catch to his voice, and that was enough to make Michael suddenly and unexpectedly hard under his thin shorts. And he didn't even have time to close his mouth again before Sammy was climbing in next to him and meeting his mouth with his own, his hands already tugging at Michael's waistband.
And the touch of his hands made Michael gave up all thought of protest. He kissed Sammy back with all the built-up wanting of the week, groaned helplessly into his mouth when Sammy took hold of his cock and began to stroke it, running his thumb over the leaking tip of it.
Then Sammy gave a wriggle and slid down Michael's torso so that he was eye-to-eye with the cock he held in his hand. "Sammy?" said Michael, struggling up on his elbows, but Sammy just grinned up at him and then -
And then -
//ohgodohgodohgod he's not - // thought Michael wildly -
- then he fit his mouth over the head of Michael's cock, and Michael slumped back down on the bed at the slick wet heat of his brother's mouth and first tentative probings of his tongue.
The sight alone was enough to make Michael groan again; his cock, dark with blood, disappearing slowly into his little brother's mouth, the same innocent mouth that had yelled at him when he took up smoking, scolded him for swearing. And when Michael felt the slight scrape of teeth he had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep back the sound that welled up in his throat.
Then Sammy pulled off for a moment, took a few deep breaths, the hot air suddenly cold on Michael's cock.
"You don't have to - " Michael tried again, but the raw break in his own voice gave him away, and Sammy just bent his head and took it in again.
A little further this time, his mouth stretching wider as Michael watched, and Michael could hardly breath at the thoughts flying through his mind //oh god never done this before he's never done this before he's trying to *learn* it, trying to *teach* himself// and Sammy started moving his head a little, swallowing around him, taking in a little more and a little more but never quite enough, never quite finding a rhythm, tongue fluttering too light against him, and Michael fisted his hands *hard* in the sheets to keep himself from grabbing Sammy's head and just thrusting into him.
Then he heard-*felt*-heard Sammy gag, and Sammy pulled off again, wiping at the spit that shone wetly on his chin and swollen mouth. "This is not," he said breathlessly, "as easy as you might think."
He rested his flushed cheek on Michael's thigh for a moment, and Michael touched his tangled hair with shaking fingers. Then he raised his head again and *licked* Michael's cock, one long stroke from root to tip, and planted a curiously shy little kiss on the tip of it. And that made Michael moan and haul him back up and roll over on top of him, moan again at the nervous gleeful giggle Sammy gave.
And he'd just been -
He'd just been so *hard*, so hard it hurt, sweat slicking his body and his heart pounding, the memory-feel of Sammy's tentative probing tongue still in him, winding him up so tight his whole body felt like a scream caught in the back of his throat. And all he'd wanted was *more*.
He couldn't stop moving, thrusting and rubbing against Sammy, and Sammy was starting to get a little crazy now too, arching up against him, head thrashing back and forth on the pillow. And then Michael's cock was sliding between Sammy's thighs and Michael kept trying to bring him closer, pulling him up and into him, hands flexing on Sammy's ass, gripping tight. And then his fingers brushed Sammy's asshole, and Sammy's whole body jerked and Michael felt a hot gush of precum smear across his belly where Sammy's cock pressed into him.
And he hadn't - hadn't *asked*, hadn't even tried to, just knelt up and hiked Sammy's legs up over his shoulders and fished frantically in his bedside table for the lube he'd smuggled into the house. His shaking hands had smeared it messily everywhere, on the sheets and Sammy's ass and his own thighs. And then, as amazed as if he were watching someone else's hand do this, he'd watched his finger start to press against the pucker of Sammy's asshole and then push in, slowly disappearing into his brother's body.
Looking at his face in the window now he tells himself that he would have stopped if Sammy had told him too, but the thought brings him too much relief for him to trust it entirely and truth be told he can't be *sure*. It had felt so ...
Sammy had made a sound deep in his throat and when Michael looked up he saw Sammy was red in the face and wet with sweat, moving like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pull away from the touch or thrust into it. And Michael pressed his forehead against Sammy's knee and stroked his thigh with his free hand, murmuring "OK, it's OK, you're OK," until at last he felt the muscle relax around his finger.
More lube then, and he slid his finger the rest of the way into the shocking heat inside his brother's body and started to move it gently. Sammy's own cock had flagged, and Michael took it in his free hand and stroked it now too, felt the complex movement of Sammy's reaction from the inside. And that made his own cock jump, his hips buck forwards in time with his finger's thrusts.
So he slid his finger out and readied his cock with slick clumsy hands, his own touch good enough to make him shudder but still nowhere near enough. And he'd braced himself and tugged Sammy closer and ...
...and biting his own tongue for control he eased forward inch by inch until, gasping, he slid home and was *inside* his brother's body.
Sammy trembled in his grasp, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched. But as Michael started to move inside of him his eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open like a baby bird and he gave a cry that modulated into a high surprised sound of pure astonishment.
And Michael was too far gone to soothe or shush, so he bent and sealed Sammy's mouth with his own and just kept moving, pushing and pushing and pushing into him with all the frightening hunger inside him. Sammy's cock was hard again between them now, slicking both their bellies, and Sammy slid a hand between them and took it in his fist, working it with a frantic touch as Michael knelt up again, grabbing Sammy's hips and slamming into him even harder, sweat rolling off him in heavy drops.
Then Sammy's whole body tensed and he came, giving a cry so loud that Michael, in a panic, slapped his hand down over his mouth. And there was a sick little thrill to that, to the sight of his hand over Sammy's mouth, a hot spike of shame and shock and power that shot up his spine as he thrust a few last times into Sammy's trembling body and then collapsed on top of him.
Out on the roof-top Michael shivered at the memory and felt himself sway precariously, teetering in the grip of gravity for a moment before he steadied himself on the window-sill, pressing his forehead against the cool wet glass. A cool gust of wind came from over the hill then, lifting his wet hair and raising goose-bumps on his body. Michael took a deep breath, and climbed back inside.