It's nighttime. Sammy and Michael are in the back porch, the part of the
house that's become *theirs* somehow, cluttered with Michael's weights and
Sammy's comics and the TV they finally bullied Mom into buying for them.
Nighttime, but it's hot out still, and they're sprawled on the ratty old
couch in equally ratty shorts, Michael's cut-off denim, Sammy's thin nylon
running shorts that he's almost outgrown.
On the TV screen in front of them black-and-white zombies close in around a
ramshackle old farmhouse, tinnily crying "Brains!" Michael wants to laugh,
make fun of the zombies' clumsy pancake makeup, but Sammy is watching with
an odd intentness that keeps him silent.
It makes Michael a little uncomfortable. Sammy had never been a horror fan
back in Phoenix. But he's started bringing home horror movies almost every
weekend, and their Friday nights are filled with transformations; men into
vampires, men into werewolves, into bugs, slime-things, strange walking
heaps of mushrooms. It makes a kind of sense, he guesses. After all, there
hadn't been David and the others back in Phoenix either. But Sammy seems to
be *searching* for something in these movies, and Michael's a little afraid
to ask exactly what.
Michael scrabbles for the last handful of popcorn in the bowl and stuffs it
in his mouth, glancing over at Sammy again. Sammy is sitting utterly still,
his eyes fixed on the flickering screen, face mask-like and impassive.
There's a strange constraint between them these days. Michael supposes he
shouldn't be surprised - not every guy sees his older brother transformed
into a vampire, and it'll take a while for everything to get back to normal,
if it ever does. But he hates the way it makes him afraid to really talk to
Sammy, to ask him what's on his mind. Mom used to tease them that they were
more like sisters than brothers, always whispering away to each other. But
there's a distance in Sammy's eyes recently that Michael can't seem to get
It makes him feel strange, restless and resentful and lonely. He doesn't
really *have* anyone else here he can talk to. Not Mom, that's for sure, and
somehow the social rhythms of Santa Carla continue to elude him, he hasn't
been able to find a place for himself. He misses Sammy, and wants to yell at
him too - he never asked to be turned into a vampire, and he hadn't hurt
Sammy, after all.
Though he'd come damn close. And he wonders if that's what's in Sammy's mind
these days, if he can sense Michael's own guilt.
On screen, the zombies are eating someone's brain, howling and crying.
"Let's watch something else - this is stupid," says Michael.
Sammy's whole body jerks at the sound of his voice, and when he turns his
head Michael sees fine beads of sweat on his upper lip.
"Hey, what's wrong? Are you sick?" he asks, before he recognises what the
expression on Sammy's face really is. Fear. He's watching this ridiculous
movie and he's *terrified*.
But: "No!" says Sammy. "I want to watch *this*!"
Michael tries to wrestle the remote from his hand, but Sammy's got a
white-knuckled grip on it and won't give it up, yanking it back and then
shielding it with his body until he's curled in a tight fetal ball around it
and Michael is draped over him.
"Come *on*!" says Michael, still trying to get at it. They're both sweating
in the heat, his hands keep sliding when he tries to grip, and when Sammy
tries to kick him off Michael overbalances, grabs thoughtlessly at Sammy's
shoulder, and then they're both on the floor, jarred and a little winded,
Sammy half-pinned beneath him and -
And hard. It takes Michael a moment to truly understand what his senses
telling him, but yes, he's lying on top of Sammy and Sammy's cock is hot and
hard against his belly.
They're both perfectly still for a long moment.
The only light here is the blue TV flicker, but the porch is mostly windows
and Michael feels weirdly on display. He's never gotten used to just how
*dark* the country gets at night, and the blackness outside could contain
any number of watching eyes, any number of threats.
Sammy is staring up at him, his own eyes wide and frightened, and Michael
can smell his sweat, his sweat and his hair and a faint trace of smoke from
the barbecue earlier. There's a weird rushing noise like a high wind in his
ears, and Michael can't tell if it's coming from outside or if it's inside
He shivers, once, at the heated weight of Sammy's cock pressed between them,
and it sets something off inside of him, a wave of something that isn't
quite heat and isn't quite pressure but that rises like both through his
body and leaves everything changed.
"Sammy," he whispers.
He can see the shine of tears gathering in the corners of his brother's
eyes. "Get off me, Michael!" says Sammy desperately, "Get *off*!" When
Michael doesn't the tears spill over and he says in a choked voice "I can't
help it, Michael. I've tried - I just - I don't know what's happening to
"Don't cry, Sammy," says Michael, wiping at Sammy's wet face with his bare
fingers. Sammy looks so miserable that he wants to take him in his arms and
comfort him, but he's more or less in his arms already and there's no
comfort here. Sammy's heart is pounding so hard it feels to Michael like it
might burst out of his chest and there's sudden, dangerous heat building
wherever their skins touch. They're close now, faces only inches apart as
Michael runs his fingers over Sammy's cheeks again, and then somehow they're
closer still, and -
Their mouths meet.
Michael can hear himself make a high wild sound and his tongue is in Sammy's
mouth, he can feel the little vibrations as Sammy whimpers and he's so hard
he's aching. He dives in deeper and it makes Sammy move against him and then
his own hips thrust into the movement and it all starts to spin out of
control, he hadn't even known that he'd wanted this, but god, now he can't
stop, can't stop rocking against Sammy, their bodies growing slicker with
sweat as their cocks rub together in their thin summer shorts. Sammy's mouth
is salty with tears and the taste makes Michael groan.
Then Sammy breaks the kiss. Pushes at Michael so violently that Michael
lifts off of him, lets him slide away and scuttle backwards across the floor
until his back hits the wall. "*No*!" he says, his voice rough, "This is so
fucking sick, we can't *do* this!"
He's shaking, but he's so hard inside his shorts that Michael can see the
outline of his cock and a spreading damp patch where the head presses
against the thin material. And Michael knows that if he lets himself think
too hard about what he's just done it will all come crashing in on him, it
will all feel worse than ever. So he moves towards him again.
"Come on, Sammy, it's OK, I -" and he founders on that thought. He what?
Isn't going to hurt him? Won't - and a hysterical giggle threatens for a
second - get him pregnant? Has gone too far to let this stop now?
"*Please*!" he finally settles on, and he's close enough now to reach out
and touch Sammy again so he does, puts his hand on Sammy's crotch, and Sammy
gives a sound like a sob but bucks up into the touch and suddenly the cloth
beneath Michael's hand is warm and damp and the alkaline smell of semen is
in the air.
Sammy is silent except for harsh breathing. His eyes look shell-shocked and
he doesn't resist as Michael tugs at him until he's lying flat and then
eases his shorts off, using them to gently mop away the mess at Sammy's
groin. Sammy crosses one arm over his eyes, as if to hide from what's
happening, but he's half-hard again, or still, despite his orgasm. Michael's
hands shake as he touches him, and his skin looks dark and rough against
Sammy's pale torso. Sammy lets out a little moan as Michael takes hold of
his cock, and Michael reaches up with the other hand and pulls the arm away,
forces Sammy to meet his eyes for a moment.
"Sammy," he whispers again.
Then he slides down and takes Sammy's cock carefully in his mouth.
On the TV the carnage continues.