Shattered: A Pre-Post Mortem Faerytale
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,192
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,192
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
03 Part 2
PART 2
The next morning, dawning eye-piercingly bright and stinging with its mocking warmth and sunshine, it was if nothing had ever happened between them. It was as if there was no sweet, passionate kiss from his brother’s lips to take away all the pain, no gentle touches on his hair and against his cheek to tell Brandon silently that Justin loved him. It was as if Brandon hadn’t fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep to the sound of his brother’s hammering heart under his ear, pounding against the snare drummer’s ribs and hard pecs, and the sound of Justin’s deep, bass voice humming a gentle lullaby, one that Sara used to sing, one that would’ve killed him with poisonous memories if anyone other than Justin had sung it.
When Brandon had awoken, splayed out on the sofa, Justin was gone. There was a depression in the small leather couch from where his body had lain under Brandon’s weight for most of the night, and there was his lingering smell, AXE and drumstick lacquer and tenderness against the warm smell of leather and of Brandon himself. But there was no Justin waiting for his eyes to flutter open. No Justin waiting to kiss him good morning. No Justin waiting to comfort him if a nightmare should take him. No Justin.
The sound of the shower woke him, and the absence of Justin’s extra warmth. He tried not to picture that lithe, muscular body in the shower, hot water pounding down on his bare skin and sluicing down his body to caress everything, because it was his brother and he didn’t want to think things like that, but it was hard.
When Justin finally hopped out of the shower and thudded down the stairs, already dressed in khaki shorts so lame only Justin could make them look good and a white Led Zeppelin tee that clung to his well muscled frame like a wet T-shirt in a girl’s wet dream, trying to slip on his red flip flops and catch his sunglasses as they slipped off his head at the same time, looking almost irresistibly cute, there was no good morning kiss, no tender embrace, no ruffling of the hair. Only the terse words: “Brandon, hurry up and get ready or we’ll miss the bus, dude.”
Brandon stared at Justin in utter shock for a moment as he popped two blueberry Poptarts into the toaster, grabbed a quart bottle of chocolate milk, and began to chug it. Sara was dead, her funeral was in less than two days, and Justin dared to speak to him like that? After what had happened last night?
Brandon felt the urge to grab a knife and press the serrated edge deep into his skin, to bring blood to the surface to drown out the hurt thundering through him. But he didn’t.
His brother realized the younger boy was staring at him in shock, and pulled the bottle away from his mouth long enough to say, “Now, Brandon. Get ready for school, or I’ll kick your ass.”
The trumpet player suddenly bolted as if he’d been jump started with cables, raced up the stairs, jamming his thumb into his mouth halfway up and keeping it there the entire time as he ran into the bathroom and sobbed wretchedly in the shower as the hot water pounded against his shaking body.
Justin was a fucking liar. Nothing was all right.
The next morning, dawning eye-piercingly bright and stinging with its mocking warmth and sunshine, it was if nothing had ever happened between them. It was as if there was no sweet, passionate kiss from his brother’s lips to take away all the pain, no gentle touches on his hair and against his cheek to tell Brandon silently that Justin loved him. It was as if Brandon hadn’t fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep to the sound of his brother’s hammering heart under his ear, pounding against the snare drummer’s ribs and hard pecs, and the sound of Justin’s deep, bass voice humming a gentle lullaby, one that Sara used to sing, one that would’ve killed him with poisonous memories if anyone other than Justin had sung it.
When Brandon had awoken, splayed out on the sofa, Justin was gone. There was a depression in the small leather couch from where his body had lain under Brandon’s weight for most of the night, and there was his lingering smell, AXE and drumstick lacquer and tenderness against the warm smell of leather and of Brandon himself. But there was no Justin waiting for his eyes to flutter open. No Justin waiting to kiss him good morning. No Justin waiting to comfort him if a nightmare should take him. No Justin.
The sound of the shower woke him, and the absence of Justin’s extra warmth. He tried not to picture that lithe, muscular body in the shower, hot water pounding down on his bare skin and sluicing down his body to caress everything, because it was his brother and he didn’t want to think things like that, but it was hard.
When Justin finally hopped out of the shower and thudded down the stairs, already dressed in khaki shorts so lame only Justin could make them look good and a white Led Zeppelin tee that clung to his well muscled frame like a wet T-shirt in a girl’s wet dream, trying to slip on his red flip flops and catch his sunglasses as they slipped off his head at the same time, looking almost irresistibly cute, there was no good morning kiss, no tender embrace, no ruffling of the hair. Only the terse words: “Brandon, hurry up and get ready or we’ll miss the bus, dude.”
Brandon stared at Justin in utter shock for a moment as he popped two blueberry Poptarts into the toaster, grabbed a quart bottle of chocolate milk, and began to chug it. Sara was dead, her funeral was in less than two days, and Justin dared to speak to him like that? After what had happened last night?
Brandon felt the urge to grab a knife and press the serrated edge deep into his skin, to bring blood to the surface to drown out the hurt thundering through him. But he didn’t.
His brother realized the younger boy was staring at him in shock, and pulled the bottle away from his mouth long enough to say, “Now, Brandon. Get ready for school, or I’ll kick your ass.”
The trumpet player suddenly bolted as if he’d been jump started with cables, raced up the stairs, jamming his thumb into his mouth halfway up and keeping it there the entire time as he ran into the bathroom and sobbed wretchedly in the shower as the hot water pounded against his shaking body.
Justin was a fucking liar. Nothing was all right.