Indiscretion
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,821
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
12
Views:
3,821
Reviews:
10
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.
Blood Bond
A/N: It's short, yes—but at least it exists. Been busy with college and all that. You know the story. And I'm writing this instead of my essay again. Oh well. Also, I finally have an idea about how to end this, but it's still probably a long ways off. Expect lots more from this story. All reviews are appreciated; they make me write faster. Just saying.
Blood Bond
He had a brother once, you know, this Aiden—a brother and a brother, to be most truthful, though one more figurative than the other, but both now equally specks of ash in a distant memory-world. Aiden and his brother and his brother—his bro, his friend, his confidant, his too many things to express in words—once made a happy little trio in a happy little town in a happy little world, oh so many years ago. The brothers by blood and by bond never got along so well as with Aiden, but by his presence any dispute was negated in acquiescent jollity. Either, though, were subject to bouts of jealousy unknown to Aiden at the time.
It happened on a cold wet morning in early spring in the depths of their adolescence, years before any thought of another life first entered their minds, before their lives were marked more by betrayal than trust, by destruction than life. The brother by blood was locked away in bed by the flu, and the other two were outside playing in the yard. It was Aiden's fourteenth birthday. There had developed in the years since their first having met a—to them—peculiar and uncanny attraction. Aiden, the younger, the innocent, brought to the forefront of his friend's mind thoughts which ought stay hidden in dark recesses. But on that day, the brother by bond acted upon his emotions, and Aiden, the impressionable, reciprocated. This new relational development did not go unnoticed by the other. A kiss under a tree was all, in direct, flaunting sight of the bed-ridden's window.
From shock, to jealousy, to anger, to hate—a slow, transformative process that wedged forever between them.
He has long since forgotten the exact words, the exact reasons shouted between his two brothers, one now much closer than the other. All he remembers, untainted and vivid in his mind's eye, is the blood spilled.
The first image he has in his mind after the initial shouting is of his brother shoving his lover—that was his new name, in his mind—down against the carpet. How dare he inflict his perversions on Aiden. To subject who was ostensibly a friend to sick fantasies. But the brother knew nothing, the lover said, of the love they shared, could never know. The lover had seen the sketches. Did he mean to imply incest? Wouldn't the “brother” be the better man to answer that?
His brother punched his lover, then—He had no right to accuse him of such a thing, the sick vile creature. The stench of incest, foul and haggard, hung in the air and refused to leave. Had he touched Aiden? the lover asked. Touched him like he had, intimately? Anger, hatred seethed at his brother's edges; he drew a knife.
On TV and in cartoons, a person does not die unless stabbed somewhere vital. But it does not take a stab to the heart to kill a man. A deep enough gash in a leg, on an arm, causes enough blood loss. Thus passed Aiden's lover, his bro, his friend, his confidant, from this world. A two year marriage in spirit alone, too brief to see against the backdrop of history.
Aiden's brother was not uninjured by the ordeal—a scar just beyond his eye, a rift irreparable between him and Aiden. After burying his lover, Aiden left his home, his former brother, and headed to the city, where he became a sad and dejected soul running from lover to lover every other night. He sometimes wrote poetry, to relieve his suffering, his soul, but all that accomplished was to numb his soul. A transformation into the man we met at this story's beginning. At least, that's what he told Lucien when he asked. Afterwards they ate silently their meal to the beat of the falling rain against the windows.
They heard in the distance a dragon's roar, familiar and frightening. Could they ever forget such a thing? But they hardly had time to contemplate it before they vanished yet again. They were not meant to stay long in such a world.
Blood Bond
He had a brother once, you know, this Aiden—a brother and a brother, to be most truthful, though one more figurative than the other, but both now equally specks of ash in a distant memory-world. Aiden and his brother and his brother—his bro, his friend, his confidant, his too many things to express in words—once made a happy little trio in a happy little town in a happy little world, oh so many years ago. The brothers by blood and by bond never got along so well as with Aiden, but by his presence any dispute was negated in acquiescent jollity. Either, though, were subject to bouts of jealousy unknown to Aiden at the time.
It happened on a cold wet morning in early spring in the depths of their adolescence, years before any thought of another life first entered their minds, before their lives were marked more by betrayal than trust, by destruction than life. The brother by blood was locked away in bed by the flu, and the other two were outside playing in the yard. It was Aiden's fourteenth birthday. There had developed in the years since their first having met a—to them—peculiar and uncanny attraction. Aiden, the younger, the innocent, brought to the forefront of his friend's mind thoughts which ought stay hidden in dark recesses. But on that day, the brother by bond acted upon his emotions, and Aiden, the impressionable, reciprocated. This new relational development did not go unnoticed by the other. A kiss under a tree was all, in direct, flaunting sight of the bed-ridden's window.
From shock, to jealousy, to anger, to hate—a slow, transformative process that wedged forever between them.
He has long since forgotten the exact words, the exact reasons shouted between his two brothers, one now much closer than the other. All he remembers, untainted and vivid in his mind's eye, is the blood spilled.
The first image he has in his mind after the initial shouting is of his brother shoving his lover—that was his new name, in his mind—down against the carpet. How dare he inflict his perversions on Aiden. To subject who was ostensibly a friend to sick fantasies. But the brother knew nothing, the lover said, of the love they shared, could never know. The lover had seen the sketches. Did he mean to imply incest? Wouldn't the “brother” be the better man to answer that?
His brother punched his lover, then—He had no right to accuse him of such a thing, the sick vile creature. The stench of incest, foul and haggard, hung in the air and refused to leave. Had he touched Aiden? the lover asked. Touched him like he had, intimately? Anger, hatred seethed at his brother's edges; he drew a knife.
On TV and in cartoons, a person does not die unless stabbed somewhere vital. But it does not take a stab to the heart to kill a man. A deep enough gash in a leg, on an arm, causes enough blood loss. Thus passed Aiden's lover, his bro, his friend, his confidant, from this world. A two year marriage in spirit alone, too brief to see against the backdrop of history.
Aiden's brother was not uninjured by the ordeal—a scar just beyond his eye, a rift irreparable between him and Aiden. After burying his lover, Aiden left his home, his former brother, and headed to the city, where he became a sad and dejected soul running from lover to lover every other night. He sometimes wrote poetry, to relieve his suffering, his soul, but all that accomplished was to numb his soul. A transformation into the man we met at this story's beginning. At least, that's what he told Lucien when he asked. Afterwards they ate silently their meal to the beat of the falling rain against the windows.
They heard in the distance a dragon's roar, familiar and frightening. Could they ever forget such a thing? But they hardly had time to contemplate it before they vanished yet again. They were not meant to stay long in such a world.