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As though there wasn’t enough about their lives that had been turned upside down, Lochlan couldn’t even rely on things to smell the same.
Saxon used to smell exactly the same every time Lochlan saw him - reliable as the $50 checks in the mail from Grandma on birthdays. The same uber-clean, sharp combination of deodorant, body spray and fabric softener that somehow made him smell like water, like something blue and moving smoothly under waves. It made spit spring up in Lochlan’s mouth. When Saxon first went away for school Lochlan would go in his room, sniff the clothing he left in the laundry pile, red-faced and confused at the twisting of shame and -
Now he smells totally different.
He’d breezed into the house - a rental owned by one of Mom’s relations - dropped his bag in a cloud of smells like eucalyptus and sandalwood.
“You smell like a yoga studio,” Piper had griped.
“Gotta get those sun salutations in, Pipes,” he’d replied, like he’d ever cared about anything that stupid. Like he was grinding at going to yoga classes.
“Hey.” Lochlan’s voice broke when he called out. Saxon’s face was smooth, easy, showing nothing.
“Hey, Loch.” He was already turning away, down the hall.
-
It just stung so badly.
When they were all still living together before the house was seized, Saxon jumped like he’d seen a rat every time Lochlan so much as walked past him in the hallway. One night when he’d gone to the kitchen he must’ve been walking too quietly; Saxon had gasped and then shoved him hard against the counter as Lochlan walked around him.
“What, are you, like, creeping around?” His eyes had been hazy and his breath was beery.
Lochlan’s heart had stuck hard in his throat and he’d tried to shove Saxon back. “No, dude, I was just - I live here too.”
Then Saxon had looked at Lochlan’s hand on his bare chest and jumped away like he’d been burned.
-
Christmas is always exhausting, but this year is beyond the pale. Lochlan feels listless, deflated. Through dinners and brunches, giving gifts and opening them, he fakes an aching smile. Everyone does. Victoria and Piper have two whisper-screaming fights that end with Victoria in passive-aggressive tears on the couch, nursing a glass of wine. Piper leaves right after lunch the day after Christmas.
They’re supposed to stay together at least until New Years Day. That’s what they’ve always done, even when both Piper and Saxon were away at school. They were supposed to spend the days lazily eating, swimming in the heated indoor pool. Lochlan was supposed to work on a puzzle with Dad and Piper while Mom and Saxon gossiped. There was an order to these things, a rhythm -
Except Dad’s in jail. Their lives are in freefall. He and Saxon are back under the same roof.
Lochlan spends hours laying facedown on the bed, numb.
-
Saxon used to do this thing where he’d screenshot Lochlan’s social media posts and send him feedback.
He’d been doing it ever since Lochlan made an instagram. He’d like the photo or the post or whatever. He wasn’t calling him out or trying to embarrass him. Just making suggestions.
Bro, don’t just post pictures of an animal, that’s boring. At least make sure you’re in it. Chicks love sensitive guys but not too much aha.
Good outfit bro. Just don’t tuck your shirt in next time.
Dude she’s totally hot! You hitting that???
Arms looking big my guy! I can tell you’re hitting the gym! Send me your split schedule so I can help you optimize.
It had gone on so long that Lochlan has a prebuilt lens through which to view his social media presence. It’s not that he’s posting for Saxon, he’s just pretty sure he knows how Saxon will react to things.
Of course he hasn’t done it since Thailand.
Lochlan had even, kind of, tried to bait him. At UNC he started attending a gay men’s lifting club, and he’d figured that posting about it would’ve gotten at least something out of Saxon, but there was no indication he’d even seen it. As the semester went on Lochlan channeled all his stress, his frustration with Saxon, into the gym. He’d just kept waiting for the shoe to drop. It hadn’t happened yet.
-
Mom is too depressed to do anything on New Year's Eve. Wilting on the sofa, she alternates between stupor and a passive sort of rage, a snarling fury that leaks slowly out of her and pools all around her, heavy and noxious. At least she falls asleep around nine, heavily sedated enough that she doesn’t wake up when Saxon turns off the Times Square broadcast.
Lochlan pads around the rental house alone. He’s restless, itchy, like his skin isn’t sitting right on his body. He thinks he could at least sink into a youtube rabbit hole if not for -
He feels like maybe he has a map of the house in his head with a little red dot moving around. Like Saxon’s heat is perceptible through the floors and the walls. More likely Lochlan’s just been straining to hear his every move all night, imagining what he’s doing, thinking. Whether he can feel the crackling in the air that’s got the hair on Lochlan’s arms standing on end.
-
Saxon’s eyes are wide, alert over his book. “What?”
“What?” Lochlan snaps back.
Saxon tips his head back, annoyed. “What do you want, Lochlan?”
“Nothing.” Lochlan flinches at his own bratty tone.
Saxon stands up, shutting his book. “What?!”
Lochlan can’t help how his voice dips petulantly. “We don’t even, like, talk anymore. Like, everytime I get near you you just run away.”
“I don’t run away. Jesus, Lochlan.”
“You literally do,” he whispers.
“You’re acting like a fucking baby. Like a girl. Come on, dude. What - what do you even want?”
“I don’t know, like, you could, like, act like you care about me at all? Like, hey, Lochlan, Merry Christmas, how was your first semester at Chapel Hill?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not falling all over myself to ask about your slut era at Chapel Hill!”
Lochlan’s mouth drops open. “My... slut era?”
Saxon’s flushing red, all down his chest. His shirt is most of the way unbuttoned. “Your - you’re always posting, like, showing off at the gym with all your...”
Lochlan snickers. “My friends?”
Saxon scowls. He tries to get past Lochlan and leave the room, but -
“Wait, Sax,” Lochlan whines, snagging his brother’s arm.
Lochlan watches the panic materialize on Saxon’s face. He watches his face twitch, then solidify into an attempt at anger. He shoves Lochlan against the doorframe.
“Is this what you want? You - trying to piss me off so I push you around-?”
Something in Lochlan slips into place. He braces his forearm across the breadth of Saxon's chest. It doesn’t even take a real shove - only the barest of pressure, and Saxon's back is hitting the wall of the pantry, his eyes going wide.
Lochlan's lost at sea, here, but he’s finally - finally - got Saxon's eyes on him again for real. His full attention. They breathe loudly at each other for a moment, gazes locked, before Lochlan tests a little pressure against Saxon. He exhales, a tiny little sound, a whine buried somewhere in it. That's all. Saxon grits his teeth, face flushed.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Lochlan can’t figure out where to start. He glances wildly from Saxon's open, pouty mouth, to the pulse pounding under his jaw, to the bobbing adam’s apple in his throat. He’s got to play this right, he thinks, keep Saxon in this place, keep them both tethered now.
Lochlan presses his mouth, open and slack, against Saxon's jaw. Inhales his aftershave.
(he’s pretty sure it’s Dad’s.)
“Do you remember?”
Saxon’s watching Lochlan’s mouth. “Remember what?”
“Last year.”
Their eyes catch again. In one motion Saxon ducks away. He straightens his his hair, his open shirt. His mouth gapes for a long moment before he slips out into the hallway.
-
It was their tradition, for as many years as Lochlan can remember. All of them sprawled in the living room. Mom, warm with wine, laughing loudly at her own jokes; running a brutal commentary, eviscerating the boring, ugly, trashy presenters speaking to them live from Times Square. Dad, a few drinks in, a little loose, staring into the distance and occasionally weighing in on Mom’s cutting remarks. Piper, trying to pretend she didn’t love the bubbly white grape juice they got to drink. Saxon, desperate for Dad’s attention. Lochlan, eyes moving from face to face, desperate for something to hang onto, some way to ingratiate himself.
He’d loved watching the ball drop. It sparkled so perfectly, so beautifully. Even before he knew there was something ill-fitting about him, it was just so - so perfect. Like all the ways the world should be, pretty and compact, lording over the glamour of hordes of people packed into the city at the center of the world. Lochlan would stare, open-mouthed. Imagining himself, someone special, someone worth listening to. Someone who was meant to smile, bright-eyed, standing among other beautiful people - someone worth loving. As they’d all stand and count down in unison Lochlan would feel unburdened, like all the potential in the world was open to him, for once, for once. He dreamed about all the years laid out in front of him, how one day he’d - he could - he’d be worth a real kiss, on New Years.
The years blend together, a mush of twinkling lights and television, but in all of them -
First, the kiss that Mom demands, her lips pursed like a cartoon characters. Down the line - Saxon, Piper, Lochlan. Then, while she plants one on Dad - he splutters - Saxon comes to collect, giggling evilly. Piper always protests. She turns to Dad too, and Saxon bears down on Lochlan. It’s over in a flash.
In the memory that sticks the hardest, Saxon’s lips are wet from the beer Dad finally let him drink. He must’ve been eighteen or so, tan and fratty in a pastel button-down - Lochlan was probably twelve or thirteen. That new years kiss had confirmed something for him. Some harrowing thing he’d rather have lived ignorant of.
But last year -
With a head tilt and a wink Saxon had gotten Lochlan to hang back in the dining room while everyone moved into the kitchen. He’d made a show of creeping behind the wet bar, pulling out a bottle of sloshing brown liquid, still bearing a professionally-wrapped, navy-blue bow and card with some corporate logo on the back of a business card. He uncorked it and poured them both a heavy shot.
“Last year in the nest, huh, Lochy? C’mere, little baby bird! Can’t have you showing up at Duke like this, bro, you’ll ruin my reputation.”
Lochlan flushed, wanting to protest but unwilling to resist Saxon even in the slightest.
“Have you ever even been drunk before?”
“Uh. I mean, I’ve had, like, two canned cocktails, at my friend’s house.”
“What?! What kind of first drink is that? No way, man. Come here. This is the good stuff.”
Lochlan tried to imitate the tight-lipped way Saxon’s sipping it. He gagged, working hard not to spew whiskey all over the top of the bar.
“Come onnnn, Lochy. Okay. When you sip, breathe out through your nose, just let it, like, roll down. If you can’t sip it, just do it all in one go. Just, down the hatch.”
Lochlan did. It burned the back of his throat, and he coughed, but he managed it.
“Atta boy,” Saxon grinned, showing all his teeth, his big hand hot and hard on Lochlan’s shoulder.
Lochlan knew he was smiling stupidly. It couldn’t be helped. His stomach writhed with the heat of Saxon’s presence and the liquor.
“Dude, you’re gonna love Duke. You’ll rush, obviously. The girls, man. So much hotter than whatever’s going on at Chapel Hill. You don’t want a high-strung prude like...” He gestured with a thumb for the door. Like if he didn’t say Piper’s name he could keep her from putting two and two together.
Lochlan was too warm. “Girls at Duke probably won’t be into me?” He made it a question, though it should’ve been a statement, made in reverse. I probably won’t be into the girls at Duke.
“Bro, what are you talking about? You’re adorable.” Saxon pinched Lochlan’s cheek too hard, clenching his jaw. “What, you don’t have girls crawling all over you at school?” His hand slid down Lochlan’s neck to rub absently at the end of a curl.
Lochlan leaned into it, though he really, really shouldn’t. “No, I mean... No, I guess, not really.”
“What’s the farthest you’ve gotten with a chick?” Saxon’s leaning on the bar, limber. He poured himself another shot and dribbled just a little into Lochlan’s glass.
Lochlan watched his hands replace the stopper for too long. He’d forgotten the question.
Saxon took this for an unsatisfactory answer. “Have you even, like, kissed a girl?”
Lochlan rolled his eyes and downed the little bit of whiskey. It was easier to swallow once he’d already choked on it a bit.
“Lochy. Bro. We gotta change that. Come on. It’s a confidence thing, right? Because, like, girls are gonna love you.”
“How old were you, when-?” Lochlan shocked himself with his boldness.
“Fifteen,” Saxon grinned. Lochlan felt his own eyes go wide. Saxon snickered at him. “Don’t feel bad, little bro. You’ll catch up.” His hand ran down Lochlan’s chest, soft against the thin material of his t-shirt. He squeezed, nonsensically. “Just gotta get you in the gym a little bit. You don’t need to be bulky. You’re like, long. It’s...” Saxon’s chest heaves with a deep breath, his face looking almost as warm as Lochlan’s felt. He snatched his hand away suddenly, busying himself pouring them both another drink. He gave Lochlan the heavier pour. Their fingers brushed as Saxon handed it to him, moving around the bar so he and Lochlan were on the same side.
Lochlan leaned heavy against the bar, his legs oddly limp. He watched Saxon’s adams apple bob as he swallowed.
“Almost midnight,” Saxon murmured into his glass. He rolled against the bar, turning to face Lochlan. They’re of a height, something Lochlan had been hoping would happen for years, only it was nearly unbearable, being so close to his face. “Ever had a real New Years kiss, Lochy?”
Lochlan felt very, very young. “I’ve only ever been home for New Years.”
“Gotta get some practice, little bro,” Saxon breathed.
The moment was bizarre, hard to put a finger on. Lochlan had held very, very still. Saxon had wavered, like maybe he hadn’t meant to lean all the way over to Lochlan, like it had been an accident. His brother’s mouth was soft, like he was unprepared for a kiss, as it met Lochlan’s lips. Lochlan was definitely drunker than he’d ever been, so the memory had all these incongruous edges - soft and unfocused and also more alert than Lochlan had ever felt. His heart pounded, his skin scorched, as Saxon -
His heat vanished all at once, and he cleared his throat, looking around, a guilty lilt to his brow that Lochlan didn’t recognize. He felt blown wide open, like a cannon had gone through him. Like there were new colors, new feelings for him to perceive. The world was made new again.
In the other room, Mom’s voice rang out, shrill. “Boys! Where are you, we’re counting down!”
“Ten! Nine!”
Saxon slung an easy arm, heavy, over Lochlan’s shoulders. “C’mon, Lochy. This will be your year. Our year, huh?”
-
Lochlan shakes Mom and shuffles her down the hall to her room. He’s pretty sure she’s still mostly asleep when she hits the bed.
He brushes and flosses. He strips out of his clothes slowly, moving like his limbs are made of lead. He’d felt a sharpness come over him, when he’d pressed Saxon up against the door in the kitchen. It’s been replaced by a cottony miasma. The heat he’d felt licking up his belly has cooled to a smoldering ember of shame. He pokes at his apple watch to start recording his workout and drops down to start a set of pushups.
A banner drops down.
_saxonfire_98 liked your photo.
It’s a picture of Lochlan, shirtless, in microscopic shorts, flexing hard in the gym locker room.
By the time Lochlan fumbles his phone into his hand and taps the notification, Saxon has already unliked the post.
He hurls himself down the hallway and busts in the door, not bothering to knock.
Saxon is - well, he’s definitely jacking off. His face is a pale mask of horror, fixed on Lochlan, panting in the doorway. Naked on the bed with one knee bent, hair askew, phone in one now-limp hand and the other on his straining cock, he looks like every one of Lochlan’s ill-advised fantasies manifest.
The room, it smells right. It smells like Saxon’s room is supposed to. A bit of sweat, that old deodorant.
Lochlan shuts the door behind him and leans against it. He bites his lip, trying not to smile.
“Lochy, what...” Saxon’s torn. His eyes snag on the tent in Lochlan’s shorts.
Lochlan opens his mouth but has no fucking clue what to say. He takes one step into the room and Saxon seizes, sits up like he means to evacuate or something. Lochlan puts his hands out, calming.
“Shh. Stay.” He takes one more step. Saxon doesn’t move, but he doesn’t relax, either.
“Stay there,” Lochlan says again. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” Saxon sounds like he’s being eviscerated.
“It’s fine. It will be fine.” He can see Saxon’s pulse jumping in his throat. He’s telling himself as much as he’s telling Saxon.
Saxon’s eyes are stuck wide. His eyebrows disappear higher when Lochlan drops to his knees.
Lochlan moves slowly across the carpet, letting the friction, the pressure ground him. Saxon’s on the edge of the precipice. If anyone is going to nudge them - lovingly, lovingly - it’s got to be Lochlan. As he draws nearer there’s something enormous opening inside him, deeply hungry.
He’d been reasonably sure he wasn’t the only one, carrying this - this thing, between them. Seeing Saxon’s face, he’s positive. The space between them disappears. Lochlan knees up to the edge of the bed, chin level with Saxon’s knees.
He reaches for Saxon, slow but sure. Saxon makes a dread sound but doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He lets Lochlan hook his hands under his knees and when Lochlan pulls he goes to the edge of the bed, chest heaving like he’s been running.
Lochlan runs his hands in soothing, slow circuits, palms hungry for the coarse hair he finds on Saxon’s shins, his knees, his calves. His thighs, god, they’re so wide, so warm, so thick.
“Just let me,” he whispers, staring up at Saxon. Deranged and beseeching like Saxon is some kind of god. He mouths at Saxon’s calf and drags another whiny sound from him.
Lochlan finally lets himself look at Saxon’s cock, just at eye level in front of him. Nicely straight, angrily red, ambitiously sized; it weeps one fat drop of precum in response to his scrutiny. Lochlan groans like the rumble of an empty stomach.
Saxon hisses and grabs at Lochlan’s hair as he tries to lick up his thigh. “Loch,” he begs.
“You’re fine,” Lochlan palms up his flank like Saxon’s a nervous filly. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“Fuck, Lochy,” he whimpers, his hips finally moving, no more than a centimeter at a time.
“Good, Sax, good.” Lochlan’s hands get greedy on Saxon’s chest, his round pecs, looking like they ought to be leaking. “I’m gonna-” he tips his chin at Saxon’s cock. He feels like he could be dripping drool right now. He can feel the dampness in his own shorts. Best to ignore that for now.
He decides Saxon doesn’t need any more preamble. He keeps his mouth soft and easy and loose as he slides down. The taste is - just - exactly what he needed, what he’d been hoping it would be. Deeply masculine and musky, salt-sweet and bitter and just. Saxon.
Saxon groans dark and drawn-out.
Lochlan wonders, in the one-quarter of his brain that’s still feeling verbose, about what is missing inside him that this - kneeling at his brother’s bed - is the thing that’s unlocked the rush of warmth and belonging he’s supposed to feel for Christmas. Burying his face in Saxon’s crotch, he locks his arms around Saxon’s trunk waist, keeping him in place. He swallows and sucks like he’s trying to suck the venom from a wound, single-minded.
Saxon seems like he’s experiencing something akin to an exorcism. His hands move, pushing Lochlan’s arms, yanking on his hair, running across his shoulders. Half-formed nonsense sentences; moans and yells alternately high-pitched and gravely; it all leaves him in a stream that slowly coalesces into please and Lochlan and don’t stop.
Lochlan pulls back quickly, two hands hard on Saxon’s hips to keep him from following. He whines loudly, red and sweaty, coming unglued. His eyes are damp and wide. “L-Loch-”
Lochlan stands quickly, yanking Saxon’s legs out from under him, pushing him down onto his back. “Want me to get you off?” He hardly recognizes his voice, throaty and thick.
“Yeah, please, please.” Saxon’s breathless. His face twists, like the lack of pleasure is becoming agony. “Lochy.” It’s almost a sob.
It’s enough. Lochlan grabs his dick, his grip mean. He jerks Saxon hard, one hand pressing him down by his chest. Saxon comes on a wail, eyes rolled back, legs limp and twitching against Lochlan. It goes on and on, until Lochlan’s hand is too much and Saxon tries to push him away.
“Shhh.” Lochlan gathers what landed on Saxon’s bare chest in his hand and quickly shoves his own shorts down. It would be embarrassing, how quickly it’s over, except that he can’t feel anything but elation, and possession, and a deep blooming tenderness for the damp whimpering mess that is his brother.
Breathing heavy, he almost collapses. Saxon tries to avoid his eyes. He takes his jaw in his hand, soft, tender.
“Hey,” he pants. “We’re okay.”
“It’s-” Saxon blinks rapidly.
“Shh.” Lochlan checks his watch. “Saxon, it’s midnight.”
Saxon swallows. Lochlan can feel every centimeter of the movement under his palm. Finally, he tips his chin up.
Lochlan smiles into the kiss.