afterthedance | [fic] you fill my lungs with sweetness (and you fill my head with you) (parts one to twenty seven) (Reply)

you fill my lungs with sweetness (and you fill my head with you) | kimi raikkonen/nico rosberg | formula 1 | nc-17/black flag | warnings: incest AU, 2nd person pov | disclaimer: this never happened.
kimi and nico are half-brothers and kimi really, really shouldn't be wanting nico like this. (or, 'going to hell, let me pack a bag first.'- kimi)

one.

You're eight when your parents tell you that you're going to have a younger brother from now on.

'I don't understand,' you say. Your mother hugs you, tears falling, soaking your t-shirt. Her arms are wrapped tight around you, squeezing you breathless. You are torn between pulling away and staying here, but your hands automatically reach for her shoulder, patting lightly in an attempt to mimic how she had comforted you when you were younger. But she doesn't stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder and you stop, at a loss for what to do.

You look up at your father, but he doesn't move from his position. He looks on impassively, silent.

two.

His name is Nico and he's three years younger than you. He has blonde hair (like you) and green eyes (like you) and he's your father's son (like you) but his mother is someone else from Germany. You don't ask about it. It's not your place to, especially since it makes your mother cry and your father shout.

Nico hides behind your father's legs the first time you meet him.

'Hey,' you say. You stop, unsure of what you should be saying. Your father had said that Nico had lived in Germany all his life, so he probably doesn't speak Finnish. So you scrunch up your face, trying to remember what you had learnt in school, saying in English, 'I'm Kimi. Your older brother.'

'Kimi,' Nico repeats, looking up at you, eyes wide. He doesn't move closer, but he smiles. 'Nico,' he says bashfully, hair falling into his eyes.

three.

On the first night, you sleep on the spare mattress on the floor in your room. No wait, it isn't your room now. It's Nico's room too from now on.

You're not quite sure of how you feel about this. Sure, you've always felt a tinge of jealousy when you hear your classmates talking about how awesome their siblings are, but now that you've got one... There's nothing awesome about having a stranger invade your space and take your bed. You lie awake on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, shifting around restlessly under the thin sheet of cloth you're using as a blanket. You look for patterns on the bumps of paint on the ceiling, anything that will get you to sleep. You close your eyes, you're getting more tired now but a quiet sob ruins everything.

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. The moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains is enough for you to see Nico shaking on the bed.

He's crying.

You bite on your lower lip, uncomfortable. You're not really sure what to do. Nico's disturbing your sleep but at the same time he's crying and you hate it when people cry around you. It's like they're saying you should be doing something but you're not doing it right and they're crying because it's all your fault. You frown, grabbing your reindeer stuffed toy from beside your pillow. You climb up onto the bed and thrust the reindeer at Nico. 'Here,' you say, pushing the reindeer against Nico's arm.

Nico turns around to look at you, cheeks tear stained and you swallow noisily.

'Don't cry,' you say, pushing the reindeer into Nico's arms.

Nico looks up, his lower lip trembles and you look at him, horrified because he's about to burst into tears again and that's the last thing you want.

So you pull Nico into a hug, patting his back the way your mother does for you all the time. 'Don't cry,' you say softly, feeling Nico bury his face against your chest, wetting your t-shirt. 'Don't cry.'

four.

You last three nights before you decide that you're not putting up with sleeping on the mattress on the floor any more. It's not as if Nico's all that big anyway, and he cries so much that you feel bad about leaving him alone even if you don't know if you like him yet.

He latches on to you at night. Your mother comes in to switch off the lights, bidding the both of you goodnight but she kisses only your forehead and even though you don't understand why, you want to tell her she should kiss Nico too. But you hold your tongue because you're eight now, and you know better than to talk back to your parents. When Nico turns to you later on, after your mother has closed the door behind her, he looks at you expectantly, as if he's asking you why your mother had forgotten him.

(Of course you know why, it's because she's your mother and not his, but you don't say anything because he's like an injured rabbit, and you don't hurt animals like this)

So you kiss his forehead, and he looks at you, pleased. He wraps his small arms around you, and all you can think of is He's warm.

five.

Nico is basically your shadow come to life. He follows you everywhere, sticking close, and your father tells you that it's your job to make sure he gets better at Finnish. Sure, Nico's been having lessons, but you don't even know how to help him. So you sit by him, listening as he stumbles over the words in his book.

'No,' you say in English, shaking your head as he trips over his words yet again. 'Like this.' You read the words for him, they flow easily off your tongue because it's all you've known, but Nico looks at you, helpless and you bite your lip.

He repeats after you, clumsy with his words and you frown. It's wrong. You repeat the words, and this time he reaches for you, pressing his fingertips to your lips as you speak. It's weird, having him touch you like this, but maybe this will help him. You don't really know.

'You try,' you say, and he looks at you, eyes filled with uncertainty. He takes your hand and places your fingers on his lips, mimicking what you've just done.

There's something building inside you, you don't know what it is but you put it down as some sort of pride at having taught Nico something right.

'Is this okay?' he asks shyly. His hand is still on yours. Your fingers are still on his lips.

Flustered, you nod wordlessly. You don't trust yourself to speak. Not like this.

six.

It takes a full year before your bed is replaced by a bunk bed, and Nico looks at it, terrified.

'It's okay,' you tell him, climbing up on to the top bunk. 'You can sleep below.'

'Just me?' he asks. He looks like he's about to cry.

'I'm up here,' you say. You take your stuffed reindeer from on top of your pillow and hand it to him. 'You can have him.'

Nico sniffs, taking the toy, hugging it close, and he nods.

seven.

It's Nico's first day in school and he's holding your hand, squeezing your fingers tight.

'What if no one likes me?' He asks, eyes clouded with worry. He's seven, and his Finnish has improved greatly, although he's definitely better at German and English. He talks to your father in German, from time to time, much to your mother's disapproval.

'They'll like you, don't worry,' you say, ruffling his hair.

'Really?'

'Really,' you answer, nodding. You pull your hand out of his grasp. 'I'll see you later at lunch,' you say, and he nods mutely as you leave.

At lunch, you sit with Nico and another boy, fair haired with an easy smile.

'This is Heikki,' Nico says happily, taking a sip of his milk.

'Hi,' you say. There's something about him that you don't like, but then again, you don't like all the kids younger than you because they're noisy and childish and well, you're only ten, but still. But still. 'I'm Ki-'

'Nico's brother,' Heikki interrupts, and Nico beams. 'You look alike. I wish I had a brother.'

You look at him, mouth dry, and you don't speak for the rest of the meal.

eight.

The door slams loudly and you jump in your seat, drawing an ugly line on your Science worksheet. You sigh, rolling your eyes as Nico runs into the dining room, shoving a piece of paper at you excitedly.

'Woah,' you say, taking the piece of paper from him and he smiles at you, eyes shining brightly. There's paint on his cheek, and his t-shirt's a mess. Ahh, the wonders of art class.

'We drew our favourite person in art class today!' Nico says. 'I drew you!'

You look at the drawing — it's a brightly coloured mess of paint and crayons and you've got two green plates for eyes and hands that are larger than your face.

Nico looks up at you expectantly, waiting for your reaction and you don't know what to say because well, what can you say to your seven year old ~~half-~~brother, your brother, what can you say to him saying that you're his favourite person in the world? There's a lump in your throat and Nico's waiting for you to say something, anything, but the words don't come so you lean in to kiss his forehead, just as you did all those years ago, when you had still been sharing a bed, with him pressing close to you, clinging to you like he was so afraid you'd leave in the middle of the night.

When you pull away he beams, pleased. 'Am I your favourite person?' he asks.

You look at him, mouth dry. You don't know why the words aren't coming as easily as they should. 'Of course,' you say. You mean it, of course you do, but the words still taste weird on your tongue.

nine.

You teach him how to ride a bicycle. He nearly falls over the first time, there're a couple of cuts on his calves by the time you get home and you've got them too from catching him so that he doesn't hurt himself too badly. Or rather, on one hand you think that yeah, maybe he should fall down and learn to pick himself up again, but on the other hand you look at him and you think that he'd shatter if he fell, so you help him up time and time again, until he refuses your hand and grins at you, stumbling to his feet on his own.

And it's all worth it because the next time you go out together with your bicycles, he's paddling furiously, keeping his balance, trying to race you with his stubby legs and you're laughing when he wrinkles his nose at you, demanding that you race again.

ten.

Boom!

You're awakened by a particularly loud clap of thunder and how long has it been since you had last woken up with a start, like this? You groan, turning on your side, grabbing at your pillow so that you're able to cover your ears with it when you hear the unmistakeable sound of someone crying.

Nico.

Boom!

A choked sob. You shift, uneasy in your bed. The clock on the wall reads three forty-four in the morning, what an ungodly time to be awake and really, you should be getting back to sleep but Nico's crying and you can't ignore it. It's not your fault he's crying, you tell yourself, but at the back of your mind you remember something your father had let slip — something about Nico's mother dying in an accident during a thunderstorm and instantly you feel guilty. Guilty for wanting to ignore him and something else too that makes your stomach lurch as you get down from the top bunk to sit beside him. Perhaps it's pity. You don't really know.

'Nico,' you say, shaking him gently. 'Are you okay?'

There's no reply, just Nico shaking beneath his blanket, curled up in a ball. You sigh, pulling the blanket aside so you can slip under to join him.

'It's okay,' you say, patting his shoulder awkwardly. 'It's okay.'

He turns around, wrapping his arms tight around you as he cries. His tears are hot against your skin and he's clinging to you like he's drowning and you're the only thing keeping him afloat. The uncomfortable feeling in your stomach builds because it's only now that you realise that god, he's so small and fragile that you might just break him if you're not careful.

Later on, you wipe away his tears, holding him in your arms as the storm rages on outside.

eleven.

When Nico comes home with blood all over his shin you panic and knock your knee against a cupboard in your frantic search for the first aid kit. He has the gall to laugh at you and you glare at him and it shuts him up immediately, but him laughing should be a good sign. Whatever injury that is, it shouldn't be hurting too much. You help him to the bathroom once you've gotten the first aid kit (antiseptic cream, cotton wool, bandages, all check) and he howls when the water touches his wound. He reaches for you, fingernails sinking into your skin and you bite the inside of your cheek, letting him hurt you.

'Bear with it,' you say through gritted teeth.

He looks at you in pain, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

'How did you get this?' you ask, dabbing at his wound with cotton wool. He's sitting on his bed now and you're kneeling by his legs, cleaning him up.

'I tripped,' he says, wincing when you dab antiseptic cream on the wound. It's still bleeding but it isn't too bad now. To be honest, you're doing a terrible job of bandaging his leg but this will have to suffice since your parents won't be home until sometime at night. They work long hours, and while you're used to looking after your own injuries, doing it for someone else is quite... Different.

'There,' you say, patting his calf when you're done. The makeshift bandage looks alright. You'll have to wait for your mother to change it and dress it properly, but for now it'll hold up. 'Be more careful next time.'

'I will,' he promises, nodding vigorously.

You get up, prepared to put everything back into the first aid kit when he reaches for you, pulling you down on to the bed. You look at him, eyes quizzical. Did you miss something? 'Nico?'

He leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

You blink slowly, trying to process what has just happened. 'I. You. Why did you do that?' The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself and the mournful look on his face makes you wish that you had never said anything.

'You used to do it for me,' he says, voice small. He looks at the floor, ashamed. 'I wanted to do it for you too. I'm sorry.'

'No I,' you stop, searching for the right words to say. There's that strange, horrible feeling building in the pit of your stomach again, and you're flustered and the room feels too hot, far too hot for you to be comfortable like this. You swallow hard. 'I didn't mean to scold you,' you say, choosing your words carefully. 'That was uh. Nice.'

'Really?' Nico brightens up immediately, turning to you with a smile.

'Yeah,' you say, voice shaky. God you don't even trust your voice right now.

Nico grins, pulling you into a hug and he kisses your cheek again.

The awful feeling in your stomach blooms, spreading all over and you feel sick, the sticky-sweet of the heat in the room eats at you and you know you shouldn't be feeling this way but that's not how things go.

You're twelve, and there's a sharp pang in your heart when your nine year old brother kisses you.

twelve.

It's been a year since you last stepped into the General Office of your primary school. You're fourteen now, and your parents are both unable to get away from work so you're here to pick Nico up after school.

'Are you sure you'll be alright?' Nico's form teacher asks, looking worried. You recognise her, she taught the class next door in your final year, but she doesn't recognise you.

'Yeah,' you say, catching Nico with one arm as he stumbles against you. He feels hot against your cool skin. 'There's a taxi waiting outside.'

'What about your parents?'

'Work,' you say. 'We'll be fine.'

In the taxi, Nico huffs, saying that he could've gotten home on his own and you sigh, pulling him close so that his head can rest against your shoulder. You tell him to sleep, you'll wake him when you get home and he pouts, looking displeased, but it isn't long before he's curled up against you.

When you get home, you find yourself carrying both your school bags, with one arm curled protectively around Nico to keep him from tripping over his feet. He tells you that it's so cold and that he wants to put on three jackets and you shake your head, helping him on to his bed. He pulls his blanket up to his neck and when he turns his head, the ice pack on his forehead slips lower, so you reach for it, putting it back in place. He catches your wrist, saying 'Don't go.' His voice is soft, tired, and his palm is warm, burning you.

'I'm right here,' you say. You drag your chair over from your study desk, putting it beside him and you settle down into your seat. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

He makes a pleased sort of noise as he closes his eyes, and it isn't long before he's asleep.

You look at him with a lump in your throat, and his words loop in your head don't go don't go don't go and you feel sick, feverish, like you've caught whatever he's down with. You think of his touch on your skin, searing hot and your stomach lurches when you look at him like this, eyes closed, blonde curls damp with the water from the ice pack, clinging to his flushed skin. God, he's your brother, he's eleven, and you don't even know why you have to keep telling yourself that as you watch over him in his slumber.

thirteen.

You're fifteen and you've finally got a room to yourself. On some days you miss your old rental flat, with the bunk bed you had shared with Nico, but on most days you're relieved that you've finally gotten some privacy.

For some reason, you can't sleep and you toss and turn in your bed as you listen to the soft pitter patter of the rain outside. You close your eyes, willing yourself to stay still as the sound of the rain grows louder and then-

Boom!

You jump. You're not afraid of thunder, but the sudden sound makes you sit up. You groan, rubbing at your head before pulling up your blanket again, covering your head with it. It takes a while, but your eyelids grow heavy slowly but surely, and you're about to doze off even with the cracks of thunder sounding every now and then when you hear something.

Something vaguely familiar.

You frown. Could it be? Nah, probably not. You're just imagining things. You squeeze your eyes shut, wanting to bury yourself beneath your blanket when you hear it again.

Decisions, decisions. The urge to find out wins, and you make your way to your door, pressing your ear to it.

It sounds like Nico's outside. It sounds like he's crying.

You want to go back to sleep. Nico's twelve. He's old enough to look after himself. You don't want him in your bed. You're fifteen and you'd much rather have that singer you've been fantasising about in your bed rather than your younger brother.

Yeah, Nico can handle this on his own. He's old enough. You keep telling yourself that but you stay put, at the door, not moving.

There's another loud crack of thunder, and there's a gasp from outside your door.

Oh god.

If he stops crying, you'd be able to sleep. That's what you tell yourself when you open the door, finding him curled up in a ball against the doorframe.

'Nico,' you say softly, crouching down to his height. 'Are you okay?'

He looks up at you and you can barely make things out in the darkness but it's evident that he's been crying for quite a while. He wraps his arms around you and you let him press his head against where your neck meets your shoulder as he cries.

In the morning, you wake up with Nico draped around you like he's your blanket. The covers are thrown aside, covering both your legs and nothing else, and he's got one leg on your thigh and you lie there, frozen because god, you're hard. Yeah, you've woken up like this before but not with someone else in your bed, not with your brother in your bed and it's more awkward than the word awkward itself. You want to push him away but instead he clings tighter, leg shifting against your thigh and the sensation sends shivers down your spine.

It's fucked up. He's your brother. Your younger brother. You try to think of something, anything that will make your erection go away. Maths formulas. Chemical equations. Nothing works, and Nico keeps shifting against you, oblivious to your suffering, still asleep. You're ridiculously aware of every move he makes and god it can't end like this, you're not going to come in your nightclothes because of your brother that's just wrong and you can't-

Nico lets out a soft sigh, shifting, and you take the opportunity to push him off you as gently as you can. The clock on your wall reads six in the morning.

'Wake up,' you say, and he peers blearily at you, rubbing at his eyes, hair falling into his face. He needs to get out of your room now. Right now.

fourteen.

Somehow it feels like something has shifted in your relationship with Nico ever since that night. You don't know what it is, and really, it should be something that should matter but you find yourself becoming more aware of Nico's presence around you. When he brushes past you in the kitchen in the morning, when he bumps against you affectionately after you've helped him with something, when he taps your shoulder to get you to pass the packet of crisps.

But really, nothing has changed, right? It's just that you had tried to be a good, responsible older brother and well, shit happened. It hadn't been a conscious decision for you to wake up hard, finding yourself feeling oddly aroused with each movement of your younger brother's body against you.

Right?

fifteen.

Nico's shoulder digs into your chest and you can feel the heat from his body, pressed up against you in the backseat of your parents' car. He really ought to keep his hands to himself. He's twelve. He should have some awareness of personal space.

But no, he talks with his hands to your aunt, who's sitting beside him on your drive to Oulu to see your grandparents and when he drops his hands they fall right onto your lap and he doesn't even notice how he keeps brushing his fingers against your thighs as he speaks. You want to push him away because you hate being squeezed into a cramped space like this but Nico's oblivious to everything and it's impossible anyway, since the car can't get any bigger.

The next best thing to do, you decide, is to try to sleep. You close your eyes, you try to count sheep, you see furry white balls of fluff jump over fences behind your eyelids and slowly but surely, you're able to tune out the sound of the radio and your family talking to one another.

It's four in the afternoon by the time you reach your grandparents' house. You feel numb and sore all over, and Nico's head is on your shoulder, neck bared as he slumbers. He does this all the time, falling asleep with his cheek pressed against your shoulder when you're watching television together, or on the bus home from school. It's just that it's only now that you're actually taking notice of how he always seems to be pressing close to you, and it feels weird. His hand rests on your thigh, palm facing upwards, and there's something unfurling inside your gut as you push him off you and he awakens.

sixteen.

A bad tackle in a football match results in you standing over Nico, shower head in one hand, not quite knowing where to look with him sitting in front of you, completely naked. He's got one leg wrapped in a plastic bag up on a stool — a fractured foot in a cast, and you had ended up with the responsibility of bathing him.

'What if he slips and falls, are you going to be responsible for that?' your mother had chastised you when you had protested, and Nico had been quick to add that he'd be able to do it on his own. But one look from your mother had shut him up promptly, and you had wrinkled your nose, having no choice but to agree.

'My hands are okay,' Nico says, moving to grab the shower head from you. You move away, alarmed, and you nearly lose your balance on the slippery surface of the bathroom floor. You place one hand on the railing where his towel is hanging, gripping hard, afraid you'd lose your balance again. 'You don't have-'

'Shut up,' you say, grabbing a bottle of shampoo and shoving it in his face. 'Start bathing. I don't have all day.'

He does as he's told, and throughout the entire process you're squirming, uncomfortable in your own skin. You don't know where to look, you can't look at his face because it's weird, he's not wearing anything while you're here in your t-shirt and shorts and you don't want to look at him like this and fuck, he's thirteen, you shouldn't even be thinking about shit like this because he's your brother. There shouldn't even be anything for you to think about.

Later on, you hand him a towel for him to dry himself, helping him out of the bathroom to dress up. He's looking at you with a shy sort of smile, like he's pleased to have you look after him, and all you can think of is god, when will this end because this is possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to you.

seventeen.

You wake up at three twenty six in the morning to a thunderstorm, the urgent need to go to the toilet and Nico sitting outside your bedroom door, crying. God, how old is he now? He's fourteen. He should be dealing with this on his own. Besides, he hasn't come to you during a thunderstorm for a long time anyway, so why start again now? That's what you think, but when you return from the toilet he's still there, hugging his knees to his chest. You linger in the doorway, you're tempted to shut the door and leave him out there. He's not saying anything. He's not asking for anything. You shouldn't be obliged to give him anything.

Boom!

You jump, and so does he. He's shaking visibly now, and god you hate this. You've always hated it when people cried in front of you. Against your better judgement, you squat down beside him, tapping his arm lightly.

'Nico? Are you okay?'

He doesn't answer. Of course, it's a stupid question. He's definitely not okay.

You take a deep breath. This is it. 'Do you want to come in?' you ask. Your voice is shaking. You don't even know why. You're not the one who's afraid. You're not the one who's distraught. He is.

He looks up at you, tears running down his cheeks. 'I'll be fine,' he says, voice stubborn. God, he's such an idiot. You sigh, ready to get up when he falters, catching your wrist. 'Kimi,' he whispers. He sounds so small, like he's five all over again.

You pull him up to his feet, and you let him in.

eighteen.

You're just spacing out in the kitchen, thinking of how you're going to die for tomorrow's Chemistry assessment because you still can't wrap your head around Organic Chemistry. You're not staring at Nico as he drinks from a bottle with his lips wrapped around the opening instead of having his upper lip pushed in and you're definitely not staring at how his Adam's apple bobs up and down when he swallows.

You're not looking at him. You're not staring. You're not.

nineteen.

Nico walks around shirtless, clad only in a pair of shorts and you look at him, horrified because sure, it's almost summer but really, it's still spring. You tell him to put on some clothes, god your parents will be home soon and what will your mother say if she saw Nico like that? But he looks at you, lower lip sticking out in a pout complaining that it's far too hot and really, how can you refuse anything he asks of you like this?

But what bothers you most about it all is how he's walking around almost naked, as if he's parading around in front of you. He's fifteen. He's your brother. Your brother. You shouldn't be thinking about anything.

twenty.

It's not the first time you've brought a girl home, and really, you don't do anything much apart from schoolwork and yeah you've kissed some of them but things never really go further than you having one hand underneath their t-shirts while they grip your shoulder hard. Today you've got a girl from the class next door over, and her hands are stuffed into her jeans as you lead her to your room. Nico's sitting at the dining table, doing his work, and he looks up at her, eyes narrowing when he sees her.

'Your sister-'

'Brother,' you say stiffly.

'He's weird.'

'Younger brothers are all weird,' you say, snorting derisively.

'My brother isn't as pretty as yours.'

'Huh. You're prettier than he is.'

'Really?'

'Yeah,' you say, leading her to your room. You turn, about to close the door behind you when you look up, accidentally catching Nico's eye. When did he move so quickly from the dining table anyway? He's looking at you with something that looks like hurt and anger, and he ducks into his room, slamming the door behind him.

'What's up with him?'

'Who knows,' you answer, closing the door. But there it is again, the uncomfortable feeling building inside you, threatening to break loose and overwhelm you completely.

twenty one.

Things you usually have when you get back from school: pizza, sandwiches, pasta or instant noodles. It's easy to make. Put it in the oven or put it in a pot and soon enough it'll be done. You're used to doing this, you make one portion for yourself and one for Nico to make sure you don't starve until your parents return in the evening, and you have dinner together.

You're stuck on a particularly vicious Chemistry lab report today though, typing away at your laptop when Nico knocks on your door. 'Come in,' you say, and you're surprised when Nico puts down a sandwich on your study table.

'For you,' he says. He's fidgeting, like he's waiting for something. You look at the sandwich. The cheese is melting off the edges and there's lettuce all over and oh shit, you were supposed to do it when you came home but you had forgotten all about it.

'Thanks,' you say, looking apologetic.

He gives you a small smile before darting out of your room quickly, and you reach for the sandwich, mouth dry.

The crust is slightly burnt, and there's too much cheese, but somehow it fills you with warmth.

twenty two.

You've been staring at your Mathematics worksheet for the last fifteen minutes and you're missing something but you don't know what it is. You've plugged in the formula, it should be correct but you're still unable to get the answer. You grunt in frustration, getting up to the refill your glass of water in the kitchen.

When you come back, you find Nico standing over your worksheet with a pencil in his hand, scribbling on the paper.

'Nico?'

He jumps, pencil slipping. 'Sorry, I just-'

You look at his working on your paper. 'Did you find something?'

He looks at the paper, then back at you again. 'Um, you missed something here,' he says, pointing to what he has added to your working.

'Thanks.'

'It's nothing,' he says, ducking his head.

'It isn't,' you say. You keep your gaze on your worksheet, saying 'You're smart.'

'Ahh, um,' he begins, flustered. 'Um, you're good with your hands,' he says shyly, glancing at your fingers.

You swallow hard, hand fisting immediately.

'You fix all the broken things at home,' he continues hastily. 'And you fix my bicycle when it's broken. You're brilliant.' The words tumble out of his mouth and for a moment he looks stricken, like he had never meant to say them. 'Sorry, I just. Um.'

'Thanks,' you say again, taking the pencil from him.

He mutters something incoherent under his breath, and runs right back into his room.

twenty three.

Sometimes, you bring guys back too. Well, not in the way that you bring girls home, with guys it's mostly to study and play video games but once in a while you catch yourself thinking that you wouldn't mind leaning in with one of your male classmates, you wouldn't mind pressing your lips against theirs to see how it feels like. But the thoughts are fleeting, and you've heard stories about how the people at school treat those who are... Different. So you keep your thoughts to yourself, pushing them away in favour of thoughts with girls.

You're in the kitchen, getting Cokes when your classmate comes over. You hand him his bottle of Coke, and he grins.

'Thanks.' He opens the bottle. There's the hiss of gas escaping, and he turns, leaning against the counter, looking into the dining room. 'Man,' he says. 'Your sister's hot.'

'He's my brother,' you spit, disgusted. 'What do you want.'

'Nothing.' He shrugs. 'Just that he's pretty. Shit, I'd do him if he were a girl.'

You're bristling, crushing the bottle in your hand as you glare at him. 'Fuck you.'

'Hey chill,' he says, raising his arms. 'I was just joking. Look, I'm sorry. Chill, man.'

The feeling that has been slowly building up inside you has now blossomed, an ugly flower rearing its head and it terrifies you.

(Of course it should, because Nico's looking up at the both of you with an unreadable expression in his eyes and you want to kick your classmate out of your flat now, you want to tell Nico you're sorry but it doesn't even really make sense to you so you end up dragging your classmate back to your room and you spend the next two hours kicking his arse at Call of Duty.)

twenty four.

Your hair's all wet and you reach for the bottle of shampoo only to find that it's empty. You curse under your breath because the new bottles are in the storeroom and you're not going to be able to get them unless... Shit. Nico.

Well. It's not like you're about to get out of the bath and walk over to dig out a bottle, wrapped only in a towel. So you yell for Nico, asking him to get you a new bottle of shampoo and when he returns later, you make sure you've got your back turned to him as he hands you the new bottle from the crack in the door.

You feel his gaze on you and it burns.

(But it shouldn't be like this, for god's sake, he's your brother, get a fucking grip)

twenty five.

You're watching television together and really, Nico's usually not this clumsy but the remote is underneath the coffee table now.

'I'll get it,' he says, climbing off the sofa. He crouches down, on his arms and knees, bending over. His arse sticks out as he reaches for the remote and god you really shouldn't be looking, you really shouldn't be staring but you are, you are and oh god, you are.

twenty six.

You don't mean to watch. You really don't. You had just been walking back to your room, and you had never meant to look through the crack in the door. You had never meant to watch Nico dress the wound on his thigh from a nasty fall during a football match earlier in the week, clad only in a pair of briefs.

Of course he's wearing only his underwear. There's antiseptic cream and the bandage that he's carefully winding around his thigh and his shirt's laid to one side on his bed and you shouldn't be standing here, you shouldn't be looking, he's your fifteen year old brother for fuck's sake.

But you're rooted to the ground, you can't tear your eyes away and god, you're so screwed.

twenty seven.

You're home early today, your group project meeting was cancelled because two of your classmates had fallen ill, and you open the door to your room only to be greeted with the sight of Nico in your bed. He's in your bed with his face pressed into your pillow. His shorts and underwear are pulled down to mid-thigh and his t-shirt's pushed up to reveal his stomach and he's got one hand wrapped around his cock, stroking rhythmically.

He's jerking off in your bed. Your sixteen year old brother is jerking off in your bed. You back away and your leg hits the door with a loud thud. He stops and looks up at you and god, you really don't want to catch his gaze but you do and that's when you turn to leave, slamming the door behind you.

You try to push what you've just seen out of your head but it's useless. Every detail is clear as day beneath your eyelids. Your brother's parted lips as he moaned, his flushed cheeks, his shapely thighs and him touching himself, right there, on your bed.

Fuck.

(one to twenty seven | twenty eight to fifty)