"Fraternity"

By: Enkidu

Rating: R

Pairings: Rishid+Malik, Malik+???

Warnings: Yaoi. Angst. Unhappy ending. Mentions of pedophilia. Some weirdness. Mentions of self-gratification. Nothing graphic! Story is unedited just because I didn't think it was worth editting. -_-;;

Summary: Wrote this 'cause I was bored... Just a small piece on Rishid and his thoughts about Malik.

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(Rishid's POV)

I fear that he may never understand the devotion I harbor, the feelings I carry, the things I wish I'd say.

"Brother"

That's the word he uses. That is my title, and I wear it proudly because it was what he gave me. He exaulted me from the position of a mere, pious servant to something more human, something with worth. He gave me status where I was bereft of any. He gave me a certain humanity that his father rid to let me posess. He gave me the precious gift and honour to be his shadow, his follower, his protector. Everything he gave me, I wore proudly for they were his gifts and his alone.

But he'll never understand. He just won't understand...

Why do I do it all for him? Was it simply because he uttered the word "brother" in his feverish state? That's what I held to be true in my heart. That was my explanation for so long.

Yet even when he was just a child, I loved him. I loved him in a way I should never have. It wasn't merely because I was a servant and he my master. It was more than that. When he was so small that I could carry him with one hand, I had thoughts of loving him. I thought of the many ways I could love him. I thought of the small shower of kisses I'd rain down on his too-soft, warm lips. I thought of combing my fingers through the silken mop of hair and pulling his face close to mine. I thought of burying my nose into his neck and smelling the unique, exotic scent of sand and oil that permanently clung to his skin. I thought of running my hands through small, wiry limbs and caressing my fingertips along the delicate curve of his back.

I remember every night as he lay asleep, I'd sneak into his room and sit by his bed just to watch him. He looked so calm and peaceful, like something untouchable by mortal hands, and in some ways, he was. I could never help myself. I could never stop my hands from drifting over his skin, smoothing the bangs from where they clung on his forehead, tracing the smooth chest that peaked from his night clothes, and brushing my lips just barely over his. My mouth would always linger inches away, only to feel his breath wash over it. The feel of warm air touching my bottom lip never failed to send shivers down my spine, and my fingers would always grasp the bed sheets in some vague attempt to gain some control.

I knew I shouldn't have felt those things for a child, especially one that was so beyond my reach. Sometimes, I'd lie awake at night, my eyes pinned to the ceiling, and I'd think of the many harsh punishments I'd receive should his father find out what impure thoughts I had of his young, naive son. He'd probably turn me into a eunuch.

Even impending punisment and castration never hindered me from my miniscule rebellion. No matter how much the guilt and disgust for my own thoughts welled up inside of me, I couldn't stop having them. They were my only comfort. They were the only shreds of pleasure I could cling to, and even if he was so young and pure, I wanted to love him.

It was never simply lust with him. I wasn't some sort of filthy pervert who wanted to sexually violate a child out of some selfish need to satisfy the urges of a typical teenage male.

It was clear to see that he was very beautiful, but so was Isis, and I never reflected the same feelings for her. It wasn't her bedside I sat by. It wasn't her skin I longed to touch or her lips I longed to claim. It wasn't her I wanted to hold, and it most certainly wasn't her love that I wanted to be returned. It was always Malik.

He was the child I should have scorned, but I couldn't bring myself to hate. Instead, I find myself entranced by everything that encompasses him. I'm eternally loyal and devoted to him, and that shall remain true no matter what occurs. The feelings I have, I can't dismiss. The way I see him, the things I crave, everything I need and want from him is etched at the forefront of my mind.

It's a sad fate, really... to be in love with someone who calls you "brother". How one word can cause so much comfort and sorrow I simply can't explain.

The first time he spoke it, it caused happiness and enlightenment. It meant that he acknowledged me, that he cared for me, that he saw me as more than what his father saw. I thought the role of brother would expand, and he'd eventually begin to see me as more than a brother. it was one step closer to his realization of what lies before him. I would never leave him. I would never hurt him. I belonged to him in every way possible. Even if he refused that I referred to myself so, I was a slave to his will.

I don't know if it's because he is willingly or unwillingly blind to my feelings, but he seems not to react to the suffering I radiate. Perhaps, because I don't radiate my suffering. I bury it deep inside where it's untouchable because I don't want him to absorb my pain. Yet, watching him as he is now, watching him in a state I've never seen him, the pain is too much to hide.

In all the sixteen years I've watched over him, I've never witnessed him so beautiful and glorious. It's what I had fantasized about since he started maturing yet never believed myself fortunate to ever behold with my own eyes. His back is drawn in the perfect arch from the bed, his head pressed back into his pillow, light blond strands strewn all over. His bare skin, save for his jewelry, is highlighted by light drops of sweat, rolling off his chest and forehead. His cheeks are flushed faintly and his eyes are closed in absolute bliss. He looks beyond incredible, but the tears blur my eyes in a fury. I can't stop their flow.

How pitiful to be crying at the sight of my master pleasuring himself. It's something that all teenage boys do, so why should he be any exception? It's something I've engaged in myself. Then why do I cry? Why do the knives twist in my heart? Why does my stomach turn? Why does the blood drip from the crescent-shaped imprints on my palms?

He moans loudly, and it sounds just as perfect as he looks. He pants and twists in his sheets, his hips bucking up frantically as his search release grows more and more desperate. It's the picture of the blend of absolute agony and pleasure. I want nothing more than to end his self-imposed suffering, but I'm grounded, rooted to the spot, mourning what I know is the perfectly imperfect climax.

I don't have long to wait. He gasps and tenses up.

Just the lightest of whispers fall from his lips. It's so bare and soft, but I can hear it all too well.

It's not "Brother".

It's never "Brother".

It never will be "Brother".

And it most certainly will never be "Rishid." The thought of that his almost cruelly laughable.

I hate the name he does say. I hate it with a passion. Nothing can ever mute or change that name from his lips.

Why does he love him? Why does he want him? Why does he want somebody that can never possibly understand him? Why does he want somebody that can never comprehend his magnificence?

Why do you dig your own gave, Malik? Need we be in the same cruel situation?

My tears are incessant, and I feel miserable. I'm a grown man, weeping for the young boy I can never have. It's beyond pathetic. I hate that there's no large hole I can crawl and hide into, so I can live out this shame I've carried with me for too long. I wish-

"Rishid?"

The bleary voice startles me, and I make a hasty retreat. My feet carry me quickly out the door of the apartment, letting it swing shut.

I don't think of whether or not he saw me. I don't think of what he might think of me. I don't think of how perverted I probably seemed, standing near the doorway and watching him so intently. I don't wonder if he saw the tears. I just don't think. I don't particularly want to right now.

It's clear that my love for him is a bleak, destitute one.

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Yeah... this was inspired by Garbage's "I Think I'm Paranoid" ...you listen to that song enough times and weird things start to happen. In my case, I wrote an odd fic. Eh, I don't blame you if you flame. _

As for who Malik's thinking about, I leave that open to interpretation -_-; ..But feel free to guess! Hint: Since I believe Malik is utterly and obviously gay, it's a guy!