It starts with a broken play station.
You don't do it on purpose. Dick has hidden it on the really high shelf-the one that not even mom can reach, and all you want to do was play a while. Build up some confidence so that the next time Dick brings Logan Echolls over, you can play too. You can show Dick that you like MORTAL KOMBAT just as much as he does, even though Goro does creep you out a little.
You don't mean for the cord tangle around your fingers, cutting off your circulation as you tug and tug, your fingers turning even paler in the sunlight that filters in through Dick's big picture window. You don't even breathe as the game slips from the shelf, tumbling before your eyes like Aladdin's magic lamp had in the cave. Except instead of a blue Genie telling you it'll be all right, the only sound you hear is crunching on the tile marble floor, and the distant plod of Dick's sneakers on the staircase.
Passing out is your only option.
You're out sick from school for a week. You've gotten really good at the faking illness thing. First, you only used it to get out of Baseball practice-you cringe at the thought, swallowing back the bile that's risen in your throat. Weak and sickly are words used to describe you on a regular basis now; you barely have to pretend anymore.
"He's sick, Richard. We can't just leave him. He's never been left alone before." On the surface, the thought of being left alone in your spacious postmodern mansion sparks excitement within you. It's only 11 now, and Dick shouldn't be home until 4 at the latest. Three hours of peace and quiet sound great.
Except you hate the quiet. It reminds you of those cold nights in Mr. Goodman's car. The way he was so silent as he-
"No." You're surprised that you say it out loud. You're even more surprised to see Dick, lounging in the doorway to your bedroom, sun streaks already starting to show in his blonde hair, even though it's only February.
"No what?" He sounds curious, which is new for Dick, since generally all he cares about is food, and how many levels he can beat in his newest game. You don't bother to answer, turning to your side to look away from him. It was always hurts to look at him for too long, like bumping into someone you knew along time ago, but can't quite remember.
"What are you doing home?" You mutter, turning to glance at him from over your blanketed shoulder. The sheet itches your chin, and you thrash around because you hate these sheets, and mom always forgets, even when you're sick.
"I told Mrs. Willoughby you were really contagious and that I got whatever you have. She totally bought it." You nod, because of course. Leave it to Dick to get your fake cold, and make a profit from it.
"Leave me alone, would you?" You close your eyes, rubbing your head because there's a splitting headache there, and that's not something you could fake even if you wanted to. You're tired. You're so tired of his crap and you just want to crawl beneath non-itchy covers and forget he exists for a little while.
"Move over." Your eyes snap open just in time to see him looming tall and broad over you, and just for a second, your throat constricts. Memories you've tired for months to forget, peek above the surface, making sure you'll have nightmares tonight. Fabulous.
"You know your bedroom's down the hall, right? The space is bigger. You have a waterbed. Why don't you go lie down there?" You're not expecting a response. Not really. You're expecting a punch on the arm, or maybe a sock to the head, but definitely not the soft push against your shoulder, and most certainly not his warm body settling next to yours. "Dick, c'mon. Get out. I'm sick." You cough once for effect, turning so that you can't see him. You can't look at him anymore. He's sort of like the sun, all eclipsing, massive, immobile.
"Mom's washing all my sheets, and you know how she and dad are about their room…" He trails off, and for a second, you wonder if he's just as lost as you are. You sneak a glance at him, but his face isn't quite as pained and tortured as yours. It's moving a mile a minute; so expressive it hurts, even though he's not talking. His foot is shaking underneath the covers, and when his heel brushes against your leg, electricity shoots down your spine. This was definitely not a good idea. You turn to tell him so. Dick, this is dumb, go lay down on the couch. Mom and Dad won't care if all you do is sleep in their room. But your throat is dry as your eyes settle on him, and when he snores-it's the tiniest noise you've ever heard come out of him and you don't bother trying. It's not worth the energy pretending.
Your first kiss is at 13. You're backed against the cellar freezer, forgotten tubs of Mint Chocolate Oreo discarded at your feet, with Dick's fingers tangled in your hair. You can't exactly remember how he got there, how it happened, but one second, you were trying to get your grip, and the next, the ice cream wasn't so important anymore.
"I wanna hate you so bad," He mutters against your lips, and you've got to wonder why, because you aren't the one who accosted him in a cellar. You'd just been minding your own business when he'd come along. You open your mouth to tell him so, but before you can even get out the words, he's slipped his tongue in your mouth, and you can't think anymore. His fingers are gripped tight against your sides, and you know there'll be bruising tomorrow. It won't be the first time.
There's a time and place for everything. There's a reason for decorum, you've always believed that. You need boundaries, parameters-it's why the Balboa County Courthouse is one of your favorite places. Seriousness is key.
Which is why you're surprised that you nod along, when Dick jerks his head at you, pointing to the door, rolling his eyes. He could just want to get out-after all; the third straight day in a row of your parent's divorce trial isn't exactly the most exciting thing to witness. They're not even malicious with each other. Dick pokes your side, his eyes wider is he gestures towards the door again, and you shrug, sending bambi eyes to the lawyer perched next to you, whose only job is to watch you like a hawk.
"Gotta pee." You mutter, even though you don't, and for a second, you don't think it'll fly. Why would Dick have to go with you, if you just had to use the bathroom? But there's almost a sigh of relief in his face as he nods at you, and suddenly you're free. No one knows or cares where the two of you go as long as you're out of sight. Out of mind is right too.
It's essentially how you managed to turn up in the Out of Order men's bathroom on the third floor corridor with your dick in Dick's mouth. You can't think again, and the world is going black around the edges. You don't want him to stop; you don't want him to ever stop, which probably poses some sort of a problem. He doesn't seem to want to stop either, so when you throw your head back, the backs of your legs chafing against the folds of your rented suit, you're surprised that he swallows every drop.
"I wanna hate you so bad." He mutters, but kisses you anyway, so you don't have to respond with an answer you don't know.
Your parents are having an affair the night your appendix bursts. They've been divorced three months and 26 days, and without the sheaf of matrimony, you guess the sex is hotter. You can't imagine why they needed to put you to all that trouble if they were just going to fuck each other anyway. They've assigned Dick as babysitter, even though you're too old for one, and if you weren't sleeping together, he'd probably have left the second the 50 bucks was in his hand. As it is, he's on his knees in front of you, going crazy with a new technique he must have picked up somewhere-you're trying not to go insane with jealousy, when you feel it, and you feel like exploding for another reason entirely.
"I think you should-" You're panting because his mouth feels so good and because your side is killing you and because you don't know which end is up. He can't talk with his mouth full of cock, but he looks up at you, his eyes glazed, but questioning. "My stomach hurts." You whisper pathetically, because you don't know it's your appendix yet, and the pain has subsided for a second. So he goes on sucking, his tongue swirling around you in movements you've never felt before. For a second, you think you're going to die.
And then the pain starts again.
"And you were where when this happened?" There's a nurse standing above you, clipboard in hand, but she's not talking to you, and you move to crane your neck, but the pain is unbearable, so you pretend to be asleep because no one is paying attention to you anyway. You feel a set of fingers against your back, Tripping up and down your spine, slipping inside the waxy fabric your hospital gown. When the nurse clears her throat, you realize she's waiting for a response. Please don't say sucking my brother's dick, you plead, even though you know it's futile. If he wants to tell the world, he will. It's just his way, even though you can't imagine why he'd want to tell everyone this. After all, he tells you he hates you nearly every time you're together.
"Beav, Beav c'mon wake up." He sounds like he's at the end of a really long tunnel. His voice is wispy, and you feel his fingers on yours when you start to regain more and more consciousness.
"I hurt." You mutter, blinking as you open your eyes, taking in his concerned look and the way he's still holding your hand, even though there are definitely people walking in and out of your room.
"You're appendix burst." His fingers slip around the metal bars of the bed, sliding beneath the hospital blanket and under your dressing gown, lightly brushing over the fresh scar at your waist.
"Oh." You respond, because it feels so good, and for a little while at least, you can forget your pain.
"I called mom and dad." He doesn't continue with the, they didn't sound too concerned. They aren't coming. They're too busy fucking on the yacht; but you know it's there.
"Oh." You reply again, because he's touching you there, and there's really no room to think.
"You should be out of here by tomorrow. They're just going to keep you overnight for testing." You nod, because you can't speak without moaning out loud, but there's a pang of pain in your stomach, and it's not from the surgery. You don't want to stay here alone tonight. "I called Esmeralda, told her I wouldn't be home tonight either. Can't have you here all alone." He says it off hand, but when he peeks down at you, you can't help but smiling.