You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go

-Samson by Regina Spektor

There was a time when I knew what it took to make you scream. What words to say, how many times to say it, the insults that shoved you closer and closer to the edge until you teetered until you were so close to falling. There was a time when knowing what you wanted came as fast as knowing what I wanted, and just a couple of strokes and dirty words later you were mine. Your body would go limp in my arms, and when we were lying down I was the one who held the power despite the fact that you were bigger than me. Do you understand that? Do you remember that?

Admit it.

Admit this, too.

Seb: You were mine. You knew it, I knew it, and most of the time I think the people we fucked knew it, too. When you were with me I could write stories on your body, each sensitive area a letter to a language we keep reinventing so that no one else will be able to have what we have. A kiss on the left side of your neck, approximately about two inches from your collarbone, was the beginning sentence of a story about the girl who wanted to fuck her brother.

And that's who you were, wasn't it? My brother. I'd never verbalize this thought but sometimes I think even if you were my real brother I would still want you. Blood was immaterial in both scenarios, especially when the bodies concerned were ours.

I must admit that I was apprehensive when you asked me to do this, because I'm not the kind of person who likes to dwell on the past. You know what people like Dr. Greenbaum (your shrink, or have you already forgotten her the careless way you forget most of the poor females you've fucked?) would say, that this can help me. And that understanding the past will enable to me deal with the future.

Let me clarify a few things before we go ahead, shall we?

First, I'm not doing this to help myself because I don't need help. And I don't need an analysis or a trip down memory lane to enable me to deal with my future. I can deal with my future very well, thank you very much. Proof? You're the one getting yourself into this hellhole, brother. Me, I'm fine. I've been peachy fucking keen for the past few years.
Now that we have that established, I'll continue.

Although my initial reaction was less than favorable (Okay, thinking: Are you on crack, do you think I'm going to do it, Sebastian? was more than 'less than favorable'), as you can see, I've decided to go ahead anyway.

You and I, we were something, weren't we? No, it was more than something. I used to think it was the kind of something that defied the wear and tear effect time could have on relationships. When we were around each other, when I touched you I always felt a kind of power that made me feel I was always a step above the females you'd ever been involved with. I was never insecure about your involvement with them and had always taken comfort in the knowledge that while their fingertips were able to caress your strings, it was I who uncovered these strings to begin with. That was what made it special. Do you remember?

I hope you do. It's not for sentimental reasons that I am hoping this. You understand, don't you? Remember it with pride, the way I secretly do. When I look at you I wonder about the notes and letters on your body, the secret messages my tongue had written. Sometimes, I even find myself looking at my skin as though it was not mine, remembering the nights when your breath gave warmth to it, when specks of your saliva containing the things you wanted to say landed on my flesh and was absorbed by my pores. I'd like to think that your words are in my body, and though I never really heard these words I am aware of the nature of their sentiment. Even at this point it still gives me a glow, having been desired by someone like you.

Shall I tell our story, or is my time too short? How long does this have to be, anyway? I suppose in order for me to be able to deliver my message of goodwill I have to explain. Gives it more depth, you know.

How many years was it? I don't know. A very long time while I was still with you, still trying to escape you, and yet now that it's over, it doesn't seem as long. It's funny how that goes.

"How did it happen, Kathryn? When did it stop?" Blaine asked me once.

When, when, when. When indeed. Battling my way to get rid of faceless sluts, wracking my brain for schemes to keep us both entertained, it was you and me, brother. Always have been, (and I thought) always will be.

I'm afraid I'm fresh out of answers on this one. I don't know when it happened, only that it did. It wasn't, "One day, I just stopped wanting you, Sebastian."

That kind of obsession isn't cured so easily. I had spent a long time acquainting myself to every curve and part and hole of your body because of my need to understand you so it would be an insult to both of us if I said that one day I just didn't want you anymore.

I don't blame you, either. I don't blame you for Annette (yes, I am now mature enough not to refer to her as Kansas) or for what happened. What happened in this sad story was: "Eventually, Kathryn and Sebastian stopped wanting each other."

There. Simple and straight to the point.

College came and went, visits and phone calls became more infrequent, and inside jokes were nonexistent. This is the reality, the after the ever afters. You and I lived in different states, had different lives. It wasn't you and me anymore.

The sexual tension thinned out, dissolved, and it was years before your voice no longer brought me the same comfort it once had. I'm sure you know that. I'm sure the same went with you. Well, obviously.

You'll notice I keep referring to that word. Want. I can't say the other word. It annoys me. The last time I said it was the last time I saw you. I'm sure you remember that.
You brought someone. Someone. Someone. You looked at her the way you looked at me, the way you looked at Annette. When I looked at you I no longer saw the things I had written on you. I didn't know which areas to touch, what to press, what to do to make you scream. We were older then. You were a stranger then.

It was a party at Blaine's. We were drinking.

I said, "Did you love me then?"

We were facing each other, no form of physical contact. I felt there was no need touch you if I wanted an answer out of you. Not at this point in our lives.

You said, "Yes."

I took a sip of my drink. I hardly tasted it.

You said, "Did you?"

I said, "Maybe,"

And you smiled because you knew what it meant. Some things were still the same after all.

"Do you love me now?" I asked.

You said, "No,"

Matter-of-factly. Somewhat sadly. "Not anymore."

Then you asked, "Do you?"

"No," I echoed. "Not anymore."

Then, silence. It was a comfortable silence. We looked at each other.

"It's going to be different now, isn't it, Kathryn?"

Just then I was filled with an urgency to touch you, kiss you, tempt you, fuck you as I had never done, just to refill that empty well of longing for you, just to revert to the people we were.

The air felt strange, and I didn't move. Neither of us did.

"Will you do something for me?" You asked, your words were slow, measured, the tongue forming them seemed strange now.

And I listened. Listened for a long time until the room was filled with companionable silence and easy laughter.

A pause.

You looked imploringly at me. You. With your strange, older body and your big blue eyes and your soft mouth. There are times when I look at you that I see the person I had touched, the person who had touched me. And feelings resurface. All sorts. Desire. Passion. Lust. It's only for a few seconds that our younger selves reach out for each other only to be drowned by our older selves.

Then it's over.

"Okay, I'll try." I said.

Well, I really did. I can't give you what you want, what people want. People expect me to say nice things about you and share an anecdote or two about our childhood. The nice things about you are the ones I keep to myself, like a secret that would lose its power if it spreads. An anecdote or two? No, thank you. Isn't it enough to know that I'm doing this, writing this? Isn't that enough of a testament as to the hold that you still maintain over me after all this time? You know you're the only one who can ask this of me, big brother.

I'm sitting here wondering how to end this stupid speech. Well, I don't really have to end it since I won't be able to say everything I just thought of saying. I don't really need to say it, do I? You already know all this. I'm full of fragments now, but I'm sure you'll understand: There was a time. There was a time.

There was.

We were.

I need to get it together.


Here's what I will say though.

Here's your toast:

Great wedding, Seb. Have a nice life.

A/N: Hello, people. I hope you guys keep writing. I'm aware of how incredibly rusty I've become writing at CI. Sorry! In case it's a couple of months or years or whatever before I get to address you guys: Thanks. It's been a blast. Keep reading. It's good for ya.

B: Here, I tried. Sorry. Hahahaha I suppose some things never change.