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The other moment we've all been waiting for.
Brothelfic! Of which I have had one line written on a scrap of paper for months. In which the timeline goes awry: this section is actually gen. Or. Pre-cest? Something like that.
Charlie was seventeen when he turned up on the doorstep of his brother's apartment.
Stockton
Charlie was seventeen when he turned up on the doorstep of his brother's apartment in Stockton, and Don almost didn't recognize him.
It had been more than two years since Don had seen him. His father had asked Don to come with him to the airport to meet Charlie's flight, coming in from New Jersey. He'd stood next to his dad, waiting, and Charlie was last off the plane. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder and a huge parka tucked under his arm, his curly hair in a puff of darkness around his head like a thundercloud above his scowling face. He didn't speak to either of them, stared at his feet through their father's abortive attempt to hug him, and stopped at the first trash can they passed to stuff his parka into it. Don stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortably from the angry stranger who had been his baby brother to the helpless old man who had been his father. Nobody said a word to stop Charlie; he wasn't going to need the coat in LA, and he wasn't going back to New Jersey.
He could have used it on that January night in Stockton, or something more substantial than his sopping-wet hooded sweatshirt. He was nearly Don's height, skinny and sharp-shouldered under the clinging shirt, his hair hanging in wet tendrils down his forehead and over his ears. For a moment Don just stared at the stranger before him, and then Charlie said, "Don?" in a little boy's voice.
"Shit," Don said, backing up an automatic step. "Charlie. Come in."
Charlie gave him a short, shivering smile and stepped through the door, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he dripped on the carpet. Don said, "Stay there, I'll get a towel," but Charlie toed his shoes off and followed Don to the bathroom. Even when he rubbed the towel over his head, Charlie didn't take his eyes off Don, and Don didn't even try to stop staring.
He'd been down to see his dad a handful of times since Charlie had come back to LA, but he'd never seen Charlie; Don knew he'd spent at least one of those visits locked in his room of his own accord. Other times, he'd just not been home--for days at a time--and Don hadn't quite dared to ask his dad where Charlie was. He got the feeling his dad didn't know. The last time Don had gone down, his father had said, quietly, a few hours after Don got there, "Charlie is away this weekend," and somehow Don had known, from the way he said it, that away meant jail--or juvie, at least, since that had been before Charlie's birthday. He'd only been sixteen.
He had that kind of feral air, the one Don had gotten used to seeing on the bad kids in school, on homeless kids he passed in the city. It lingered on some of his teammates, the ones with the cruder tattoos hidden under their uniforms, the ones who'd grown up in neighborhoods where you had to choose between baseball and dealing drugs the way Don had had to choose between baseball and soccer. It was strange as hell to see it on Charlie, who'd grown up in the same nice house he had, lived on the same quiet street.
At least until Charlie went to Princeton. Don still lay awake some nights, thinking about the time Charlie had come out to visit him at UCLA, all the things Charlie had said that Don had written off as a kid trying to impress his big brother. He wondered what would have happened if he'd believed a word of it.
Charlie took off his sopping sweatshirt, and Don waved vaguely at the bathtub. "You can just..."
Charlie stepped carefully past him, still clutching the towel, and shoved the shower curtain back, draping his sweatshirt neatly over the rod. He was wearing only a thin t-shirt underneath, wet and clinging to his skin; Don could almost count his ribs through it. Charlie went back to toweling off, and Don said, "You want something to eat?"
Charlie turned his head too fast at the offer, nodded too quickly, and Don backed up fast and went to the kitchen with Charlie on his heels, trying not to think about how far Charlie might have come for a towel and a sandwich. Charlie hung back, lingering in the doorway of the tiny apartment kitchen, while Don dug through the fridge, pulling out food almost at random: leftover pizza, a loaf of bread, lunchmeat, a bottle of milk, a jar of pickles. Charlie had grabbed a slice of pizza before Don even closed the refrigerator door, and he had his mouth full as he said, "Lucky it's the off-season, huh? It'd be all protein shakes and vitamins otherwise."
"Lucky it's the off-season or I wouldn't be home," Don replied, but it wasn't like there was any luck about it; Charlie knew it was January as well as Don did. He knew Don would be home or he wouldn't have come.
"Or else you'd be knee deep in groupies," Charlie said, with a wink and a wicked smile that didn't fit with Don's memory of his baby brother at all.
"Yeah," Don said, turning back to the fridge for a beer. Nothing lucky about that, either. After Charlie had been expelled--no, required to withdraw--from Princeton, Don had given some serious thought to how not to be Charlie. He'd never thought that would be difficult, but he was way more careful about who he slept with these days, so careful it wound up being just about no one. He didn't mind; he didn't get a lot of chances to be the smart brother. He'd take them where he could get them.
He grabbed two bottles, and offered one to Charlie without saying anything. Charlie took it with a small nod, opened it and drank without the least hint of the self-consciousness Don would have felt cracking open a beer in front of family when he was seventeen. Charlie wasn't seventeen like Don had been seventeen; five years was the least of the difference between them.
When he'd washed down the pizza, Charlie set the bottle on the counter and started making himself a sandwich. Don stood and watched without saying anything until he'd taken a bite. "Charlie, I have to call Dad."
Charlie nearly choked, and actually spat the bite of sandwich out. "No," Charlie said, eyes wide. "Don, no."
"Charlie, he won't--"
"Fine," Charlie said abruptly, backing up. "Call him. I'm leaving. I'll be long gone before he can send the cops after me."
"Charlie," Don snapped, catching Charlie before he'd made it far, his hand closing around Charlie's upper arm. His skin was still damp, almost cool to the touch, and he was all wiry muscle and bone. He didn't break Don's grip, but he was poised to run. "He's not going to call the cops."
"I'm on probation," Charlie said impatiently. "Or I was. I skipped out. They'll put me back in JD and I have already been raped at knifepoint as many times as I need to."
Don let go all at once, and Charlie stumbled back a step, sneering at Don--letting go had been the wrong thing, or being shocked had been the wrong thing. "Charlie," he said, helplessly, reeling. "You can't just keep skipping out forever."
Charlie looked down and shrugged stiffly. "I'll be eighteen in a few more months. I can..."
"No," Don said firmly. "Turning eighteen's not going to help, if you even live through the next five months. I'm calling--" and he'd been watching, he was ready when Charlie lunged, caught him in a bear hug and held on. Charlie was all bones and angles and quivering tension. "Charlie, I won't let him send you back there. If he says he's calling the cops I'll get you out of here myself, but I have to tell him you're alive. Charlie, he doesn't know if you're alive."
Charlie stopped struggling, but Don knew that trick. He held on. "I didn't know if you were alive," he repeated quietly. "Come on. I'll tell Dad you're going to stay with me, that's got to be better than whatever you've been doing."
"I do okay," Charlie muttered, and Don almost actually laughed, with relief more than anything. Charlie wasn't leaving.
"Sure you do," Don said, tugging Charlie toward the kitchen. "Come on, finish your sandwich while I talk to Dad. You can sleep on the couch."
Charlie was seventeen when he turned up on the doorstep of his brother's apartment.
Stockton
Charlie was seventeen when he turned up on the doorstep of his brother's apartment in Stockton, and Don almost didn't recognize him.
It had been more than two years since Don had seen him. His father had asked Don to come with him to the airport to meet Charlie's flight, coming in from New Jersey. He'd stood next to his dad, waiting, and Charlie was last off the plane. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder and a huge parka tucked under his arm, his curly hair in a puff of darkness around his head like a thundercloud above his scowling face. He didn't speak to either of them, stared at his feet through their father's abortive attempt to hug him, and stopped at the first trash can they passed to stuff his parka into it. Don stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortably from the angry stranger who had been his baby brother to the helpless old man who had been his father. Nobody said a word to stop Charlie; he wasn't going to need the coat in LA, and he wasn't going back to New Jersey.
He could have used it on that January night in Stockton, or something more substantial than his sopping-wet hooded sweatshirt. He was nearly Don's height, skinny and sharp-shouldered under the clinging shirt, his hair hanging in wet tendrils down his forehead and over his ears. For a moment Don just stared at the stranger before him, and then Charlie said, "Don?" in a little boy's voice.
"Shit," Don said, backing up an automatic step. "Charlie. Come in."
Charlie gave him a short, shivering smile and stepped through the door, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he dripped on the carpet. Don said, "Stay there, I'll get a towel," but Charlie toed his shoes off and followed Don to the bathroom. Even when he rubbed the towel over his head, Charlie didn't take his eyes off Don, and Don didn't even try to stop staring.
He'd been down to see his dad a handful of times since Charlie had come back to LA, but he'd never seen Charlie; Don knew he'd spent at least one of those visits locked in his room of his own accord. Other times, he'd just not been home--for days at a time--and Don hadn't quite dared to ask his dad where Charlie was. He got the feeling his dad didn't know. The last time Don had gone down, his father had said, quietly, a few hours after Don got there, "Charlie is away this weekend," and somehow Don had known, from the way he said it, that away meant jail--or juvie, at least, since that had been before Charlie's birthday. He'd only been sixteen.
He had that kind of feral air, the one Don had gotten used to seeing on the bad kids in school, on homeless kids he passed in the city. It lingered on some of his teammates, the ones with the cruder tattoos hidden under their uniforms, the ones who'd grown up in neighborhoods where you had to choose between baseball and dealing drugs the way Don had had to choose between baseball and soccer. It was strange as hell to see it on Charlie, who'd grown up in the same nice house he had, lived on the same quiet street.
At least until Charlie went to Princeton. Don still lay awake some nights, thinking about the time Charlie had come out to visit him at UCLA, all the things Charlie had said that Don had written off as a kid trying to impress his big brother. He wondered what would have happened if he'd believed a word of it.
Charlie took off his sopping sweatshirt, and Don waved vaguely at the bathtub. "You can just..."
Charlie stepped carefully past him, still clutching the towel, and shoved the shower curtain back, draping his sweatshirt neatly over the rod. He was wearing only a thin t-shirt underneath, wet and clinging to his skin; Don could almost count his ribs through it. Charlie went back to toweling off, and Don said, "You want something to eat?"
Charlie turned his head too fast at the offer, nodded too quickly, and Don backed up fast and went to the kitchen with Charlie on his heels, trying not to think about how far Charlie might have come for a towel and a sandwich. Charlie hung back, lingering in the doorway of the tiny apartment kitchen, while Don dug through the fridge, pulling out food almost at random: leftover pizza, a loaf of bread, lunchmeat, a bottle of milk, a jar of pickles. Charlie had grabbed a slice of pizza before Don even closed the refrigerator door, and he had his mouth full as he said, "Lucky it's the off-season, huh? It'd be all protein shakes and vitamins otherwise."
"Lucky it's the off-season or I wouldn't be home," Don replied, but it wasn't like there was any luck about it; Charlie knew it was January as well as Don did. He knew Don would be home or he wouldn't have come.
"Or else you'd be knee deep in groupies," Charlie said, with a wink and a wicked smile that didn't fit with Don's memory of his baby brother at all.
"Yeah," Don said, turning back to the fridge for a beer. Nothing lucky about that, either. After Charlie had been expelled--no, required to withdraw--from Princeton, Don had given some serious thought to how not to be Charlie. He'd never thought that would be difficult, but he was way more careful about who he slept with these days, so careful it wound up being just about no one. He didn't mind; he didn't get a lot of chances to be the smart brother. He'd take them where he could get them.
He grabbed two bottles, and offered one to Charlie without saying anything. Charlie took it with a small nod, opened it and drank without the least hint of the self-consciousness Don would have felt cracking open a beer in front of family when he was seventeen. Charlie wasn't seventeen like Don had been seventeen; five years was the least of the difference between them.
When he'd washed down the pizza, Charlie set the bottle on the counter and started making himself a sandwich. Don stood and watched without saying anything until he'd taken a bite. "Charlie, I have to call Dad."
Charlie nearly choked, and actually spat the bite of sandwich out. "No," Charlie said, eyes wide. "Don, no."
"Charlie, he won't--"
"Fine," Charlie said abruptly, backing up. "Call him. I'm leaving. I'll be long gone before he can send the cops after me."
"Charlie," Don snapped, catching Charlie before he'd made it far, his hand closing around Charlie's upper arm. His skin was still damp, almost cool to the touch, and he was all wiry muscle and bone. He didn't break Don's grip, but he was poised to run. "He's not going to call the cops."
"I'm on probation," Charlie said impatiently. "Or I was. I skipped out. They'll put me back in JD and I have already been raped at knifepoint as many times as I need to."
Don let go all at once, and Charlie stumbled back a step, sneering at Don--letting go had been the wrong thing, or being shocked had been the wrong thing. "Charlie," he said, helplessly, reeling. "You can't just keep skipping out forever."
Charlie looked down and shrugged stiffly. "I'll be eighteen in a few more months. I can..."
"No," Don said firmly. "Turning eighteen's not going to help, if you even live through the next five months. I'm calling--" and he'd been watching, he was ready when Charlie lunged, caught him in a bear hug and held on. Charlie was all bones and angles and quivering tension. "Charlie, I won't let him send you back there. If he says he's calling the cops I'll get you out of here myself, but I have to tell him you're alive. Charlie, he doesn't know if you're alive."
Charlie stopped struggling, but Don knew that trick. He held on. "I didn't know if you were alive," he repeated quietly. "Come on. I'll tell Dad you're going to stay with me, that's got to be better than whatever you've been doing."
"I do okay," Charlie muttered, and Don almost actually laughed, with relief more than anything. Charlie wasn't leaving.
"Sure you do," Don said, tugging Charlie toward the kitchen. "Come on, finish your sandwich while I talk to Dad. You can sleep on the couch."