
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/410531.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Albus_Severus_Potter/James_Sirius_Potter
  Character:
      Albus_Severus_Potter, James_Sirius_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-01-14 Words: 5752
****** A Summons to Foolish Blood ******
by snarkyscorp
Summary
     James loves keeping secrets. Unfortunately, he hates when everyone
     else keeps them from him.
Notes
     Written for
     [[info]]
hp_nextgen_fest (yeah, idek why I never posted this!). Title borrowed from
James Joyce.
Thanks forever and ever amen to my beta [[info]]literaryspell for her last-
minute assistance, Brit-picking, and tireless love of incest. <3


                          A Summons to Foolish Blood
James
James loves keeping secrets. Unfortunately, he hates when everyone else keeps
them from him. It drives him crazy, makes him feel unbalanced, like bugs are
scuttering under his skin. He expects nothing less than honest and open
understanding when it comes to these matters. He shines a light in on the
monsters in everybody's closets, revealing the ugly, distorted, grotesque
things they keep clutched behind closed wardrobe doors.
Thus it comes as a great surprise to James when he first notices that Albus
might be attracted to him. Because James did not ever think his brother kept
any secrets from him, it makes him hot and bothered inside, like a riddle he
finds impossible to solve without looking up a hint first.
This is because Albus is not just his brother but his best friend. They are
nearly twins, separated by merely one year and the colour of their eyes. James
takes after his mother, with brown eyes and a fiery passion for Quidditch.
Albus takes after his father, with green eyes and natural magical abilities
that shake his opponents to the core. The two brothers are as emotionally close
as twins too, able to think the same thoughts and feel the same pain. They wear
their hair in the same fashion—dark messy fringes spilling over olive-skinned
foreheads—and even though James has his mum's freckles and Albus got lucky as
the only one of the Potter brood to lack them, neither hold any of it against
the other. Thick as thieves, they share everything: clothes, food,
achievements, desires, skills, and secrets.
Finding out that Albus has kept something from him is not quite as devastating
as knowing it is the one thing they don't seem to have in common.
James begins to feel ashamed that he doesn't understand something about Albus,
that they can't share in the joy of the secret being revealed, so James tries
for a long time to let it go. But if there is one thing James is not good at
(and it is possible there is only this one thing) it's pretending he doesn't
know something he's not supposed to. It festers like a mould in his heart,
spreads like a cancer from atrium to ventricle to lungs, where he breathes it
in despite his best attempts otherwise. Clogged with the fat of the meaty
secret, it coagulates, thickens, sets, dropping like a stone into his gut every
time he looks at Albus.
When he looks at Albus now, he does not see his brother but some stranger he
barely knows. He begins to isolate himself from every shared activity, in the
hopes that it is for the greater good and someday he will be able to tell Albus
why it has to be this way and they will both smile in understanding and move
forward and be close again.
Except everything he tries seems to upset Albus. When James sits at the
Hufflepuff table with Saoirse Flynn, he spies Albus glowering over the top of
his pudding. Albus' childlike cheeks are red, and James knows that look. It is
the same look Albus gives to their mum when she forbids Albus something, the
same look Albus has on his face when things don't go his way or he has
something to say but can't. James knows that look all right, but he has never
seen it directed at him.
Though he is not embarrassed, James ducks his head and leans in to ask Flynn a
question about a Quidditch move he read about in a magazine. Flynn doesn't know
the move. Albus would. Albus reads the same magazines that James does. In fact,
they usually sit together on one bed, heads pushed together under the covers,
two wands casting light over muscled jocks, who practise the newest and
craziest Quidditch stunts over and over again across the glossy expanses of
fold-out pages. James and Albus always discuss the moves, always memorize them
so they can show off at the Weasley-Potter get-togethers in front of Mum and
Dad especially. Dad is always quick to jump forward and challenge them, but Mum
always tells him he's too old for backflips.
James remembers sitting up late with Albus nearly every night, until sometimes
it is actually very early in the morning when they fall asleep together,
nestled under one blanket in the same skinny bed, side-by-side. He wonders if
this was part of leading Albus on, if being close to him as a brother means
something altogether more to Albus than just familial love. James wonders why
he never thought to stay up with Lily like he stays up with Albus, but he
supposes it is because he and Albus are barely a year apart and Lily is three
years under and a girl and not even interested in Quidditch or rock bands or
wrestling in the mud after a good rain or sneaking up on firsties and telling
them they owe a hallway tax or skinny dipping in the lake to taunt the Giant
Squid or trying to swim low enough to see the mermaids because someone told
them their breasts are always exposed.
Lily is nothing like James. Albus is exactly like him in every perfect way.
James excuses himself from the table, glancing towards the Gryffindor table,
where Albus is not eating his breakfast but instead watching James' every move.
Their eyes lock, Albus rises, and James lets him follow out the doors and down
the long, bustling hallway. It is a Saturday, thank fuck, and when they arrive
in the loo, James scans the bathroom quickly for onlookers. He knows this
conversation demands privacy, so after skirting out a firstie, he lifts his
wand and locks and silences the room.
Albus is leaning against the sinks, his short, just-like-Dad's body arched as
he folds his arms and grins a grin that looks exactly like James'.
"All right, James?"
James hesitates but it's weird not to nod or automatically be all right in his
brother's presence. Instead of answering, he makes a show of pocketing his
wand. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Albus shifting uncomfortably,
grin dropping quickly.
Finally, the silence seems to have eaten away at Albus, who gripes, "Right,
then. What did I do? Is this about putting your toothbrush in the toilet? It
was just a joke. I'll clean it off for you. Or, um, is it because I left
without you this morning? I had to go find Lily."
James looks up, unable to keep the snort from his laugh. "Hang on, can we go
back to that bit about my toothbrush?"
Albus' grin returns in full force. "You used it this morning, didn't you? Now
you've got poo-for-breath, I'm sure."
"Shut it! I do not have poo-for-breath."
"Only one way to find out."
Albus strides forward. Normally, James would stand his ground, but he fights a
losing battle as all kinds of sordid images pop up of what Albus means by that
statement. He backs up so quickly that he bumps his head against the wall.
Albus doesn't seem to notice his skittishness, considering he has never acted
this jittery before, and presses close until their mouths and noses and chins
are but mere millimetres apart. He sniffs a few times, parts his lips as if
that helps, and then looks up at James innocently.
"You didn't brush," Albus accuses.
"Did, too."
"No way. I can smell the peanut butter on your breath from dinner last night."
James thinks Albus looks beautiful with that pout, like a life-size doll with
cupid-kissed lips. "My joke would have been a whole lot funnier if you'd just
brushed, poo-for-breath."
"I did brush." Now James is getting a bit flustered, and he knows his cheeks
are burning, and he doesn't want to talk about poo-for-breath but he doesn't
much want to talk about the things they need to talk about, either. It is all
making his head hurt.
"Yeah? Hold still."
Albus' fingers are warm when they grip James' chin. James is two inches taller
than Albus, so when he is forced down to eye-level he has to crane his neck
awkwardly. He doesn't like the way Albus looks at him; it is as if Albus can
see through everything when they are this close, like nothing separates them
except James' refusal to be the same in all things.
"Breathe, James."
The reminder is a soft one, exhaled against the parted expanse of James' mouth.
He does not have cupid-kissed lips like Al's—his are longer, thinner, like a
marionette painted wrong. He can feel every freckle, pimple, and birthmark
under Albus' interrogative eyes magnified and multiplied beyond what he can
handle. The moment is so tentative that when James does breathe, he thinks he
has shattered the sanctity of it. A long time ago, they could have just been
brothers who shared secrets and stories and now they have become something
wrong and weary and troubled.
James breathes, lets it all out and faces his brother like a man. They aren't
men yet, but James can pretend because make believe is the game of choice
between them all other times, so why not this one, too?
James breathes and Albus sniffs again, but he is so close that his short nose
brushes against the round of James' cheek.
"Liar," Albus whispers, letting the word linger on his lips, daring James to
say otherwise.
They stare at one another for what seems to be an eternity but couldn't be more
than five seconds. The silence tears through James like a bad wind, and his
fingers tremble with the aftershock-shivers rippling through his lean body from
the bend of his neck to the bottom of his feet.
When Albus catches his gaze, it is with a tentative anxiety that James has
never seen there before. How has he missed it, all this time? How couldn't he
have known while they raced through gardens in the summer, when they swam
through rivers in the fall, when they guarded their tall, white snow-huts in
winter and chased the delicacy of youth through spring? He sees it now, so
fragile and small, closed off from everything that James has ever known about
Albus. He knows he could smash it to bits with one simple word, and Albus would
let him, and they'd never speak of it again, and things would be normal.
Except normal is not a word that belongs to the Potter boys, and James' fingers
are already crawling through his brother's hair and his lips are already saying
the things that can never be retrieved.
"I saw you." James is shaking, his voice just shy of a whisper and short of a
plea. "I saw you, watching me undress. I saw the look on your face. I saw the
light flash in your eyes. And I know what you're thinking, and I tried to just
ignore it, because you're my bloody brother, Albus, and I love you, but if you
get the wrong impression from anything I'm doing, I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry
I can't give you what you're looking for."
Albus gives nothing away. If any of what James saw was the truth, Albus does
not let on in his reaction. His lack of reaction is a better way to put it—all
that is different is that Albus swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing thickly. He
shifts just enough that James' fingers fall free from his hair. Then he looks
up, blinks, and grins.
Something in James coils tightly at the sight of it.
"I didn't really put your toothbrush in the toilet," Albus admits. "I wouldn't
do that. Er, not to you, anyway."
If Albus wants to drop it and forget James ever blurted it out, then James will
give him that peace eagerly. He ruffles his brother's hair and sighs.
"I know. But I did brush, so it would have been wicked funny."
Albus backs off instantly, snorting; the sound is an echo of his brother. "I
know."
They share a knowing smile between the space that separates them. It seems
wider somehow, but James knows he is imaging things.
~*~
Albus
James is not imagining the wide extension of the space between them. Albus
creates it purposely, stands an extra inch from his brother just to ensure he
is not at a distance where he can inhale the rich, musky scent of James and get
that look on his face again. Now that James knows that look, Albus has a much
harder time hiding it behind a book at the library while they study or in the
brush of their fingertips while they jostle through the crowds to get to
classes.
But above the need for James that rose out of nowhere and crested one night
beyond Albus' control, Albus just wants things to go back to normal. He wants
James to be able to pick him up and swing him around the room again without
thinking Albus is getting off on it. He wants them to share their sugar quills,
tasting his brother's mouth all over it, without James thinking Albus savours
the moment a bit too long. He wants their huddle over Quidditch magazines in
the Gryffindor common room every evening to be comfortable, without James
thinking that Albus sits too close or breathes too heavily or bumps their
shoulders more times than necessary.
There has never been anything to cause discomfort between them except the
argument over who gets the last bite of treacle tart at Grandma Weasley's, but
with one stolen glance and a supposed light in his green eyes, Albus seems to
have created a whole mess of the situation. He knows James knows what he saw,
but now James thinks he was imagining it, which is only half better.
It would be all better if James liked it, too. If James understood.
Albus stays close but pretends there is nothing wrong. When James makes a bad
joke, Albus laughs as he always does. He walks James to his classes, meets him
in the Great Hall for dinner, bundles under Dad's invisibility cloak at night
to dart through the hallways and howl at the moon out on the snow-covered
grounds, and stays up later than he truly wants to because James is restless.
Albus makes sure things are just as they have always been.
But when James hops in the shower one Hogsmeade weekend some weeks later, Albus
hangs back. Alone, he kneels on his brother's bed, runs his fingers over the
unwashed sheets James slept on that morning, feels the soft material rub
against his trousers.
Albus knows he has exactly sixteen minutes before James finishes washing.
Sixteen minutes to curl up against James' pillow, sixteen minutes to clench the
sheets to his nose, to inhale his brother's scent, to slide a hand down his
trousers and into his pants and past the barricade he has built between the
things that are right and the things he knows he desperately needs. Sixteen
minutes to stroke the way he knows James would do it—hard, raw, fast, with one-
two-three precision. Sixteen minutes and counting to come.
Rigid with adoration, Albus thinks about the way James looks at him when he has
strawberry juice dribbling down his chin, remembers all the times James kissed
his skinned knees as a child and all the ways in which James loves him. Because
no matter what, James does love him. James loves everyone so openly and
honestly, but no one gets to be loved by James like Albus does—with his entire
body, mind, and spirit.
Stroking fast, Albus thinks about how he and James are always touching,
hugging, rubbing, wrestling, pinning, squeezing, pinching, shoving, and
generally connected by more than just mere bloodlines. They are two sides of
one soul, inherently and complicatedly intertwined. Albus bows his head, jerks
his hips, thinks, this is how James looks when he does it, strong like a man,
inexperienced like a boy, and comes on his brother's wrinkled sheets with half
of his pillowcase bit between his teeth and two fingers up his arse.
When he is done, he lies panting on James' bed and floats away to another
place. On the bedside table, there is a picture of the entire Potter-Weasley
family, including the cousins, uncles, aunts, and extended family who aren't
even related. The picture is so full of people that it's impossible to point
out one person from the pack. But off to the right, James and Albus are wrapped
arm-around-shoulder, touching every place they can, beaming brightly with all
the sacred little nothings whispered between the lines, and Albus knows they
are the only two people in that picture who matter in the world.
There is one person who is born to be with one other person. They come out of
the womb searching, and they do not stop until they find their soul mate. Some
people will never find that person, and Albus thinks often how horrible and sad
those people must be. Albus is thankful his soul mate is his brother, his
blood, his best mate. Even if it is impossible to make James see it, Albus sees
it and feels it with his whole being, and that alone gives him enough happiness
to let all else fall by the wayside.
Albus curls in against the pillows, coming down from the high of orgasm. He can
smell James everywhere. Lazily, he thrusts his hips against the sticky-sweet
sheets that he has coated with his seed and feels the rush of adrenaline build.
Albus always has two orgasms when he thinks about James—the first is always
nice and the second is always overwhelmed with ecstasies beyond his control.
Quietly, he moans when the friction of the sheets moves along his dick. He is
only half-hard by now, but it does not take much except a few thoughts of how
James licks the tip of his quill so often when he's stressed that he has a
near-permanent ink blot on his tongue to get Albus going again. He has not even
had time to remove his fingers from his arse, and he hasn't even used lube—just
the quick slick of saliva from his mouth—so a whole other kind of sound is
released when he tries to move them in and out.
It is uncomfortable. It hurts a little. Albus thinks James might like it that
way—strained and inconsistent and jarring. Albus will feel it all day and think
how much better it would be if it was his brother's rigid, twice-as-big-as-his
length and not his dry fingers pulsing in and out of his arse. When he walks,
Albus will twinge a little remembering how it felt on that first pull-out, as
he gasps and digs his teeth into the pillow hard enough to bite right through.
It is while he is pushing back in that his arse begins to protest and clench,
but again, Albus thinks James would like that. He thinks it would feel real
good if it was James splitting him apart, if it was James holding his hips
down, and if it was James gripping his dick to relieve the pressure building
with every awkward, painful, clumsy thrust.
It is when Albus shifts to turn his head to the other side that he sees the
shadow, hesitantly hovering at the threshold of the room. Albus stops
breathing. It could be Braddock Belzberg, who always comes back early from
Hogsmeade, or Sebastian Gloucester and Adrian Lancet who would pay good money
to be able to tell the entire class of Seventh Year students about how Albus
Potter was caught sodomizing himself and moaning for it.
But some part of Albus knows it is not any of James' roommates who are standing
at the door. It is the only person who really can't handle seeing Albus like
this, the only person Albus wants to see him like this, and the only person who
could ruin everything by finishing his shower five minutes too soon.
For a moment, there is no sound except Albus' panting and the stillness of
someone trying not to move in the darkness. Then, Albus strains himself just
enough to ensure it is James who stands there watching—he can tell by the
lightly-freckled chicken legs and the lean muscle twitching impatiently in each
boyish calf. Knowing it is his brother, knowing this is the one moment that
could change everything for better or for worse and until death do they part,
Albus shoves in to the hilt and cries out the one word that he knows will make
or break this show: "James."
There is the sound of hitched breath and gooseflesh sizzling on skin. There is
the drop of pyjamas and the frantic pound of two hearts thumping in allegro-
staccato speed. There is the rustle of the sheets as Albus props himself up and
the noise of James' body flattening against the dresser. There is a moment of
hesitation, a gasp of pleasure and pain, and the drip of pre-come dribbling
down the head of his dick.
"Tell me what to do," Albus demands. He is flushed, but in the darkness, the
colour is thankfully masked. "Pleases, James, if you can't touch me, just tell
me what to do and watch me do it, and I'll do whatever you say, and if you
don't like it, you can stop or tell me to stop and we will."
This is a test. It is only a test. James can pass or fail, and the outcome will
determine whether or not they will repeat this moment again or pretend it never
happened, like the moment in the loo with James pressed to the wall and trapped
in his fear, wrangled tight with knowing.
Albus' appeal is so tight in his throat that it is hard to swallow. He hopes
both that he has said the words aloud and that he accidentally just mouthed
them instead, because neither action seems like it will be all right. The
silence that drags on bruises him.
He adds, "Please," because he does not know how to describe the ache for James
through words.
The answer is slow coming, but finally, Albus can hear James shift. The towel
drops to the floor somewhere beyond. The door closes. A lock clicks in place.
Albus' balls grow heavy.
"Lube," James says.
His voice is a summons to Albus' foolish blood, tugging at his insides like
strings to a puppet. Albus is about to reach for the nightstand—he knows James
keep a bottle of lube there, because he's seen it and smelled it on James' body
when they are pressed together some nights when they stay up too late on school
nights. But before Albus can move, James is at his side, rummaging through the
nightstand to get it for him. Albus is thankful, because his fingers are still
buried knuckles-deep, and he's heaving for breath.
"Here."
James leans over Albus. Albus can smell the scent of James, uncompromised by
the musky scent of his bath gel and shampoo. James smells like James, like the
first time Albus tried brewing Amortentia in Potions and the aroma of James
filled the room and made Albus sick with desire. James is the heady scent of
grass on the Quidditch pitch and dirt-stains from the hills; he is raw leather
straps, worn magazines, and spiced hot cocoa on cold winter nights.
James leans over Albus and pops the bottle of lube open. Albus looks up, but
James won't look at him. He feels the trickle of lube over his knuckles,
slithering between his fingers, and he can't stop the moan from exhaling past
his thick, parted lips.
Slowly, Albus removes his fingers. He can feel the lube leaking into his arse.
It's got some kind of warming charm on it, and Albus likes the way it tingles a
bit. His fingers are slick and obscene as he presses them back in, pulls them
out, and catches a pulsing rhythm. He abandons his dick, which is so hard that
it's somewhat uncomfortable arching up into his belly, and grips the sheets
instead. Still attempting to get James to look at him, he flushes when he
notices where James' beautiful brown eyes are directed—right on his arse, where
his fingers scissor gently and awkwardly bend to get a good dig into the depths
as far as he can reach in this strange position.
"What—what else?" Albus asks, daring to break the intense silence since James'
last command.
James does not miss a beat. He says, "Faster," in a dark tone that leaves
little room to argue.
Albus groans low and long, arching his arse up as high as he can go. He slides
his fingers in faster and begins to pant. His arm is in pain crooked at this
angle, he wants to spread farther but his pants are still shoved down at thighs
and he's afraid to move to kick them off.
"Harder," James says, without waiting for Albus to ask.
Albus feels his cheeks warm all over. He shoves his fingers in, yanks them out,
and repeats until his body is shining with sweat and he's arched so
uncomfortably that his muscles are jerking with spasms. But just listening to
James breathing hard beside him and telling him what to do has brought Albus
close to the brink. He knows he could come like this, but he doesn't want to;
he would rather come with James touching him somehow, with James pushing or
grabbing or bruising or fucking.
So he removes his fingers and braces his sweaty arm to the sheets to get the
feeling back in it. He looks up at James and sees a strange mix of emotions
race across his face before he reins them in at Albus' gaze.
"Did I tell you to stop?"
Albus feels like someone has knocked the wind from his lungs. He shakes his
head, licks his lips, and draws up onto his knees before his brother. For the
first time, he notices James' dick—James is completely nude, the towel long
forgotten somewhere in the darkness, and his length is flaccid. Albus begins to
worry that James will never truly feel the same, but he reaches for it anyway,
because maybe all James needs is encouragement and the comfort of knowing Albus
loves him beyond what a brother can provide.
James grunts. The sound is hard and rough and assaults Albus' cock as if James
was touching it, but he's not. James is standing there rigidly, abdomen tight
and clenched, shoulders hunched, eyes hard but mouth slack. At his lean sides,
James' hands are clenched to fists.
"Albus," he warns. He sounds almost like Dad, like he is reprimanding and there
will be consequences to disobeying.
"Just let me," Albus pleads. "If you don't like it, just say so, and I'll stop.
I swear I'll stop, James, but, Merlin, I've wanted you for so long like this."
Albus crawls closer, jerking James slowly so that all the skin pulls back and
he can feel the base twitching when he squeezes. "Come here."
This is the tentative moment Albus dreams about when James isn't looking, the
ultimate fantasy of everything he has ever wanted. He has practised it alone,
in front of mirrors, under the sheets, and everywhere in between, but he has
always wondered if James would say yes or no.
James says nothing as Albus leans in, does nothing as Albus' lips brush that
nearly-just-like-his mouth. James is rigid everywhere now, his dick hardening
in Albus' fist quickly with every slow stroke and squeeze. Albus slides his
free hand into his brother's damp hair, dragging his blunt-bitten nails through
and finding it harder to breathe than he should.
Finally, they connect, and it is not Albus who moves first but James. It is
James who shoves his mouth against his brother's, James who traces his wet
tongue against the part of Albus' lips, and James who tips their bodies to the
bed and pins Albus' hands above his head.
There is a moment of struggle as they find their balance. James is growling and
kissing with animalistic vigour, swallowing Albus' tongue or shoving his own
down until it licks the furthest corners of Albus' mouth. Beneath James' body,
Albus is pinned by his strength and agile precision—James seems to know how he
wants it, and though Albus struggles because he's wanted it longer, he lets
James take the lead and submits eagerly. Awkwardly, he tries to wriggle out of
his pants, but before he can manage to move them an inch, James yanks them away
with a groan.
Their bodies move together, rubbing and riding, and their mouths are joined for
as long as they can manage without needing to pull away. James has Albus'
wrists both held above his head with one of his own hands, and James' free hand
claims the spot on Albus' hips where his birthmark sits. James knows it is
there—he must, as he's seen every inch of his brother and could map it
blindfolded—so when his fingers rub the discoloured shape, Albus knows it means
more than just a touch.
"Your dick," Albus pants, writhing to get a word in beyond the kiss. "Put it in
my mouth."
James does not argue. He seems to have released himself from the cage of
denial, and now he is moving on pure instinct, adrenaline, and passion. James
slides up until his legs are straddling Albus neck. He lets go of Albus'
wrists, so Albus slides his hands both over James' length, one gripping the
base and the other pulling the head into his mouth.
Albus wastes no time. He knows James has never done this before, and Albus has
waited for him because he didn't want to do it with anybody else. Eagerly, he
swallows James and groans at the taste, the texture, the fill. His cheeks
hollow; he sucks until he gags, then tries again, until he establishes a rhythm
that rocks the bed beneath them.
"So—so good," James breathes. He is looking down, so Albus looks up. Their eyes
meet, and James looks ready to run or come or both. So Albus presses one hand
to his hips to steady him. "God, Al—don't stop, your mouth is so good, just
don't stop, please don't stop." James grunts, James groans, James bucks, James
whines. "It's always been me, hasn't it? You've always pictured this, my dick
blistering in your mouth? Tell me it's just me, no one else." James' fingers
tangle in Albus' hair possessively.
With a groan, Albus settles both hands on James' hips, presses them away so he
can pull his face free. He licks his lips, then licks James' dick with the flat
of his tongue from his soft balls to the slit at the head of his length.
"Only you," Albus breathes. "And you?"
"Only you. Thought I was sick, thought it wasn't right, but I want all of
you—not just the parts that are brotherly."
Albus doesn't know if he should laugh or cry, so he does neither and just
swallows his brother's dick again. James cries out and begins to buck his hips,
riding his dick down Albus' throat. And James does the unthinkable then and
grips Albus by his balls, then runs his fingers clumsily up Albus' stiff dick
and begins to jerk him off. Albus chokes, but Albus lets his brother do it,
bracing himself for the climax that is inevitably there five thrusts later.
James goes rigid, entire body still except the pulse of his dick as it
releases, and then thrusts shallowly and sharply to ride out the orgasm, fist
moving in tandem below at Albus' length. Albus swallows what he can, splutters
out the rest sloppily and promises himself that he will apologize later, but
then he is coming and coming and coming, and they collapse in a sweaty mess to
the sheets against one another.
The bed is too small for two people, but that has never bothered them before.
Arms wrap lazily, lungs breathe, mouths seek mouths. James kisses Albus first,
and Albus hums at his luck.
They are brothers only in blood but lovers and mates in everything else. Now
Albus knows it's true, and he's not the only one lost to the feel of the sogood
itch under his skin.
~*~
James
For just a moment when James wakes up in the morning, he feels ashamed for
having touched his brother. But it is only a fleeting moment, one that passes
with the gentle rise of the sun and the look on Albus' face when they meet up
in the common room to head out for breakfast.
Albus has told him, "There's no taking advantage of someone who's begging for
it, stupid," and James finally understands and believes him. Maybe at first, he
thought Albus was misguided in his feelings, that Albus would regret anything
that happened beyond brotherly affection, but there is a difference between
being related because you are blood and being lovers because you know you're
mates for life.
James understands it now—there is no one left on Earth for him except Albus,
who is his partner in crime, his secret-keeper, his soul mate, his lover, and
his everything else that makes them connect and grin and know exactly what that
grin means without words.
In the hallways between classes, their fingers are always touching. They
exchange hidden messages with every quirk, twitch, brush, and smirk. James
grips the curve of Albus' elbow; that means, "Meet me tonight by the Lake."
Albus tugs on James' tie and flips it over his brother's shoulder; that means,
"Let's snog in the loo." And when their fingertips catch and twine under the
Gryffindor table during dinner, that means, "I love you. You're mine."
There is no regret in James' mind. No hesitation when he presses his brother
against the cold stone in the Astronomy Tower and does what he knows Albus has
hoped he would do since the first time they came here to stare up at the stars.
They kiss, and time slows to a quivering stop, pulled to a pause to allow them
to connect. Secretless, they are whole.
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