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red string | chapter 1

tags: 🔞extremely dubious consent, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv sex, no y/n, pseudo-incest, caleb is mean and a bully.

1 | 2

You think you're doing the right thing, breaking up with Caleb. He sees things differently.

I wish you’d tell me what you were thinking.

You sit in the Fleet doctor’s waiting room when you have this quiet thought. Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not for the last. You look down at your hand in Caleb’s. Your brother is relaxed, humming along under his breath to the music drifting out from a hidden speaker. He’s reading one of the magazines they stack here perched on his lap, but stops when he notices your gaze.

“Somethin’ catch your eye?” he smiles.

You look at the page he’s on. It’s an outdoorsy magazine; this article features a review of a camping ground not far from Linkon, close to your usual hiking trails. In the photo a garishly bright orange two-person tent is recommended for the autumn. “Don’t you already have a tent?”

“I do,” Caleb agrees. “Buuut only a small one. We’ve never gone camping together. Is that something you’d wanna try?”

“Maybe,” you say, and that’s all you have the opportunity for—the door across from you opens and Caleb is called in. You stay in your seat. You’ve already argued about this on the way here; to no avail, of course. It’s just like Caleb to agree to let you come along with him only to draw the line at the very end.

“I just want to know about my brother’s health,” you told him. “What do Fleet secrets have to do with that?”

You stubbornly refused any explanation he used, no matter how reasonable. In the end Caleb just held you tightly against him while he said sorry. Softly, in your ear, because he knows you love his voice. You kept your arms locked stiffly against your sides, head turned. You didn’t push him away—couldn’t, even if you tried, not with how he squeezed you in his arms—but you didn’t refuse him either. This forever weakness is one he greedily exploits, permission forgotten in the quest to gain your forgiveness.

You continue looking through the magazine where Caleb left off while waiting. It’s an older edition—the cover says it’s from last year—and you recognise some of the outside gear. Caleb always has something clipped to his belt or in his pocket. A miniature screwdriver, a swiss knife, a bottle opener. The only thing out of place in his survival kit is the bright red little apple charm you gifted to him. He’s had to replace the string it came on several times because he fiddles with it so much when he’s bored.

He calls it his good luck charm. At the time you’d cheekily asked him then what about me? Wasn’t I your lucky charm? And he’d laughed and kissed you, sweetly on the mouth.

The door opens again; you catch the tail of Caleb’s polite goodbye before he turns to you again and holds out his hand. The magazine slips off your lap and onto the chair as you take it. “What did they say?” you ask anxiously.

Caleb smiles and twines his fingers through yours, leading you to the exit. “It’s fine. Just need to get the skin fixed, and I’ll be as good as new,” he says breezily. “What do you feel like havin’ for dinner?”

“Don’t change the subject,” you scold. “What was wrong with it? Why’d it come loose?”

Caleb opens the car door for you, and you slip inside. He answers you once he’s rounded the car and settled into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s not serious. I’ll just have to spend a few weeks without it.” The engine rumbles to life. Caleb keeps one relaxed hand on the steering wheel; the other sits on its usual spot on your thigh.“Good thing it’s getting colder now. I’ve been wearing long-sleeves anyway. I can put on gloves, too.”

“I told you it doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeaaah, but isn’t it better if you get the old Caleb?”

“The old Caleb didn’t work overtime doing dangerous jobs,” you say. “Where’s that Caleb gone off to? I’d like for him to come back, actually.”

Caleb laughs, and his fingers squeeze down on your leg. “Smartass. Now tell me what you feel like eatin’. Overtime Caleb will make it for you.”

You go along with him. You always do. Your brother smiles at you and pokes fun at you, and makes everything feel like it’s business as usual. But this time, even while discussing the finer details of meal plans for the rest of the week as per Caleb’s rigorous grocery schedule, part of your mind lingers on the hand resting on your thigh. It’s cold. Harder, just slightly so, than Caleb’s left. He’s always had great control over his body—probably from all the sports he did. He always put the medals he won around your neck, raising you above his head, onto his shoulders, and paraded you around like you were the victor instead of him. You never gave much thought to the idea that this was his real prize. You were just happy your big brother wanted to share his success with you. His joy, doubled when you smiled.

But his right side was always his dominant side. The one he used to write with, shoot with, reach for you with. Even now, devoid of sensation, habit is hard to shake. You have to actively remember to walk on his left.

He makes it easy to forget.

The rest of the day is like any other. Caleb cooks, you eat together, and the rest of the evening is spent in each other’s company. You curl up on his chest while he strokes over your back, slow and easy, his big hand resting between your shoulder blades between every up-and-down. Like he can still feel you.

“Caleb,” you mumble into his shirt. “What’s going to happen to your arm?”

“Hm?” he says. His hand pauses briefly, then resumes its path. “Nothing, baby. You were still thinkin’ about that? What’s got you so worried?”

“It’s because you don’t tell me anything,” you say. You don’t mean for it to come out so small, but it does. You sound like a child, scared of the unknown and the dark. When you were little Caleb made shadow figures on the wall to show you they were nothing to be afraid of. A dog opened its mouth wide, snapping playfully at your small crooked fingers dancing in the light of your bedside lamp. Its ears wiggled on its head, perking up when you called out for your ge.

Woof! Little big brother is right here!

“I’m sorry,” Caleb says. “Did I make my baby feel anxious?” He nudges your chin, and kisses you gently. “Gege will make it better. Just focus on me.”

He’s already hard under you when he makes your hips rock against his. You lose yourself for a few moments against his mouth; only when his hands pull down your sweatpants do you remember to pull back and protest.

“But—”

“Shush,” says Caleb. “No thinkin’ anymore, okay? Listen to your ge.”

Easy. How it’s meant to be. He’ll lead and you’ll follow, a little tail wagging eagerly in his shadow. And you feel good in his hands; this has never changed, even if the aftermath looks a little different. The root of your anxiety remains untouched, but when your naked body presses against his it fulfils the need to be close. Caleb likes to hold you closer still.

His hands, warm and cold, squeeze your hips, your tits, pry open your legs for him to lick, and cup your cheeks to keep you in place while he kisses you. He keeps his hoodie on even though he sweats easily. By the time he’s done with you he’s wet with it, dark stains on his back and under his armpits. I want to see, you want to say, but he’s stolen your voice with his mouth. In the end you can only blearily watch him retreat into the bathroom to put on something clean. Covered and hidden. The darkest side of the moon.

By the time he slips in bed next to you you’re already halfway to sleep. You mumble his name when you feel him wrap his arms around you, big hands dipping under the shirt you keep stealing from his drawers. A soft mouth kisses you, familiar and sweet, and breathes in the little sigh that escapes your lips.

When you wake last night’s worries have curled back into their shell again. Close to the pit.

When Caleb comes home it’s very late.

You knew he would be; he called you earlier today to let you know and to tell you not to wait up for him. Texted you an hour later again to remind you, even. Leftovers in the fridge. Don’t forget to dry your hair. Sleep on time, I’ll set the alarm.

Bossy.

He likes telling you what to do, and you like to listen. Most of the time. When he smiles at you it makes your stomach flip, whether it’s in approval or warning. In the end you always give in to him, anyway; even if you pretend to struggle at first. His hand is a firm one, and not shy of holding you in place until you say please or sorry or I love you, ge, I love you most in the whole world.

But tonight is not one those nights. Caleb’s been kept busier than usual lately, working long unpredictable hours to the point where his days melt into nights spent at the Fleet headquarters. You know he has everything he needs there, a colonel’s privilege, complete with bed and bath and personal fridge, but he’s confessed that he doesn’t sleep easily without you. A rare admittance of weakness, one you’ve tucked away carefully in your heart. You do your best to cheer him up on days like these. You send him texts, photos, snippets of your day and what you’re up to, like he doesn’t know your weekly schedule by heart.

But you miss him. Whenever he’s gone for days on end you feel anxious. Afraid to lose him, again. He does his job and he does it well—what little he can tell you about it. Even then, you suspect half of what he says are half-truths. To delight, excite, or soothe your fears. Fantastical stories you marvelled at as a child, asking what then, what happened next? And Caleb would tease you for your big eyes, shining bright under your full attention. But you’re a little older now, and you know his tells.

It’s why you wait up for him tonight despite his instructions. Something felt off about his voice when he called. Strained in his nonchalant confidence, and hurried where he usually likes to take his time talking to you. It’s a good impression. It fools the world, but you’ve long since peeled back the gleaming shell that coats your brother’s inner workings. Or so you think. There is a great yawning chasm just under where your hands hover. But it’s a comfortable darkness, and you’re not afraid. It’s Caleb. The blazing sun at your back, shining your way forward so you can fearlessly run ahead.

The brighter the sun, the darker its shadow.

You don’t hesitate when you hear the door open. You walk through the half-dark of your apartment, a shadow yourself, passing by the dim little light in the hall before disappearing into the crevices of night again. Quietly, in the fluffy slippers that Caleb picked out for you. They come to an abrupt halt when they round the corner.

Caleb’s body is slumped against the wall.

He’s just barely holding himself up. His eyes are closed, but the moment you say his name they open. His mouth does something—you think it’s supposed to be a smile. “Pips,” he says. He moves his body as though a great weight is pressing down on him, even stumbling a little before he rights himself against the wall. His face looks worn out. The sides of his hair stick to his head with sweat. “You should be sleepin’.”

His Colonel’s hat falls from his hand, next to his boots. Their usual crisp shine is interrupted by something sticky. Caleb looks down at his hat, frowning a little. As though gravity isn’t obeying his usual command. You quickly step forward, and Caleb catches your reaching hands. “Ge,” you say, more than a little panicked, “Gege, what happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Caleb draws you into his arms, sighing into your hair when he squeezes you against him. You can feel the gloved fingers of his right hand twitch against your shoulder. “I’m fine.” But his weight leans on you more heavily than usual, and there’s a strange sort of laxness to his expression. “Just a long day.”

“What can I do?” you ask him. Your hands worry themselves into his horrible colonel’s uniform. You want to rip it off his body. To shreds. You inhale your brother and bile rises in your throat. He smells wrong. Sterile. Medically clean, scrubbed of his essence despite the tacky sweat clinging to his skin.

Caleb pulls back to kiss you on your forehead. “Go to bed. I’ll be there soon.”

“No. I want to help you,” you say. You let go of him to crouch down, intending to take off Caleb’s boots for him. The least you can do. But a hand grips your arm and hoists you back up. It’s not a kind touch, though it doesn’t feel like there’s any malice behind it. It’s the touch of a body that has lost its finer coordination and relies on instinct, raw strength, the hindbrain. The will to overcome and conquer.

“Go to bed,” Caleb repeats. His voice is hard, and you see him visibly work to soften it. “Okay?”

“Caleb—”

“Do it for me.” He smiles again, strained at the edges, and you reluctantly let go. You want to argue, but Caleb looks so tired. He’s in pain. And he wants to hide it from you.

How can it be that the person that sticks to you so closely sometimes feels so far away?

You wait for him in bed. The sink in the bathroom runs for a long time, the sound of water rushing quietly through the crack in the door. Your eyes are open, even though you can’t see anything in the dark, and you imagine yourself floating in the basin like a drop of water. Sliding over Caleb’s worn hands, metal and skin, a brief loving touch. Then plunged under the surface and the weight of the water flowing out of the tap, until you’re flushed down the drain.

When Caleb emerges you can’t make out anything that betrays his pain, but when you brush your hand against his abdomen he twitches. Just barely, but you catch it.

His arm is still without its skin sleeve. Your brother has swapped his colonel gloves for thin ones meant for wearing at home, but it doesn’t hide the soft clink of metal against metal. Sadness curls around your heart. Whenever you carefully probe him about his work Caleb just smiles and pets your head. Don’t worry about it, pips. But you know he hates it. Hates the long unpredictable hours, the weeks away from home in the Tunnel. Your brother has always thrived under pressure, but he’s still human. His shadow reaches farther than anyone you’ve ever known, but the origin of his silhouette is still made of flesh and blood; unlike what you grew up believing Caleb is neither infallible nor invincible.

You’d understand it if it was his calling. Like flying—something that is also not without risks. He loves to soar high, close to the sun, the zenith burning down on the earth from where you watch him go. You have your own goals and ambitions, too, and despite Caleb’s eternal worrying he’s never tried to stop you from becoming a Hunter. He understood.

But this isn’t like that. When Caleb slips on his Colonel’s uniform something in him disappears. The outer shell hardens, shining deep obsidian. Impenetrable. You touch your brother and feel only the absence of him; loss of self, a mirror that reflects nothing.

So that he wouldn’t be abandoned.

You carefully curl closer to him. He welcomes it, as always, eager to touch as much of you as possible. Is it debt? Something he can’t pay off? Even so, why won’t he tell you? Still stubbornly trying to shoulder everything by himself—enduring the burden of both heaven and earth, and thus condemning you to revolve around him forever.

“Caleb,” you say quietly. He hums, eyes still closed. “Caleb, I wish you’d quit your job.”

Caleb exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, and presses his lips to your forehead. “Did you miss me that much?” He cradles your head, pulling you closer against his chest. “I’ll be home on time tomorrow. I promise.”

“That’s not it,” you say. “You got hurt again at work. I can tell, so don’t lie.”

“I’m fine, baby. Don’t worry.” Caleb’s response comes slowly, a slight slur in place of his usual lisp. That medical smell is still clinging to him, even after washing up. He tucks the blanket a little more snugly around your shoulders as though you could be cold with his body wrapping around your own. “How about we go do somethin’ fun soon? A little trip for just you and me.”

Any excuse to call him away from his work, back to the little world that exists only for the two of you, is welcome—both for the sake of his company and getting him to sleep more than a few hours a night. “Where will we go?”

“How about we go campin’? I bought that tent you were looking at.” Caleb yawns. “Just give ge a little more time. Then he’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

Considering the matter thus settled his breathing starts to slow. You watch the dark shadow next to you drift between waking and sleeping, and sink into a dream where you crawl in the dark. There’s a chain coiled around your wrist, drifting behind you, bound to an uncertain law of gravity. You don’t dare to look back, afraid to find what’s on the other side. Your limbs are sluggish and your heart is in your throat. It’s hard to swallow. There’s something behind you, and you’re trying to run away from it. You can feel its pressure, its dark mouth hovering over you, night descending, yet you struggle onwards. Dragging your dead weight forward. Your hand hurts. Fingers cramping, palm sweaty with the burn of something pressing into your flesh. When you finally look down you find there’s no shackle around your wrist like you thought. It’s just you that’s been holding onto the chain.

Caleb keeps his promise. You wake alone, but he’s home on time for dinner. Everything is as usual; he herds you into the kitchen, orders you around to set the table, and insists on feeding you—yet you feel uneasy. Lulled into a false sense of security; the just-before when you drop and fall, the anticipation of your stomach swooping as your body hurtles through the air. Whatever you’re waiting for doesn’t come, leaving you restless and distracted.

Your brother must sense it, because he fucks you with more intensity than usual that night. Look at me. Only think about me. He doesn’t stop when you cry or when you tug on his necklace; he barely stops when he cums, groaning, before getting right back to what he was doing. His hips sink into yours, pinning you down, rocking into you unhurriedly but unyielding. You struggle to keep up with him until you’re too exhausted to try, something that seems to please him.

He stills keeps his torso covered. The fabric chafes against your too-hot skin, but his weight is absolute. Caleb shushes you when you whine or beg, his mouth over yours, until he eventually fucks you to sleep. Filling you with him, leaving part of himself in you to keep you company while he’s away. Leaving no room for your anxiety—or so you think.

But when his overtime turns into weeks away from home your fears fester.

You worry at them like a wound. The longer his absence, the harder it is to keep yourself collected. When Caleb isn’t with you your nightmares return. Scorched earth digs into your hands while you kneel, deaf and blind, fighting the people trying to lift you into the ambulance because your brother, your brother is still under there—and no one holds your hand while you’re forced to endure the sickening impersonal whites of hospital staff. You watch the needles going into your skin. You listen to doctors talk without hearing anything over the ringing in your ears. You feel as though your heart has been yanked out of your chest by an invisible hand and learn that grief tastes a lot like bile and little like anything else.

That bitter taste in your mouth has never really gone away. You swallow around it, talk as though your tongue doesn’t burn, and tuck your worries between your teeth. You don’t tell Caleb about the dreams. You thought his presence alone would be enough to fill the hole that the explosion left behind, and most of the time it is. You don’t want to forget—not even when Caleb makes it so easy to. But you let him ease the weight in your heart. You let him make you laugh and you let him kiss you whenever he wants, because you so desperately want to love him properly this time.

A do-over, except it isn’t. There is no going back, only forwards, with new lesions that time has marred you both with. Caleb’s cold, hard arm that he never shows you except by accident. You don’t remember how exactly it happened; maybe it was your fault. Maybe you tugged at him too hard, grabbed him wrong, your rough-and-tumble brother who always seemed so strong and put-together.

But his skin sleeve came loose like an open ugly wound and exposed the metal workings underneath. Peeling away as though your brother wasn’t made of real flesh and blood. You’d been underneath him at the time, already naked, and cried out in shock. Caleb immediately withdrew to the bathroom and only came out once he was fully covered again.

Since then he’s dodged all your questions and concerns. Up to and including the doctor’s visit.

He tells you not to worry, and you try; both for your own sake and because you want to trust him. Surely whatever he’s doing is the right thing. Surely you should have faith in him. Surely one day he’ll let you look at him, fully and completely, without keeping part of himself sequestered in some dark corner. You already know you’ll love whatever it is because you’ve never been able not to. Whatever Caleb is, or whatever he becomes.

You endure.

And time passes, enduring with you. Caleb reaches out when he can, which is seldom, and you sleep wrapped in the clothes he left behind in your apartment. You go to work, you go out for drinks with your colleagues—you look pale, have you been sleeping okay lately?—and you watch your trashy reality TV. Sometimes you go for a walk. There’s a certain parameter that you adhere to, a safe-zone with several looping routes that have become so routine you can walk without thinking. Each of them keeps a safe distance away from the rebuilt remnants of Bloomshore.

When the date for your upcoming trip rolls around you haven’t heard from Caleb in several days. You pack and unpack, put your luggage away and then take it out again. You call your brother—voicemail. You texted him last night, and do so again in the morning, with no response.

In the end you wait three long hours at your agreed meeting spot.

Wishful thinking, maybe. Naivety. Maybe it’s just that you so badly want to believe that if you wait just a little longer it’ll be his big SUV rounding the corner. Any moment now the attic door will open, and it’ll be your brother stepping through, arms open, already saying sorry, I’m sorry, gege is here, I’m here now. And you’ll run to him and the world will be right again.

The sky darkens around you.

The wind has picked up, and clouds gather for rain. You didn’t bring an umbrella. Forgot, because Caleb always has a spare. Still relying on him to bear the burden of everyday little things. The burden of your flawed existence. Something in your stomach roils, and you hate yourself. The pit in your heart cracks, and your anxiety snakes through your veins like poisonous roots. Its tendrils reach all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes, humming under your skin: an angry insect that lives inside you and wants to fly. Its wings flutter against its flesh cage. You feel it lurch in your stomach as you board the train to Skyhaven. As though it knows: we’re going up, further into the clouds.

Caleb’s apartment is empty. Clean, thanks to the OTTO bot, but no one has been here in some time. You dump your bag here anyway, just in case Caleb comes home, or in case it takes more than one day to find your brother. A good Hunter is always prepared, and you learned from the very best. You call him again while you take the bus to the Fleet’s headquarters, and press the end call button the moment his cheerful voicemail pipes up.

A quiet unsmiling woman mans the reception when you step inside the Fleet’s headquarters. You rest your hands on the sleek, cool counter while you softly clear your throat. It’s dark and hard and impersonal like everything else about the Fleet, with a shiny coat on the top that reflects everything but your expression. You don’t like coming here. It’s cold, the AC working overtime even though summer has already officially ended. Goosebumps ripple over your flesh, and you have to work to suppress a shiver when you give your name.

“I’m here to see Colonel Xia. I’m his…”

“His sister,” the receptionist fills in. “I see it.” You fall quiet while her fingers click-clack over her keyboard. “Colonel Xia is currently not in his office. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

Your deflate, shoulders sagging as you rock back on your heels. Not in his office could mean a hundred different things. He could be in a meeting. He could still be in the Tunnel. He could be sick, or injured, or dead—

“Miss?”

You turn, looking over your shoulder, and see Liam’s perfectly emotionless face stare at you. You give him an awkward wave that he does not return. But he steps closer, his unblinking eyes boring into you with their usual fixed passivity; when you glance back at the receptionist she’s already clocked out of the conversation, absorbed in whatever’s on the screens before her.

“Hi, Liam…” You step away from the counter and force yourself to smile instead of shaking his shoulders like a maniac. Where is Caleb? Where are you keeping my brother? “How have you been? It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”

Liam nods once, betraying no indication of whether this is a good or bad memory in his mind. “I am functioning in productive capacity. Thank you.” He does not return the question. Perhaps it’s clear on your face that you’re on the brink of something ugly. Perhaps he just doesn’t care.

“That’s, um. Good to hear. Do you know where Caleb is?” You hold up your phone. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I haven’t heard anything in several days. He doesn’t pick up when I call. I’m worried. I—” your throat closes, and you cut yourself off with a heavy swallow. “I just want to know he’s okay.”

Something passes over Liam’s impassive face. It’s too vague for you to place, but he when he speaks again he does so hesitantly. “The Colonel is recovering.”

Your heart skids to a stop, then picks back up with a heavy drum that reverberates in your ears. “Recovering from what? Where is he?” When Liam hesitates again you despair. “Please. Please tell me—aren’t I his next of kin?” You aren’t. Not since your house burned down. But the receptionist just said his sister; a title that both despairs and relieves you. Apparently you’re still his family before you are his girlfriend—yet you cling to it all the same. “I just want to see him. I don’t need to know anything else.”

Also not quite true. You do need to know. You’ve been burning to, in fact—but everything else can wait until you’ve seen with your own eyes that Caleb is safe and sound. Liam blinks rapidly for the first time during your conversation; he looks confused for a second, eyes unfocusing on something that only he can see before snapping back into passivity. But he turns on his heel, telling you: “Follow me.”

You follow. The two of you walk silently, deeper into the snaking corridors. The belly of the beast. Each hallway looks like the next, gunmetal grey, faintly echoing your combined footsteps. Every now and then you have to quicken your pace to catch up with Liam’s; he’s not as tall as Caleb, but his legs are still longer than yours. He doesn’t look back or wait for you. But he does seem to know exactly where to go; Liam doesn’t hesitate as he walks. He doesn’t even pause to acknowledge the officers that pass him and murmur quiet hellos, their eyes flitting between you and their lieutenant under furrowed brows. You don’t belong here, their gazes say. Get out while you still can.

You intend to. But not without Caleb.

You finally arrive at what appears to be a medical ward. Its sterile medical smells burns sharply in your nose, and you suppress the urge to gag. Liam swipes a pass over an interface, punches numbers on the terminal, and the doors whoosh open.

Behind the glass your brother sleeps.

All the breath rushes out of your lungs, and you lose the feeling in your legs. The floor pulls at you, knees heavy, and you swallow and swallow again. A confused flicker in your hindbrain whispers déjà vu, but that’s not right. It’s always been you in the hospital beds, with your brother pulling silly faces in the door’s little window to make you laugh through the pain in your chest. Not him. Never him. He seemed untouchable, even with all the adrenaline-chasing he was so fond of. You press your hand to the glass.

“What happened?”

You half expect Liam not to answer you again. Fleet secrets. But he allows you to see Caleb’s patient file; you suppose that’s as close to the truth you can get. Your eyes fly over the page, unease growing until it has settled permanently behind your eyelids. Torn ligaments. Bruised ribs. Nerve complications, due to overuse of his mechanical arm. Resistant to painkillers and sedatives: there are several notes that continue upping the amount of drugs pumped into him to keep him in bed. Apparently he tried to leave without getting cleared to do so.

You press a hand to your mouth without realising as you continue reading. The file only documents the most recent hospitalisation, but there are references to previous medication and injuries that hint this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. It’s just one of the worst. The darkest side of the moon, briefly uncovered before your eyes.

“The Colonel was in a rush to finish the mission,” Liam’s voice suddenly says next to you, and you almost jump. You’d completely forgotten about him, lost in the little world of Caleb’s veiled pain. Then his words sink in, and with it comes a fresh wave of guilt. Is that why he got injured? Because he was in a hurry to make it in time for your trip? Overusing his arm to the point of needing repairs, telling you not to worry, just need to get the skin fixed, I’ll be as good as new. For your sake. For you. Because of you.

Liar, you think. Caleb Xia, you liar.

Waiting for Caleb to be released from the Fleet’s medical ward gives you a lot of time to think and to cry.

You’re angry that he didn’t tell you he was so busy. Or that he’d been overusing his arm, or that he got so fucked up during his latest Fleet mission. Surely, you thought. Eventually, you thought. But surety has all but left you, and eventuality remains a vague horizon in the far distance. He won’t share his burdens with you. And why would he? you think during one of your crying fits. You’re just an anxious, useless little sister. Still a kid in his eyes, someone who isn’t fit to be his partner. Why would he expect you to be able to support him? How could you be equal to someone shining as brightly as Caleb?

It gets to a point where you can’t stomach eating anything. Everything comes right back up, and you spend two miserable nights hunched over the toilet before you’re forced to accept you can’t continue like this. This isn’t good for either of you.

Caleb deserves more after everything he’s sacrificed. You want the best for him. And that’s not you.

“You lost weight,” is the first thing that comes out of Caleb’s mouth. He squeezes you even more tightly, as though he’s checking for the difference by holding you in his arms. He’s one to talk. The skin is tight around his face, his beautiful cheekbones sharp from spending a week in bed with IVs hooked up to his veins. You allow him to hug you, miserably soaking in the wonderful feeling of his big body pressed against your smaller one. Smelling all wrong again, but when you press your nose against the collar of his jacket hard enough your Caleb is still there. A warm summer day, tall grass swaying in the lazy wind.

Before he can kiss you or continue interrogating you about your eating habits you speak up. “Ge,” you say. “Can we talk for a bit?”

“‘Course, baby. What’s on your mind?” As easy as always. Caleb sets down his bag and walks inside to sit down on the couch, and you sink down next to him. Your heart bleeds when you realise suddenly you’ll never be able to sit on his lap again. You don’t even really remember the last time you did. Spoiled with your proximity to him; just another thing caught in the crossfire.

There’s really no easy way to say this, so you just blurt it out: “We should break up.”

A very long silence follows. You’re afraid to look at Caleb’s eyes, so you look down at your lap instead, fingers anxiously picking at your sleeve.

“Why?”

You’ve thought about this. If you told Caleb why he’d feel burdened again: he’d talk you into staying with him, assuring you that your fears are unfounded—just shadows on the wall, baby, they’re not real—and then everything would happen all over again. You know your brother. He knows you, too.

“We’re not a good match,” you force out. “It’s better if we’re not together.”

Caleb’s left hand drums his fingers on his knee. “Then I’ll change. Tell me what I need to be, and ge will change it for you.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I don’t want that. It wouldn’t be real.”

“I’ll make it real.”

When you raise your head Caleb looks very serious. You almost believe it for a moment; whatever wish or fantasy you bring to him—he’d fulfil it. The possible becomes impossible, gravity redirected under his hand. Reality unmade for his unreasonable little sister. His eyes are dark, and his expression is drawn. You both want to flinch from it and revel in it, his full attention on you for the very last time. You love him so much. You want to touch him, the faint freckles dusting his cheeks, the delicate skin between his brow and eyelid. You clench your fists to stop yourself. “No. I mean it. I want to break up.”

“Is this ‘cause I missed our trip?” His voice softens. “Are you that upset? I’ll make it up to you, baby. I’m really sorry. Ge is really sorry. Didn’t I tell you so?” He did, over text and over the phone as soon as he was awake and allowed to. Multiple times, sounding so sad you would’ve thought it was him that got stood up instead of you.

“It’s not about the trip,” you say. It’s hard to talk. Your throat is dry, and swallowing doesn’t help. “It’s not about that.”

“Is there someone else?” Hard, suddenly, with a sharp edge that reeks of blood. Your lips part, shocked and a little offended, and you furiously shake your head.

“Of course not,” you say. “I would never do that.”

“I know,” Caleb says, relaxing again. “I know. You’re a good girl.” His hand reaches to stroke your cheek, and you turn your face away from him. If he touches you it’ll be so much harder. He must sense this too, because his other hand closes around your wrist to keep you from moving. His callouses brush over your face when he cups it, angling it back to him. He hasn’t asked you about your visit to the Fleet. You know he knows, even without you bringing it up. It would’ve been logged like everything else, and Caleb has always had a special sixth sense when it came to you anyhow. Playing hide and seek when you were little made impossible by his ability to sniff out exactly where you were hiding.

“Then what’s goin’ on in that little head of yours?” His thumb rubs gently under your eye. “Is this some kinda punishment?”

You shake your head again. Why would you ever punish him? “I just don’t think we should be together. I don’t—I don’t want to be together anymore.”

Caleb exhales, fingers tightening on your face. “You’re not makin’ this easy for me, pips. You don’t want to talk to me, you don’t want to explain yourself to me, don’t want to let me fix it…” He tilts your face up to him, looking you over as though he could read the answers he’s looking for off your eyes. “And I don’t think you’re being very honest with me. I didn’t raise you to be a liar, did I?”

Your heart thuds loudly inside your chest. “I’m not lying,” you say, but it sounds weak even in your ears. “I’m not,” you try again. “I really—”

Caleb kisses you, and the world disappears. He pulls you into him completely, two strong hands cradling your skull. Your eyes flutter and your mouth opens for him: too familiar and well-trained to do otherwise. You make a helpless little sound when you taste him. You’ve missed him so much, these past weeks—these past months—and you’ve wanted him so much, too. You go lax when his tongue probes your mouth and licks over yours, breathing heavy through your nose. A trail of spit clings to your lips when Caleb pulls back, looking a little flushed himself.

“There she is. It’s okay if you want to play,” he murmurs. “I’ll always play with you. But I don’t like this game very much, so this is gonna be the last time, okay? Okay.”

Play? Play what? But Caleb is kissing you again, and any questions are swallowed by his warm mouth. He pushes into you, crawling on top of you and parting your thighs with his knees. You try to push at his shoulders and chest, but he’s heavy and so strong. His wide palms slide over your arms, up to your wrists, your hands, grasping them tightly with interlocked fingers. Muscle and metal alike pin you down so he can rock his hips against yours. He’s already hard; you can feel it straining against his jeans. Caleb groans low when you try to break free. Your hands futilely push against his own; he doesn’t even have to try. He just squeezes a little tighter. Almost fondly, as though he’s saying it’s cute you’re trying so hard. Things he’s told you before—don’t cum yet, pips. Just a little longer. Only when ge tells you, okay? You’re so cute. You’re really doing your best. Good girl, good girl—

“Maybe I’ve been spoilin’ you,” Caleb hums. “Is that why you’re acting out? You want big brother to be a little mean instead?”

“No, no,” you say weakly. “I wasn’t, I really wasn’t trying to—”

“You like saying no now?” Caleb lets go of your one hand to grip them both in his right. His other zips down your jeans; when you try to move him with your legs he just pins those down too. His knee digs painfully into your thigh while he shucks your trousers down just enough to cup your cunt. You turn your head away, embarrassed, when he laughs softly—as though finding you wet is just as he’d expected. “My baby sister got some strange ideas in her head while I was away, huh? It’s okay. Gege will set you straight.”

He withdraws from you, and for a second you think it’s over—you’re just starting to push yourself up when you get flipped on your stomach. The breath rushes out of your lungs, and you spit out the hair that’s flown in your mouth. The sofa cushions burn your exposed skin a little when Caleb tugs you where he wants you; one hand between your shoulder blades keeps you where you are while the other is peeling off your trousers completely. He’s dressed you and undressed so many times in your life, more than you can count, always patient and gentle. This isn’t anything like that. Caleb is rough with you now, large hands gripping your ass and kneading it, spreading you open for him. You think you can feel a button pop somewhere.

“No, no—” You struggle again, trying to move, and gasp when a hard smack stings your ass.

“Behave.”

It’s his dad voice. The one he uses when he’s actually angry with you, yanking you back in your place. You freeze, then go lax. Listen to your brother. A conditioning of your entire life. Meant to revolve around him, taking his hand, doing as he says, wanting to be just like him. To reward you for your compliance Caleb’s hand gently strokes over where he just hit. Then lower. He doesn’t prep you like he usually does; two of his fingers are put in without any preamble, and you jolt at the sudden intrusion. You whine softly, trembling when he curls them slow.

“Your pussy’s grippin’ me so hard, baby,” he says, voice low. “Your mouth is sayin’ one thing, but she’s telling me something else.”

You clench around his fingers at the sound of his voice. The strength in your arms has all but left you, so the only thing left for you to do is whimper a muffled no no no into the sofa. You know Caleb must hear it, but he makes no sign that he has. His fingers continue moving inside you, fucking you with a wet shlick that makes you despair. Your body betrays you even when you fight it, too hungry and lonely to consider anything but submitting.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says. Strict. A little scary. It’s not a request. “Tell ge you missed him.”

It’s hard to think straight. Your head’s all turned around, body torn between giving it to the relief of his touch and your resolve to be better. In the midst of your confusion you can feel an orgasm building for him. Needy and horrible, just from his fingers that fuck you mean and shallow. He hasn’t even touched your clit.

“Ge,” your voice cries without your permission. “I missed you…”

“Cryin’ already?” Caleb tsks, but his hand is sweet when he brushes the hair away from your face. “You want my cock that bad? But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.” His free hand travels back up to settle between your shoulderblades, pushing your down harder into the sofa. He leans over you; you can feel his warm breath washing over your ear when he speaks again. “Say you love me.”

You let out a sob. You hate disappointing him. But Caleb is hurting because of you. It’s your fault, so you can’t say it. Caleb thinks he knows best, but he can’t be infallible; this time it must be you who hurts. You’ll rend your heart in two for him like he’s been doing for you with his body. The memory of his skin peeling off burns in your eyes along with your tears, and you say nothing.

You expect him to be angry again; maybe he’ll slap your ass again, or maybe he’ll refuse to let you come until you say what he wants to hear. But what Caleb does next is much worse. His hand slides up, gently squeezing your neck, then wrapping around to tilt up your head. You swallow heavily, feeling your heart thrum wildly against his fingers on your throat. His lips brush over your temple, an almost-kiss. The fingers inside you move slowly, now, the tips of them hitting as deep as his big hands can go. Brushing over the sweet spots that make you shiver and whimper under him as he tells you, soft and coaxing, “I missed my baby so much too. Won’t you tell me you love me? I want to hear you say it. I rushed home to come see you as soon as I could.” Caleb kisses your head again, nosing against your hair. “Tell me you love me. Do it for me. I’ll give you something nice.”

You’re crying in earnest now, tears dripping over your cheeks and onto Caleb’s hand. Your lower stomach throbs with need, and you sink deeper into the feeling of his big body covering yours. Swallowed in his shadow. Your world shrinks to the size of his wingspan, safely nestled within his heart.

“I love you,” you sob. “I love you, ge, love you…”

Caleb sighs, pleased. “There’s my good girl.”

He pulls away from you briefly, removing his fingers—you whimper again, this time in protest; it feels horrible to be empty, to be apart from him—but after the sound of a zipper and the rustling of clothes he leans back over you again. Your hips are lifted, and something prods thickly at your entrance. Your pussy clenches and unclenches in anticipation and need, but the brief absence of Caleb’s all-encompassing weight clears your head just enough for you to limply reach back and push at his chest.

“We’re breaking up,” you rasp. “We’re breaking up, so we can’t—”

Your hand is seized and wrenched behind your back. Caleb keeps it there, on the edge of discomfort, as he sinks his cock inside. You gasp and jerk against him, back arching, when he fills you so suddenly and completely. “I get it,” he says, a little breathless. “You still want to play. We can play, baby. You wanna keep sayin’ no?” He thrusts his hips forward roughly, moving your body up the sofa. “Go on. Tell me no again.”

“No—”

Your protest ends in a wheeze when Caleb snaps his hips forward again. The hand that’s not gripping your arm reaches for your face, tugging on your bottom lip. “Such a cute little mouth,” Caleb muses. “Sayin’ such hurtful things. Open.”

He squeezes your cheeks, pursing your lips, until you do: then he puts his fingers inside. Musky and salty. You taste yourself when he presses down on your tongue, hooking his thumb at the corner of your mouth like he’s just caught a little fish. You feel like one, writhing and floundering under this big fisherman and gasping for breath. Caleb continues to fuck you, heavy thrusts that push you deeper into the sofa cushions. To your shame you’re wet enough to take it. Your body remembers, Pavlovian excitement stoking the swirl of arousal in your lower stomach at his rougher handling. You’re sweating. Your body radiates a heat it can never manage to generate by itself; it’s always needed Caleb to ignite its warmth. You feel it slick under your armpits, your spine, the back of your neck. Your hair clings to your temples.

Caleb moans low and heady when you pulse around him, his breath heavy but still controlled. You know he has excellent stamina. For all your running after him you were never able to keep up unless he let you. When Caleb ran he flew, feet barely touching the ground. Sometimes you have bad dreams that the sky loves him so much it keeps him there. Selfish. This is why it’ll be better if you’re not together anymore. Your brother will be able to fly freely, no longer weighed down by all the burdens that your existence keeps putting on him.

“Oh,” Caleb groans. “You’re so wet. You like this, don’t you? You’re takin’ it so good. You just wanted ge to put you in your place, huh, baby?”

You sluggishly shake your head, contradicting the wetness sticking to your inner thighs. Caleb clicks his tongue and lets go of your arm. His fingers are removed from your mouth to spread open your ass cheeks again; you whine, exposed, then jolt when his wet thumb settles on the puckered little hole in the middle.

“Wait,” you whimper, clinging to the lucidity your slight panic affords you. “Wait, no, Caleb, wait wait—”

“Better relax if you don’t want it to hurt.”

Mean again. He easily swats your hand away when you try to reach behind you. He’s still fucking you, but slows to push his thumb inside your ass. Just a little. Then a little more. You feel him curl it down, pressing against the slow glide of his cock on the other edge of your thin walls, and you go liquid. Your vision blurs, static-white crackling between the space of your ears and eyes, and your body surrenders itself. From far away you hear someone’s voice slurring ah ah ahs, whimpering moans that mingle with the slap of Caleb’s hips against your ass and the squelch between your joined bodies.

“There you go,” Caleb coos. “Yeah. Ge knows what you needed. I’ll always give you what you need.” Soft lips against your head again, your shoulder, Caleb’s thumb working you in tandem with his cock. “My baby,” he sighs.

His baby. You come, tensing and straining, mouth dropping open against the sofa cushions. A ragged sound leaves your throat, scraped against the roof of your mouth. Your whole body shivers with it, little stars buzzing through your veins to burst apart once they’ve reached their destination in your toes and fingertips. They fizzle out with a prickling sensation. Caleb groans above you; his movements falter briefly, then pick up again—rougher, now, lost in what he’s wrung from you. When he comes it’s heavy. Slotted against you as deep as he can go, filling you with his warm spend. Hips mindlessly driven forward until you’ve taken everything he gives you.

Your sense of time has gone fuzzy, so you’re not sure for how long you stay like this, or even how much time has passed. In your daze you only know that you’re warm and safe and full, which is why it’s awful when Caleb eventually pulls out. You whimper in protest, and hear a quiet laugh in response.

“I know,” Caleb says fondly. “It’s okay. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You’re picked up in strong arms and carried to the bedroom. Something soft and damp wipes your body gently, and a warm hand strokes your cheek after you’ve been tucked into your blankets. A body wraps around your own. Arm over your torso, a foot hooked around your ankles. Caleb’s fingers encircle your wrist. Safe and secure. There’s no chance for anything to take you from him, whether it be shadows, monsters under the bed, or your own little feet trying to run from his inevitability.

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