Anonymous Writer @writerunnamed - Tumblr Blog

note: I realize everyone is waiting patiently for stepdad Joel (and I'm very grateful for that) but I was absolutely consumed with this, the wrongness of it. Meeting Frankie as a child and loving him so intensely, so quickly and then throwing hormones and sex and the inappropriateness of what you mean to each other into the mix. This is a hefty chapter, and I am warning you know, it is a slow-burn. all of the unhinged step-brother sex will come eventually, have to dedicate this one to my girl @just-here-for-the-moment who is generous enough with her time to read through and lose her mind with me on this. female reader-Frankie calls you Bug. 18+ legal, you're younger in this, but so is he (warnings: s l o w - b u r n, heavy guilt, inappropriate thoughts from both of you—Frankie alleviates himself, alternating pov) 10.2k word count masterlist

--

Everything is the same, but not. For now, your room feels the same, the curtains float along an errant breeze, the sun shines in through the special moon and star cutouts of prism paper your mom stuck to the glass years ago, painting spots on the walls in pretty rainbows like always, but it feels weird. Your fingers trace the flowers on your bedspread under your legs over and over, until the tip of your finger feels strangely numb, but you cannot stop.

“Sweetheart, come down–they’ll be here any minute!” your mom calls from downstairs. Will her voice sound the same once they arrive? The room across the hall from you is all made up, where once there was your old toys and her stationary bike, now there is a made up bed with blue covers, new ones she’d bought and washed for a boy, a brother.

“Sweetheart?” she calls again, your tummy roils but you jump down off the bed and walk out of your room, eyes downcast on the worn carpet until you reach the top of the stairs. “There you are baby, come on down.” Her smile doesn’t inspire one of your own, if anything, it only paints your insides with a bone-deep sadness.

The stairs feel too tall, your palms–slippery with nervous sweat–swipe angrily down the front of your shorts. The denim scrapes them in an almost soothing way, something to focus on instead of the clock ticking down the moments until this little house is no longer just for the two of you, and so you keep swiping, keep pressing them into your thighs.

“Stop that honey, no need to be nervous.” She smiles, holding out her arms even though you’re already up to her belly but you jump at the chance to be in her arms again. She holds you on her hip and the comfort of it is enough to wet your lashes, enough to bruise the back of your throat with tears you don’t want to shed.

“I know, it’s a big change but this is going to be fun! You already know Eddie, you like Eddie, his little boy is really sweet.” Her neck is soothingly familiar under your face, the smell of her perfume synonymous with home.

But this is our house, just us, you always said it was just us forever

They stick in your throat, the words, the feelings, all of it almost too big for your little body. The sound of a car pulling into your driveway creeps into the house, creeps between you and your mom despite how tightly you hold onto her.

“Okay Sweetheart, time to be brave.” Her hand rubs across your back just like it has a million times before she sets you down, crouching down to your level to smile at you. Her bright pink nail polish catches your eye before she wipes the tears away from your face.

“Silly,” she smiles, not unkindly, “I know that soon enough you’ll be so excited to have a friend, a brother in the house.” She presses her mouth to your forehead, your body surges forward and you hug her as tightly as you can, clenching your eyes together and begging, praying, wishing to live in the moment forever.

Just us, just us, just us…

The doorbell rings and even though you don’t let go, she stalls for a moment and you love her for it.

“Time to be brave.” She pulls away gently, and you nod.

When she opens the door, Eddie's big frame fills the doorway, huge, imposing but impossibly friendly.

“Hey, honey.” He gathers your mom up into a big hug, eclipsing everything behind him for a moment. “Hey, Peanut.” He smiles down at you, kind eyes shining and your own smile creeps onto your face without your permission. A boy appears from behind him, clutching at a backpack and the smile evaporates.

“This is my son, Francisco.” He guides the boy in, big hand on his shoulder. His skin is golden, his hair the same dark brown as his father, only a little longer and with a soft wave. His eyes are brown too, curious and big and a little sad. The words are stuck in your throat. He’s taller than you imagined, a whole head taller and you don’t know what to say,

“Hi.” He smiles a little smile, waving at you. The urge to cling to your mother’s leg is strong enough to burn the back of your throat again, enough to want to push them out of your house and run to your room and cry but you take a deep breath, you’re brave.

“Hi.” You wave back.

“Hi Frankie.” Your mom speaks to him softly, the same voice she uses with you and it hurts something inside you.

“Hello.” He smiles at her, moving forward to give her a hug at his fathers urging. The adults smile, pleased with the first meeting.

“Your room is all set up, wanna go and check it out?” She smiles at him, ruffling his hair and he nods. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go show Frankie his new room?” She looks at you then, and somehow it feels like a stab, that it would fall to you to give him the space across from yours.

Silently you lead him up the stairs, and silently he follows, the two of you ignoring the whispers below.

When you reach the blue room, you point, and he walks in, sitting heavily on the bed. Silence stretches between you, it fills the room like smoke, like the thick shafts of light coming in through the window.

“Your mom is nice.” His eyes are so sad, and for a moment a very grown up thought takes root: that just as you don’t want to share your space, he has had to leave his.

“Your dad is nice, too.” Your palms scrape at the denim of your shorts again, soothing, repetitive.

“How old are you?” His leg tucks under his thigh, turning to face you, shoulders slumped, limbs folding.

“Seven.”

Scrape, scrape, scrape

“I’ll be twelve this year.” He sighs, soft eyes scanning the space again before hauling his backpack in front of him to pull out his things. The silence crawls, drags, and your space pulls you back. You ease out of the room, backing away slowly while he pulls books and a colourful gameboy out onto the bed.

“Bye.” He waves, and you wave too, before practically sprinting back to your room and closing the door.

-

It takes a long time to get used to them; masculine, noisy, strange. Eddie laughs loudly, sneezes even louder and watches any televised sporting event he finds at full blast. He makes jokes and cooks breakfast for everyone. Your mom laughs, you retreat within. Their things start to fill the space, changing the essence of it, the girl-ness of your home. Big boots and Eddies work things frame the front door, a recliner infiltrates the livingroom–boy things pop up in the laundry room.

Frankie is a quiet child, precocious, polite, a joy to have around your mother says. He eats all his vegetables, he brings his plate to the sink, he says please and thank you and he reads a lot. You watch him sometimes, when his nose is buried in a book on the couch, or at the kitchen table, or in his bed across from your room. He always catches you looking, always smiles. He’s kinder than you thought he’d be.

When summer ends, your mom enrolls him at your school.

It feels like another betrayal, another aspect of your life you have to share. Your home, your mom, now school. You keep your feelings to yourself though, keep the anger and the resentment buried deep inside because he’s nice, he’s friendly, and some logical, mature part of you knows he must feel awful. It wasn’t you who had been forced to give up their room and their home and move in with people you didn’t know, it wasn’t you who had to start a whole new life in a new school without your friends.

He walks with you on your route, the short, two minute trek across and down the street and when you go to cross, he grabs your hand. Sunlight fills your whole body to feel him clutch at you, little sweaty palm clasped in his bigger sweaty palm as he guides you carefully across a street you’ve crossed hundreds of times. He smiles at you when you reach the sidewalk safely, letting go of your hand while - your other one scrapes down the front of your dress, over and over, a physical mantra to focus on while the too-big feelings fill your heart to the brim.

The ghost of his grip lingers throughout the day. Absentmindedly you flex your hand, feeling the way he held it, grabbing it so effortlessly, and all day you wonder if he’ll do it again on the way home.

You look for him at recess, finding him with his book but for once, not reading it. He’s smiling, a real smile at another boy his age and you’re happy he’s not alone. Your friends chatter and laugh and eventually you join in, scraping your palms down your front at the thought of going home.

When the day finally ends, you find him waiting near the bike rack. Your legs carry you to him in a breathless run, back-pack bouncing, feet smacking on the pavement until you almost crash into him. He smiles, and you walk home. It’s silent, but comfortable. Your shoulder bumps into his arm, hand itching to grab his and when the time comes, you do, slipping your palm into his with a grin you cannot hide. You don’t let go when you hit the sidewalk, and neither does he.

-

Fall really and truly settles over everything, and what at first felt like an invasion, like some sort of hostile takeover of your space now feels normal, feels perfect. Eddie’s huge frame flipping pancakes at the stove or hunched over the truck in the driveway fixing something under the hood.

How was school today, Peanut? Got any homework?

Frankie’s head down in another book at the kitchen table, or curled up on the couch playing video games, or running out the door to ride his bike with new friends. Frankie taking out the garbage or helping you with your math homework, patient and kind and everything a big brother should be.

A nightmare, a bad one, hits well into November, pulling you out of sleep with a scream. The tears come hot and heavy as the world adjusts, the room comes into focus, the moon shines bright in the window but the sobs don’t stop. Your door creaks open but it’s not your mom, it’s Frankie with a knuckle rubbing at his eye.

“What’s wrong?” His hair has grown a little longer since he moved in, a soft brown halo around his head. The sobs rack your body, fat tears falling despite knowing now it was just a nightmare. You choke out the words between sobs, bad—hiccup—dream.

Wordlessly he slips into the bed with you, pulling his shirt up to wipe your tears away like he’d done it a million times. Tender.

“Dreams can’t hurt you.” He lays his head onto your pillow and you follow him. “Want me to stay with you until you fall asleep?” You nod, inching closer to him so your legs tangle up with his.

He nods back, and after a moment of hesitation you cuddle up tight, and fall asleep.

You were inseparable after that, and it felt completely natural.

-

On his twelfth birthday was the first time you saw him truly happy. You ran into his bedroom first thing and jumped into his bed, hugging him tightly while singing happy birthday.

“Thanks Bug—“ he smiled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a huge grin.

“Are you excited about your party?” His room felt like his now, Eddie had built him a huge shelving unit for all his books, the walls were covered in posters, it made you happy. Even though he never denied you entry into his space like some of your friends' older siblings do, it always felt good to be the exception, to be special enough to him to be allowed. To be welcomed.

“Yes, I’m excited for cake and pizza and for my friends to come over—“

“And presents!” You jumped on his bed as he laughed.

“Yes Bug, I’m excited to see if I get presents.” He pulled you down, giving you a big hug before ushering you to the door, “Go get ready for breakfast.”

The kitchen table is set when you bound down the stairs, three presents piled up beside a stack of confetti pancakes. Your mom is icing a huge cake and Eddie is pulling toast out of the toaster with massive hands.

You bounce on the balls of your feet in anticipation, your heart beats like a hummingbird in your chest at the prospect of giving Frankie his gift. Your mom laughs at the way you bounce around, little fingers poking and prodding at the crinkles in the wrapping paper until he finally comes downstairs. There’s a chorus of happy birthdays from everyone, a giant lurch forward to press hugs on him but you beat them all, clutching at him strong enough that he laughs.

“Thank you!” He beams, hugging his dad’s middle while your mom wipes her hands, and then hugging her as well. You follow behind, bouncing more still.

“Open mine first!”

“You got me a present?” his tone is shocked, touched, and it only pulls a bigger smile from you.

“She picked it herself.” Your mom presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Such a good little sister huh? He’s gonna love it, Peanut.” Eddie sets your own stack of pancakes down in the place beside Frankie's, winking at you before sitting at his own place at your table.

Frankie says nothing, only reaches for the present you point at and opens it.

“I saw you reading them–but you were missing the last one!” You bounce in your chair, little legs moving up until you’re almost kneeling. He turns the book over in his hands for a moment, little frown in place until he lifts his head and the smile that greets you there is one that warms you from the inside. Something pure, something secret, something all for you.

“Thank you Bug, I love it!” He drops it and all but tackles you, scooping you up in his strong arms. Tears form, bead and collect in your lashes and you don’t exactly know why but the hug is so tight, so comforting that you hold on as long as he lets you.

-

On his last day of elementary school, you cry. You don’t want to, but you do. Heavy, unavoidable sobs rack your body practically as soon as you open your eyes. They follow you as you brush your teeth, as you get dressed for the day, and when he sees you he lets out a little huff of amusement before wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Don’t cry, Bug, it’s only highschool.” He guides you towards the stairs, shushing you sweetly.

“But, but we won’t be able to walk to school together anymore, you won’t be there.”

“I’ll still be there after to walk home with you, I promise.” It helps, but only a little. Eddie is at the door putting on his boots when you make it down, wiping at your eyes. He frowns at you but sees Frankie’s arm on your shoulder and a sympathetic smile fills his kind face.

“Oh Peanut, don’t cry, it’ll be okay.” He pulls some change from his pocket, “Here, why don’t you guys buy yourselves some candy or something. Don’t tell mom.” He winks, and you take it with a watery smile.

-

The first year he’s in highschool is hard. He keeps his promise though, and you walk home together every day, but his homework keeps him busy and you spend less and less time as he makes more and more friends. Some weekends are normal, and you watch movies together, go out for dinner with your parents, ride your bikes to the store and eat popsicles and drink sugary soda until the streetlights come on and you race home. High on sugar and his smiles and his dreams of being a pilot. Dreams you listen to eagerly.

Most of the time though, it feels like you don’t see him for days. Head buried in his homework in his room, door closed, or out with friends his age, leaving you to glance at the window for the sight of him coming home. Your mom smiles at your frown, knows what you’re thinking.

“He’s getting older, Sweetheart, he wants to be with kids his own age, school and friends and girls.” The frown deepens and she laughs, not unkindly. “He’s your big brother, and he loves you, but eventually you won’t be the only girl in his life.” She pulls you into a hug but the thought lingers like a thorn.

-

Things fall apart a little more. Time declares war on you, on your house, on your hormones. At eleven your period comes, and with that, an anger you cannot explain fills your body like a sudden thunderstorm. You avoid everyone and despite the patience and grace your parents give you, Frankie seems to have none. He sighs, he avoids, he closes his door and hangs out with friends. He’s sixteen and working, he’s so tall, so lanky, awkward and quiet and when the summer before you start highschool comes, he goes to spend time with his mom.

The house is so quiet without him there. The blue room across from you stares like an open mouth, teeth pulled and useless without his form, without his body spread out on his bed reading, without him hunched over his little desk doing homework.

Eventually it doesn’t matter, highschool is busy, old friends and new friends take up your time. Frankie starts working, and it feels like he’s a ghost. The flash of his headlights lighting up the foyer when he pulls into the driveway as you grab a snack from the fridge, his tall frame toeing off his shoes before taking the steps up to his room two at a time with barely a wave in your direction. His voice, deeper than you remember it being rumbling into his phone and the jingle of keys outside your bedroom while you listen to your best friend complain about her boyfriend.

There’s a glimpse of the way it used to be sometimes though, a soft knock on your door followed by the smile you remember. Once he heard you crying and came in, frown in place, voice deep and full of worry.

“What’s wrong, Bug?” Three strides bring him to your bed, bottom of his shirt brought up to wipe your eyes. You choke out the words, the boy at school who you’d been pining after, how he’d asked out another girl, a prettier one.

“He’s an idiot if he can’t see that you’re the prettiest girl in the whole world, don’t cry—he’s not worth it.” He gathers you up and the years disappear, you're still his Bug and he’s still your favourite person. At least until he pulls away and heads back into his room, out of your orbit and back into his own world.

On and on, time passes, and you drift alongside one another. There, across the hall from each other but oceans away. Until he really does leave, military training for his pilot's license as soon as he turns twenty-one.

The distance in the years he was off training stretches, bounces back like an elastic from infinite in his absence, to non-existent when you hear his voice on his rare phone calls home. That missing shape of him in your life comes back into place when you hear his laugh, when he gushes about all his time in the air, when he asks for updates on your life. The beats in your day to day aren’t as exciting as his, but his responses don’t give you any indication that he isn’t completely invested.

-

Eddie is pulling toast with asbestos fingertips when you come down the stairs, a smile on his face at the yawn all but dislocating your jaw.

“Morning, Peanut. Hungry?”

“Yes please.” You all but fall into the chair, elbow propped up to hold the weight of your head up. Your eyes sink low, the result of letting your friend keep you on the phone so late and for a moment that weightless, nameless void just before falling asleep creeps along your form until the door slams and you jolt hard enough to almost fall out of your chair. Eddie wipes his hands on the towel hanging over the oven door while your heart thumps. Belatedly, slowly, he comes into focus.

“Hey Bug, miss me?” He drops his army green duffel but you’re out of your chair and in his arms before it hits the ground. The smell of him hits you first, the clean-sweat, smokiness that clung to his hair. There’s more though, there’s a metallic lick in the crook of his neck, motor oil and ozone and you take it in in greedy breaths.

“I missed you, too.” He whispers it, his arms so much stronger than you remember, his hands flat against your back spanning far larger than you think they should. A breathless laugh, a tightening of your grip, the brick wall of his chest pressing tightly into yours and for a moment you become painfully, embarrassingly aware of the bra you aren’t wearing.

“Give me a chance, Peanut.” Eddie laughs, unaware of the strangeness in your being and you pull back, coming back down from the tips of your toes, coming back down to Earth. Frankie’s eyes find yours before Eddie pulls him in for a big bear hug and you could swear there’s something in his gaze, something that wasn’t there before.

Awkwardly, you sit at your place, swallowing hard and racking your brain as to why your face is so warm.

“It’s good to be home, I can’t wait to show you all how I can fly.” He falls into his chair, his skin is golden from time spent outside, his hair short on the sides but longer on top, different from his usual casual wave but it suits him. “Sorry I missed your birthday Bug, I brought you a gift though–” He reaches towards his bag, digging for something while you fiddle with the hem of your sleep shorts.

“It’s okay–”

“No it isn’t, eighteen is huge… here.” He pulls out a little box, something jewelry shaped. With a smile you cannot contain, you open it and gasp, staring at it. It’s a bracelet, the chain delicate with a tiny little ladybug charm on it. Your hands tremble a bit, the red enamel of the ladybug glinting where the light hits it. Something swells, grows and blooms and you can’t help but smile.

“If you don’t like it I can return it, but I thought it was cute–” There’s a nervous edge to his words and you frown at him.

“I love it!” Again you clamour over, practically jump into his arms clutching at the little box. His nose buries itself in the crook of your neck and you feel the way he breathes you in, again feeling somehow indecent at the fact that you’re bare under your old T-shirt.

“That’s so sweet Francisco, such a thoughtful gift.” Your mom interrupts, or, rather speaks to him but it feels like an interruption and when he pulls away that look is there again, an intensity, a clarity that makes you look away.

“Here Sweetheart, let me help you put it on.” Your mom presses a kiss to the crown of his head just like she always has before smiling at you. When you look back at him, the expression is gone, and you can almost convince yourself it had never been there at all.

“Perfect.” She smiles, and you do too at the way it dangles against your skin.

“Happy Birthday, Bug.” He says it again, lower, almost privately.

“Thanks Frankie.”

The beat passes, the world shifts back into its familiar, normal shape while breakfast is eaten. He talks about his flying, his training and you all listen just as eagerly as he speaks. Your mom snorts out her fear when he offers to take them up, laughing nervously when she declines as politely as she can. Eddie laughs, holding her hand but agreeing that he at least would.

“You will though, right, Bug?” Frankie smiles at you, bright and hopeful and completely undeniable.

“Oh God, maybe? I don’t know, I'm a little scared–” He rolls his eyes, but reaches over to place his hand on your folded knee. It’s warm, and huge and it makes your heart race despite the fact that he’s always been free with his touch.

“It’s perfectly safe, and I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” He squeezes at the meat of your leg, brief, but life-altering.

“Okay, fine. Yeah of course.” You huff out a laugh and he cheers.

“Good God Francisco, please be careful–” Your mom starts, pressing her hands to her face at the thought of you up in the air with him.

“They’ll be fine Honey, this is what he trained for.” Eddie presses a kiss to her forehead while you excuse yourself, nervous and confused and a million other things swimming inside you.

“Me too actually, I should shower and unpack.” He rises alongside you, picking up his duffel and following you up the stairs. When he smiles at you, and closes his door, you let go of the breath stuck in your lungs.

-

There’s something wrong with him.

Frankie lays in his bed, too small and too cramped but achingly familiar and he stares into nothing, admonishing himself about the thoughts–the feelings he shouldn’t be having.

He scrubs a hand down his face, frowning at the empty air, at the comfortable silence of his home. It’s warm enough that he has his window open, the slightly cool breeze rifling through his curtains. He can almost smell her, the fruity smell of her shampoo, the citrusy smell of her bodywash, her soft perfume. Something in his stomach drops and he, not for the first time since he got back, takes his brain by the scruff of its neck and gives it a strict talking to.

Everything they are to one another, everything they mean to each other, a list of all of the things they’ve gone through pops up one by one. His favourite person in the whole world, his sister-

Step-sister. Something else in his head reminds him, strongly.

He thinks about the girl from his childhood, the tears on her face after a nightmare, the smile after he walked her to school or shared his ice cream. They don’t match up with the one who greeted him on his return. That girl is different, she’s taller and smells so good, she’s so soft, so pretty–he growls to himself.

With more force than is necessary, he pulls his phone out and looks up the contact he doesn’t actually want to look up and calls before he loses his nerve. He second guesses himself for a moment but before he gives up–

“Already?” Her voice annoys him, he sighs. “When did you get home?” He can hear the smile in her voice.

“Few days ago.” His voice is clipped, frustrated with himself. She waits, and with clenched teeth he continues. “You busy?” It's vague, but she knows exactly what he means. She laughs, and it sets his teeth on edge. He doesn’t want to meet up with her, but he needs a release, and although he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s terrified of what he’ll think of if he touches himself.

“I dunno, am I?”

“Do you want to meet up or not, I don’t have time for this.” He sits up, long legs swinging over the side of his bed to land on the floor, hunched over and tense.

“Be here in twenty, I’ll be waiting.” She hangs up, and he lets a breath out into the dark. He slips out of his room a few minutes later, closing his door as quietly as he can, pointedly ignoring the door across from his, and creeps quietly out of the house.

The relief is short lived though, and walking back into the house a few hours later makes him feel somehow worse. It makes him feel dirty. Perverted.

The door across from his opens just as he’s closing his own but he stops, watching the sleepy way she walks towards the bathroom, too tired to notice that his door is cracked, too out of it to see the way he watches her.

-

A curious heat, a slow but steady simmering settles deep in your gut. Not all the time, mostly when he’s around, when his voice filters beneath the gap under his door and under yours, or when you find the broad, golden shape of him in the kitchen, the soft light lightening the dark mop of his hair through the kitchen window. Most of all when he smiles at you, when his hand brushes against your shoulder or skims your lower back.

The first instinct is to shove it down deep. To ignore and deny deny deny, but the curious part of your brain dissects, despite the instinct for self-preservation, that human thing begging you to protect your own sanity. You tear into the feeling, put it under the microscope and try to understand. Why does it feel so much like when you had that crush at school, because it most certainly cannot be a crush. Crushes are for boys your own age, for the boys that don’t live in your house. Crushes are not for brothers.

He finds you putting your clean clothes away, smiles and leans against your open door while you place your neat stack of clean jeans and leggings in your drawer.

“There’s a fair in town, wanna go?” His eyes track you as you move the next folded stack to another drawer before he steps in to help you.

“Uh, sure.” The bracelet catches his eye as he hands you your pile of socks. “I’m surprised you’re home.” You grab the little pile of your underwear before he can touch them, part of you knows he wouldn’t while another part still wonders if you want him to.

“Been pretty busy since I got back, haven’t spent much time with you. I miss our hangouts.” He’s too big for the space, too golden, too broad and that curious heat pools low in your gut again, in your hips. You don’t respond, but nod in agreement because you miss it too, miss what it used to be like.

“Okay then, we’ll leave at like seven?” He backs out, and you nod again, breathing deep once he closes his bedroom door.

-

The hem of your dress whips around your thighs in the cab of his truck, an old, beat up thing Eddie had gifted him on his eighteenth birthday. The worn leather is soft against the backs of your thighs. His visor is down to block out the worst of the dying days sun rays as you crawl down the winding streets, weaving through traffic on your way to the fairgrounds.

The radio plays quietly, your attention shifting from the worn-smooth plastic grip on the door, the hint of fall creeping onto some of the trees, to the size of his hand on the steering wheel. It shifts again to his forearm, golden from the sun where it shows under the rolled up sleeve of his flannel shirt, the taunt of his throat over the neck of his shirt.

Taunt?

Your finger goes numb against the car door, worrying at it over and over to focus on something else. Something not Frankie-shaped.

“Excited?” His hand lands on your leg, squeezing at your thigh in that casual, bewitching way before reaching for your hand and holding it like always.

“A little.” He clenches his fingers around yours and the world fixes itself, it’s Frankie, your Frankie. “Yes, I’m excited.” You surround his hand with your other, holding it tight to your lap, holding onto the feeling.

“Are you?”

“Yep.” He smiles, eyes focused on the road, “I want a funnel cake so bad.” He says it like he hasn’t eaten in days and you laugh, giddy with the hope that whatever you’ve been feeling has finally passed, just a little bug—ha—going around. Nothing to worry about now, everything is right as rain.

The gravel of the makeshift parking lot crunches under the tires, louder as he slows down to find a spot, spitting and crackling until he finally puts it in park and kills the engine. Your thighs peel off the seat when you open the door and jump down.

“Lock the door for me, Bug.” You push the little lock and then follow him towards the entrance, your heart skips when he holds his hand out and behind, open towards you for you to grab. You ignore the tripping beat of it, just an aftershock is all. He tucks your hand tight to his side, making you almost hug his arm as you walk towards the entrance and part of you thinks maybe you’re too old for this, holding hands like a couple instead of—

He smiles, pointing out the Ferris wheel and you forget your train of thought.

He leads the way towards the ticket booth, a couple in front of you in line, along with a family ahead of them and wait for your turn.

“What do you think, twenty tickets, or forty?” The sign showed the prices, it came out to about a dollar a ticket.

“I have some money, we could get forty—“ he stops your hand from reaching into your little cross-body hanging near your hip.

“I got it, Bug. Let’s do forty.” You frown, trying again to reach for your wallet but he gives you a stern look, “I said I got it, it’s my treat.” Something in his voice, in the authority of it burns in your belly, turns on a light somewhere behind your belly button.

“Fine. You jerk.” You mumble and he laughs.

“That’s a weird way to say ‘thank you’ hm?” You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder.

When you get to the booth he lets go of your hand and pulls out his wallet, slipping a couple of bills out while you take in the people milling about. The sun is almost set and darkness is falling, making the colourful lights of the booths brighter. Kids hopped up on sugar and the last vestiges of summer run freely, groups of teens, some of which you vaguely recognize, roam the grounds in packs. Families with strollers and little kids crying for too-big teddy bears.

“Thank you.” He nods at the bored teen running the booth before his hand slips over yours again and he pulls you into the madness of it all.

“Okay, what should we do first?” The smell is thicker the further in you walk, savoury and sweet all mingling together, warm sugar, cinnamon, hot oil and salt. The sounds of people screaming and laughing, the metal grinding noise and tinny carnival music of the tilt-a-whirl.

“Ferris wheel?” You point, and he nods.

It’s four tickets each to ride the Ferris wheel and he hands them over, hand sliding down to your lower back to lead you into the little car. Slowly it rises, giving you the perfect view of your city.

“Think we could see our house from here?” You peer out, trying to recognize the streets, plot your way home.

“We might—you should see what it’s like from the helicopter. Can’t wait to take you up.” He leans over you, arm draping around your shoulder as he tries to see from your point of view and that heat crawls through your veins again, despite the air getting chillier the higher you get.

It’s worse when you get to the top and the dress you wore, although very cute was not the right choice. You shuffle closer to him, stealing what you can of his warmth.

“Here—“ he slips the flannel off and drapes it around you, his heat, his smell surrounding you as he pulls it tight is almost as good as a hug.

“But aren’t you cold?” You pull your arms into the sleeves before he answers and he shakes his head, big hands rubbing your legs to warm you up. Just another aftershock, you think as your heart races, pressing yourself closer, just cold is all.

A voice calls your name when the ride is over, stealing your attention when he leads you out of the car. A girl in a group waves, a girl from school.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Chloe, a sweet girl you know from last semester's science class, catches up to the both of you, stopping when she sees Frankie.

“Oh, sorry—“ she gives Frankie a look you don’t exactly like.

“It’s okay, stay and catch up Bug, I’ll go get us a funnel cake.” He smiles and nods towards the busy stand.

“Oh my god he’s so fucking cute!! Who is he?” She clutches your arm, dragging you towards the other girls who all huddle around you. Some of them you recognize, but most of them are strangers to you.

“Oh he’s just, that’s my step-brother.” You smile, fingertips clutching at the sleeve of his flannel. Something sinks, something guilty, never have you ever made that distinction before. Brother, and step-brother.

“Well he’s fucking hot.” She stares at him standing in line, the other girls following suit.

“We’re really close, he’s my brother really, he moved in when I was little so—“ she ignores your backtracking.

“How old is he?” One of the other girls asks, and you frown.

“Um, he’ll be twenty-five soon.” Your nerves are frayed, something about their attention, about the way they stare at him makes you uneasy.

“I think he’s friends with my brother.” One of the other girls mentions, bored with the attention and you’re grateful for her disinterest.

“Why did he call you Bug?” Chloe's eyes are fixed on him, eating him with her gaze.

“I cried once when we were little, I’d accidentally stepped on a ladybug, he started calling me Bug after that.” Chloe bit her lip, barely listening to your words.

“Let’s go on the tilt-a-whirl.” the bored girl chimes in.

“In a minute Erica–” Chloe pulls out her lip gloss, “Is he seeing anyone?” She smiles at you, applying the pink gloss and Erica sighs.

Frankie’s eyes find you then, steaming plate of golden funnel cake in his hands as he gestures to an empty picnic table.

“I’ll see you guys later.” You move to separate and annoyingly Chloe follows until Erica calls her, annoyed.

“Chloe, come on, I have to be home soon. You can flirt with her brother when I leave.” Chloe huffs out an annoyed sigh but relents.

“I’ll catch up with you later.” Chloe stares at him again, barely looking at you until they leave. Some of the girls wave, most of them move on without a word.

He hands you a spoon when you sit.

“Everything okay?” He tears a piece of the steaming hot, interwoven pieces of fried dough, seemingly unbothered by the heat, it reminds you of Eddie pulling toast out of the toaster in the mornings.

“My friend has a crush on you.” You dig your spoon into the giant pile of vanilla icecream on the side of the plate, dragging it through the warm strawberries on the other side. He takes a big bite of everything and raises an eyebrow. His eyes stay on you, on the plate and on his next bite.

“That must have been annoying to hear, little gross for you.” He laughs, practically stuffing his face and you laugh, inexplicably relieved. If he’d asked who, if he’d searched for the group of them in the crowd it might have soured your night.

“Little gross.” You laugh, feeling a little lighter.

“So sweet of you, Bug.”

“I know, I am literally the best.” Icecream drips onto your chin and before you know it his thumb swipes it off, tucking it into his mouth seemingly without thought but the aftershock hits you again, stronger than before. You eat quietly, finishing what you can whilst floating in a sea of impropriety.

If he notices the way you retreat, the way you keep your eyes on your spoon, he doesn’t mention it.

The tickets get used up, the hour grows later and when you yawn he calls the night quits. The crowd has changed as you make your way through back towards the parking lot, from families with kids to older teens and young adults. Your stomach drops when you spot Chloe making her way towards you.

“Hey!” She calls out, eyes sparkling and focused on Frankie.

“Hi–”

“You guys aren’t leaving are you?” She smiles, bites her lip, all of her attention focused on him.

“Yeah we’re heading home.” She twirls her hair, and you sigh, she isn’t even paying attention to you.

“I’m Chloe, it’s nice to meet you–” She holds her hand out for him, and he narrows his eyes at her, giving you a knowing glance before shaking it with a polite smile.

“It’s nice to meet you Chloe, come on Bug, I have an early morning tomorrow.” He drapes an arm around your shoulder and guides you away from her. She frowns, calling out to you but you apologize, tell her you’ll see her later with a sympathetic expression. She huffs out her annoyance, and pulls her phone out of her pocket as you move further away, heart racing at the feel of him guiding you.

“I take it that’s her.” He whispers and you nod, ignoring a warmth that blooms in your belly and between your legs–you shake your head, focus on the cool night air, on the conspiratorial way he laughs and gossips, try to focus on his words and not the goosebumps that form on the skin under the weight of his arm.

-

Frankie’s heart is racing when he pulls into their driveway, and he cannot place his finger on why. There’s a sense of familiarity in the act of killing the ignition, nerves in his stomach like he’s on a first date or something. An unwanted vision comes to him, of leaning over and pulling her in, of kissing her soft, and then not so soft floods his mind's eye and it embarrasses, angers him how badly he wants it.

“Thanks for taking me, I had so much fun.” Her voice is low, almost afraid to be too loud on their quiet street. Her soft tone, the sight of her smiling in his truck surrounded by the streetlights, by his flannel sobers him.

“Of course, Bug, anytime.” He undoes his seatbelt, breathing deep as he looks for his key.

“Next time I’ll treat you.” She slides out of his truck, smiling through the window and his heart melts a little, something slides down his spine, something that educates him on the fact that that smile could make him do anything.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He calls out to her, his eyes sliding down her back as he follows her towards the house, landing like a laser on her legs. He shakes his head, chasing away whatever demon it was in his head.

She locks the door behind her, giving Frankie a flash of that smile again before they tip toe up the stairs. He tries, genuinely tries to keep his eyes downcast but he slips, and his eyes see up her dress. The sight of her ass, of the stretched white cotton of her panties covering her cunt almost stops his heart. He almost trips over his feet, taking a deep breath as he tries to regain his bearings.

He reaches for his doorknob in a daze, but aware enough to make sure his body is turned towards his door.

“Night Frankie.” She looks over her shoulder at him, shrugging off his flannel and handing it to him before stepping halfway into the soft glow of her bedroom and more visions flood his mind, her dress on the floor, her thighs pressed against his ears–he grits his teeth and takes it from her.

“Night Bug.”

When his door is closed, he takes a deep breath and lets out a deep sigh.

His cock hasn’t been this hard since he hit puberty, it throbs in his boxers to the tune of his heart, to the syllables of her name in his mind and in his mouth. He presses his flannel to his nose, eyes clenched tight at the mixing of their scents. The baser, more primal part of his brain filled in the story, filled in the fantasy of them together, of walking across the hall and getting into her bed, of peeling that white cotton off her with his teeth.

He lets out a low fuck, into the forgiving quiet of his room and tries to get back to normal, to leave this unhinged, inappropriate version of himself behind.

He slips into his bed, pointedly dropping the flannel and ignoring the way his cock continues to throb. He turns in his bed and buries his face into his pillow, barely suppressing the urge to bellow. He moves and his cock presses into the mattress, he imagines himself in the cradle of her thighs, grinding the heft of himself against that white cotton, he can almost imagine it in his mind. The heat of it, the slip of it soaking through the layers, the wide spread of her legs to accommodate him. He grinds against the mattress, wondering if she’d pull him closer, if she’d moan in his ear, if she’d beg–he moans into his pillow, ashamed, but unable–unwilling to stop.

He comes with her name in his mouth, and a red hot guilt burning in his belly.

He changes his ruined boxers with shame practically coming out through his pores. He slips back into his bed chastened, remorseful, but worst of all, satisfied.

-

Your mom is half laughing, half squawking when you open the door. Eddie’s booming laugh sounds out after and you smile to yourself, toeing off your shoes and dropping your bag on the bench.

“Seriously? Not an ounce of confidence?” Frankies shoulders are squared, hands on his hips.

“Don’t say that! Of course I have confidence, it’s not you I doubt, I’m just terrified of heights and the thought of being up there is making me sweat.” She approaches him with open arms and he lets her embrace him, towering over her now. Eddie smiles, amused, eyes widening when he notices you.

“Hey Peanut, you’ll go up with your brother won’t you?” He walks over, pulling you into a bear hug.

“Will I?” You ask, it comes out half laugh, half nervous breath.

“Sure you will, you aren’t a baby like this one.” Frankie gestures to your mom with a tilt of his head and she smacks his chest playfully. “I’m allowed to bring my family next weekend for a test flight, dad is working but you’ll come right, Bug?” He presses forward, gathering you up in a tight hug. Your mom frets, begging him to be careful while Eddie reminds her once again that this is what Frankie trained for. You barely hear them though. With him wrapped around you it’s hard to focus on anything but the places your skin touches his, the electricity running just under the surface.

“Please say yes, I really want you there.” His arms squeeze around your waist and your fingers run through the thick, short crop at the back of his head. He pulls an involuntary sigh, a breathy thing you feed into his ear. His body tenses for a moment and you know he heard it so you pull away, laughing despite the warmth that builds in your hips, in the seat of your underwear.

“Sure–yeah sure, of course.” You move towards the fridge, opening it up to grab a drink, and gather your thoughts. When you turn back his expression is strange, serious and knowing and all at once you feel like one of his books, something to be studied and interpreted.

Eddie claps his hands, celebrating while your mom begs Frankie to be careful and safe. His eyes follow you though, quietly assessing while you hastily excuse yourself and practically run up into your room.

You ignore everyone the rest of the day, keeping busy with organizing your things, listening to music and avoiding the slick, slippery way your underwear sticks to your body at the memory of his body close to yours, of the feel of his face in the crook of your neck, of the look in his eye.

Later, when you’re in bed, you think about it for the hundredth time. You can feel the ghost of his embrace, the smell of him in your nose and everything in you burns to slip your hand down past your belly, under the band of your panties and–you sigh. With shame burning in your chest, you turn towards the wall and ignore the ache. When you eventually do fall asleep, you dream of strong, familiar arms, and soft brown eyes.

-

Frankie is so happy, he’s practically bouncing in his seat despite the ungodly hour and it shoos away a bit of the apprehension. Surely anyone that excited has no fear of anything going wrong.

“So when we get there, I have to sign in and speak to my instructor. I’ll sign you in too and once I go over all my checks we’ll go up.”

“Sounds good.” You worry at the plastic handle on the door of his truck with one hand, while the other rubs down the front of your leggings, over and over, chasing that oddly comforting numbness while you stare, unseeing into the distance.

“Bug,” His big hand envelopes yours against your leg, “I don’t want you to be scared–”

“I’m not. Sorry, it’s just a habit, I know we’ll be fine.” You squeeze his hand, ignoring the skip of your heart at the warmth of it.

“Don’t be sorry, you’ll see you’re going to love it.” he threads his fingers through yours and you let out a quiet sigh.

The sun is still a newborn in the sky, painting everything in gold and you can’t help but watch him, the curve of his shoulder, the long line of his neck, his strong arms and the way his hand swallows yours on your thigh. It feels so right, so perfect, so–you stare out the window and try to give your brain a hard reset, slam on the escape key and focus on reality.

“Bug–” The car is stopped at a red light and when you look at him his expression is serious, all of the excitement is tempered and you see him in the dark of your room, remember the cold sweat of nightmares he chased away. The golden light of the sun is shining on his face, a bronze bust of a beautiful man, a roman statue in the museum you went to on a school trip, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his nose, soft brown eyes turned to molten honey and the want, the love for him turns the cage of your ribs into a bear trap around your heart. No, not a bear-trap, a venus fly trap, closing slowly, unavoidable.

“If you really don’t want to, I won’t make you. I don’t want you to be pressured and just because I’m excited doesn’t mean it overrides your fear.” He lets go of your hand, bringing his fingers up to cup your face and the trap keeps closing, the soft brush of his fingers across the apple of your cheek makes you want to cry. You smile instead, letting out a huff of laughter that you hope reaches your eyes.

“Francisco.” You level your stare at him, doing your best impression of someone who isn’t completely falling apart and he laughs, the use of his full name reassuring him.

“I said I’m fine, it is the crack of dawn and I am a little nervous but mostly, I’m really excited, I promise.” You give him your best, most convincing grin and he nods, moving once the light turns green.

The hanger is massive, full of people walking with purpose, including Frankie. You keep up with him as best as you can, intensely curious about this aspect of his life. He greets people as you go along, some with a smiling familiarity, some with a more formal greeting, some with salutes and it’s a bit jarring. He signs in at one office, again at another, collecting special headphones to protect from the noise as well as a flight suit for him and for you.

He helps you step into it, puts the headphones over your ears and then finally you get to an open bay, military helicopters lined up and your stomach drops in nervous anticipation. Despite the protection, it’s still loud, but he smiles and gives you the thumbs up before guiding you towards a man with a clipboard.

The butterflies in your stomach beat incessantly, your fingers find the zipper in your baggy flight suit and worry at it, chasing that tingling numbness while he goes over list after list, while the instructor practically yells into Frankies ear. Other people mill about, other instructors with other clipboards while you wait. Once they give each other the okay, he grabs your hand and leads you towards one of the Helicopters and the bottom of your stomach drops out of your ass.

He opens the door, and guides you in. He steps up after you’re seated, half in to buckle you into the seat. His brow is set in a concentrated frown as he clips you in, pulling your headphones off to replace them with a helmet. His hands work quickly, confidently, checking and rechecking that you are properly fastened. The butterflies swarm again, only now it’s because of his proximity, it's the way his big hands pull at the straps around your waist, your shoulders, the one that comes up between your legs. He gives you a thumbs up after another forceful tug and you’re glad he cannot hear your thoughts.

He climbs into the pilot seat and slips his own helmet on and within a few heartbeats you can hear him in your ear.

“All good?” He gives you another thumbs up, and you smile, nodding.

“Yes! All good, little nervous now.” He laughs, but nods back.

“Okay, just going to go through my checks, and wait until I’m cleared to take off. I’ll be on another channel so I won’t hear you.” You nod at him, and he refocuses.

It’s a different sort of excitement you feel watching him here, there’s an aching familiarity, that same intensity you can remember clearly through the open door of his room, head bent and buried in a book, or homework. His lip is pursed, a concentrated pout and a curiosity takes root somewhere you cannot–will not name about what it would feel to kiss him. Really kiss him.

You shake your head, imagining your brain as an etch-a-sketch to clear at will and focus on the material of the flightsuit under your palms. Over and over you press your palms into the fabric, rubbing until that feeling returns.

“Bug, you’re fine.” His voice comes through the helmet and you smile at him, feeling almost caught.

“I know, I’m just a little anxious but I’m fine, I’m excited.” He nods again, trusting you and it only fills you with guilt, fills you with the inexplicable fear that if he truly knew the thoughts, the feelings you’ve been plagued with since his return, that he’ll pull away.

“Okay, we’re cleared to take off. Ready?” He smiles big and now he’s the one shaking the etch-a-sketch, clearing your brain of everything except his smile. With a shaky hand, you give him a thumbs up.

-

She laughs, and it makes his heart pound in his chest.

The whole drive, the whole walk through the hanger he’d been half-terrified, half ashamed that he’d somehow coerced her into this whole endeavour but finally going up and seeing her laugh had punched him in the dic–gut.

He refocuses, keeps his eyes–however difficult–on his gauges and controls and remembers his flight plan. He keeps his attention on the grip he has on the throttle, on his speed and elevation–

“It’s so beautiful up here!” Her voice, so full of joy makes him smile, “So fucking exciting!”

He laughs, chancing a glance at her and her little face swallowed up by the helmet makes him ache, makes him melt, makes him stiffen uncomfortably–

Fuel reserves, elevation, acceleration

She laughs in his ear again and that disturbed, inappropriate part of his brain wonders if she’d laugh in bed, if she’d smile like that naked and his conscience shakes its head in disgust, in disappointment.

“I knew you’d love it, Bug!” He refocuses, grounds himself in the controls and the flight plan, he adjusts the compass in his head and finishes his test flight.

When he lands, she’s giddy, adrenaline making her bounce in the seat and he rejoices in yet another thing they share. Her eyes are wild as he unbuckles her, careful not to linger for his own sanity and replaces her helmet with the protective headphones. He smiles to himself as she grabs his hand, following closely behind as he guides her back inside. Something in his chest preens at the way she holds onto him, the way his hand fully envelops hers, something in him loves that he’s so much bigger, so much taller.

His instructor finds him, calling him over to go over his flight and she nods when he tells her to wait for him with the other families.

He gets the all clear, his flight had gone perfectly despite his mental state, despite the glaring distraction of her beside him. He’s excited to get home, to tell his family that he’s practically certified. Her face lights up when she spots him and his heart swells to grinch-like proportions.

“Ready to go?” He smiles, hugging her tight despite his earlier plan to not linger, he cannot help himself. He breathes her in and he can smell the fuel mixing with shampoo on her, acrid and sweet and he takes it into his lungs before pulling away. The memory of her sigh, the breathy little hitch in her throat from the other day came to him again. An inkling, a suspicion he cannot fathom floods his brain at the way she bites her lip, at the frantic way she looks away from him fills him with a perverse hope that she might feel a fraction of what he feels. She pulls away though, fiddling with the sleeve of her suit and he lectures his loins.

“Yes!” She nods, and he guides her back the way they came, helping her out of the suit before making their way back home.

-

Your parents wait for you in the kitchen, both of them sitting at the table when you step through the door, still buzzing with adrenaline.

“Everything okay?” Frankie notices them before you do, stopping at the mouth of the kitchen. They sit together, hands clasped and for a moment you’re terrified, another separation, another upheaval of your life but they smile and it’s happiness you see between them.

“We have some news, take a seat.” Eddie gestures to the chairs and Frankie pulls yours out before sitting at his own place. You search Eddie’s face, hoping your earlier suspicion isn’t right, the thought of losing the best fatherly figure you’ve ever had burning in your throat. You’re quiet, not trusting your voice while you wait with your heart in your belly.

“We’re getting married!” Your mom gushes, practically screaming it out before pushing her left hand forward. The ring on her finger shines in the light of the kitchen and the relief at not having your family ripped apart only lasts a few minutes. The shape of Frankie beside you burns in your peripheral. A million questions pop up, about your relationship to him, what you mean to each other, what you feel for him–Eddie reaches over and grabs your hand in his massive ones.

“I wanted to ask you first, Peanut, but I got ahead of myself. You okay if I marry your mom?” His eyes are so kind, so loving and you let out a huff of laughter. “Of course.” You smile and his eyes turn red, shiny with tears you’ve never seen and it burns hotter in your throat, the softness of him compared to the sheer size of him. A teddy bear, a dad. That would make Frankie…oh god.

-

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