Work Text:
He couldn’t tell him when he was ten. When Mycroft was the sun and the stars. When everyone else’s big brothers were so awful and embarrassing and his was just the best big brother ever. He couldn’t tell him that he loved Mycroft even more than he loved Redbeard, and that was a lot. He was supposed to be a grown up now and grown ups didn’t let themselves be distracted by flights of fancy such as love. Love was not expressed thus in the Holmes household, such softness would be looked upon with disdain and he wanted so very much to be grown up, wanted to be treated as an equal, longed to be seen as anything but ‘William’, to be known as anything but ‘baby brother’. He couldn’t tell Mycroft until he could make him see him as his own person, able to make his own choices, but he didn’t know how to make him see any of that when he was ten, so he didn’t.
*
He couldn’t tell him when he was fourteen. When hormones were rampaging through his body. When the lingering scent of his brothers aftershave would cause him to get hard. When the sound of his voice, those lips, wrapping themselves around his name had him running up to his room, rutting against the sheets, coming hard with his faced pressed into the pillow. Puberty was unseemly and to be conducted with the highest discretion lest it offend mummy’s sensibilities. So he couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell him that when he left for uni he would creep into his bed, between his sheets, turn his face into his pillow and inhale his brother’s scent. That he would touch himself there. Enveloped in it, surrounded by all things Mycroft. That he would come with his brother’s names on his lips, whispered like a benediction and that he would raise his sticky fingers to his lips like an offering, tasting himself and imagining it was his brother. He couldn’t tell him any of these things when he was fourteen, so he didn’t.
*
He couldn’t tell him when he was eighteen. When he was alone. When Mycroft was working and he was at uni. When he no longer had the comfort of Mycroft’s sheets, of his scent. Separate. He couldn’t tell him that he missed him. Missing someone was a sign of weakness and weaknesses were not to be tolerated in a Holmes. He couldn’t tell him that he felt lonely, that he felt wrong. That he had no friends because no one could captivate him like Mycroft could. That he was smarter than everyone here and it was exhausting. Couldn’t tell him that for once, maybe just for once, he didn’t want to be the smartest person in the room. That maybe he would like to hand that responsibility off to his brother, just for a little while, and bask in his presence and just be. He couldn’t tell him that he was taking drugs to dull the ache inside him, the pain of separation, the sickening hollow throb that comes from keeping too many secrets, from having too many things to say and never being able to say them. He couldn’t stand to see the pain in his eyes if he told him these things at eighteen, so he didn’t.
*
He couldn’t tell him at twenty one. Couldn’t tell him around the plastic tubing in his throat and the incessant beeping of hospital equipment in his room. Couldn’t tell him for the pain of his scorched oesophagus where the bile had burned after he had nearly choked on his own vomit. Couldn’t tell him for the weight of his shame and his illicit love sitting heavy on his chest threatening to crush him. Couldn’t tell him for the bone crushing sorrow and disappointment he saw in his brothers eyes. Couldn’t tell him that he had overdosed at twenty one because he didn’t know how to live with what he felt, didn’t know how to keep his feelings a secret anymore but didn’t know how to tell him the truth either. He couldn’t tell him, didn’t know how to tell him, at twenty one, so he didn’t.
*
He couldn’t tell him at twenty five. Couldn’t tell him after years of late night phone calls and emergency rooms, after years of near misses, after years of checking in and out of rehab. Couldn’t tell him after being clean for six months, after slowly rebuilding trust, after slowly starting to see faith in his brother’s eyes again. Couldn’t tell him and risk this tiny fragile thing that is their bond as brothers. No, he couldn’t tell him when he was twenty five, not yet anyway. He couldn’t tell him, so he didn’t.
*
He can tell him when he is thirty. He can. He can tell him how he is the only one who understands him, how only when Mycroft is close does he ever feel like himself. How all the things they learned as children are wrong and it’s ok to be vulnerable with somebody, that it’s ok to tell them that you love them. He can tell him how effected he is by Mycroft’s very presence. How he still gets hard at the sound of his brothers voice. That the sight of him in those sinfully cut three piece suits are almost pornographic to him. That when he touches himself now he slips his fingers up inside his body, rocking on them and imagining slightly thicker pianists fingers. How when he comes he doesn’t whisper, no he calls out Mycroft’s name at the top of his lungs. That he is no longer ashamed of how he feels, no longer afraid of what he feels. That he wants the whole world to know that he is Mycroft’s and that he has always been Mycroft’s. He can tell his brother that he loves him. He can do it now he’s thirty. He can. He can.
He will.
Tonight.