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“Oh, honestly, brother,” Benedict complains when the door creaks open. There’s the glimmer of a lone flame, the sharp underlit cut of Anthony’s jaw before the shuffle of his feet across the rest of the room.
“Hush,” Anthony mutters. The nub of a candle is placed onto the dresser and Benedict watches through the dim as the shadowy figure undresses at the foot of the bed. The clack of his waistcoat buttons muffled on the carpet, the familiar sound of Father’s watch on the dresser top. The slow rhythmic noise of Anthony unbuttoning his breeches, the fumble of him as he wrestles his way out of his shirt. Despite the rude awakening, Benedict helps pull the blankets back so Anthony can collapse into the bed beside him, curling close.
“Not yet asleep?” Anthony asks, his breath fanning over the side of Benedict’s jaw, smelling of whiskey.
“With you making that racket?” Benedict rolls away from the smell of his breath. “Don’t you have several of your own beds to go home to?”
“I was up late working on keeping you afloat,” Anthony says, twisting in the sheets beside him. Benedict shoves at him, both of them bumping into each other in the dark as they get comfortable. “Anyway, this is my bedroom.”
Benedict lets out a laugh. He really is ridiculous sometimes, swanning in and out of the house like it was no more than an agent’s office before disappearing off to his lodgings after supper. Benedict had won the right to move into this room properly two seasons ago and he wasn’t going to let go of it easily, Head of the Family or not.
“That little box room is still available to you,” Benedict teases. “In fact, you have the pick of them considering Mama and everyone is still in the country.”
“I’m tired,” Anthony admits quietly, his voice already dropping off as he starts to fall asleep. “Too tired to hitch across the Square.” He’s on his side, his knees pulled up in front of him. It’s quite the opposite of how he normally sleeps -- all sprawled out, exhibiting his rightful place even unconscious.
Benedict took pity on him, curling behind him. Anthony made a soft noise, his hand reaching behind to grip at Benedict’s wrist and pull him against his back more snuggly, the hammer of his heart pressed against his skin.
*
It had started quite innocently at first. Boyhood explorations in their shared bedroom in youth, the quick learning of the Eton dormitories, that halcyon summer when they were allowed to come to London at the end of the season, racing towards the first time they’d be split apart -- Anthony to Oxford and Benedict up to Cambridge -- and both were introduced to the brutal beauty of a brothel.
Benedict had been afforded much as Anthony’s brother, born so close that their father educated them together, that they went nearly everywhere as a pair. That they were Anthony-and-Benedict, Brothers Bridgerton, spoken in the same breath by family, tutor, and acquaintance alike. Nearly undiscernible in youth, both of them dark haired and rosied by outdoor pursuits. Benedict often felt sorry for Colin, left behind by the mere complication of age. It would take the great leveller of adulthood before it would be the Brothers Three but until then, Benedict was closer to Anthony in mind, body, and soul. It seemed natural to rely on each other, to explore together, to seek out comfort in the familiar hand of the other.
And then it was that dreadful Spring, the joy of being reunited in the country for their vac all follied by the sting of a bee.
Benedict had watched overnight as Anthony closed himself off, the quiet melancholy etched permanently in his brow, the tension of the whole family resting on his shoulders. The responsibility of the estate, the weight of the family finances, of becoming a father to six -- and then seven -- younger siblings.
“I can defer as well,” Benedict had argued with him late one night, the fire in their father’s study crackling. Anthony looked small in their father’s chair, unnatural still being at the other side of it.
Anthony had shot him a disdainful look. It was something he was becoming practiced in, something Benedict was getting used to seeing on the soft lines of his face. “You will not. You’re to return to your studies --”
“And what of your studies?” Benedict demanded, much too loud. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice in these four walls, stepping over a boundary never drawn out between them before.
“Ben --” Anthony broke off, an incredulous laugh bubbling up suddenly between them. They had poured some of their father’s brandy and despite it being smooth, neither of them had garnered a taste for it yet. “That is all over now. I am head of this family. You --” his voice wavered, eyes darting away to look at something over Benedict’s shoulder instead of meeting his gaze --“you must do what I tell you, now. You must.”
It was the first and only time he had said it, the pain in his voice evident. And there, Benedict first realised of the yawning gap that would grow between the paths their lives would take. It had not been designed this way -- their father too healthy and full of vitality to consider it being cut so short -- the inheritance of the title, of the estate, of guardianship not truly considered by either of them a real possibility.
And so Benedict, for the first time, had to reckon with the fact that he was the second son. With all it’s privileges, it came with its own unique dilemma at such a young age -- despite the scant eighteen months between them, Anthony was already on another road entirely. And Benedict had lost his best friend, his closest brother, the one person whom he knew like the back of his own hand.
*
He wakens just before dawn, Anthony shaking under the weight of his arm.
“What’s wrong?” Benedict asks, sluggish after being woken twice in the same night. “You cannot be cold --” Sweat is gathering at the back of Benedict’s neck, they’re pressed so close -- “Are you sick?”
“Can’t sleep,” he murmurs, rolling back into Benedict’s chest. His shoulder lodges itself under Benedict’s chin and the weight is heavy against Benedict’s side, pushing him over onto his back. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
“God,” Benedict complains, his hand sweeping down Anthony’s bare chest. His thumb brushes over his nipple, feels where it’s hard against the cold of the room. “You are insufferable tonight. What’s got you all in a knot?”
“I am not in a knot,” Anthony disagrees but then he’s rolling over, a hand coming down to brace himself over Benedict’s shoulder. The room is dim around them still and Benedict can only make out the shine of his eyes, the wet of his teeth.
“Oh,” Benedict laughs finally. “Come on, then. Let’s work all that frustration out then. That’s all I’m good for.”
Anthony sighs, sounding genuinely irritated. Maybe his hangover is already working on him, the regretful glut of whiskey last night ebbing to the surface. “Now, who is being insufferable?”
Benedict skims a palm up his side, trails his fingers down the neat trim of his waist. He can feel each and every trembling breath Anthony takes, the muscles in his belly quivering. Benedict pushes the pads of his fingers through the line of hair there, hand trailing further down until he can circle his grip around the base of Anthony’s cock.
“I jest, brother,” Benedict promises, feeling the familiar weight of him in his palm. He’s half hard already, his breath hitching.
“Ben,” Anthony groans, sinking down into his grip. “Please, please.”
Benedict laughs against his throat, welcoming the feel of his lithe body against his own. He smells of sleep, the faint musk of his day in the study. Benedict knows he went riding earlier but he can smell it on him too, can taste the salt on his skin where he didn’t bathe before dinner. Benedict bites at Anthony’s shoulder, just to hear the sharp intake of his breath and remind him who it is. Benedict, more brazen than half the women that Anthony ever sleeps with, the one who knows what he likes, wants, and needs. The one that can be rough or gentle, who knows just how much to push before he lets Anthony pull back, slack and give and tension all in equal measure.
Anthony groans above him, rolls his hips into Benedict’s side. His fingers twist in the shirt Benedict is wearing, pulling it tight across his thighs. It twists at his groin, caught over where Benedict is growing hard himself. “Why are you wearing these bedclothes, like a child?”
“Fuck off, Anthony,” Benedict gasps against him, tugging at the night shirt until it’s up over his hips.
Anthony laughs, leaning back so he can work his knee between Benedict’s thighs. “This is better, isn’t it?”
Benedict feels the blunt pressure of his knee against his balls, the press of his hot skin against his own. There is something grounding in this, something he doesn’t find with any of the women he beds in town. Even his new forays into Granville’s parties or the soirees of the Royal Academy, he doesn’t feel the raw freedom in this, the meeting of two of the same, clicking together like two cogs in a new-fangled machine.
There is a security in being with Anthony, a familiarity, a fraternal intimacy that only they know. Together. Here, they are equals, the two of them rehashing familiar territory, seeking out what the other one already knows. Something that was borne to them before they knew of inheritance or titled responsibility, before they cared of social graces or polite moral fortitude.
Anthony leans down again, trapping their dicks in the tight space between their stomachs. They fall into a bruising rhythm, hips meeting again and again and again. Benedict finds Anthony’s hair, his fingers fisting through it, works his hips up into the cradle of Anthony’s pelvis until they’re gasping for air, both of them nearly mindless with it.
*
It had taken months for them to find each other again. Benedict had watched from the distance he was placed as they buried their father, as Anthony stood for baby Hyacinth, as Aubrey Hall slowly reshaped itself under new management.
He bit his tongue as he watched his brother and mother argue over sleeping arrangements, listened as the staff criticised the new order (or lackthereof), quietly took charge of the other children from under Anthony’s nose. Colin was sorted, on his way to Eton, and the three girls fell into line quickly. He interviewed for governesses, let Daphne take her natural place as eldest sister, tracked his father’s favourite route across the estate with Gregory on his back. He arranged for someone to ensure the London house was settled for the winter and quietly erected a hatchment over the door.
“If you don’t sit there,” he hisses, quietly under his breath one evening. “I will.”
They had both went for the seat to the right of the head of the table, their hands gripped around the top of the chair. It was the first time they had touched since the funeral, Benedict realising with a start how cold Anthony’s fingers were.
The rest of the room had gone quiet, the squabble between Daphne and Eloise dying out. The other end of the table was empty as usual, their mother still not ready to dine with the rest of them. On the other side, the footmen exchanged glances, paused as they poured wine.
“Move,” Anthony told him, his voice tight but Benedict had stood his ground. Anthony looked pained, his eyes sharp as he turned towards him. They looked a sight, both of them fighting over the chair, the rest of the family as witness. “Benedict --”
“Take the head of the table,” Benedict had urged him, his other hand coming up to wrap around Anthony’s knuckles and pry his fingers off the wood. It was childish, more reminiscent of them fighting over a croquet mallet or which horse they deserved. His brother had glared at him and Benedict twisted his shoulder, jostled at his side, falling back into old habits to shove him away.
“Ben!” Colin had crowed when Anthony staggered away from the table, his hand going to his side where Benedict had landed a blow.
It was too low, his hand knocking into the soft inside of his thigh. Despite being younger, Benedict often had the upper hand on Anthony physically, building muscle on Eton’s polo field their father’s one gift to him. But he also had the added pleasure of still being able to touch his brother intimately, of knowing what leg Anthony dressed to, of having the underhanded knowledge of where he was still ticklish as an adult.
“Know your place,” Benedict had snapped at Colin, sliding into the chair. Anthony stood with his back to them, shoulders heaving at the affront, as he stared into the fire. The rest of his siblings were staring at Benedict, mouths hanging open in shock. This was new, all of them except the babies at the dinner table and it was turning out to be quite the dramatic event each day. But now, actual wrestling at the dinnertable might be beyond even what Anthony and Benedict could get away with.
It seemed an age but Anthony finally took a shuddering breath, Benedict could see the tremor in his hand. But then finally, finally, he slid into the chair at the head of the table, his face ashen. He was a shadow of their father, his shoulders rounded and slight, pale in his black cravat. They always said that Benedict favoured him more but it’s only now that that fact is taking on new meaning. Their mother had stared at him from the doorway of the nursery that very morning, choked at the sight of Benedict playing with little Gregory. He’ll never tell Anthony, never breathe a word of how his mother looks at him now, the shimmer of heat in her gaze -- anger, desperation, hope, love -- both of them bearing the brunt of this changing relationship.
“You’re going to let him get away with that?” Colin had asked, unsure whether to be amused or worried of a genuine falling out. They were all still afloat, reshuffling themselves within the new house hierarchy and the dining table was just one such place. Anthony was well within his right to pull rank here, surely needed the practice.
With a shaking hand, Anthony swallowed a glass-full of wine, the footman at his elbow refilling it immediately. “Benedict honours me by not holding back.”
And then he had reached for him, cold fingers gripping around Benedict’s wrist, more intimate than the bracing shakes their father would give them for encouragement. An apology. And he had left it there, thumb against his pulse point all through the first course. A reassurance.
*
“What is it you want?” Benedict asks, already knowing the answer. He had known as soon as Anthony had tumbled into his bed tonight, had predicted it when he bid him goodnight in the study, his brother’s head stooped over a ledger for the country estate. It’s just the two of them in London at the moment, the house half staffed, both of them amidst the half-feral dregs of society that have returned already too eager for the ton.
They haven’t shared dinner together all week but Benedict had made sure to call into the study each night before departing for bed, letting him know where he was if he needed him. It was only a matter of time before they sought each other out properly.
But sometimes Benedict likes to hear him say it.
“I want --” Anthony says, this voice caught in his throat. His cock smears wetly under Benedict’s palm where he has it trapped against his stomach. --“to feel like me again,” he chokes, his nose sliding down Benedict’s jaw. He gasps into Benedict’s throat, his fingers scrabbling at his hip. “Please, Ben. Please. You know what I want.”
“Hush, now,” Benedict murmurs, hands strong and sure as he rolls them across the mattress. Anthony goes easily, gasping, stretches out under him. “Let me take care of you.”
“Please, please,” Anthony’s already begging, voice low and ragged, his breath a desperate pant. Benedict staggers out of bed, leaves him there in the middle of the mattress where Anthony looks small, drowned by the size of the bed, overwhelmed by the rumpled sheets.
Benedict hasn’t had sex with anyone else inside the family home before, it would be beyond the decorum of the ton. Plus, his mother would kill him. Instead, he’s a reluctant customer, he attends parties outside of his social circle, spent most of the last season above the modiste, and on one memorable winter holiday had rang in the New Year using Anthony’s vacant bachelor lodgings.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t prepared. Benedict retrieves oil from where it’s tucked at the back of the dresser, meets Anthony in bed with a calming palm around his ankle. He has touched every single inch of Anthony by now, has seen him in every state of wellbeing over the years, has heard every word he has to give. He’s not often like this -- shaken, shaking out of his own skin, in such visible need to be grounded again -- but Benedict understands, has seen him like this when they’ve been separated for long bouts of time, when Anthony is faced with the pomp and ceremony of following his father’s footsteps in Parliament, when he’s shaken down by a bad business decision or under fabricated looming pressure to meet unspoken expectations from beyond the grave.
“Is everything alright?” Benedict can’t help but ask, tucking his knees between Anthony’s splayed legs. He knows he’s been working hard this past few weeks, settling scores and sorting the tentantry. Had been to Hastings House to settle affairs there too. But this is something else, the blaze of something in his eyes, the way his lip is nearly bitten through already. Benedict trails a hand up one leg, feels the way Anthony’s thighs tremble when he pushes his knee up against his chest to have more room.
“Now is not the time for talking,” Anthony groans, spreading his legs wider. His hand comes down to grip at his own knee, fingertips blanching with the pressure.
“Will you tell me later?”
“Benedict,” Anthony snapped, his other hand reaching down to grip at Benedict’s wrist. “Do as you’re told.”
Benedict huffed a laugh -- still so insufferable -- but instead of arguing with him, he thumbs over his hole instead, watching as Anthony’s body seized up at the sudden shock of it.
“There,” Anthony urged, his hand tugging Benedict closer. The angle is awkward, Anthony twisted impossibly, all limbs and desperate breathing, but he’s staring at Benedict, meeting his gaze imploringly and Benedict feels such fondness for him, something inhibited in him unlocking at the sight of his open expression.
The first time they had done this, it had been in the midst of an argument. Benedict had picked the lesser of his battles and packed for Cambridge without him, understanding his role in the family now. To do what he was told, to give his brother the least worry and stress as he could, to follow behind and be ready to shoulder weight at any necessary moment.
“You’ve been meddling,” Anthony had interrupted the final packing. His appearance in Benedict’s doorway had sent the footmen out and for the first time in weeks, they were alone.
“Just helping,” Benedict says, eager with adolescent fervor to defend himself. “With the things that I can.”
“That’s not how it works --”
“I’m the heir now,” Benedict cuts him off, turning so he doesn’t have to see the way Anthony’s face twists. They hadn’t discussed that either, both eager to be blind to it. Benedict smooths down the collar of a formal coat, folds it into the trunk at the bottom of the bed. “Wouldn’t you have helped Father if something needed done?”
Anthony rolled his eyes, sank to the edge of his bed. Even in the low lamplight, he looked stoic. This new seriousness didn’t suit him, Benedict had decided but was unsure how to bring the old Anthony back, the happy and playful brother that had been at his elbow for as long as he could remember.
“You’re a different person,” Benedict had whispered, unbidden.
Anthony’s face fell. “I don’t want to be. I want this all to have been a dream. I want to go back to who I was before this. When I wasn’t the bloody Viscount. Ben-- I-- I just want to be me again. Anthony. Your brother. Just Anthony and Benedict.”
“I know,” Benedict soothed, reaching out to smooth his palm over Anthony’s unruly hair. It was one of his tells, the way Anthony would scrunch his hands in his hair in frustration. Their studies at Eton had brought it out in him. Benedict wasn’t sure how he had a hair left on his head he had caught him tugging on it so much.
“Let me be that support,” Benedict whispered, moving to stand between his knees. “Even if it’s only a little bit. Even if it’s only here.”
Benedict had run his hand across his forehead, fingertips gentle as they smoothed out the crease in Anthony’s brow. He still remembers how Anthony’s eyes had fluttered closed, the weariness on his expression as he tilted his head back.
The kiss of other women didn’t come close. It was never so sure, never fit just quite like this did. They had fell back into Benedict’s bed, amidst the mess of his packing -- his shirts would smell of Anthony until they were next laundered, Benedict would inhale at the lapels all the way out in Cambridge and be struck with such sudden homesickness, he’d be sure he was to return the next morning.
“Will you --” Anthony had asked, voice broken and raw as he gathered up the courage to confess what he wanted. They were caught in each other’s gaze, something unseen tethering them together. “Will you fuck me?”
Neither of them were so green not to know what men sometimes did to each other. Whilst they had been exploring together for years by then, they had both settled in the rhythm of fucking nameless women. Had taken the mantle of their father’s own rakish pursuits to heart and excelled. Had never broached this bridge with another man before even if the opportunity had arisen -- both popular enough at college, that it had -- unconsciously knowing that it was something they must share together.
“A regular molly,” Benedict teased, breathlessly, already reaching for his breeches.
Anthony’s eyes had flashed, a sharp and sudden laugh bubbling out of his mouth. It made him look younger, lifted all that weight that had been settled on his shoulders all summer. “Are you questioning my honour?”
Benedict gathered him up into his chest. His precious brother, still there under all the shackling of the family name. It was easy to get him naked, to fondle the hard length of him through his undershirt, to feel the heat of his neck as he unravelled his cravat. “Shall we duel at dawn?”
“How about you just do what I ask and not question me,” Anthony said, his mouth smearing wetly across Benedict’s cheek.
“You need to work on your authoritative tone,” Benedict answered, trying to make him laugh again.
And it was awful, both of them so unpracticed with what they wanted or needed. Awkward with need, the pain of too eager hands, too hurried to be properly slick and enjoyable. But it had sparked between them, the heady knowledge that Benedict was the only one that could do this with him, the heavy weight of being so close that Benedict knew him inside and out now, the shattered expression on Anthony’s face as Benedict moved within him, the unusual role reversal of Anthony, vulnerable under Benedict’s hands.
“I love you,” Benedict had said, reassuringly, against his mouth. Feeling unmoored as Anthony had shaken apart but ready to piece him together again. “Anthony, brother, I love you. You’ll always have me.”
*
“Come on,” Benedict urges him now, sinking into him again and again. Anthony moans, far too loudly. Benedict goes to muffle him but they’re the only ones here, can be as loud and unruly as they like. He can see him properly now, enough sunlight coming through the window to see the pink of his cheeks, the way his hair is flopping down over his face, his temples sweaty.
They have gotten better at it, Benedict is unbelieving at times that they have made this work this long, found new beauty in it, never grown bored in each other whilst others come and go. Instinctively, they know what each other needs and thrive on the closeness of it. Benedict shifts, drives Anthony further into the mattress. Hard, relentless. Anthony needs to lose himself, needs to find that other person who is buried down deep inside where only Benedict can reach now. He needs to shatter apart so Benedict can get a glimpse of him, tether them in this unchanging momentum of their youth, tie themselve together and tug him back to the surface.
Anthony lifts a hand to Benedict’s face, his fingers shaking and Benedict goes easily, rocking deeper as he bends to meet his mouth, finally, in a kiss.
“Going to come,” Anthony breathes into his mouth, his tongue wet against Benedict’s teeth.
It’s a sharp distraction. Benedict kisses him again, kisses him through it. Sinks into the heat of his mouth and sucks on his lip, a man starved. It’s been so long since they’ve kissed. Benedict can feel Anthony’s smile, his mouth -- the one that matches his own -- curving, the kiss growing messy as neither of them want to pull away from each other. He feels as Anthony finally shakes apart, his fingers twisting in his hair, clenching around him, impossibly tight.
“Fuck, brother --” Anthony cries, his teeth scraping over Benedict’s jaw. His dick kicks between them, smearing wetly, Anthony’s come squelching up Benedict’s belly, hot and wet.
Benedict curls closer, grinds into him and chasing his own release. Anthony grunts at the pressure, his tongue licking a stripe up Benedict’s cheek, eager to touch any part of him he can reach. His heel is to Benedict’s spine, his other hand clenching at his behind, pulling at the muscle to keep him pressed impossibly close and inside.
“Come in me, Ben --” Anthony grunts, his eyes wild and dark, pupils blown wide. He’s nearly feral with it, so unlike the shuttered expression he wears in the study, when he’s making a deal in the club, the stern seriousness he has when he’s discussing politics.
But there he is, his Anthony. The childish satisfied grin, his eyes bright and shining, the way his cheeks are rosied, the wild abandon in which he’s panting against Benedict’s face. They spend their lives within the confines of adult polite society, everything down to their posture, the shade of their neckties, the very words they speak to each other in pleasant company dictated by rules, spoken and unspoken.
Here, though, Benedict does his best to tease it out of him, the intimate honesty of just the two of them.
“Ben,” Anthony cajoles, the Viscount cracking, his mouth turning up into a wolfish grin. His eyes flutter as Benedict grinds into him again, surely too sensitive but too headstrong to let him change the relentless angle or pace, his fingers gripping at Benedict’s skin to keep him going.
Benedict bites affectionately at his jaw, watches as he twists away with a laugh. “Not the face, fuck --” but then he’s coming back at him, teeth sharp as they scrape and lick at each other. The easy way they can wrestle with each other, the learned muscle memory of childhood.
And this is what Benedict needs. The affection of his eldest brother, the loving way he holds him against his chest, the dirty and playful smear of Anthony’s come between them. It takes a few moments of them marking each other, beard burn and Anthony sucking on his ear, his thumb in Benedict’s mouth tasting real, of sweat and skin, before Anthony can clench around him again, so unbearably hot and tight that it has Benedict finally tipping over the edge, his face tucked in the protective comfort of Anthony’s throat.
They lie there for as long as they can, drinking in the heat of each other’s skin, the marvel of still being joined until Anthony pushes at his shoulder, forcing Benedict to untangle himself from Anthony’s limbs.
“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse. Benedict reaches down, thumbs gently over his hole to try and lessen the sting. It’s wet with his own come and it’s easy to push it back in, to pet over where he’s red and sore. Anthony shivers, urging him back down into the pillows to curl beside him and Benedict goes easily, now the one that is rolled into Anthony’s side, their legs tangled.
It’s late now, morning sun properly coming in through the gap in the curtains. They’ll be expected at breakfast at some point. To have both of them missing would be a worry. Anthony’s due at a meeting with their solicitor at noon, Benedict has to finish settling the house for the season but they find the time to lie there, chests pressed tightly against each other until it feels like they’re sharing the one breath.
“I think my time of bachelorhood is over,” Anthony says softly, his fingers brushing Benedict’s sweaty hair from his eyes. “Maybe yours too.”
“Ah,” Benedict murmurs, inching forward until he can press his lips against Anthony’s. Benedict usually doesn’t have to ask Anthony twice to speak to him, knows that Anthony keeps scant secrets -- about himself or the family’s state of affairs -- from him. “Back to real responsibilities of the family so soon?”
Anthony smiles, draws him in for another kiss. “They’re never far away.”
“Yes they are,” Benedict disagrees, fulfilling his obligation to always argue back with his brother. “Not when it’s just us two. Not when we are like this.”
Benedict can’t look at his broken expression anymore, can’t see that tendril of doubt that sweeps in on the tail of his words. Instead, he presses his mouth to his pulse point, sucks on the soft skin there. Trails his lips down to worry at his collarbone with his teeth.
Anthony gasps below him, his hand coming up to cradle at his jaw and Benedict loves these moments, softened with no urgent need to come, just touching for the sake of it.
They’ll both marry, maybe find their own way to love within the confines of those arrangements -- Benedict hopes for it, deep down, for the contentment of their parents’ marriage, for the fortune of family. Benedict is not so naive to think that they’d get away with never doing so but it’s still a blow to have this confirmed, for the countdown to the season to take a new edge.
Benedict sighs, twists his head so he can lay an ear over Anthony’s chest and feel the solid, reassuring thump of his heart below the delicate plating of his chest. Anthony smiles at him, hopeless, helpless, his finger trailing down the bridge of Benedict’s nose, the point of his fingernail pressed to the bow of Benedict’s lip.
“I love you, Ben,” Anthony says quietly, his eyes glassy and tired, boring into Benedict’s when he lifts his gaze to meet him. “I don’t think I tell you that enough.”
Benedict smiles, feels the weight of this conversation solidify uncomfortably on their shoulders, in the twist of their muscles, in the very sinew that binds them together. The same blood and muscle, stretched between them, moulded differently only by age and birth order.
But it’s easy to throw all that weight off again, to remain in their cocoon for just a moment longer, to bite at Anthony’s finger playfully and be enveloped into his yelping growl, the two of them wrestling each other until they’re tangled in the sheets, breathless with harmonised laughter and forgoing breakfast altogether.