Archive of Our Own

The sandwich landed on Malcolm's textbook with a wet thud. Peanut butter seeped into the pages of his algebra homework before he could react. "What the hell, Reese?"

Reese grinned, leaning against the doorframe of Malcolm's bedroom like he hadn't just ruined thirty minutes of work. "Thought you might be hungry," he said, shrugging.

Malcolm stared at him. Reese never brought him food unless he wanted something. But there was no favor asked, no smirk that suggested sabotage. Just Reese, still grinning, like he'd done something nice. Malcolm peeled the sandwich off his book, grimacing at the sticky mess. "Since when do you care if I eat?"

Reese's grin flickered, just for a second. "Since never," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching out of the room.

Malcolm frowned at the doorway. Weird. But then, Reese was always weird. He tossed the ruined sandwich in the trash and went back to his homework, trying to ignore the lingering scent of peanut butter.

The next day, Reese dumped a handful of candy bars on Malcolm's desk during study hall. Malcolm looked up, baffled. "Are you *trying* to get caught?" he hissed, eyeing the teacher’s desk.

Reece shrugged again, but his ears were pink. "You like these, right?"

"Yeah, but—" Malcolm stopped. Why was Reese *watching* what he liked? "What’s your deal lately?"

Reese didn’t answer. He just walked away, leaving Malcolm with a pile of contraband and a growing sense of confusion. Malcolm shoved the candy into his backpack before Mrs. Phelps could turn around, but his fingers lingered on the wrappers. The crinkling sound reminded him of summer vacations when Reese used to steal his snacks instead of giving them.

At dinner, Lois narrowed her eyes as Reese passed Malcolm the mashed potatoes without being asked. "Did you spit in these?" Malcolm asked, poking them suspiciously.

Reese’s jaw tightened. "No."

Dewey, mouth full, pointed between them. "Did Reese poison you and this is your ghost?"

Jamie giggled, smashing peas into his hair. Hal, oblivious, reached for seconds. Malcolm watched Reese stab his meatloaf with unusual focus, shoulders hunched.

Later, in the bathroom, Reese cornered him while Malcolm was brushing his teeth. "You never said thanks. For the candy."

Malcolm spat toothpaste into the sink. "Because it’s *weird*. You’re being weird."

Reese’s reflection in the mirror looked like he’d been punched. "Forget it," he muttered, shoving past him.

Malcolm stared at the empty doorway. Was Reese… *hurt*? That was new. He rinsed his mouth, replaying the last week—the sandwich, the candy, how Reese kept finding excuses to linger near his locker. A cold realization dripped down his spine.

Oh.

*Oh no.*

He dropped his toothbrush into the cup with a clatter.

The next morning, Reese was waiting by his bike. He thrust out a dented CD case—*Smash Mouth’s* "Astro Lounge." Malcolm’s favorite. "Thought you lost yours," Reese mumbled, scuffing his shoe on the pavement.

Malcolm took it slowly. "You *hate* Smash Mouth."

Reese’s face flushed. "So?"

There it was. The desperate, hopeful glint in Reese’s eyes. Malcolm’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t pretend not to see it now. "Look, Reese—"

Reese’s expression shuttered. "Never mind," he snapped, stomping away before Malcolm could finish.

Malcolm exhaled, clutching the CD. Shit. This was bad.

He found Reese sulking behind the bleachers before homeroom, kicking gravel. Malcolm hesitated, then sat beside him. "You know we're brothers, right?"

"Obviously," Reese growled, cracking his knuckles.

"I mean—" Malcolm floundered, heat creeping up his neck. "You *like* me. Like... *like* like."

Reese froze. His throat worked silently before he blurted, "So?"

Malcolm groaned. "So it's *gross*."

Reese's face darkened. "You're gross."

"Yeah, well—" Malcolm fidgeted with the CD case. He should walk away. But Reese looked like a kicked dog, and guilt prickled under his skin. "Just... stop with the gifts, okay? It's not gonna happen."

Reese lunged up suddenly, shoving Malcolm against the chain-link fence. His breath smelled like stale Doritos. "You think I *want* this?" he hissed, fingers digging into Malcolm's shoulders.

Malcolm blinked. "Uh. Yeah?"

Reese faltered, his grip loosening. His eyes darted over Malcolm's face—his mouth, specifically—before he stepped back with a strangled noise. "Screw you," he muttered, but it lacked his usual venom.

The next few days were agony. Reese stopped bringing gifts but couldn't stop *looking*. During chem lab, Malcolm caught him staring at his hands while he measured reagents. At dinner, Reese "accidentally" brushed his foot against Malcolm's under the table, jerking away like he'd been burned. Malcolm pretended not to notice, but his skin prickled where Reese had touched him.

It all came to a head in the garage on Saturday. Malcolm was fixing his bike chain when Reese shoved a rusted toolbox at him. "Here," Reese grunted, avoiding his eyes.

Malcolm sighed. "Reese—"

"I *know*," Reese interrupted, his voice cracking. He gripped the edge of the workbench, knuckles white. "It's messed up, okay? But when you—when you laugh at Dewey's stupid jokes, or get all nerdy about space crap, I just..." He trailed off, jaw clenched.

Malcolm's stomach flipped. *Oh God, he's serious.*

Reese swallowed hard, staring at the oil stains on the floor. "I tried to stop," he admitted, so quiet Malcolm almost missed it. "But I think... I might be into you. Like *really* into you."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Malcolm's pulse roared in his ears. He should say no. Should laugh it off. But Reese's raw honesty disarmed him—Reese, who'd never been vulnerable a day in his life.

Malcolm wiped his greasy hands on his jeans. "You're an idiot," he said finally, but his voice wavered.

Reese's head snapped up. His eyes were wide, hopeful. "Yeah," he breathed. "So?"

Malcolm shoved past him, knocking the toolbox over with a clatter. "No. Never." He didn't look back as he pushed out of the garage, but he could *feel* Reese staring after him—could almost hear the way his breath hitched before the garage door slammed shut.

At dinner that night, Reese didn't take his usual seat beside Malcolm. He slumped at the far end of the table, shoveling food into his mouth without tasting it. Dewey glanced between them, then kicked Malcolm's shin under the table. "What'd you do to him?" he whispered.

"Nothing," Malcolm muttered, stabbing his meatloaf. But Lois' sharp eyes lingered on Reese's hunched shoulders, then flicked to Malcolm's white-knuckled grip on his fork. She didn't ask. Just passed the peas with a frown.

The weeks blurred into a tense routine. Reese stopped initiating contact, but Malcolm caught him staring—during showers when he thought Malcolm wasn't looking, in the reflection of the toaster when Malcolm buttered his toast. Once, Malcolm woke to find Reese's hoodie draped over him like a blanket, still warm. He threw it across the room, heart hammering.

The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday. Malcolm found Reese sitting on his bed—*his* bed—holding Malcolm's favorite NASA shirt. Reese looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "Smells like you," he said hoarsely.

Malcolm's stomach twisted. He yanked the shirt away. "Get out."

Reese went. But not before Malcolm saw the way his fingers trembled—the way he bit his lip raw to keep it from wobbling.

That night, Malcolm lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The shirt still smelled faintly of Reese's sweat. He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply before he realized what he was doing. With a hissed curse, he flung it into the laundry hamper.

But his skin burned where the fabric had touched him.

Three days passed without Reese appearing for breakfast. Malcolm told himself he didn’t care—until he caught himself counting the empty hooks in the mudroom where Reese’s jacket should’ve been. On the fourth morning, Lois slammed a plate of pancakes down in front of him. "Where’s your brother?" she demanded, like Malcolm was hiding him.

Malcolm chewed his lip. He knew exactly where Reese went when he was upset—the abandoned treehouse in the woods behind the school, the one they’d built together years ago before everything got complicated. The thought of going there made his pulse spike, but the alternative—Reese alone in the rain with God knows what in his head—was worse.

The treehouse smelled of damp wood and stale beer when Malcolm finally climbed up. Reese was slumped in the corner, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy. "Go 'way," he slurred, not looking up.

Malcolm’s chest tightened. Reese never drank. Not like this. "You’re an idiot," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. He crouched beside him, wrinkling his nose at the sour alcohol stench. "Mom’s pissed."

Reese barked a laugh. "Yeah? Tell her her son’s a fag." The word landed like a punch. Malcolm flinched.

"You’re not—"

"*Aren’t* I?" Reese’s voice cracked. He finally looked up, and the raw hurt in his eyes knocked the breath from Malcolm’s lungs. "I can’t *stop*, Malcolm. Every time you—" He gestured helplessly, the bottle sloshing. "It’s *you*. Always you."

Malcolm swallowed hard. He reached for the bottle, but Reese jerked it away. "So... you’re gay. Fine. There’s gotta be other guys—"

Reese laughed, sharp and ugly. "You think I haven’t *tried*?" His fingers dug into his own thighs. "Went to that stupid movie with Kenny. Let Craig feel me up behind the bleachers. It’s *nothing*. Feels wrong. ‘Cause it’s not—" His throat worked. "*You*."

A cold drip of dread slid down Malcolm’s spine. Reese wasn’t just drunk—he was *wrecked*, voice thick with something dangerously close to despair. Malcolm fumbled for logic. "Look, feelings fade. They *have* to—"

"Do they?" Reese’s whisper was ragged. He leaned forward, close enough that Malcolm could count the flecks of gold in his bloodshot eyes. "You ever want someone so bad it *hurts*?" His breath hitched. "Like... maybe if you can’t have ‘em, what’s the point?"

The quiet admission punched through Malcolm’s ribs. He grabbed Reese’s wrist—too tight, nails biting in. "Don’t. You *don’t* mean that."

Reese didn’t pull away. Just stared at their hands, his pulse rabbiting under Malcolm’s fingers. "Why not?" he murmured. "You don’t want me. You said."

Malcolm’s throat closed. The treehouse walls pressed in, the air thick with spilled beer and Reese’s ragged breathing. His mind raced—Reese wasn’t *serious*, right? But the hollowness in his voice, the way his fingers twitched toward the pocketknife on the floorboards—shit. Reese *never* carried a knife unless he was planning trouble. Malcolm remembered last summer, when Reese had drunkenly threatened to carve his initials into Craig’s locker after a fight. He’d laughed it off then. Now, ice slithered down his spine.

"You’re scaring me," Malcolm admitted, voice cracking.

Reese flinched like he’d been struck. His grip on the bottle loosened. "That’s not—" He swallowed hard. "I wouldn’t—"

"I *know*," Malcolm lied. He reached out, hesitated, then grabbed Reese’s face, forcing their foreheads together. "Just. *Breathe*, okay?"

Reese shuddered. His breath smelled sour, but his skin was warm under Malcolm’s palms. Too warm. "Why do you *care*?" Reese whispered, fingers digging into Malcolm’s wrists.

Malcolm’s pulse pounded in his ears. He could lie. Should lie. But— "Because you’re *you*," he blurted. "And if you—if you *stopped being you*—" His voice broke.

Silence. Then Reese’s rough exhale, uneven against Malcolm’s lips. So close. Too close.

Malcolm’s brain short-circuited.

"Kiss me," he heard himself say.

Reese recoiled like he’d been burned. "*No*."

"Why *not*?" Malcolm demanded, heat flaring in his cheeks.

"Because you don’t *mean* it!" Reese shoved him back, voice raw. "You’re just—fuck—*pitying* me—"

Malcolm’s stomach lurched. Was he? He stared at Reese’s chapped lips, the way they trembled. The thought of touching them sent a jolt down his spine—half terror, half something else. "I’m *not*," he insisted, but it sounded weak even to himself.

Reese wiped his face with his sleeve. "Go home, Malcolm."

Malcolm hesitated, then stood on unsteady legs. "You’ll—you’ll come back too?"

Reese didn’t answer, just curled into himself, shoulders hunched.

The walk home felt longer than usual. The rain had stopped, but the damp air clung to Malcolm’s skin like guilt. He paced his room, listening for the front door.

When it finally creaked open, Lois’ voice sliced through the house. “Where the *hell* have you been?”

Hal’s softer but insistent murmurs followed—something about responsibility, curfews, disappointment. Malcolm pressed his ear to the door, catching Reese’s mumbled response, then the heavy stomp of his shoes from the kitchen towards their shared bedroom. The bedroom door swung open a moment later, Reese’s silhouette slumped against the doorframe before he staggered to his bed.

Dewey, curled on his side of the shared double bed, snored softly into his dinosaur pillow—oblivious. Reese collapsed onto his own single mattress with a groan, smelling of rain and something sharper—vodka, maybe—the stench of desperation clinging to him. Malcolm hovered, toeing the line between their beds, then dropped to his knees beside Reese’s, his pulse hammering in his temples. “You came back,” he murmured, as if Reese’s presence wasn’t a miracle in itself.

Reese flinched when Malcolm’s fingers brushed his wrist. “Don’t,” he slurred, turning his face into the pillow, but Malcolm tightened his grip, pressing Reese’s knuckles against the scratchy blanket. "Just—stop—" Reese’s voice cracked—pleading or furious, Malcolm couldn’t tell—but his fingers twitched, warm and rough under Malcolm’s palm.

“I *will* think about it,” Malcolm whispered, leaning in too close for plausible deniability. The words tasted dangerous, like gasoline fumes. “All of it. Not—not joking.”

Reese exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes screwed shut. “Why?”

Malcolm’s fingers twitched against Reese’s wrist—too warm, pulse too fast. “Because you scared the shit out of me tonight.” The confession slipped out before he could stop it, raw and unpolished. Reese’s eyelids fluttered open, pupils blown wide. Malcolm swallowed hard. “And because… maybe I don’t *not* want to kiss you.”

A beat. Then Reese’s free hand shot up, gripping Malcolm’s collar with drunken desperation. “Don’t *fuck* with me,” he breathed, but his thumb brushed Malcolm’s throat, feather-light.

Malcolm didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every nerve screamed—this was wrong, this was Reese, this was— His breath hitched when Reese’s fingers slid higher, grazing his jaw. Testing.

Dewey snorted in his sleep, rolling over. The sound startled them apart like guilty thieves. Reese yanked his hand back, staring at his fingers like they’d betrayed him.

Malcolm stood abruptly, knees popping. “Tomorrow,” he muttered, backing toward his own bed. “We’ll—talk.” The word tasted inadequate.

Reese’s laugh was jagged. “Sure.”

Malcolm lay awake long after Reese’s breathing evened out, replaying the tremor in Reese’s fingers against his skin. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 2:47 AM when he finally gave up on sleep and crept to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection looked foreign—eyes too wide, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. He gripped the sink, knuckles whitening. *What the hell am I doing?*

A floorboard creaked behind him. Malcolm spun, heart lurching—only to find Reese silhouetted in the doorway, swaying slightly. The drunk haze had cleared from his eyes, replaced by something sharper, hungrier. “You said tomorrow,” Reese murmured, stepping closer. The door clicked shut behind him. “It’s tomorrow.”

Malcolm’s pulse rabbited. “I meant—*later* tomorrow. After—”

Reese crowded him against the sink, hands braced on either side. His breath hit Malcolm’s lips—mint and vodka, warm and insistent. “Liar.” The word ghosted over Malcolm’s mouth, a challenge. “You’ve been thinking about it all night.”

Malcolm’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He could lie. Should lie. But Reese’s gaze was molten, his hips pressing closer, and—oh. Oh, *that* was hard against his thigh. Malcolm’s knees wobbled. “Shut up,” he whispered, but it came out breathless.

Reese didn’t hesitate. His lips met Malcolm’s—soft at first, testing. Malcolm froze, then forced himself to relax, exhaling through his nose as he tilted his head. The kiss was clumsy, off-center, but Reese’s fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. When Reese’s tongue traced his lower lip, Malcolm gasped—and Reese took advantage, deepening the kiss with a desperate noise that vibrated through Malcolm’s ribs.

Heat flooded Malcolm’s stomach. His hands fluttered, then landed on Reese’s waist, gripping tight. Reese groaned, pressing him harder into the sink’s edge—until Malcolm broke away, panting. “You—” His voice cracked. “That was my first kiss.”

Reese went rigid. “Shit. *Shit*, I didn’t—” His hands dropped like Malcolm burned him. “Fuck, I ruined it—”

Malcolm caught his wrist before he could retreat. “No.” He licked his lips—still tingling—and watched Reese’s pupils dilate. “It was… nice.” The admission burned his cheeks.

Reese stared. “Nice?” His voice was rough, disbelieving.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and yanked him back in by the collar. Their teeth clacked, but Reese melted against him instantly, hands cradling Malcolm’s face like he was something precious. This kiss was slower, sweeter—Reese’s tongue sliding against his with deliberate patience, as if memorizing the taste. Malcolm shuddered, fingers tightening in Reese’s hair.

“Better?” Reese murmured against his lips, thumbs brushing Malcolm’s cheekbones.

Malcolm nodded, dazed. His knees felt like gelatin. Reese kissed him again, deeper this time, his hips pressing Malcolm harder into the sink. The porcelain dug into his back, but the pain barely registered—not with Reese’s hands slipping under his shirt, calloused palms skating up his ribs. Malcolm gasped, breaking the kiss.

Reese pulled back immediately, his breath ragged. “You okay?” His fingers trembled against Malcolm’s waist, like he was afraid to hold on—or afraid to let go.

Malcolm swallowed. “Yeah.” His voice came out hoarse. Reese hesitated, eyes searching Malcolm’s face for any hint of discomfort. Malcolm’s stomach twisted—the realization hitting him like a freight train. Reese wasn’t just worried. He thought Malcolm was forcing himself. That he didn’t *want* this. The thought was so ridiculous, Malcolm acted without thinking. He grabbed Reese’s waist, yanking him flush against his own body—their hips slotting together in one sharp, unmistakable press. Reese gasped, his erection hot and heavy against Malcolm’s through their thin pajama pants.

Malcolm kissed him again, deep and messy, their bodies fused together. Reese moaned against his mouth, hands fisting in Malcolm’s shirt like he was drowning. When Malcolm finally pulled back, Reese’s pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen. “Jesus,” Reese breathed, swaying slightly. Then, without warning: “I love you.”

The words hung between them, sharp as shattered glass. Malcolm froze—heart hammering—but Reese squeezed his hand like a lifeline, waiting. Malcolm exhaled shakily and brought his other hand up to Reese’s cheek, thumb brushing the flushed skin. “I know,” he whispered. Reese shuddered, leaning into the touch. “But we should—slow down. Right?”

Reese’s throat bobbed. He nodded, stepping back just enough to let cool air rush between them. Neither let go.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaked—Lois’ unmistakable midnight prowl. Reese’s grip tightened. Malcolm held his breath until her footsteps faded. When he met Reese’s eyes again, the raw hope there made his chest ache. “Tomorrow,” Malcolm mouthed, barely a sound.

Reese nodded once, slow and certain—like he’d wait forever if he had to.

Malcolm crept back to bed, his lips still buzzing. He lay stiff under the covers, replaying Reese’s hands on him—the way his calloused thumbs had dipped into the hollows of his hips. Down the hall, the faucet dripped. Dewey mumbled in his sleep. Reese’s breathing stayed uneven, jagged. Malcolm knew without looking that Reese was gripping the sheets, knuckles white, just like he was.

Morning light bled through the curtains too soon. Malcolm blinked gritty eyes, rolling onto his side—and froze. Reese was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching him. His hair stuck up in wild tufts, his mouth curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his tired eyes. “Hey,” he rasped, voice rough from last night’s vodka.

Malcolm’s stomach flipped. “Hey.”

Dewey sat up suddenly between them, rubbing his eyes. “Why’re you guys being weird?” He squinted at Reese’s rumpled clothes, Malcolm’s flushed neck. Reese threw a pillow at him. “Shut up, loser.”

Breakfast was agony. Lois kept eyeing Reese’s shaking hands as he stabbed his pancakes. Hal prattled about carburetors. Malcolm chewed mechanically, hyperaware of Reese’s sneaker brushing his ankle under the table—once, twice, then staying put, warm and insistent.

Malcolm flushed. “Shut *up*.”

The bell rang. Reese caught Malcolm’s wrist as the crowd surged past. “Treehouse. After school,” he muttered, thumb stroking Malcolm’s pulse point. Then he was gone, leaving Malcolm’s skin burning.

When Malcolm climbed the rickety ladder that afternoon, Reese was waiting—cleaned up, sober, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. The moment Malcolm’s head cleared the hatch, Reese lunged, pinning him to the sun-warmed floorboards. “Tell me to stop,” Reese breathed, lips hovering over Malcolm’s.

Malcolm’s pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t.

Reese kissed him like he’d been starving—deep, messy, all teeth and desperation. Malcolm gasped when Reese’s hand slid under his shirt, calloused fingertips mapping the dip of his ribs. “Wait—” Malcolm grabbed Reese’s wrist, but Reese misinterpreted, pulling back instantly. His chest heaved. “Too much?”

Malcolm shook his head, throat dry. “Just… slow down.” He guided Reese’s hand back to his waist, watching Reese’s pupils blow wide.

A twig snapped outside the treehouse. Malcolm jerked, heart slamming against his ribs. Reese’s fingers dug into his hips, anchoring him. “Who cares?” he muttered against Malcolm’s temple. “Let ‘em look.”

Malcolm stiffened. “You’re serious?”

Reese nipped his jaw. “Damn right.” His breath hitched when Malcolm squirmed. “Wanna show everyone you’re *mine*.” The possessiveness sent heat spiraling through Malcolm’s belly—and icy dread right after.

“Reece.” Malcolm caught his wrists. “Homophobic assholes. Incest laws. *Mom*.” He swallowed. “They could—fuck, they could take Jamie away if—”

Reese went still. His thumbs traced Malcolm’s pulse points, steady. “Then we don’t get caught.”

Malcolm huffed. “Genius plan.”

“Shut up.” Reese kissed him, slow and deep. When he pulled back, his smirk was crooked. “We’re smarter than them.”

Malcolm exhaled shakily. Reese’s confidence was terrifying—and weirdly comforting. He traced the scar on Reese’s knuckles, the one he’d gotten defending Malcolm in fifth grade. “Why me?” he blurted.

Reese blinked. “Huh?”

“Out of everyone.” Malcolm’s throat tightened. “Why *me*?”

Reese’s expression softened. He leaned in, lips brushing Malcolm’s ear. “Remember when you broke your arm?” His voice was low, rough. “You cried all night. Dad snored through it. Mom popped sleeping pills. But I stayed.” His fingers tangled in Malcolm’s hair. “Held your good hand til you passed out. Next day, you told everyone you weren’t scared ‘cause I was there.” Reese’s breath hitched. “That’s when I knew.”

Malcolm’s chest ached. He remembered—Reese’s hand warm in his, the way his thumb had rubbed circles over Malcolm’s pulse. “You never said.”

“‘Course not.” Reese snorted, but his eyes were bright. “Was busy convincing myself it was just—brother shit.” His grin turned wry. “Then you turned fourteen and grew into your elbows. Fuckin’ traitor.”

Malcolm elbowed him—on purpose this time. Reese yelped, then pinned him down, their hips slotting together. Malcolm gasped at the friction. “What do you *want*, Reece?” he breathed.

Reese stilled. His gaze dropped to Malcolm’s mouth. “Everything.” The word was raw, honest. “But.” He swallowed hard. “Whatever you’ll give me.” His fingers flexed on Malcolm’s waist—holding on, but ready to let go.

Malcolm’s breath caught. Reese’s eyes were dark and serious, no jokes, no teasing. Just the terrifying weight of truth. “You don’t… hate yourself?” Malcolm whispered. “For this?”

Reese scoffed, but his thumb traced Malcolm’s hipbone through his jeans. “Hate myself?” His voice dropped, rough with something like awe. “Mal, you’re—fuck. The way you *think*. How you bite your lip when you’re pissed.” His palm slid up Malcolm’s ribs, slow, reverent. “You’re *beautiful*. And yeah,” he admitted, cheeks flushing, “I’m horny as hell for you. But it’s not *just* that.” His fingers curled into Malcolm’s shirt. “You’re my favorite person. Always have been.”

Malcolm’s pulse stuttered. Reese sounded *proud*. Like this—like *them*—was something to brag about.

“Still.” Reese exhaled sharply. “I’ll keep it secret. If that’s what you need.” His jaw tightened. “But—” He hesitated, then forged ahead, reckless. “I’d *like* to be more open about our... whatever relationship you'll let me have with you.”

Malcolm’s stomach twisted. He pictured Lois’ face if she walked in right now—her perfect eldest and middle sons tangled together, Reese’s fingers hooked in Malcolm’s belt loops. The horror would be legendary. “We can’t.”

Reese’s thumb brushed Malcolm’s hipbone through his jeans—slow, deliberate. “Would you,” he murmured, lips grazing Malcolm’s ear, “if we could?”

Malcolm shuddered. Reese smelled like sweat and cheap aftershave, his stubble rough against Malcolm’s cheek. His brain short-circuited. “Maybe,” he admitted, the word scraping his throat raw.

Reese’s breath hitched. He leaned back just enough to catch Malcolm’s gaze, eyes wide and hopeful. “Yeah?”

Malcolm swallowed hard. “But—”

A branch cracked below them—too close. They froze.

Dewey’s voice floated up from the base of the tree. “Malcolm? Mom wants you to—”

Reese rolled off Malcolm in one fluid motion, landing with a thud that shook the floorboards. Malcolm sat up, heart pounding, just as Dewey’s head popped through the hatch.

“Whoa,” Dewey said, taking in Reese’s flushed face, Malcolm’s rumpled shirt. “Were you guys fighting again?”

Reese snorted, flopping onto his back. “Nah. Malcolm’s a shitty wrestler.”

Malcolm kicked Reese’s ankle—hard. “Asshole.”

Dewey squinted between them. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re being annoying,” Reese shot back.

“Whatever.” Dewey rolled his eyes. “Malcolm, Mom wants you to babysit Jamie while she runs to the store.” He hesitated, then added, “And she said Reese looks like he’s coming down with something, so he’s grounded.”

Reese sat bolt upright. “*What?*”

Dewey shrugged. “Your hands were shaking at breakfast. She thinks you’re hungover.”

Reese gaped, then groaned, flopping back onto the floorboards. “Fuck my life.”

Malcolm bit back a laugh—until Dewey’s gaze flicked between them again, lingering on Reese’s still-flushed cheeks, Malcolm’s mussed hair. His stomach tightened. Dewey wasn’t *stupid*.

“Later,” Malcolm muttered, nudging Reese’s sneaker with his own as he stood. Reese caught his ankle, thumb brushing the bare skin above his sock—brief, secret. Malcolm’s pulse jumped.

Downstairs, Lois was already shrugging into her coat. “Malcolm, Jamie’s napping. Reese—” She narrowed her eyes at him, hands on her hips. “Bed. Now. And if I hear *one* peep—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Reese grumbled, shuffling toward the hallway with exaggerated lethargy. Malcolm caught the way his fingers twitched at his sides—like he wanted to reach back.

Malcolm waited until Lois’ car rumbled down the street before creeping into Reese’s room. Dewey was sprawled on the couch, glued to *Dragon Ball Z*. The flickering screen cast jagged shadows across the hallway as Malcolm eased the door open.

Reese sat bolt upright, sheets pooling around his waist. “Took you long enough,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Malcolm rolled his eyes but didn’t hesitate—sliding under the covers with more confidence than he felt. Reese’s arm curled around him instantly, pulling him flush against his chest. The warmth was dizzying. Reese smelled like sleep and Irish Spring, his heartbeat loud under Malcolm’s ear.

“We’re disgusting,” Malcolm muttered, but he tilted his head when Reese’s lips found his temple.

“Shut up.” Reese’s fingers traced idle patterns on Malcolm’s hip. “Just wanna hold you.”

And he did—for nearly an hour, their legs tangled, Reese’s breaths slow and even against Malcolm’s hair. When Reese finally kissed him, it was chaste, closed-mouthed. Malcolm’s toes curled.

Dewey’s laugh echoed down the hall. Malcolm jerked back, pulse rabbit-quick. Reese huffed, thumb brushing Malcolm’s lower lip. “Go,” he murmured. “Before the squirt catches us.”

The next afternoon, Reese cornered Malcolm by the dumpsters behind school. His knuckles brushed Malcolm’s wrist—subtle, electric. “Skip sixth with me.”

Malcolm glanced around. “Where?”

Reese grinned, wild and reckless. “Anywhere.”

They walked until the sidewalks cracked into weeds, until the traffic noises faded into wind through dry grass. Reese’s pinky hooked around Malcolm’s. Testing. Malcolm held his breath—then laced their fingers together properly, palm to palm.

Reese’s grip tightened like a vow.

The moon bled silver through their bedroom curtains, painting Reese’s sheets in liquid shadows when Malcolm finally slipped from his own bed. Dewey’s soft snores covered the rustle of fabric as Malcolm crossed the two terrifying steps between their beds—heart hammering—and Reese’s arm lifted the covers without hesitation, wordless invitation. Malcolm slid in, their bodies slotting together with quiet certainty. Reese smelled like sleep-warm skin and the peppermint gum he’d chewed before bed, his breath hitching when Malcolm’s cold toes brushed his shins. “Dick,” Reese whispered, but his hands were already cradling Malcolm’s jaw, thumbs tracing the hinge where tension lived.

The kiss was softer than Malcolm expected—Reese’s lips barely parted, his movements slow, reverent. Like Malcolm was something fragile. It made his chest ache. Reese’s palm settled against his ribcage, his heartbeat thudding against Malcolm’s skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. When Malcolm’s fingers crept under Reese’s waistband to skim the dip of his hip, Reese caught his wrist with a quiet groan. “Not yet,” he murmured against Malcolm’s temple. His voice was rough with restraint. “Wanna do this right.”

Malcolm didn’t know what “right” meant—only that Reese’s arms tightened around him like he was afraid Malcolm might dissolve, that his lips lingered at Malcolm’s hairline with trembling gentleness. The clock ticked toward dawn before Malcolm forced himself to retreat, Reese’s fingertips trailing down his arm like a whispered promise.

At lunch, Reese materialized behind Malcolm’s chair, his knee jostling Malcolm’s under the cafeteria table. “Ditch,” he muttered, low enough that Kenny’s chatter drowned it out. His pinky hooked around Malcolm’s belt loop—brief, insistent. “C’mon.”

The suburbs frayed into fields at the town’s edge, cracked asphalt giving way to dirt roads hemmed in by skeletal winter trees. Reese’s hand found Malcolm’s the moment the last house disappeared behind them, fingers interlacing with a quiet certainty that stole Malcolm’s breath. Reese’s palm was calloused from weightlifting, his thumb rubbing idle circles against Malcolm’s knuckles like he couldn’t stop touching him even here, even now.

“Look.” Reese nodded toward the horizon where the sky bled gold over fallow farmland. His shoulder pressed warm against Malcolm’s. “No one.”

The words hung between them—a confession, a challenge. Malcolm squeezed Reese’s hand tighter, their joined fingers swinging gently as they walked into the dying light.

Reese cleared his throat. “So.” He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter into the weeds. “You ever think about, like—” His free hand flapped vaguely between them. “Doing more than just... this?” The tips of his ears burned crimson.

Malcolm’s stomach flipped. He stared at their mud-crusted sneakers moving in sync. “Define ‘more.’”

Reese snorted, then abruptly stopped walking. He turned Malcolm to face him, grip firm on his shoulders. “You know.” His gaze flicked downward, then back up—hot and heavy. “Hands. Mouths. Other—” His voice cracked.

A crow cawed overhead. Malcolm’s pulse roared in his ears. He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he admitted, barely audible. “I think about it.”

Reese exhaled shakily, his fingers digging into Malcolm’s jacket. “Good.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “‘Cause I—fuck, Mal, I *dream* about it.” The admission hung between them, raw and electric. Before Malcolm could respond, Reese yanked him behind a gnarled oak, pressing him against the bark with trembling hands. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, lips hovering over Malcolm’s—but Malcolm was already arching into him, gasping as Reese’s thigh slid between his legs. The friction sent sparks up Malcolm’s spine. Reese swallowed his moan, tongue hot and insistent.

A truck rumbled past on the distant road. They froze, panting, foreheads pressed together. Reese’s pupils were blown black, his lips spit-slick. “Your turn,” he rasped, guiding Malcolm’s hand to the straining fly of his jeans. “C’mon, genius. Figure it out.”

Malcolm’s fingers fumbled with the button, his throat tight. When his knuckles brushed the hard heat beneath, Reese hissed, hips jerking. “*Jesus*—” His hands clamped over Malcolm’s, steering him with rough urgency. The zipper grated loud in the stillness.

Then—skin. Malcolm’s breath caught. Reese was thicker than he’d imagined, hot and heavy in his palm. Reese groaned, forehead dropping to Malcolm’s shoulder. “Move your hand, just—*fuck*, yeah, like that—” His hips stuttered, driving into Malcolm’s grip. The rhythm was clumsy at first, too fast, but Reese’s whispered curses spurred Malcolm on.

Reese’s breath hitched. “Gonna—*shit*—” He suddenly wrenched away, coming in shuddering pulses against the dried leaves. Malcolm stared, transfixed, as Reese wiped himself with a crumpled napkin from his pocket, his face flushed with something like awe.

Then Reese was on him again, kissing him dizzy, hands roaming under Malcolm’s shirt. “Your turn,” he panted, nipping at Malcolm’s jaw. “Lemme—*fuck*, lemme taste you—”

Malcolm’s hips bucked. “*Here?*”

Reese grinned, wild and unrepentant. He dropped to his knees in the dirt, fingers hooking in Malcolm’s waistband. “Told you.” His breath ghosted over Malcolm’s trembling stomach. “No one’s here.”

Malcolm’s fingers tangled in Reese’s hair—part push, part pull—as Reese mouthed him through the thin cotton of his boxers. The wet heat made his knees buckle. “Reece, *fuck*—”

Reese nipped his inner thigh, then peeled Malcolm’s briefs down just enough to free him. His tongue swirled the tip once, filthy and slow, before taking him deep. Malcolm’s head thudded against the tree, vision whiting out at the suction, the scrape of Reese’s teeth. His hips jerked uncontrollably. Reese groaned around him, hands anchoring Malcolm’s thighs like he wanted bruises.

“Don’t—*ah*—stop,” Malcolm gasped, fingers tightening in Reese’s hair. Reese hummed in agreement, bobbing faster, spit slicking every inch. The sounds were obscene—wet, rhythmic—and Malcolm’s stomach coiled tight. He came with a choked cry, Reese swallowing every drop without breaking rhythm until Malcolm whimpered from oversensitivity.

Reese rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirk triumphant. “Told you I’d be good at it.” His voice was wrecked.

Malcolm sagged against the tree, legs jelly. Reese kissed him, bitter and deep, before tucking Malcolm back in with surprising gentleness. The late afternoon sun cut through the branches, painting Reese gold. For once, he looked peaceful.

"Love you," Reese whispered, casual as breathing. Malcolm stiffened—then grabbed Reese's face and kissed him silent. Reese melted into it, hands clutching Malcolm's hips like he'd drown otherwise.

"I know," Malcolm murmured against his lips, cheeks burning. Reese grinned like he'd won something precious.

They walked home with fingers barely brushing, jumping apart whenever headlights sliced through the dusk. The porch light burned yellow when they crept up the steps—Dewey sprawled in front of the TV, Jamie drooling on his shoulder. Reese’s pinky hooked Malcolm’s belt loop in the hallway, yanking him into the bathroom. The door clicked shut just as Lois’ car rumbled into the driveway.

At dinner, Reese passed Malcolm the salt without slamming it down. Hal’s fork paused mid-air. Dewey’s eyes darted between them like a tennis match. When Malcolm muttered “thanks” instead of flipping Reese off, Lois dropped her spoon with a clatter. “Well,” she said, voice curling with suspicious delight, “whatever truce you boys have called, I fully approve.”

Reese choked on his milk. Malcolm’s elbow slipped off the table. They exchanged a glance so panicked Dewey actually snorted into his mashed potatoes. Lois’ smile sharpened. “Although,” she mused, tapping her chin, “I *do* wonder what could’ve inspired such... drastic behavioral improvements.” Her gaze lingered on Reese’s hickey-hidden collar, Malcolm’s bitten-red lips.

Reese kicked Malcolm under the table—too hard. “Ow, *dick*—” Malcolm hissed, then froze. Lois’ eyebrows climbed her forehead. Hal beamed. “See?” He gestured with his fork. “Just like old times!”

Dewey rolled his eyes so hard his entire head lolled. “Oh my *God*,” he groaned, stabbing a green bean with unnecessary force. “You’re *both* disgusting.”

Malcolm’s fork squeaked against his plate. Reese shoveled peas into his mouth like they held state secrets. Lois smirked into her iced tea.

Later, Reese cornered Malcolm by the dryer, palms slamming against the machine on either side of his head. “We’re *fine*,” he hissed, breath hot on Malcolm’s cheek. “Just—stop being weird.”

“*Me?*” Malcolm whisper-yelled. “You’re the one who *literally*—”

The laundry room door creaked open. Dewey stood there, holding a single mismatched sock. His gaze flicked between them—Reese caging Malcolm in, Malcolm’s death-grip on Reese’s shirt. Dewey sighed. “I’m telling Mom you’re doing drugs.”

Reese whirled. “We’re not—”

“*Dewey.*” Malcolm grabbed his wrist. His pulse hammered against Dewey’s skin. “Just... wait.”

Dewey froze. Malcolm had never touched him like this—pleading, desperate.

Reese exhaled sharply. “Mal—”

“No.” Malcolm’s fingers tightened. “He’s gonna find out eventually.” He swallowed hard, meeting Dewey’s wide eyes. “Reese and I are... figuring some stuff out.”

Dewey’s nose wrinkled. “Like *math*?”

Reese choked. Malcolm’s ears burned. “No, you *idiot*—” He glanced at Reese, who shrugged, lips twitching. Malcolm groaned. “We’re—ugh—kind of... dating? Maybe?”

Dewey blinked. Then blinked again. His mouth opened—closed—opened. “Oh.” He swallowed. “*Oh.*” His gaze dropped to Reese’s hand, now curled possessively around Malcolm’s belt loop.

Silence stretched. The dryer thumped.

Dewey scrunched his nose. "So..." He waved his sock between them like a surrender flag. "You're just having sex with each other? Like to try it out? Why don't you find other guys to do it with?"

Reese's grip on Malcolm's belt loop tightened. "No, dumbass," he growled, voice low but cracking at the edges. "I don't just wanna *do* him—" Malcolm elbowed him hard, but Reese barreled on, "—I'm *in love* with him." The words hung in the laundry-scented air, raw and huge.

Malcolm's stomach flipped. Reese had said it before, whispered against his skin, but never *like this*—out loud, definitive, with Dewey's eyes widening comically.

Dewey blinked. "Oh." His sock dropped to the floor. "Wait—*ohhhh*." His gaze flicked to Malcolm's burning ears. "And you're in love with Reece too?"

Malcolm swallowed hard. "It's... complicated." His fingers dug into Reese's shirt sleeve—half push, half pull. The dryer thumped like a second heartbeat.

Dewey tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "So Reese is, like, *in love* love with you." He pointed at Reese's death-grip on Malcolm's belt loop. "But you're not saying you're in love with him... so, you're just, what?... Doing *stuff* with him?" His nose wrinkled.

Malcolm's palms grew slick. "It's not—"

Reese cut in, his voice rough. "He likes kissing me." He jutted his chin out, defiant. "And other shit. A lot."

Malcolm groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, Reese—"

Dewey's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, *other* sh—"

The dryer buzzed. All three jumped.

Dewey snatched his sock from the floor, chewing his lip. "So... you guys are gonna, like... *keep* doing it?" His voice cracked on the last word.

Reese's grip on Malcolm's belt loop turned bruising. "Yeah."

Malcolm exhaled sharply.

Dewey’s sock dangled forgotten from his fingers. He stared at them—Reese’s thumb rubbing circles into Malcolm’s hipbone through his jeans, Malcolm’s knuckles white where they gripped Reese’s sleeve—then groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Ugh, *fine*. But Reese, I need to tell you, never mind being under-aged, and that this is literally INCEST... This isn't healthy, if you're totally in love with Malcolm, but he isn't returning any feelings to you. He's using you, even if he doesn't realise it."

Malcolm jerked like he’d been slapped. “What? No—”

“Bullshit,” Reese snapped, crowding Malcolm against the dryer. “He *wants* me.” The metal rattled.

Dewey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, *sexually*, you idiot.” He flung his sock into the hamper. “Does Mal ever say he loves you back? Or is it just—” He mimed crude pelvic thrusting.

Reese’s jaw clenched. Malcolm’s stomach twisted.

Dewey sighed, shoulders slumping. “Whatever. I’ll keep your gross secret. But—” He jabbed a finger at Reese. “I want a king-sized Butterfinger every week.”

Reese snorted. “Deal.”

Malcolm didn’t relax until the laundry room door clicked shut behind Dewey. He turned to Reese, pulse thrumming in his throat. “You’re not—”

Reese cut him off with a rough kiss, teeth catching Malcolm’s lower lip. “He’s twelve,” Reese muttered against his mouth. “What does he know?”

Malcolm’s fingers curled into Reese’s shirt. Dewey’s words echoed in his skull—*He’s using you*—but Reese’s hands were already sliding under his waistband, warm and sure. Malcolm let himself be pushed back into the humming dryer, let Reese swallow his gasp. Let himself forget.

That night, Malcolm stared at the ceiling. Dewey’s snores whistled through the dark. Reese’s breathing was steady and deep—too deep.

*He wants me.*

Malcolm’s chest ached.

*Sexually.*

Reese shifted, sheets rustling. A quiet thud—his arm dangling off the bed, palm upturned. Always reaching.

Malcolm turned his face into the pillow. Dewey was wrong. Wasn’t he?

The digital clock bled red numbers into the dark—3:17 AM. Malcolm exhaled slowly. Reese’s fingers twitched in sleep, like he was dreaming of holding something. Or someone.

Malcolm’s throat tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut.

*Did I just pity-fuck my brother into loving me?*

The thought slithered through him, greasy and cold. Reese’s soft snore cut the stillness—trusting, oblivious. Malcolm’s nails bit into his palms. That first kiss in the treehouse, Reese’s drunken sobs, the way Malcolm had panicked and shoved his own mouth against Reese’s like a human band-aid… Had he *broken* something?

Reese rolled over, sheets whispering. Moonlight caught the scar on his eyebrow—the one he’d gotten at nine, diving in front of Malcolm’s bike before it careened into traffic. Always *protecting*, even back then. Malcolm’s stomach lurched.

*You’re using him.*

Dewey’s words echoed, sharp as shattered glass. Malcolm pressed his knuckles to his mouth. He could still taste Reese—the salt-slick slide of him, the way he’d moaned Malcolm’s name like a prayer. But beneath the heat, the friction… Had there ever been anything else?

Reese mumbled in his sleep, fingers clutching at empty air. Malcolm remembered the way Reese had looked at him that afternoon—raw, reverent—when Malcolm had gasped *don’t stop*. Not *I love you*. Never that.

The digital clock flicked to 3:42. Malcolm swallowed hard.

What if Dewey was right? What if Reese was falling, and Malcolm was just… letting him?

Reese’s hand twitched again. Closer this time.

Malcolm exhaled shakily. He reached out—hovered—then let his fingertips graze Reese’s palm. Reese’s fingers immediately curled around his, warm and sure even in sleep.

Malcolm’s pulse stuttered.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Reese never hesitated. Never doubted. And Malcolm…

He stared at their joined hands in the dark.

*What am I doing?*

The thought pulsed through Malcolm’s skull as he hovered over Reese’s sleeping form, fingers trembling above his shoulder. The garage light buzzed faintly through the walls—Hal’s latest half-built invention abandoned at 2 AM again. Malcolm inhaled sharply, then shook Reese’s shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

Reese jolted upright instantly, pupils blown wide in the dark. His hand shot out, gripping Malcolm’s wrist. “Mal?” His voice was gravel-rough with sleep, but his thumb was already tracing Malcolm’s pulse point like a reflex. “You okay?”

Malcolm swallowed. “Garage. Now. Quiet.”

Reese blinked, then scrubbed a hand down his face. When he stood, his knees cracked audibly—Dewey snorted and rolled over. Reese froze, waiting, then crept after Malcolm, their socked feet silent on the linoleum.

The garage smelled like oil and sawdust. Hal’s half-dismantled go-kart loomed in the corner, shadows stretching long under the bare bulb. Reese leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. His T-shirt rode up, exposing the faint bruise Malcolm’s mouth had left below his hipbone yesterday.

Reese’s gaze flicked over Malcolm’s hunched shoulders, the way his fingers worried at his own sleeves. “Dewey,” he stated, voice flat. “That little shit said something else, didn’t he?” His jaw tightened. “I’ll throttle him—”

“No.” Malcolm’s hands lifted, stopping him. “He—he wasn’t wrong.” The words tasted like chalk.

Reese went very still.

Malcolm forced himself to meet his eyes. “About… me. Using you.” His throat clicked.

Reese’s brows furrowed. He stepped closer, sneakers scuffing sawdust. “You’re not.”

Malcolm looked at the floor for a moment, before grasping Reese's hands in his and looking into Reese eyes. "Reese, look. Think for a minute. It's really important, OK? Picture us, in say 10 years from now. If things go how you think or want them to. What do you see? What will we be doing?"

Reese blinked, his grip tightening around Malcolm’s fingers almost reflexively. He opened his mouth—probably to crack some joke—then stopped. His gaze unfocused, drifting somewhere past Malcolm’s shoulder. A slow, stupidly earnest smile spread across his face. “Uh. Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb over Malcolm’s knuckles, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically soft. “We’d have our own place. Not some shithole like the Krelboyne dorms—a real flat. Maybe near Pasadena. Close enough Mom can’t just drop in.”

Malcolm’s pulse stuttered. Reese was already warming to the fantasy, eyes bright. “You’d be doing, I dunno, science-y politician shit. Suits. Coffee breath from working late.” His smirk turned fond. “And I’d—fuck, maybe a factory gig? Or chef school. Something where I don’t gotta think too much.” His free hand gestured vaguely. “We’d fight over who forgot to buy toilet paper. You’d bitch about my socks on the floor.”

Malcolm swallowed around the lump in his throat. “And… us?”

Reese’s grin turned wolfish. “Oh, we’d be fucking. Every night. Morning too if you weren’t such a bitch about your ‘sleep schedule.’” His voice dropped, rough with conviction. “I’d make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

Malcolm’s breath hitched. Reese wasn’t done. His thumb pressed harder into Malcolm’s palm. “Maybe… later. Like, way later.” He glanced up through his lashes, uncharacteristically hesitant. “We could get some kid outta the system. Teach ‘em to throw a punch better than Dad taught me.” His voice cracked. “You’d be so smart with ‘em, Mal.”

The image burned behind Malcolm’s eyelids—Reese coaching some tiny, gap-toothed version of themselves on bike riding, Malcolm drilling multiplication tables at the kitchen table. A family. Theirs.

Reese squeezed his hand, pulling Malcolm back to the garage’s harsh light. “That’s what I see.” His voice was raw. “What do you see?”

Malcolm exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the grease stains on Hal’s workbench. “I don’t… know yet.” The admission scraped his throat. “But I like yours.”

Reese’s breath hitched. He stepped closer, crowding Malcolm against the tool chest, forehead resting against his. “Then don’t overthink it, genius.” His calloused thumb brushed Malcolm’s lower lip. “I’ll take whatever you can give me—today, tomorrow, ten fucking years.” His voice dropped marginally. “Even if it’s just your dick and bad attitude.”

Malcolm snorted—then leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a slow, languid kiss. Reese made a small noise in the back of his throat, hands settling at Malcolm’s waist with practiced ease. The garage light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over Hal’s abandoned projects as they traded soft, sleepy kisses, the kind that curled Malcolm’s toes inside his socks.

A yawn cracked Malcolm’s jaw mid-kiss. Reese huffed a laugh against his mouth. “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty.” He tangled their fingers together, tugging Malcolm toward the door. “Before Dad’s weird robot parts come alive and eat us.”

The hallway was pitch black, their socked footsteps muffled against the carpet. Reese’s palm was warm and slightly sweaty where it pressed against Malcolm’s—a grounding weight in the dark.

They paused at their bedroom door, listening for Dewey’s snores before slipping inside. Moonlight spilled through the blinds, painting Dewey’s empty bed in silver stripes. Malcolm frowned, then froze—there, curled in Reese’s single bed, Dewey sprawled like a starfish.

Reese’s grip tightened around Malcolm’s fingers. “Little shit stole my bed,” he muttered, half-amused.

Malcolm chewed his lip. The double bed—his and Dewey’s—yawned empty, sheets rumpled where he’d left them.

Reese didn’t hesitate. He dragged Malcolm forward, peeling back the covers with one hand before shoving Malcolm onto the mattress. “Move over,” he whispered, kneeing Malcolm’s thigh until he scooted sideways.

The springs creaked as Reese slid in behind him, his chest pressing flush against Malcolm’s back. One arm looped around Malcolm’s waist, pulling him closer still. Malcolm could feel every breath Reese took, the steady thump of his heartbeat against his shoulder blades.

Dewey snorted in his sleep, rolling over.

Reese’s lips brushed the nape of Malcolm’s neck, barely there. “Sleep,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

Malcolm closed his eyes. Reese’s breath was warm against his neck, his arm a solid weight across Malcolm’s waist. He should’ve felt trapped—should’ve elbowed Reese for crowding him—but instead, he pressed back into the heat of Reese’s chest. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and Reese’s cheap deodorant, the scent filling Malcolm’s lungs as Reese’s fingers splayed possessively over his stomach.

Dewey muttered something in his sleep. Malcolm stiffened, but Reese just tightened his grip, nosing at the short hairs behind Malcolm’s ear. “Shut up, Dew,” Reese mumbled into Malcolm’s skin, half-asleep and hoarse. His knee slotted between Malcolm’s thighs, anchoring him. The intimacy of it—Reese’s lazy dominance even in sleep—sent a shiver down Malcolm’s spine.

Moonlight pooled on the floor between their beds. Malcolm traced the outline of Reese’s forearm where it draped over him, the muscles relaxed but still firm. He’d never slept like this—curled into someone, their heartbeat thudding against his back. It should’ve felt wrong. Reese’s pinky hooked under the hem of Malcolm’s shirt, brushing bare skin, and Malcolm exhaled shakily.

Reese’s lips grazed his shoulder blade. “Stop thinkin’,” he slurred, voice thick with sleep. His hand slid lower, fingertips dipping below the waistband of Malcolm’s pajamas just enough to make Malcolm’s breath hitch. “S’just sleep.”

Dewey rolled over again, sheets rustling. Malcolm froze, but Reese just huffed a quiet laugh against his neck, his thumb stroking idle circles over Malcolm’s hipbone. The touch was proprietary, familiar—like they’d done this a thousand times instead of never.

Malcolm let himself relax into it. Just for tonight.

Reese’s breaths deepened, his rough palm smoothing over Malcolm’s stomach like he was memorizing the terrain. Then—barely audible—a whisper against Malcolm’s nape: "You don't gotta love me yet." Fingers flexed slightly against his skin before Reese exhaled fully into sleep, his weight settling heavier.

Malcolm’s throat closed. He stared at the wall, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Dewey had stuck there years ago—peeling at the edges now, just like Reese’s whispered confession.

*You don’t gotta love me yet.*

The words curled around Malcolm’s ribs like smoke. Reese’s arm draped heavy over his waist, calloused fingers twitching occasionally against his hipbone. Malcolm closed his eyes and saw Reese’s imagined future—their own place, the stupid domestic fights over toilet paper, Reese’s foolishly certain *we’d be fucking every night*—and his chest ached with something sharper than guilt.

Why *did* the image stick? Malcolm had always assumed he’d marry some brilliant woman, have two-point-five kids, climb whatever ladder his IQ demanded. But now, pressed back-to-chest with Reese, the fantasy felt… thin. Like a stage prop compared to the visceral reality of Reese’s breath warming the back of his neck, the way Reese’s knee slotted between his thighs like they were puzzle pieces.

Was it just familiarity? Reese had been there for every scraped knee, every report card, every midnight panic over calculus. Or was it the way Reese looked at him—like Malcolm hung the fucking moon, even when he was being a prick? Malcolm swallowed. Nobody else would ever look at him like that.

Reese mumbled in his sleep, nuzzling Malcolm’s nape. His palm slid fully under Malcolm’s shirt, rough skin against bare stomach. Malcolm shuddered. That was the other thing—nobody else made his blood sing like this, made his pulse stutter with just a touch. But was that *love*, or just biology gone haywire?

Dewey snorted in his sleep. Reese’s fingers flexed possessively against Malcolm’s skin. Malcolm exhaled sharply. The real question wasn’t about sex or safety or even Reese’s devotion.

Could he love Reese—*really* love him? Not just tolerate his kisses, not just crave his hands, but *choose* him, day after day, in that stupid domestic future Reese had painted?

Reese’s lips brushed his shoulder blade again, damp with sleep. Malcolm’s breath hitched. That was the terrifying part—he could almost picture it.

Dewey’s sock thwacked Malcolm square between the eyes, jolting him awake. “Gross,” Dewey announced, already halfway out the door. “If you two jizzed on my sheets, I’m telling Mom.”

Reese snorted, nuzzling the nape of Malcolm’s neck with exaggerated slurping noises. “Nah, we saved it for *your* bed tonight, Dewdrop.”

Dewey gagged audibly, slamming the door hard enough to rattle Hal’s toolbox in the garage. Malcolm exhaled into the sudden silence, Reese’s laughter vibrating against his spine. Without thinking, Malcolm grasped Reese’s forearm where it was draped over his waist and yanked it tighter around himself—forcing Reese’s chest flush against his back. Reese inhaled sharply, then huffed a quiet laugh against Malcolm’s hairline. His fingers flexed instinctively, blunt nails scraping Malcolm’s hipbone through the thin fabric of his pajamas. “Someone’s clingy,” Reese murmured, voice thick with morning gravel.

Malcolm didn’t answer. He just pressed Reese’s palm flat against his stomach, letting the warmth seep into his skin. Reese made a small, contented noise and hooked his chin over Malcolm’s shoulder. Sunlight bled through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets gold. Somewhere down the hall, Jamie babbled to Lois about waffles.

Reese’s thumb traced idle circles below Malcolm’s navel. “You good?” he mumbled into Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm swallowed. He thought of Reese’s stupid Pasadena fantasy, the way his eyes had gone soft talking about teaching some imaginary kid to ride a bike. He thought of Dewey’s accusation—*he’s using you*—and how Reese had kissed him anyway, like Malcolm hung the fucking stars.

Reese’s fingers stilled, waiting.

Malcolm twisted in his grip until they were nose-to-nose, morning breath be damned. He searched Reese’s sleep-soft face—the stubble shadowing his jaw, the lazy crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Then Malcolm kissed him, slow and deliberate, pouring every unformed thought into the press of his lips. Reese made a startled noise but reciprocated instantly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Malcolm’s neck.

When they broke apart, Malcolm kept their foreheads touching. "I want waffles," he muttered—deflecting, yes, but also *offering*, in his own stupid way.

Reese blinked. Then his grin split wide, stupid and bright. "With extra syrup?"

"Yeah." Malcolm swallowed. "And—" He hesitated, fingers tightening in Reese’s shirt. "Maybe we look at apartments near Pasadena later. Just to see."

Reese’s breath hitched. His thumb brushed Malcolm’s cheekbone, rough but achingly tender. "Yeah?"

Malcolm rolled his eyes and shoved Reese’s shoulder. "Don’t make it weird."

Reese tackled him back into the mattress, laughing against his mouth. The bedframe creaked alarmingly as they wrestled, Reese pinning Malcolm down with his whole weight, their morning wood meeting perfectly through their PJs.

Dewey chose that exact moment to barrel back in, clutching a cereal bowl. He froze mid-step, staring at them rutting against each other. “Jesus Christ, you guys—didn’t you get enough last night?”

Reese glanced at Dewey without breaking rhythm, hips still rolling lazily against Malcolm’s. “We haven’t done it yet,” he admitted casually, like discussing the weather. Malcolm groaned, tipping his head back into the pillow—Reese’s definition of “doing it” was presumably limited to only fucking. But he could understand Reese's perspective.

Dewey hovered by the door, eyebrows shooting up as Malcolm groaned again—but he didn’t bolt. Just adjusted his grip on the cereal bowl. “So you’re just… dry humping?” His nose wrinkled. “That’s kinda pathetic.”

“Shut up,” Malcolm hissed, mortified, but Reese just chuckled darkly against his throat. His calloused fingers hooked under both their waistbands, shoving fabric down just enough to free them—Malcolm’s cock twitched against the humid morning air, already leaking against his stomach. Reese’s was heavier, flushed dark against Malcolm’s hip as he angled himself deliberately, his hips pressing forward until their lengths slid together in a slick, sticky drag.

Malcolm gasped, toes curling against the sheets. Reese swallowed the sound with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, tongue pushing past Malcolm’s lips like he owned them. Which, Malcolm thought dizzily, he kinda did at this point.

Dewey made a strangled noise. Reese broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, “Told you he’d leave,” before diving back in, one hand fisting in Malcolm’s hair to tilt his head for better access. Their cocks rutted together messily, Reese’s precum smearing hot between them as he ground down with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Malcolm whimpered—it was too much and not enough, the friction just shy of painful, Reese’s teeth scraping his lower lip in warning when he bucked up too eagerly.

“Wanna know what I’ve been thinking about?” Reese breathed against Malcolm’s mouth, hips never stilling. His free hand slid down Malcolm’s flank, blunt nails scraping the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “You,” he nipped Malcolm’s jaw, “bending me over,” another thrust, harder this time, “this exact bed,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “and fucking me so deep I can’t walk straight after. I even fingered myself before you woke up.”

Malcolm choked on air, his cock twitching violently against Reese’s stomach. Reese grinned—all teeth—and suddenly rolled them, pinning Malcolm flat. He repositioned himself in one fluid motion, knees bracketing Malcolm’s ribs, his thick cock bobbing inches from Malcolm’s parted lips. Malcolm’s brain short-circuited—Reese wanted a blowjob, obviously, and while Malcolm wasn’t exactly *experienced*, the idea of Reese’s weight on his tongue made his stomach swoop—but then Reese shifted *back*, settling lower, and—*oh fuck*—the hot press of Reese’s ass against Malcolm’s leaking cockhead punched the air from his lungs.

Reese licked two fingers, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Then—with a smirk that made Malcolm’s toes curl—those fingers disappeared behind him. Reese’s face contorted beautifully: lips parting on a silent gasp, eyelids fluttering as he worked himself open. Malcolm could *see* the movement of Reese’s wrist, could hear the obscene squelch of spit-slick fingers fucking into himself—quick, efficient strokes that had Reese’s thighs trembling where they caged Malcolm’s hips. Then Reese withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, spreading his cheeks wide. Malcolm’s cockhead kissed Reese’s twitching hole—*barely slick, mostly dry*—and Reese *laughed*, breathless and mean. “Tell me to stop,” he taunted, hips circling just enough to tease. “Say the word.”

Malcolm growled and yanked Reese down by the hair, crushing their mouths together as Reese dropped his full weight—no easing in, no hesitation—sheathing Malcolm to the hilt in one brutal, breathtaking plunge. Reese’s back arched violently, his scream muffled against Malcolm’s lips, but his ass *clenched*, hot and vise-tight around Malcolm’s cock, milking him instantly. Malcolm saw stars, his hips jerking upward on instinct, burying himself deeper as Reese whimpered—not in pain, but something closer to awe, his thighs shaking where they bracketed Malcolm’s ribs.

Then Reese *moved*—lifting himself just enough to drag Malcolm’s cockhead along his inner walls before slamming back down with a wet slap of skin. Malcolm bit down on Reese’s shoulder to stifle his own groan, fingers digging crescent moons into Reese’s hips as he adjusted the angle experimentally. Reese gasped when Malcolm thrust up sharply, his rhythm stuttering—but Malcolm didn’t stop, fucking upward in short, punishing jabs until Reese’s breath hitched *just so*, his whole body shuddering. Bingo. Malcolm dragged Reese’s hips down harder, forcing his cock to rub directly against—

*"Fuck!"* Reese’s entire body locked up, his nails raking bloody trails down Malcolm’s chest. His thighs trembled wildly, his hole pulsing around Malcolm’s cock in frantic little spasms. Malcolm smirked and did it again—and again—watching Reese’s face unravel with each precise strike to his prostate. Reese’s cock dripped untouched between them, swaying with every brutal snap of Malcolm’s hips, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

Reese babbled—half-words, half-sobs—as Malcolm pistoned into him, chasing his own orgasm with single-minded focus. His fingers tightened on Reese’s waist hard enough to bruise, using his grip to *guide* Reese’s bouncing, forcing him to take every inch at the exact angle that made Reese’s eyes roll back. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with their ragged breathing, the sound drowned out only by the obscene slap of skin and Reese’s punched-out moans.

Then Reese *shrieked*, back bowing violently as his orgasm ripped through him—his entire body locking up mid-thrust, ass clamping down like a vice around Malcolm’s cock. Malcolm barely had time to register the sensation before Reese *collapsed* backward, impaling himself fully on Malcolm’s cock in one brutal, uncontrolled motion—the sudden deep penetration jolting Reese’s prostate one final time with enough force to make his cock *erupt*.

Cum shot from Reese’s twitching length in thick, impossible ropes—the first volley splattering across Malcolm’s parted lips and chin, the next arcing higher to stripe his cheeks and forehead. Malcolm gasped in shock, instinctively licking at the warm, salty mess on his mouth—just as Reese’s asshole *pulsed* around him, milking Malcolm’s cock with violent, rhythmic squeezes that tore his orgasm from him with almost painful intensity. Malcolm’s vision whited out as he came, hips stuttering as he filled Reese’s clutching heat, Reese’s name a broken moan on his sticky lips.

Reese slumped forward, trembling arms barely catching himself before he smothered Malcolm completely. He nuzzled into Malcolm’s cum-streaked face with a drunk, adoring noise, licking messily at his own spend smeared across Malcolm’s lips. “Fuck,” he slurred, voice wrecked, “fuck, *Malcolm*—” His kiss was sloppy, open-mouthed—tongue sweeping in to chase the taste of himself mixed with Malcolm’s panting breaths. Reese’s hips twitched weakly, still seated fully on Malcolm’s softening cock, his own dribbling cum onto Malcolm’s already ruined chest. “Love you,” Reese mumbled between kisses, “*love* you—oh my god Malcolm you're so perfect for me.”

Malcolm was swallowing Reese’s messy, desperate kisses, the taste of salt and sweat and Reese’s come thick on his tongue. Reese’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones, his breathing ragged but slowing now, his weight heavy and perfect on Malcolm’s oversensitive body.

The words bubbled up before Malcolm could stop them—before he could rationalize them away with logistics or fear or *what ifs*.

“I love you too,” Malcolm whispered into the humid space between their mouths, barely audible.

Reese stilled instantly. His fingers—tangled in Malcolm’s sweat-damp hair—tightened reflexively, nails scraping Malcolm’s scalp. Reese leaned back just enough to search Malcolm’s face, his blue eyes impossibly wide—not triumphant, not smug. Terrified. Like Malcolm had handed him something fragile and priceless, and Reese was scared to move in case it shattered.

Malcolm swallowed hard. Reese’s cum was drying tacky on his chin, his cock still half-buried inside Reese—the reality of their mess was undeniable. But Reese was staring at him like Malcolm had hung the fucking stars, and suddenly, the words didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Reese’s lower lip trembled—just once—before he pressed his forehead to Malcolm’s, exhaling shakily. “Say it again,” Reese demanded, voice wrecked. His fingertips traced Malcolm’s cheekbones—reverent, uncertain—like he was memorizing the bone structure beneath the skin.

Malcolm hesitated—habit, reflex—but Reese’s breath hitched, and the sound punched through Malcolm’s ribs like a bullet. So he tilted his chin up and kissed Reese’s trembling mouth gently. “I love you,” he murmured against Reese’s lips, tasting the salt of tears—*whose?*—between them.

Dewey cleared his throat from the doorway. “Much better,” he announced, arms crossed. His smirk was smug, but his gaze flicked between them with something softer—almost approving—before settling pointedly on Malcolm. “Now you’re not being a total dick about it.” Before either could react, Dewey stepped forward and swiped a finger through the drying mess on Malcolm’s chest. He licked it, shrugged. “Huh. Salty.” Then he tossed Reese’s discarded shirt at them like a grenade. “Clean up. Mom’s making pancakes.” He sauntered out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Reese burst into shocked, breathless giggles against Malcolm’s collarbone, his whole body shaking—and *Christ*, the way his ass clenched reflexively around Malcolm’s half-hard cock sent sparks up Malcolm’s spine. Malcolm groaned, hips twitching upward instinctively, and Reese’s laughter melted into a moan. “Fuck,” Reese panted, grinding down experimentally. His spent cock gave a valiant twitch against Malcolm’s stomach. “Think I got another round in me.” He kissed Malcolm—deep, filthy—tongue pushing past his lips like a promise. “Wanna find out?”