Surrender

WARNING: Breathplay/asphyxiation for sexual purposes.


There are a thousand reasons why.

Because they were supposed to be one, but somewhere along the line their cells split in half, and that clean wound still throbs between them. Because they have spent a lifetime trying to close it; trying to crawl back into each other where they belong; trying to tunnel through the passageways of veins and arteries and nerves. Because their blood is the same blood and their spit is the same spit and their come is the same come and their tears are the same tears.

Because their breath is the same breath.


_______________


George closes his eyes and tips his head back.

Fred is ready for him. George has kissed him wet and open, stroked him hard and dripping. His body is hot and humming with a desire that never really leaves, just smolders and can be stoked to a roar with a glance, a suggestion, a memory. He has an emptiness carved in his own shape – they both do – and there are so many ways to fill it, but this one is the best.

Fred kneels across George's hips, and George holds himself steady. The settling is so slow that it drives them both half-mad. They make noises full of m's and o's – yeses and pleases in a different language – and it's like being born and coming home and dying all at once.

When George is all the way inside, they still themselves. Fred's back is arched; George's hips are tilted. They find each other's fingers and weave them together, squeezing hard.

Open your eyes.


_______________


Like this, Fred says.

He takes George's palm and presses it to his chest. His fingertips trace George's collarbone, then flatten down against his skin. George holds the air in and waits.

On Fred's exhale, George lets go.

Their eyes are intent and as dark as ink, all pupils and black holes. They pull each other in until there is nothing else: no earth, no light, no oxygen. This is the event horizon.

Fred breathes in. He slides up.

George breathes in, too. He pulls down.

Fred breathes out. He sinks down.

George breathes out, too. He rocks up.


_______________


This part is balance and control. This part is about ownership. Your body is my body is your body is my body is your body is my body – around and around and around; they spin each other into a perfect circle; a demarcation line.

It is slow.

Outside, they are rapid-fire-back-and-forth-ping-ping-ping; they are spells, small and hard and glittery like hail bouncing off a pane of glass; they are a rhythmic rise-and-fall, complementary and symphonic. Here, they are one note.

George's chest tightens gently under Fred's cadence. Sometimes his lungs ask for more; sometimes they feel too full, but it is always perfect. It is as it should be.

They move together, in and out and in and out and in.


_______________


When they have matched each other breath for breath, Fred slides his hands along George's chest. They come to rest at each side of his neck, and his thumbs seek the pulse in the hollow between.

This part is a struggle. George's body lights up, and desire batters him. His heart says more, and Fred says less, and they are one and the same. George fights for this moment; he owns it because he knows that soon, he won't have to.

Their hips roll together, and George reaches through Fred's arms to hold his aching, heavy, pounding cock. His hands find the same beat that they are playing, and Fred's face wavers with each stroke.

The sight of it is almost enough to unhinge George completely: the blood in Fred's skin, the shine at the tip of his cock, the part of his lips. He wants to thrust up until he explodes into a thousand tiny shards; until Fred does the same; until they are a mess of reflection on the floor, indistinguishable in their coming apart as they are in their coming together.

Please.


_______________


Now.

Fred slides one hand down George's chest, a silent lifting of a silent spell. For less than a second, George's breath is his own again, and he draws deeply and lifts his hips.

He moves so quickly there is almost no gap in between. Fred grits his teeth and tightens his other hand, slow and firm and steady, at George's throat until there is no space for anything between them. Not even air.

The scene shifts.

Slow is gone.

They move against each other with desperation. George's eyes go wide and his face goes dark, but Fred holds on. Their gazes never falter, even as their bodies are clutching, grabbing, straining, reaching.

Fred watches. The first time they did this, his heart skipped and his body itched and he felt like he was the one riding death, feeling it buck and surge beneath him as he tried to master it. This time, he is steady, steady, steady; this time he squeezes his thighs and his hands and feels a tremulous power run though him.

Under the pressure, George barely struggles. His body is ready to topple itself and spill, and he goes rigid in that suspended moment before climax. Fred gives a final push against his neck, and he comes and comes and comes and they are one and the world is black.


_______________


'Sokay, baby. I'm here. Come on.

George coughs, and his world is hazy, and he blinks up to see Fred over him, hard and dripping, his face tender and gentle and mad, and about to break in half.

George is weak, but he reaches up through the fog. Fred takes his hand and presses it to his cock, and in four hard jerks he is done, and George's chest is a mess. They slide their fingers through it together, this thing that is theirs.

I love you.

Too.


_______________


Fred bites his lip when George softens, and he grips tight to his brother's biceps to ease the loss. George pulls him down, and Fred hunkers down against his body, come in his ear and in his hair as he listens to George's breath, shaky and heavy, and George's heart, full and stuttering and beautiful.

(There are a thousand reasons why.)

The beats sync up.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thank you.

(Mostly, it is surrender.)