A/N Contains consensual sibling incest.

Charlie's drunk, brown eyes slip-sliding everywhere, going from studying Don's mildly exasperated face to eying his groin with a disturbingly focused intensity, like he's already picturing the exact angle his mouth and throat need to be so that Don's dick can slide home, past lips and teeth. Charlie sometimes forgets that teeth don't give the way a tongue does. It hurts when he forgets, but Don touches the faint red scrape marks afterwards and always finds himself smiling and that hurts more.

The drinking's new and Don hopes that Charlie will get bored of it and stop, the same way he knows that if Charlie gets bored and stops what's making him drink, it'll kill him because it will all have been for nothing then, this lung-burning dive into dark and dirty waters.

He'll have known his brother, in the older, so fucking descriptive sense of the word, and gotten kicked out of Eden for nothing. And that wouldn't matter, he can deal, he can, with the guilt and the secrets, and the careful copying of what used to be natural, easy touches and words -- he can deal. But not if he's walking out alone, and he will be. Charlie will get to stay inside, because Charlie already knew everything and nothing before he took his bite. It balances. An apple's just an apple to him. Charlie can touch and explore, a smile blossoming, his fingers wiggling deep in Don's ass, in his brother's ass, for fuck's sake and not care about anything but the sounds Don's making for him. Charlie's always smiling when they fuck, sometimes dreamy, sometimes sharp, like he's glass to be wary of, crystal that shatters into sparkling, razor-shards.

Don licks his lips, tastes the tequila Charlie's been slurping down, and wants to gag, the way he did when he first tasted Charlie's dick and felt the taste slot into place with a click next to cold beer, dark and malty and a medium rare steak, juicy and fork-tender.

Sometimes, he wishes Charlie tasted more like the spinach and cold gravy section, but that was never going to happen.

"I'm not drunk," Charlie says firmly.

It's Don's one rule. One and only. He'll do anything Charlie asks him to, giving or taking, stuff he's read about without ever connecting it to something he'd do in person, for real, and never flinch. Charlie's curious. Don gets that. It's okay. It's the way he is.

But if Charlie's drunk, he won't touch him. The only way this works in Don's head at all is if he can believe Charlie knows what he's doing and if he's drunk, he doesn't. He'll writhe on the wet, giving tickle of Charlie's tongue up his ass, sobbing out words that made him wince to recall, he'll jerk off in front of Charlie, showing him exactly, exactly how he does it when he's alone, no faking, no show, just the quietly economical movements his hands have known since he was, what eleven, twelve? He'll spank and be spanked, fist and be fisted, blow and fuck and get blown and fucked right back, but they do it sober.

See? He has limits. He's in control.

"Not drunk, but I'm kinda sleepy, so let's, oh, let's just fool around. We never do that. Let's make out on the couch," Charlie says and makes it sound filthy, perverse and Don hardens, just picturing it. A dim room, hands over clothing not sweat-damp skin, kisses, kissing until their lips burn and tingle, wetness on them to be surreptitiously wiped away on shoulders, their dicks straining against zippers, their hands roaming with leisurely enjoyment, because they're only kids and this is all they get and that's cool, that's okay, there's time for more and no matter how much they want it, all the way's scary as much as tempting, so this is good, this is enough.

It's as much a scene as the one Charlie set up with the ropes and that fucking neon purple dildo and Don wants it because, like the dildo, he's never had it. Never necked with Charlie when they were kids, never did. Does that make this better or worse? If it'd started when he was too young to know better, would that make it okay?

He thinks about how young Charlie would've been and grimaces with revulsion. It's better this way.

"You're drunk," he says flatly for the third time since Charlie knocked on his door.

"Test me," Charlie says and Don makes it a flirt, a tease, a come-on, not a request, though that's probably how Charlie meant it. "Make me walk a line or say a tongue twister or tell you the first hundred places of pi backward."

Like he'd know if Charlie got the last one wrong. Though, yeah, yeah he would. Charlie would know and it'd show in the pained twist of his lips.

"What's one plus one?" Don asks.

Charlie thinks about it and then glances up through his eyelashes, beguiling as hell. "An omelet."

For a second, Don thinks it's some funky math term he doesn't know, or a word like 'flavor' that the math geeks stole from the dictionary, but Charlie's smiling smugly, rocking back and forward.

"You didn't say what the ones were," Charlie explains and he's being serious now. "I decided that they were eggs."

Don sighs and gives up reasoning with him. "If you're hungry, I'll feed you," he says and leads Charlie to the kitchen to sober him up.



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