17. Noah

My aching cock deflates as Lane slides to the ground.

He went from more animated than I"ve ever seen him, to dead to the world in mere moments. I watched his entire face and body change as the high wore off and realization set in.

My mind spins, worrying over what I"ve done. I thought he was into it. He seemed really into it. Did I go too far? I wanted to push him outside his comfort zone, but I got carried away by the overwhelming hunger I felt. Lost in the desire of having him where I wanted him.

Sinking to the ground in front of him, I'm not sure how much space to give him. I want to comfort him, but he might freak out if I touch him. So I keep my hands to myself, gripping my knees, surreptitiously wiping my hand on my pants.

"Lane, look at me."

It takes a moment, but he finally turns his grey-green eyes up to meet mine. They"re more grey than green right now, flat and lifeless. He"s not really looking at me, it"s more like he"s looking through me. I"m not sure he"s hearing me as meaningless words of comfort tumble from my mouth.

"You"re alright," I say. He isn"t. Not right now.

"It"s okay," I say. Nothing about this is okay.

"Take a breath," I say. I can"t breathe either.

"I"m here for you," I say. This is my fault.

"I"m sorry," I whisper. "I got carried away, I?—"

"I wanted it," Lane whispers back. His voice startles me, as soft as it is. It's morose, like all the happiness has been leeched from him.

My eyes meet his, and he"s really looking at me now. There"s so much pain in his gaze, it hurts to look, but I force myself to keep eye contact. This is a confession. It needs to be witnessed, given value, truly heard.

Tears fill his eyes, but he shakes his head, breaking our eye contact to roll his eyes up. Can I tell him it"s okay to cry? Would he believe me if I said I"m here for him?

"It"s okay," I repeat, reaching to lay my hand on his shoulder. He flinches at the touch, but relaxes and tilts his head to rest against the wall. "You"ll be okay."

He scoffs, but doesn't respond beyond that.

I"m not sure how long we sit on the floor like that. Long enough that my knees ache. I space out, thinking about all the little moments since I"ve met Lane. How my emotions have been all over the place since well before I met him.

I consider my subconscious jealousy towards him for being the son Hannah wanted more. How he was this ghost-like presence that I never felt I could live up to, like I was living in the shadow of someone that only existed in someone"s mind. An idea of a person is harder to live up to than a real person. Hannah rarely talked about the son she'd lost, but she"d get this far-off look on her face. Every year on my birthday, she"d go above and beyond, but as much as she tried to hide it, she was mourning. And every year on his birthday, she didn't leave her room.

I think I became the obnoxiously outgoing person I am because I wanted to be happy for her. The day I learned he was coming to live with us, my insides were tied up in knots. I was happy for Hannah, and somewhat excited about having a brother, but mostly, I was afraid. It was like meeting a celebrity, or a ghost.

He was so quiet and standoffish, and he looked at the world like there were monsters hiding around every corner. The way he was always watching me made me feel self-conscious, and I acted out. I didn"t want him to know how deeply I felt his stare, so I made him feel ashamed for looking, while simultaneously doing things to get his attention.

I became a different person that summer. I fell back into Lane"s shadow more than ever before. When I search myself objectively, I know I allowed it to happen. It was never a competition, but I made it one, and I let him win more often than not so I could keep wallowing in my reasons to hate him. I made us both miserable with my own actions and choices. Just like I did things to intimidate him on purpose, because I didn"t want him to know how much he intimidated me.

I"d like to say it was a lack of maturity, but what excuse do I have now? We"re adults, college students, preparing for our whole lives—and all I"ve done is focus on him, like the obsession he"s always been.

As painful as it is, this feels like progress. He admitted he wants me.

A loud crack of thunder jerks me out of my thoughts, and Lane shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was in. His eyes flit towards mine and then away, a blush darkening his cheeks.

Oh no, don"t do that.

I do my best to hide my deep, slow breath. Now is not the time to get horny all over again.

Hiding it doesn"t help. Lane still notices, his cheeks getting even redder. Then he fucking stutters, which is like kryptonite to my control.

"Y-you didn"t?—"

He"s too embarrassed to finish the sentence. I follow the movement of his Adam"s apple when he swallows hard, and my mouth fills up with saliva thinking about how I kissed and bit and licked that nervous lump in his throat. Would he let me do it again? I"m pretty sure I could come just sucking on it.

I realize that I"m staring when his breathing picks up. It could be nerves, or it could be excitement, but there"s enough uncertainty to make me hesitate. Whether we"ve been sitting here for minutes or an hour, he was just panicking about me jerking him off.

Oh my God, I jerked off my stepbrother.

My cock twitches.

He was just panicking, I mentally berate my penis. We can"t push him so hard that he has a complete mental breakdown.

"We should get to bed," I say. "We"ve got class in the morning."

"Danny—" He stops when something like a growl crawls out of my chest, unbidden. Excuse me, what the fuck was that? I clear my throat and try to pass it off as anything other than what it was, but he continues. "Danny said to check the student app to check for class schedule adjustments due to the weather."

Keeping my mouth shut, so I don't blurt out what I'm really thinking, because what does stupid fucking Danny Hastings know, anyway?! I nod and get to my feet. I"m surprised when Lane accepts my hand to help him up. Normally he"d smack me away and tell me he can get up on his own, but he grasps my hand and stands. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm. He doesn"t pull away immediately, and we stand there, just an inch too close, in a suspended handshake.

I"m the one that pulls away, but only because I remember that my hand, the very one he"s holding, is covered in dried cum. I"d wiped as much of it off as I could without him noticing, but it"s still there. I can see dried flakes of it on the back of my knuckles. It makes my cock twitch, remembering the warmth of his cum as it poured over my hand. The salty flavor of it has me licking my lips again, in case there is any trace left. Lane"s eyes flick to the movement, and I wonder if he is thinking about how I made him taste himself. I so desperately wanted to lick it from his lips.

"Don"t kiss me," Lane says quietly. His words aren"t angry or accusing, they"re pleading. It"s not like when he tells me he doesn"t like something when he does. He actually doesn"t want me to kiss him. It twists my stomach a little, but I step back. I hadn"t realized I was so close to him again.

I put several feet of space between us, retreating towards the hallway. There"s an awkward silence that I feel responsible for, so I scramble for something to fill it with, making some excuse about needing to pee, which is a lie. I need space to think, but with him this close, I can"t seem to think of anything other than things that I really, really shouldn"t be thinking about. I tell him I"ll be quick, because I"m sure he"d like to take a shower.

Once I"m back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, listening to the sounds of Lane walking through the hallway to the bathroom. The loud click of the door locking, the sound of the water turning on, the shower door closing.

He always locks the door. I never lock the door. I"ve never had a reason to, though.

I remember one time, back at home, when he left the door cracked open. The steam, laced with his simple, clean soap smell, lured me in. I stayed outside the door until I heard a sound. A gasp. Not a gasp like the one he made when we kissed, something deeper. I couldn"t decide if he was crying or jerking himself off, but my boner didn"t seem to care. I must have bumped the door or something, because he startled and pulled the curtain back just enough to look out. His eyes were wide with fear and disbelief, but he was staring at the door handle, not at me. Like he couldn"t believe he"d forgotten to lock it.

I can"t explain my proclivity to fuck with him when he looks the most upset. I"ve told myself over the years that it"s to help get him out of his head. But truthfully, I wanted to fuck with his head as much as I wanted to clear it. I wanted to be the thing he was intimidated by, not whatever thoughts and nightmares plagued him from his childhood. Fuck his old-ass backwards grandpa.

Whenever I think about his grandfather, I get irrationally angry. I don"t even know anything about him, other than Hannah could barely speak his name, and Lane spent most of his first year terrified of everything, saying things like, "Grandfather would never allow—". It annoyed the shit out of me.

Fuck that guy. I"m glad he"s dead.

I"m the only one that gets to be in Lane"s head.