User: trio Date: 2007-08-07 23:34 Subject: Moonlight Security: Public

Odd, how skin can appear so silver in the moonlight. He shifts, the covers sliding down to drape over his abdomen, revealing a slender, bared form to my gaze. The urge to move to him, to run my fingers along the darker shadows of his neck, tracing the muscles down to dip beneath the sheet, is nearly unbearable. But it is an urge I'm well acquainted with, and I am unwilling to give into it. So I remain just inside the doorway, nearly holding my breath as I watch him.

It is an odd relationship we share, he and I, full of titles without meaning, and secrets unvoiced. I call him my brother, but it is not true - our parents are not the same, and we did not grow together. Instead, he came to us a year ago, an orphan already past the age of majority, whose delicate body had betrayed him. He couldn't go to a university, but my parents are rich enough to arrange for schooling for him. When he moved out, I moved with him, hiding my fascination behind my parents' worry. He didn't argue; he never has.

Our apartment is nice, large enough to make our few friends jealous, but he was given the best room as his. Often, he spends days in bed at a stretch, overtired or feverish, and the giant picture windows in front of him offer some relief from the confinement. I know this - I've never begrudged him the beauty. But now, as moonlight pours into his room and he tosses in his sleep, the sheet dips low on his hips, and I see what is almost always hidden from my gaze. He is not hard, nor large, but there is something lovely in the way the silver light plays over his column. My mouth opens, a moan that is barely more than breath given shape slipping out as I lean against the wall, one hand slipping into my pants. He is not hard, but I am, and my free hand goes to press against my lips as I free myself from the loose pajama pants I wear.

I cannot close my eyes as I stroke, my fingers as gentle and light as I imagine his might be. In my mind, I can hear his voice, light and sweet, offering more to me, and my chest aches at the thought that this can never be anything more than a guilty pleasure I indulge in far too often. My eyes flick to the window, and I realize that we're shown there, mingled and bared, and my head falls back, barely avoiding thudding against the wall as the tempo increases. No longer are the touches gentle. I tug on my cock, rub it needily as the fantasy wraps around me. What would his soft lips feel like, tasting me? Would that delicate body fit against mine as well as I believe? Does it really matter, when I know he cannot be mine?

I bite down on my wrist as I come, the marks deep enough to last for a few hours. And I sag there, spent and sated and staring at him. He won't wake for hours yet, giving me long enough to clean up the mess I've made and remove all traces of my secret from his room. Long enough, too, to bask in the picture on the window, where for a moment, I can imagine us entwined.

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