Brother's keeper

Title: Brother's keeper
Author: Mimine
Pairing: Hans Gruber/Simon Gruber (played by the delectable Alan Rickman and Jeremy Irons)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest. Don't like, don't read.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. No money made, no harm intended.
Notes: Trust Hollywood to get it wrong... I don't know what kind of fuckwit decided to make them brothers considering that according to their history one was member of a radical West German movement and the other was a colonel in the East German army. We're talking about two fucking different countries! One of them behind the Iron Curtain! I tried to deal with this part of canon as best I could though I was tempted to overlook it.

My enormous gratitude to Slashmuse who did a terrific job beta reading this.

Hans was a year younger, but no one would have guessed by the way he acted. The way he stood by his brother no matter what. The way he fought with anyone who dared say anything about Simon, behind his back, or to his face. His wit was sharp, and even though Simon would never speak back, Hans would. And he always knew the right buttons to push, what female relatives to insult, or how to use his tongue like a whip against anyone who laughed at Simon.

Simon was special. Only Hans knew that. Simon hid it too well. To everyone else, he appeared to be a hopeless case. He’d fallen two years behind his younger brother in high school. He couldn’t be bothered. He would forget to show up for exams. He would sit silent in class, murmuring the answer to anything the professor would ask the other students but hardly ever deigning to give an answer when he was asked. He would just ignore everything around him. Yet in the afternoons, he’d disappear to the town library and read – poetry, literature, philosophy, history, sciences…. Hans would go and fetch him to make sure he wouldn’t miss dinner. Simon was thin as a rake. Everything about him was thin, even his features – regular nose, thin lips, thin face. Very unlike Hans’ harsh features which looked as though a less than expert sculptor had carved them.

Simon was taller, thinner – almost fey, and Hans loved him with a love that hurt him like fine crystal breaking inside his chest. He loved him enough for the father that had abandoned them, the mother who would curse her luck daily for getting a retard for a son, and the friends that Simon had never made.

Hans did have friends – the kind of friends that wouldn’t laugh at Simon, not in front of Hans anyway. He’d lost his virginity to one of those friends at 16, a boy with pale blue eyes and reddish blond hair. Before long he had made his way through most of his classmates, male or female. These had been strange times in their dreary little town. If the wind blew just right, they would hear the West German radio – songs which smelt of freedom, of love offered easily, of all these things that the teens had been dreaming of – elusive dreams, letting them wake ith ith a bitter taste in their mouth in the morning. Sex had been a cheap, easily available form of recreation – very often, their only recreation. A revolution had happened in the rest of the world, and they were riding on its outskirts, firmly believing that the excesses described in the songs they secretly listened to were solid truth.

One of Hans’ lovers, a girl with ash blond hair and sharply fine features, decided to be a true communist one day and share the wealth. He’d been surprised at her magnanimity and had jumped at the chance to help relieve Simon of his embarrassing condition. The fact that they not only slept in the same room - how could they not, their whole house was practically a room - but also the same bed (which was in reality two unbelievably narrow beds pushed together) meant that Hans knew well that Simon had only had his fist for a lover so far. In fact, Simon’s dates with his hand had been annoyingly frequent, robbing the younger boy of much needed sleep.

Hans told Simon what the girl had offered. He’d stared critically at the other boy then, noting the wiry muscle he’d built by riding his bicycle (a piece of junk he’d found and transformed to a true beauty), the way his blond hair fell flatteringly over his eyes, the clean-shaven cheeks, free of cuts since interestingly, he’d been the Gruber brother who got all the skill with a razor. Simon had stared up at him, his grey eyes filling with dread. Then he promptly got one of his migraines.

Their mother would leave the house whenever her older son would get one of what she called his “funny turns”. She didn’t want to have to stay in the dark in her hole of an apartment, so she’d go visit some friend, some lover. She could go to hell for all Hans cared. Painkillers were rare and expensive, and Simon would have to wait out the migraine. It would sometimes last for 12 hours, for 24 hours, for countless hours. Marathon headaches that had the tall boy pale and shaking, wishing he were dead. Hans would sit with him during the worst of it, talking to him to distract him, putting cold compresses on his forehead, massaging his temples, trying anything that could somehow alleviate the pain.

That headache had not been too bad. Hans’ reassurances that everything was going to be alright and that the girl really wouldn’t be getting a bad bargain eventually did sink in. Simon stared at him incredulously, and Hans referred him to the nearest mirror. Simon stood in front of the mirror studying his reflection, a finger tracing his features absent-mindedly, then stroking down his broad chest. Hans’ breath caught in his throat at the vaguely autoerotic display, and it occurred to him that sleeping right next to the young man in front of him was not going to be that easy anymore.

The girl’s name was Sabine. She flirted coyly with the two boys as they all drank the cheap wine they’d brought over. She was alone at her house for the weekend, she told them suggestively, letting out a drunken little laugh. She turned and asked Simon if he’d ever kissed a girl before. The tall boy blushed and shook his head. A moment later, Sabine had crossed over to him, clambered on his lap and joined her lips with his. Hans started to make his excuses and moved to get up. An iron grip on his shoulder stopped him: Simon’s hand. He turned and saw true terror in his brother’s eyes. He’d broken the kiss abruptly, and the girl’s lips were now smearing his neck with the remains of her garish red lipstick.

“Do you have to leave?” the tall boy said.

Hans felt an overwhelming combination of embarrassment and arousal wash over him. He stared at the girl. Would she go that far?

She did. She let them both kiss her, touch her, their hands and mouths meeting on her white skin. The two boys touched each other almost as much as they touched her, their long thin fingers joining, mouths fastening on the same nipple, legs entwining. And there were other, much more intimate, unacknowledged touches. Hans splayed her open for his brother who predictably finished without even managing to get it in, letting the younger boy do the honours, as he quite well could have had without Simon’s contribution.

Sabine shook Hans off her the moment he came and coldly told both brothers to piss off.

Back in their house they sat in silence. Uncharacteristically, Simon was the one to break it.

“Do you think she’s going to be alright? She was crying.”

“I’m sure she will be fine.”

“I didn’t mean to mess things up. Sex is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?”

Hans shrugged. “Girls see it a little differently than we do.”

They left it at that. That night Hans slept on the edge of his bed, as far away from his brother as possible. Yet, in his dreams, he wasn’t far from Simon at all. Simon was under him, his thin lips parted, his sculpted chest where some hairs had started to make their appearance, shiny with sweat, his long legs wrapped around him. He realised he’d been humping his bunched up blankets when he woke up, hard as a rock, just on the verge of orgasm. He ran to the bathroom to take care of his problem, hurried stroking, prolonged as he tried to evade the image from his dream. He gave in eventually, letting the thought of Simon’s naked body come to the forefront. It wasn’t difficult to recall it. It was as though it had been burned behind his eyelids.

He tossed and turned the next night, and the next. The third night he assured Simon that he was perfectly alright and this hadn’t anything to do with him. And then he felt a thin strong hand snake around his waist and draw him closer to the warm body next to his. He mumbled in protest, mostly from the fact that he’d ended up lying on cold hard iron, right where the two beds were joined. The sheer wrongness of letting his brother rub his hard prick against his backside also struck him.

“Shh, don’t wake up, don’t stop this. I love you, Hans, I always have.”

“Shut up, she’ll hear us.”

They made as little sound as possible, moving slowly so the bed wouldn’t creak. Simon kissed on the nape of Hans’ neck, bit on his shoulder blades, down his spine. The younger boy whimpered helplessly at the feel of Simon’s body against his.

Hans didn’t turn. He was tired of fighting this, eager to surrender. The rest of the world wouldn’t understand, and it could go fuck itself for all Hans cared. Yet he wasn’t ready to stare at his brother’s face and connect it with the surprisingly clever fingers that were now running all over his body and the hardness pressing against his backside. The younger boy bit on his lip to stop a moan as the fingers tugged on the waistband of his pajama bottoms. He helped Simon pull them down then reached back blindly to return the favour.

“Take it easy, Simon. We’ll wake her up.”

Simon made an unintelligible sound that probably meant he was going to try and be quiet from now on. Hans reached back and led the hard prick to nestle between his thighs. He started to move against the other boy, clenching his thighs tightly. His tight entrance had become an aching center of need, but he couldn’t risk letting the other boy take him, not with their mother sleeping a few feet from them.

Simon seemed content with what was given to him. He pressed with increasing urgency whispering against his brother’s ear about how good he felt, how simply perfect he was. He reached forward, took hold of Hans’ shaft, and started pumping it hard with a skill that didn’t surprise Hans considering how much practice his still technically virgin 18 year old brother had had.

His brother. Touching him like that. Rubbing against him. It was wrong. It went against anything that Hans had been brought up to believe. There was no turning back. His erection remained undiminished despite icy guilt coursing through his veins. Simon drew in a shaky breath as he let go. His rhythm on Hans slackened, and the younger boy took things into his own hands. A few hard strokes were all it took for him to come all over his own hand and his brother’s.

The morning found them sticky and awkward with each other, stuffing their bed sheets in the ancient washing machine, then taking their turn in the shower. It was Hans’ turn to wash second. Predictably, by the time he got to rinse his hair the water was ice cold.

With time they fell into a habit about it. They had a roll of contraband toilet paper (their mother counted them) hidden under their beds to deal with the stickiness. They would both get under the shower in the morning, necessarily standing close in the tiny bathtub, not so accidentally touching, kissing, being as loud as the paper thin walls allowed and getting to school quite late with rosy cheeks and wandering gazes. Hans would sit down on the hard wooden chair with a slight wince sometimes. Other times it would be Simon’s turn.

Simon changed. At school he not only replied whenever he was asked something, quite often he would correct his professors. Eventually, he was examined and found to be a savant rather than an idiot. He was placed with his year, and by his performance there, it became obvious that he would soon graduate. He radiated a never before seen confidence that didn’t go unnoticed by his peers, male or female. It all came as a bit of a shock to Hans, even though he had had an inkling of just how special his brother really was. It bothered him that now the whole world knew, though. It bothered him that girls would shyly ask him to introduce them to his brother, and some young men would discreetly enquire whether Simon also was “from the other river bank”. He wanted to scream to all of them that Simon was his and his alone, always had been, and always would be.

Simon didn’t remain oblivious to the interest he had stirred. He seemed to be awkward about it. He’d whisper reassurances in Hans’ ear at night when their bodies would find their way of becoming one, silently so that the blasted bed wouldn’t creak, so that their mother who slept the sleep of the just, or rather the sleep of the absolutely exhausted who have spent the better part of their day in a factory, would not get wind of what her two sons were doing. In the morning, in the shower they only had the neighbours to worry about, since she would leave for work at the crack of dawn.

The two boys dreamt of moving to a house of their own. A rather bold dream that they seriously doubted could ever come true. Perhaps if they went to study in a different town, they would make it work. Somehow, they had to. Their mother would be glad to get them out of her way. It was a beautiful dream, and Hans couldn’t wait to be done with school to set it in motion. He was the top student in his class and had little doubts that he would make it to his first choice of a University.

And then one day Simon came home wide eyed, blustering with excitement, carrying presents for all of them. He told their mother something, and she put her arms around him, her eyes filling with tears. Hans stood and stared in shock. He set on the sofa the large package Simon gave him without opening it.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Simon’s enthusiasm seemed to be dampened a little by Hans’ icy demeanour. “I have news,” he said simply. “I’ve been accepted in the military academy.”

The dream – studying in the same town, getting a house together, being together, … everything – crumbled around Hans. He gave out a harsh laugh.

“And you seriously think that’s reason to celebrate?”

The dry sound of his mother’s hand connecting with his cheek filled the small apartment. Hans hardly felt it. Hs nus numb.

“You should be happy for him! He’s going to be making his own money, not squeezing me dry like you, you little leech!”

Hans realised that all the guilt he’d felt about being his mother’s favourite son had been completely unfounded. She’d simply been sure that her other son was retarded. Now that he was going to be an officer with a real place in society and a steady income she seemed to like him well enough.

Hans argued, pleaded and withheld sexual favours to get his brother to change his mind. Nothing came of it. He started to fall behind at school, sitting silent and miserable, reminding his professors of how Simon used to be. He made friends with the wrong sort, the kind of boys who would smoke, inhale and even inject everything they could get their hands on. The sort of boys who would get drunk as skunks on cheap vodka and those of them that held the liquor just a little better than the rest would depose their passed out companions on their front door. Simon would sometimes go and get him from one house or another, and Hans would either call him every name in the book – some insults in fact so imaginative that Hans would wish he could remember them all in the morning – or cling to him and cry and beg him not to leave him.

One night Hans followed his new best friends to a dark, smoke-filled basement that had been turned into a bar – illegal of course. At some point, he looked around and didn’t recognise anyone. His friends had wandered off, stoned, fucking some girl, stoned and trying to fuck some girl – or boy. The people around him were in their thirties – big, muscular men that stank of alcohol and smoke and sweat. One of them made a pass at him. Hans pretended not to notice it and looked discreetly for the exit. The man laughed and told him that the stuff Hans’ friends had gotten to inject - more likely to be detergent than heroin, Hans had thought - had not come without a price. Hans had been the one to pay it in a room above the “bar” where the four men laughed at him as they passed him around like a joint. His sharp wit was not of much use to him in that situation.

He limped back to his apartment at dawn. People around him were waiting for a bus to take them to work. They paid little attention to the boy with the bruised face, torn clothes, and cigarette burns on his arms. Luckily, his mother’s bus had already passed, and he made it upstairs unseen. He knocked hesitantly.

“You stupid bastard, I was looking for you all night!” yelled Simon as he was unlocking the door. Hans hadn’t been able to see what he looked like, but the horror in his brother’s face when he opened the door gave him a good idea. He collapsed then, weeping in harsh sobs that increased in volume as Simon put his arms around him.

“I’m filthy, don’t touch me,” Hans whispered hoarsely yet sagged in the familiar embrace. He was home.

Hans wouldn’t have gone to the police and Simon didn’t suggest it. Hans knew well that part of the reason was that Simon didn’t want a scandal. He was already thinking of his military record even though he wouldn’t be going to the military academy until another year.

Simon filled the bathtub, put his brother in it, and then rushed to the kitchen to heat up more water. Hans saw the water fill with blood and … other things. He told Simon to burn his clothes because they smelled like a public urinal. It was not strange considering that two of the men had quite enjoyed relieving themselves all over him. The memory made Hans retch, but he had already emptied all contents of his stomach on the pavement where they dumped him after they were done.

Hans had scrubbed his entire body raw by the time Simon finally got him to get out of the bathtub. He was sore all over. The cigarette burns on his arms and chest stood out accompanied by countless scratches and bites. Simon made him lie on his side, on the bed, reminding Hans of all the times he had stayed with Simon during one of his headaches, stroking his hair like Simon was doing now, whispering to him, kissing his forehead. So he closed his eyes and breathed regularly. When Simon locked himself in the bathroom where he punched the wall repeatedly, Hans wept as silently as he could, pretending not to have heard anything.

If their mother noticed that her younger son was acting strange, she said nothing. The explanation that Hans had been in a bar fight was enough for her. At school Hans was even more withdrawn than before, sitting mostly by himself and avoiding physical contact with anyone. One of the boys who’d been at the bar approached him when he got back to school two days after the incident. The other two seemed to have disappeared. The boy begged Hans to forgive him for what had happened, and to call off his brother. Hans wasn’t sure exactly what the boy meant, but his eyes were round with fright.

In the next week, the three boys who’d pimped Hans out for a few grams of heroin had a freak accident. Their car burst in flames after the crash, and they had to be identified by their teeth – of which, several had been missing since their last dental appointment. Simon had come home late, his clothes smelling of gasoline, and his knuckles bruised. He tossed and turned on the bed, and only when Hans spooned against him did he stop.

In the next few days, there were several murders in their quiet little town. The police suspected their local drug dealers had gone to war and let them sort it out with no pangs of conscience. One man had been found in an alley right outside an illegal bar that he was rumoured to own. He’d been stabbed to death. Another had been found with his throat cut in the park, his trousers down to his ankles, and a look of surprise on his face since he’d obviously been expecting a much more pleasurable end to his evening. The other two men had been found together in an apartment. One had had his throat cut, much more cleanly than the victim in the park, if the police had bothered to look close enough. The other had had his head bashed against the wall repeatedly, and then he’d been strangled.

“Because the bastard just wouldn’t die!” Simon insisted as he washed his still shaking hands. Hans held him from behind. Since the attack, Simon was the only person that the younger boy could bear to touch.

“He was the last one,” Hans whispered to his brother’s ear. “It’s over.” His hands covered Simon’s and drew them away from the scorching water. He brought these hands, which had strangled a man only an hour before, to his mouth and he kissed each finger gently. He was strangely aroused at the thought of what Simon had done for him.

“You will make a good soldier,” he murmured as he kissed the palm then moved down to the bony wrist.

“Am I finally getting your blessing?”

“I’ll still hate you for leaving me,” Hans whispered and brought Simon closer to his height to press his lips on the older boy’s neck.

They walked together to their bed, Hans not seeing where he was going since he had not stopped kissing Simon, kissing his neck, his jaw, his lips. It was Saturday night, and their mother had left for the weekend.

They fell on the bed without breaking their kiss, Hans on top of Simon. The younger boy pulled back to let them both catch their breaths. Urgently, he reached to remove Simon’s vest. A few drops of blood stood out on the white flannel. Hans threw it away with a shudder of disgust. He quickly overcame it, busy with kissing the hard, lean chest, rolling a rosy nipple in his mouth as he pinched the other one. Simon gave out a gasp. His hands pressed on Hans’ hair, and then fell at his sides again. The younger boy realised that Simon was trying to restrain himself not to scare him. He took Simon’s hands and placed them on his head again.

“I won’t break,” he whispered.

Simon’s chest shook with a silent sob. “I missed you so much,” he said brokenly, his hands carding through Hans’ thick hair.

Hans moved lower on Simon, licking and playfully biting the hard stomach. Simon’s hands moved to the nape of his neck and then on his back and under his thin shirt. The brown haired boy quickly took off his shirt. The cigarette burns were still angry brown shadows, the bites on his upper body a dark purple, but Hans saw no repulsion in his brother’s eyes.

The hands stroking on his hair gently pushed him further down where a wet tent had formed in his brother’s grey slacks. Hans peeled them away with well-practiced fingers that not so accidentally brushed against the stiff flesh they exposed. Simon jerked violently.

“I’m close, God, I’m so close…”

Hans didn’t need further encouragement to swallow the long, lean prick, his tongue curling around the familiar head. He pulled down the foreskin to expose it better, hot and leaking in his mouth. He sucked hard as he prodded the spongy flesh with his tongue. He couldn’t see it, but he knew the head was purple now, shining with spit. He felt more precum coat his tongue. Simon really was close. The hands in his hair had started to press his head down now and, for a moment, Hans felt icy cold fear in the pit of his stomach. He fought it hard, yet, still gave out a choked whimper which scared the long-fingered hands away from his hair. He stayed still for a moment, breathing through his nose, then slowly slid up until only the head was between his lips. He pressed down again, swallowing against the hard flesh. Simon gave out a strangled cry his hips jerking violently as another spurt of precum filled Hans’ mouth.

“I’m co… oh!” was all that the blond boy managed to say as Hans pulled up and started lashing mercilessly at the tip. His hand pumped hard at the long shaft while he swallowed most of the creamy release. Simon’s breath was coming in ragged gasps. Hans looked up at his face, the half-closed eyes, slack mouth… Simon was beautiful when he came. Hans could have come just from looking at him – the fact that he’d been rubbing his erection against the mattress could also have something to do with it, of course.

He felt Simon shift under him. He was fumbling in the dresser drawer. Their lubricant had started its career as a hand lotion, but it wasn’t bad. Simon passed the small glass bottle to his brother and spread his thighs invitingly.

Hans coated his fingers with the thick substance. With his other hand, he quickly pulled down his pyjama bottoms along with his underwear. He lowered himself over his brother’s pale body, planting a kiss on each thigh before starting to prepare the older boy. He probed the tight entrance carefully. Simon was less used to this than he was, and there was also the memory of…

Pain, searing hot pain, blood, he was cut open, and they wouldn’t stop… he cried and begged… Hans closed his eyes, a shudder running through his body.

Simon took a hold of Hans’ hand. He pressed the relaxed fingers against his opening.

“Open your eyes, Hans. It’s me. It’s just me. You’re not hurting me. I want this. I owe you at least ten times, remember? Remember how long it took me to let you top?”

Hans chuckled. Indeed, he remembered. He gave out a sigh.

“Fuck, I’m a mess,” he said miserably.

“I don’t care. I love you. Do it, Hans. I want you to fuck me so hard I won’t be able to walk in the morning.”

A sharp hiss contradicted Simon’s words as Hans abruptly buried two slickened fingers in him. Then Hans moved his fingers and saw his brother’s eyes widen and his lips pull back to a soundless snarl. He pulled them out then pushed back again, searching out the prostate, that lovely little nub which had been his ticket to Simon bending under him for the first time to be buggered senseless. He was rewarded with a moan which turned into a litany of “please, God, I love you,” as he teased it again and again. He added a third finger as he rose to his knees. He’d been rubbing against the lumpy mattress and needed to stop or he wouldn’t manage to give his brother any sort of fucking let alone a hard one.

Hans continued to stretch the other boy who had started pushing back against his fingers trying hard to keep them inside. Simon gave out a ragged gasp when Hans pulled out his fingers for good. The blond brother’s prick had started to stiffen again, and Hans stroked it gently. He positioned himself between Simon’s spread legs. The taller boy pressed against the wet head that nudged his opening. With one swift thrust, Hans was inside. Simon thrashed under him. The younger boy winced as his brother’s nails broke skin on his back. He said nothing. Simon was so beautiful, so tight, and so perfect that he wouldn’t care if he cut his back to ribbons.

Hans thought he would have to reconsider that when he finally found the prostate. Simon was jack-knifed under him, sobbing, mumbling incoherently, and pleading. Hans could feel the blood flowing down his back at that point. The stinging pain was an exciting counterpoint to the pleasure of sinking in Simon’s body. And apparently, the whole thing was quite a treat for the blond teenager as well.

“There… oh, just there… I love you, Hans, fuck, I love you….” words disintegrated to a continuous moan as Hans took a hold of Simon’s prick and started stroking in time with his thrusts.

Hans quickened his rhythm. Simon was close. Tears were escaping his tightly shut lids, tears that no longer scared Hans. Simon always cried when he was taken. It was as though his body was putting out a final defence against submitting. Hans had learnt to love those tears. He wanted to lean to kiss them away and taste their salt, but he didn’t want to change his angle as he was hitting the prostate with each thrust.

Then Simon went still, and Hans knew he was coming even before he felt the warm jet of fluid against his hand. Hans let go as well, yelling his release against Simon’s sweaty chest.

In the shower Simon saw the marks his nails had left on his brother’s back. He washed the dried blood away gently. He tried to apologise, but Hans didn’t let him. So he licked the scratches. Hans wanted to stop him from doing that as well , but said, “Oh, fuck, that feels incredible,” instead. Simon continued licking and sucking at the bleeding flesh. Hans had a hard time staying upright under the sensual assault. He turned around carefully on the slippery bathtub and pressed his lips against Simon’s. He searched the taste of blood in his brother’s mouth, metallic and salty… perhaps too salty…. Hans pulled back from the kiss and saw that Simon’s face was wet even though his hair was still dry. Hans laced his fingers around the nape of Simon’s neck and got him to bend his head until their foreheads touched. Simon’s chest was heaving now, and Hans couldn’t take it. He started to cry as well, much louder than his brother, harsh sobs that made him think he might soon start coughing up his insides.

They slept in each other’s arms that night. And every night until Simon left for the military academy. There were tears then, tears of pride from their mother. Hans was pale and quiet. He remained rigid in his brother’s embrace. But at night he bit on his pillow to stifle the sobs. He would still be able to see Simon from time to time, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t even come close. Hans Gruber started his final year at high school feeling like half of him was missing.

He poured all of his energy into his schoolwork. He finished first in his class and got a state scholarship to study mathematics. The scholarship had come at a good time. His mother stopped complaining about her weary bones for good after a mercifully quick cancer claimed her life.

Hans excelled in his studies, and this gave him his freedom.

It came with a price, of course. Most things do.

The Iron Curtain hadn’t gotten its name without a reason. At times, however, the country behind it would need to send one of her loyal citizens to represent her. Athletes, ballet dancers and, as Hans found out, brilliant young mathematicians, to compete and bring glory to the motherland.

So Hans got his taste of the capitalism that he’d been taught to despise. And capitalism won over the 20 year old East German who managed to escape from his hotel and disappear in the unfamiliar streets of Paris.

West Germany accepted the young refugee. Hans continued his studies there on a scholarship - state scholarship again, only a different German state. His peers were amused by his naïveté borne of his communist upbringing. And he never had trouble keeping his bed warm, although, everyone would eventually leave him. Perhaps it was because he wrote long letters to someone named Simon. Letters that stayed around his apartment, never sent, ready to be discovered by a prying lover. Or, it could be, that he would sometimes whisper that name in his sleep. Or that he would choose his bed-mates, tall and blond, with fine features and thin lips. And the world of the University was small, so they were bound to run into each other, discover who they had in common, and see that they had been mere stand-ins.

Hans went on like that. AIDS gave him a bit of a fright, but he was spared. The letters to Simon eventually stopped. He wondered whether he would be able to even recognise his brother if he ever got to see him again. He was letting himself hope that it was possible. He had to. All he had was hope.

He finished his studies and worked for a while, but then, he decided he liked it better at the University and accepted a teaching assistant position. The pay was laughable, but Hans liked the atmosphere of the University. If there was anything that his communist upbringing had taught him, it was to be satisfied with just the basics. So there he was, among hormonally charged teenagers, helping quite a few of them cross that river, get out of that closet, find themselves, or whatever they wanted to call it. The movement had been part of that, in a way. He had been chasing a rebellious young thing then, and before he knew it, he was one of the leading members of “Volksfrei.” This was utterly ridiculous, since he would be hard pressed to answer exactly what the “Free People” revolutionary group was fighting for: Marxism, Trotskyism, anarchism…. It had been a good steady source of “sodomism” for him, and he’d left it at that.

And then he found himself in London for about a year or so doing research for his PhD and trying to improve his English. One night a man asked him for a light in crisp British tones, and as he turned to give it to him, he was struck dumb. He thought he was imagining things. The man he saw before him… a little more filled out, a few lines on his face, more prominent cheekbones…

“Simon?” he said with wonder.

“I haven’t changed that much – unlike you with that beard,” the man said thickly, switching to Germa
Ha
Hans reached to touch the tall, well-dressed man to assure himself that he wasn’t dreaming. The man took a step back.

“Don’t go, please!” Hans cried out.

The man…Simon. It was Simon – after all these years. He motioned for Hans to follow him. Hans did. Simon led him to a sparsely furnished hotel room.

“Did you also escape?” Hans asked.

The man snorted then promptly backhanded Hans. The brown-haired man looked at his older brother in shock, holding his cheek.

“Escape, Hans? I’m an officer in the East German army, do you honestly think I could just leave? And why would I want to leave?”

“Do you have a family? Wife, children?”

Simon laughed at the question. “No wife or brats.”

“Then why, if they have nothing holding you back…”

Anger shone in Simon’s grey eyes.

Hans sat heavily on the large bed, staring up at brotbrother in trepidation. He cleared his throat.

“You left me first, Simon. You left me behind, alone with your memory. Seeing you once every six months… if I was lucky, do you think that was enough for me?”

The other man was standing over him, his hands crossed in front of his chest.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Pardon me?”

“Don’t call me Simon. It is not my name anymore. I changed it. I changed my last name as well. Do you think I wanted to have the name “Gruber” after the way you disgraced it, you filthy traitor?” The older man’s voice had risen and trembled slightly. He slowly raised his hand and pressed at his temple.

“You still get them?” Hans said gently.

Simon didn’t reply. He put up no resistance as Hans took a hold of his hands and sat him on the bed next to him.

The younger man found that he still remembered what to do. He carded his fingers in the close cropped blond hair, applying gentle pressure, then reaching down to the nape of Simon’s neck, stroking firmly, then moving up again… slowly… there…. It felt strange somehow to be touching the man instead of the boy. One hand wandered to Simon’s face, to coarse cheeks and faint wrinkles and scars.

“I missed that,” Simon murmured. “I missed you…. All I wanted was…. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to defect? Why didn’t you give me a chance to say goodbye?”

“I was afraid. And I didn’t know it would be so hard. But after I did it, there was no way back.”

“We only have tonight,” the blond man said simply. He raised his head to face Hans then leaned to kiss him.

It had been long. So very long. They had been boys before, and now they were grown men. The kiss still held all that teenage passion. Hans fell back on the bed, letting Simon take charge of the kiss. He moaned as Simon took charge of other things as well, namely the bulge that had began to form in Hans’ ridiculously expensive trousers. The brown-haired man quickly reached to remove them. It was not very easy under Simon’s compact weight. Removing his shirt was even harder. He managed to get his trousers down to his knees and unbutton his shirt – no small a feat with Simon rubbing against him and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Because, of course, there was no tomorrow. But Hans wasn’t going to think about that.

Simon helped his brother finish undressing and quickly took off his own clothes. Hans stared at the lithe body, his mouth going dry with desire. The reality before him surpassed his memory. There was not an ounce of fat under the faultless skin, making Hans, who was not in bad shape himself, feel stocky and awkward and utterly undeserving of breathing the same air, let alone kissing the creature over him.

It was a feeling that didn’t last for very long as Hans started to touch and taste the creamy skin. Soon the touches and licks became scratches and bites, urgent, desperate as Simon reached between them and took both hard shafts in his hand. Hans rocked against the calloused palm and against Simon’s prick… so hard and slick… so perfect…. And Simon squeezed and pumped just right, occasionally flicking his thumb over the wet heads, spreading the moisture they gave out. His rhythm quickened, his grasp became firmer, and Hans whimpered under him, wordlessly begging him for release. One final thrust against Simon’s hand, and Hans let go with a muffled cry.

Simon continued rubbing against Hans’ middle that was now slippery with his semen. The blond man’s breathing was coming out in short gasps, his teeth bared. Hans stared at the strained features, leisurely studying them as he recovered from his release. He committed everything to memory, saving the image for a rainy day. His Simon look-alikes would not cut it anymore, those slender blond boys, forever 18 while Hans got older and older, they were nothing compared to the man on top of him.

Simon cried out his brother’s name and went still. He collapsed on top of the younger man, breathing harshly, mumbling something that sounded like “I love you,” though, Hans might have imagined that.

They stayed in each other’s arms, Simon sliding off of Hans at some point, making a face at their sticky state then holding the brown haired man from behind.

Hans was back in his bedroom again, about to fall in just the place where the two beds connected, he was sure. And Simon had to be quiet, he was never quiet enough and their mother would shift in her bed, sometimes. What if she knew? What if she knew and played dumb?

It didn’t matter. Their mother was dead. They were not boys anymore… the bed was just one bed… just a little larger than your typical single bed. But the hand stroking him was Simon’s hand… Simon’s hand on the small of his back, on his buttocks… hesitant fingers, seeking, asking… and he pulled them in hungrily enjoying the gasp of surprise from the other man.

“I don’t have anything to use…”

Hans raised a leg to grant better access, then pressed back.

“Just stretch me well, it’s alright.”

The long fingers scissored slowly. Hans could feel the rock hard erection, leaking, smearing his upper thigh, but Simon took things slow. A third finger was added, stroking him from the inside. Hans felt himself go hard. He led Simon’s free hand to his prick. It was to show him proof that his advances were more than welcome. After the incident, which had left a scattering of light brown cigarette marks on Hans’ chest as the only visible sign, it took very long for Hans to submit to Simon again. And even when he did, Simon would reject the offer, disgusted at finding out that Hans had lost his erection. And here it was, 15 years later, a bit of old sexual routine… The body never forgets.

Simon took his fingers away and pressed against the tight opening. He slid in slowly, raising Hans’ leg even further, whispering half-formed words in his ear and biting it gently. His lips went lower to Hans’ neck. Hans bit on the pillow to stifle a cry, as he
could have benefited from more preparation, but he didn’t want to scare Simon. He quickly worked his muscles, and it was fine. Perhaps he’d be sore in the morning, but he would need the soreness to be sure it wasn’t all a dream.

“Move,” he whispered. “Please, move, I need to feel you.”

Simon did just that, rocking slowly, shallow thrusts at first, then long strokes. Hans was certain that there was blood, but he didn’t mind. The pain was too close to pleasure for him to care. If he saw the blood, Simon didn’t say anything about stopping. Hans was arching forward to rub against Simon’s hand and his own, then pushing back again, impaling himself as far as he could go. It went on like that; he couldn’t say how long. Time had stopped. There was just him and Simon, as it always should have been – only, … he left. He left Simon. He didn’t even say goodbye, and he was afraid to turn around because… What if this was some stranger fucking him? What if he was going crazy?

Hans let his release wash over him, thrusting hard against his own hand and Simon’s. The other man took hold of Hans’ hair and exposed his neck. He sucked on the sensitive skin, marking Hans, giving him even more evidence that this was all really happening. And then he bit hard at the junction between neck and collarbone, his whole body shaking with the force of his orgasm. It was a while before he slipped out of Hans’ relaxed body, falling heavily next to him.

Hans turned around, finally facing his brother again. Simon stared at him hard then reached to trail a finger down his face.

“I hate this.”

“What?”

“This beard. It changes you.”

Hans smiled tiredly. “I am not 16 anymore.”

They stepped together under the shower, washing silently, not touching much -- as though that part of their familiarity was gone. Simon cursed loudly when he saw the blood. Hans didn’t let him apologise. Time was running out.

“Will you make me go back?” Hans asked casually as he was getting dressed. Dawn had broken, painting the sky purple. It was a magnificent dawn. A ruthless dawn.

Simon shook his head.

“Will you stay?”

The other man gave out a bitter laugh.

Hans looked down at his feet. It couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t.

But it did. He left the cheap hotel and walked back to his small flat. He left Simon again.

Epilogue

Very few people close to Simon were aware of the fact that the man they knew as Peter Krieg (aptly named Peter “War” considering his military record), had been born “Simon Peter Gruber.” It could be because he let very few people get close to him. His commanding officer knew – not because he was close to Simon, but because his commanding officer simply knew everything. It wouldn’t surprise Simon to see that his preference for blue Y-fronts was in file somewhere.

One morning, in the late 80’s, with the air of perestroika blowing behind the Iron Curtain, Simon looked up to see the sour faced man who was above him in the chain of command and who, under torture, Simon would admit to loving as a father, solemnly pass him a scrap of paper. It said “Reuters” on top.

The colonel was considerate enough to close Simon’s office door behind him after he left the blond man’s office. No one heard the cry of anguish or saw the hard-edged lieutenant colonel’s eyes fill with tears as Simon read on the piece of paper what had become of his little brother. Hans had left him again. This time for good.