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by Annie

Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list July 24, 2001

TITLE: Brother
PAIRING: Max/Michael
ARCHIVE: RSA, GP, and my site. Any others, please ask.
SUMMARY/NOTES: A birthday fic for Pilar. Happy birthday, babe! I'm actually not entirely happy with how this turned out and it hasn't been beta'ed, but I know you like Max/Michael so I did my best. Warning: This story has overtones of incest, so beware.
DISCLAIMER:Numfar, do the dance of copyright ownership! In other words, not mine. Please don't sue.

        Michael plays with Max's nipple and idly wonders if JFK ever fucked his brother.

        The idea isn't that far-fetched, once he really starts to consider it. Two men - one a leader, the other his loyal soldier - thrust into an era of terrible pressure with no real outlet other than movie starlets and high-priced call girls. It had probably been comforting for them to know no one would love them the way they loved each other.

        He knows that Max often thinks of him as a brother. He knows that Max often feels their fucking is wrong in some way, dirty. He's fine with that, because he doesn't mind the history of family between them. He revels in their fraternal bond and see their lovemaking as an extension of that bond, not a perversion. So he waits for Max to get over the guilt and the shame after each of their encounters, because he knows Max will always come back.

        Max stirs under his light touch, which has drifted down to circle Max's cock. Brown eyes open to gaze at him, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth. Michael leans over to kiss that corner, his hand continuing to slide down Max's length.

        Max quirks an eyebrow. "Again?"

        Michael licks the corner of Max's mouth and murmurs, "Again."

        Their lovemaking is never hurried, never like the rest of their lives when all they do is run towards something or away from something. They linger on each other's bodies, all senses working full force to stroke, suck, fuck their way to a world where it's just the two of them. No destiny, no assigned roles of leader and follower, no heart-rending homesickness eating away at their souls.

        One of Michael's hand glides along his lover's cock as the other gently, slowly teases Max open. As always, he marvels at how tight Max still is, even after all the months they've taken sanctuary in each other, and he's almost tempted to crack a joke about coal and diamonds. But Max is alarmingly sensitive to digs against his inability to just let go, so Michael continues to slide slippery, lube-coated fingers deep down until Max arches against the hand gripping his cock and Michael knows he's ready.

        Their fucking never has a beginning that Michael can remember. One moment he's arousing Max, and the next he is fully penetrated and rocking in a gentle rhythm. He doesn't feel any urgency, just a sweet, slow dance of heat and friction and skin.

        He closes his eyes and places his lips right over the throbbing vein on Max's neck, feeling the pulse beat against his mouth. He times his motions with that same staccato, pushing in and out as his hand intertwines with one of Max's so they can stroke his cock together. Michael is once again amazed at the strength in that hand, in the strength and power in Max's whole body.

        He is humbled. Humbled because it is only with him that Max willingly gives up his strength and power, only with him that Max gladly submits to Michael's will and control. He witnesses the struggle Max goes through each time to ask for Michael's leadership in this. He sees the price Max pays for solace and distraction.

        He knows all of this, and as they reach climax he whispers the one word that will allow Max to let go, the one word that he knows both releases and shames his lover, the one word that ties them together always.

        It is a gamble, and Michael knows that one day Max will rebel against his believed perversion of what they share. But Michael says it anyway, because of all the things Max is to him and all the things he is to Max - friends, warriors, rivals, lovers - only one word encompasses it all.


        Michael wins the gamble this time. Max groans deep in this throat as he comes, and Michael is brought to climax immediately after. Like everything when they are together, their orgasms linger, gentle waves rippling through their bodies for a long time.

        Afterwards, Michael holds Max close to him, smoothing the sweat from his brow and tangling their legs together. He knows Max will drift off quickly, the heavy languor in his body dragging him into the depths of sleep.

        Michael doesn't mind this. It gives him a brief time to watch Max slumber, all the stress lines soothed away temporarily, his features slack with pure relaxation. He knows that when Max wakes up, all of the tension will awaken as well and he will awkwardly and hurriedly get dressed and depart with muttered, embarrassed goodbyes.

        That doesn't matter to Michael, because at this moment Max is with him, Max is letting himself find comfort in his brother's arms.


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