Chapter 1: Too Close Under the Blanket
The only light in the living room came from the frantic dance of flames in the fireplace and the shifting glow of the television screen. It painted long, creeping shadows across the walls and over the two young men tangled on the large sectional sofa. The air smelled like buttered popcorn and the crisp, clean scent of Liam’s laundry detergent, undercut by something sharper, unnameable.
“You are such a hog, give it back!”
“You weren’t eating it!”
“I was savoring it, you gargantuan heathen!”
Finn made a wild grab for the popcorn bowl cradled in Liam’s lap, his movements all sharp elbows and flailing limbs. Liam, effortlessly, held it aloft with one hand, his other arm coming up to bar Finn’s chest. It was like a wall stopping a sparrow.
“Mom!” Finn yelled, not taking his eyes off Liam’s smirk. “Liam’s committing snack-based genocide!”
From the kitchen, Maeve’s voice floated in, warm and amused. “You two! Behave! I’m almost done with these cupcakes.”
They fell back against the cushions, a temporary truce. The movie played on, some action flick Liam had chosen, all roaring engines and gunfire. Finn curled his legs beneath him, the soft charcoal fabric of his skirt pooling around his thighs. His crop top, a simple black ribbed thing, had ridden up a little, exposing a pale sliver of skin just above his waistband. He tugged at it absently.
Liam’s gaze, which had been fixed on a car chase, snagged on that movement. On the sliver of exposed skin, smooth and looking ethereally pale in the firelight. He looked away, focusing hard on the grenade exploding on screen.
“You’re cold,” Liam stated, his voice a little gruffer than he intended. He’d seen the goosebumps rising on Finn’s arms.
“Your powers of observation are stunning. A real credit to your kinesiology degree,” Finn snipped, rubbing his own arms. The fireplace heat didn’t reach the corner of the sofa he’d claimed.
Before Liam could retort, Maeve bustled in, her hands full of pastry boxes. “Right, delivers are ready for tomorrow.” She surveyed the scene: Liam sprawled, Finn shivering subtly. “For heaven’s sake, Liam, share the blanket. Don’t be a barnacle.”
“A barnacle?” Liam and Finn said in unison, then shot each other identical looks of disgust.
“You know what I mean.” She flapped a hand at the thick cable-knit blanket thrown over the back of the sofa. “Share. It’s freezing in here. Be nice.” It was the mom-voice that brooked no argument.
The moment she clicked the kitchen light off and headed upstairs, the tension snapped back into place, thicker now.
With a long-suffering sigh, Liam grabbed the blanket and shook it out. It billowed between them like a parachute before settling. He threw one half over Finn, who flinched as the heavy fabric landed on him.
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” Finn muttered, but he pulled the blanket up to his chin, inhaling the familiar scent of Liam that was now embedded in the wool.
They sat in stiff silence for ten minutes. The movie droned on. Finn, finally warm, began to relax. He stretched, a long, cat-like unfurling that ended with him sinking deeper into the cushions, his head lolling back. The stretch pulled his crop top up, several inches this time, revealing not just a sliver but a clean, graceful curve of his stomach, the subtle dip of his navel, the delicate outline of his lower ribs.
Liam’s breath hitched, a tiny, almost inaudible sound lost in a movie explosion.
His fingers, resting on his own thigh beneath the blanket, twitched. He wanted, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, to trace that line of exposed skin. To see if it was as soft as it looked. His thumb pressed hard into his own leg, a blunt counter-pressure to the thought.
Beneath the blanket, their legs were a minefield. Finn’s bare knee brushed against Liam’s sweatpant-clad thigh. Finn jerked his leg away.
“Sorry,” Finn mumbled, not looking at him.
“It’s fine,” Liam grunted, his voice tight.
The accidental contact seemed to supercharge the space between them. Every shift, every rustle of the blanket, was amplified. Finn, trying to find a comfortable position, turned onto his side, facing Liam. His bent knee pressed firmly against Liam’ insists leg this time. He didn’t pull away.
Liam looked down. Finn’s face was half-buried in a cushion, his long blond hair fanned out, his bright green eyes watching the movie but glazed, unseeing. Firelight caught the gold in his hair, the fragile arch of his eyebrow. He looked heartbreakingly sweet, and so, so not masculine. A weird protective ache bloomed in Liam’s chest, right next to the hotter, sharper pull of desire.
He felt like he was coming out of his skin.
“Your foot is freezing,” Liam accused suddenly, feeling Finn’s icy toes press against his calf.
“So warm it up, you’re a walking furnace,” Finn shot back, but there was no real bite to it. He wiggled his toes against Liam’s leg.
Liam swallowed. He shifted, turning his body slightly towards Finn. His arm, which had been resting on the back of the couch, came down. It didn’t go around Finn, but it landed behind his head, his fingers brushing the fringe of the blanket near Finn’s shoulder. Their faces were closer now.
Finn’s eyes flickered away from the screen, meeting Liam’s. The challenge in them was familiar, but underneath it was a question, a flicker of something vulnerable. Liam saw it. He always saw it.
“What?” Finn whispered. The word was barely audible.
Liam didn’t answer. He was losing a battle inside himself. The urge to close that small, charged distance was a drumbeat in his veins, louder than the movie, louder than his own rational thought. His gaze dropped to Finn’s mouth, then back to his eyes.
Finn didn’t look away. He licked his lips, a quick, nervous dart of his tongue.
That did it.
Liam’s hand moved from the blanket. It didn’t go to Finn’s face, or his hair, as some wild part of him screamed to do. Instead, his fingers found the hem of Finn’s crop top where it had ridden up. The backs of his knuckles brushed against that strip of bare skin.
Finn gasped, a tiny, sharp intake of air. His whole body went still.
Liam’s touch was feather-light, questioning. He traced a single, slow line from Finn’s hip bone up the delicate dip of his waist, his knuckles grazing the ribs he’d wanted to map moments before. The skin was warm now, impossibly soft. Finn shuddered.
“Liam…” Finn breathed. It wasn’t a stop. It was a fracture.
The sound of his name, spoken like that, broke the last of Liam’s control. He started to lean in, the world narrowing to the space between their mouths, to the feel of Finn’s skin under his hand.
A floorboard creaked loudly upstairs.
They flew apart as if electrocuted. Liam snatched his hand back, fist clenching. Finn yanked his shirt down and scrambled upright, pulling the blanket up to his chin like a shield. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and confused.
The movie’s credits began to roll, casting a sterile white light over the room.
They sat in breathless, awful silence, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and the frantic hammering of two hearts. The moment stretched, taut and sickening.
Liam stood up so suddenly the blanket pooled to the floor. “I’m going to bed,” he said, his voice flat and final.
He didn’t look back as he took the stairs two at a time, his mind a riot of denial and want. Finn watched him go, the warmth of Liam’s touch still burning on his skin, replaced by a colder, deeper chill. He pulled the blanket tight around his slender shoulders, feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life.
He pulled the blanket tight around his slender shoulders, feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life. The fire died to embers, and the room grew cold. He spent the night on the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying the feel of Liam’s knuckles on his skin. It was an accident. A mistake. A moment of insanity. He repeated it like a mantra until the gray light of dawn bled through the blinds.
Upstairs, Liam didn’t sleep at all.
The next morning, the kitchen was a sanctuary of normalcy. Sunshine streamed through the window over the sink. Maeve hummed, elbows deep in flour.
Finn padded in, the soles of his fluffy slippers whispering against the tile. He’d chosen the outfit deliberately, a armor of familiar fabric. The white lace crop top was sheer, the pattern a scatter of flowers that did more to hint than to hide. The skirt, black and fluid, swayed just above mid-thigh with every step. It was a Tuesday outfit. It meant nothing.
“Oh, look at you!” Maeve squealed, wiping her hands on her apron. “A vision! An absolute cutie. Breakfast is almost ready, darling.”
Finn offered a weak smile, basking in the easy, uncomplicated warmth. He needed orange juice. The fridge door opened with a suctioned sigh. He leaned into the cool interior, searching for the carton behind a bowl of leftover pasta.
He didn’t hear the heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Liam entered the kitchen, his head pounding from lack of sleep. He stopped dead.
Finn was bent at the waist, rummaging. The short skirt had ridden up, offering a stark, unimpeded view. The thin black strap of a thong cut between the bare, perfect curves of his ass. The lace of his top had ridden up too, revealing the entirety of his lower back, the delicate notch of his spine.
Liam’s mouth went dry. Heat, immediate and punishing, surged through him. He felt a jolt straight to his groin, a fierce, demanding tightness in his sweatpants. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His brain short-circuited, all blood rushing south.
Finn straightened, carton in hand. He turned, saw Liam, and fumbled the juice. It hit the floor with a wet slap.
“Jesus! You scared me.” Finn’s laugh was too high, nervous. He bent quickly to grab the carton, giving Liam another fleeting, devastating view.
Liam forced his gaze to the ceiling, grinding his teeth. He strode to the coffee pot, his back to the room. His voice, when it came, was gravel. “Could you wear actual clothes for once?”
Finn froze, halfway up. He stood slowly, setting the carton on the counter. The vulnerability from last night vanished, burned away by a defensive flare. “These are actual clothes. Just because you dress like a discontinued rugby coach doesn’t mean we all have to.”
“Boys,” Maeve chided lightly, not turning from the stove. “Play nice.”
“He started it,” Finn muttered, pouring juice into a glass with deliberate calm. His hands were shaking.
Liam poured coffee, the rich scent doing nothing to calm him. He could still see the imprint of that black strap against pale skin. It was branded on the back of his eyelids. He turned, leaning against the counter, taking a scalding sip. He forced his eyes to meet Finn’s. The lace top was worse from the front. He could see the faint shadow of Finn’s navel, the subtle outline of his ribs.
“It’s just not… practical,” Liam managed, hating the lame word even as it left his mouth.
“For what? Making breakfast? It’s doing a fantastic job.” Finn took a defiant sip of juice, his green eyes challenging over the rim of the glass. “Got a problem, take it up with the fashion institute. I’ve got a project on subverting masculine norms due at ten.”
Their eyes locked. The air crackled, charged with everything unsaid from the night before—the touch, the almost-kiss, the flight. Liam’s gaze dipped, against his will, to the lace covering Finn’s chest. He saw the quick rise and fall of Finn’s breathing.
Finn saw where he was looking. A faint, proud blush colored his cheeks. He didn’t cover up. He stood his ground.
The silence stretched, thick and unbearable.
“I’m going for a run,” Liam announced abruptly, slamming his half-full mug on the counter. Coffee sloshed over the side. He needed to move, to run until his lungs burned and the image in his head blurred. He needed to outpace this.
He brushed past Finn, close enough to catch the clean, lemony scent of his shampoo. Close enough to remember the feel of his skin.
The front door slammed shut.
Finn let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His bravado wilted. He looked down at his outfit, the lace he usually felt powerful in, and suddenly felt terribly, dangerously thin.
“He’s just grumpy before his coffee,” Maeve said kindly, placing a plate of pancakes on the table. “More for us, darling.”
Finn didn’t answer. He was listening to the sound of Liam’s retreating footsteps on the front walk, fast and angry, each one sounding like a sentence being passed.
He was listening to the sound of Liam’s retreating footsteps on the front walk, fast and angry, each one sounding like a sentence being passed.
The pancakes tasted like ash. Finn pushed them around his plate while Maeve chattered about a new sourdough starter. He replayed the look in Liam’s eyes in the kitchen. It hadn’t just been anger. There’d been a raw, hungry heat there too, a look that had stolen the air from Finn’s lungs. He buried the thought. It was just weirdness, leftover tension from the strange almost-moment on the couch. Liam was his stepbrother. Feelings, whatever they were, aside.
An hour later, the front door clicked open. Liam’s running shoes were heavy on the hardwood. He was drenched in sweat, his t-shirt plastered to his chest, his breathing still ragged as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. He glowered at Finn, who was now sketching at the table, then went straight upstairs. The shower pipes groaned to life a moment later.
“You boys should go for a swim,” Maeve announced, wiping down the counter. “It’s gorgeous out. Sun’ll do you good. Wash all that grump right out.”
Finn looked up from his sketchpad. A slow, sly smile spread across his face. The weirdness evaporated, replaced by the sweet, clear purpose of a well-planned revenge. “Yeah,” he called out, his voice deliberately light. “A swim sounds perfect.”
He’d been waiting for this. Last summer, Liam had replaced his favorite vintage briefs with a pair of those joke trunks that dissolved in water. He’d laughed himself sick watching Finn scramble out of the pool, clutching disintegrating fabric. Turnabout was fair play.
Finn took his time getting ready upstairs. He could hear Liam moving around in his own room, the slam of a dresser drawer. From his own drawer, Finn pulled out the swimsuit he’d bought specifically for today. It wasn’t his usual androgynous fare; this was a statement. The bikini was a dark, navy blue, scattered with tiny, fiery rhinestones that caught the light like captive stars. The top was a simple triangle shape. The bottoms were a thong, a mere strip of fabric meant to disappear between the cheeks. He put it on, studied himself in the mirror. The suit cut high on his hips, showcasing the sharp line of his iliac crest, the delicate hollows of his pelvis. It was gorgeous. It was a weapon.
He wrapped a sheer sarong around his waist and grabbed a towel.
Liam was already at the pool’s edge when Finn stepped out onto the hot concrete. Liam wore a scowl and his old black board shorts. Not for long, Finn thought, a thrill zipping up his spine.
“Took you long enough,” Liam grumbled, not looking at him.
“Art takes time,” Finn sing-songed. He dropped his towel and sarong on a lounger, pretending not to feel Liam’s gaze snap to him. He walked to the deep end, the sun warm on his bare skin, the thong bottom feeling impossibly minimal. He dove in.
The water was a cool, shocking embrace. He surfaced, slicking his hair back, and treaded water, watching.
Liam, with a resigned sigh, climbed down the ladder. He waded in up to his waist, then pushed off into a slow, powerful breaststroke. Finn watched, barely containing his grin.
It started at the seams. Little threads began to separate and float away like tiny, gossamer worms. Then a larger piece near the thigh simply detached and sank. Liam paused, treading water, looking down at his hip in confusion. He grabbed at the fabric, and a whole section came away in his hand, disintegrating into a wet, pulpy mush.
His head shot up. His eyes, wide with disbelief, then molten with understanding, locked onto Finn.
“You.”
Finn burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the water and the concrete. “Payback’s a bitch, stepbro!”
With a roar that was half fury, half involuntary laughter, Liam charged. He moved through the water like a torpedo. Finn shrieked, a genuine, gleeful sound, and kicked hard, swimming for the opposite side. He wasn’t fast enough.
Liam’s hand closed around his ankle and yanked him back. Finn twisted, kicking out with his free foot, which connected with Liam’s shoulder. It only made him angrier, more determined. Water churned around them as Liam got an arm around Finn’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.
“You little shit!” Liam growled into his ear, but the anger was fraying, colored by the absurdity. They were both laughing now, breathless and wrestling.
Finn struggled, writhing in the firm grasp. He got an elbow free, jamming it back, trying to break Liam’s hold. Liam just tightened his arms, one locking across Finn’s chest, the other around his waist. They were chest to back, sinking and bobbing in the deep water. Finn’s legs kicked wildly behind him, connecting with Liam’s shins, his thighs.
In the frantic, slippery struggle, the thin strip of Finn’s bikini bottom was pushed completely aside, offering no barrier. It was just skin on skin. Finn, kicking back again to gain leverage, pushed his hips backward at the exact moment Liam surged forward to contain him.
The tip of Liam’s cock, hard and shockingly full from the fight and the friction and the madness of the whole situation, met the tight, clenched muscle of Finn’s entrance.
The water provided a slick, yielding pressure. It wasn’t enough, not really, but it was just enough for the head to push past the initial, impossible tightness, breaching him.
A sharp, stolen gasp was torn from both of them at once.
All movement ceased.
The world telescoped down to a single, searing point of connection. The laughter died in Finn’s throat, replaced by a silent, open-mouthed shock. The fight evaporated from Liam’s muscles, leaving him rigid, frozen inside a moment he could not comprehend.
He was inside. Just the tip, but undeniably, irrevocably inside. Finn was so tight it felt like a vise, a hot, unbelievable grip. The water lapped quietly around their paralyzed forms.
The sound that finally broke the silence was a ragged, shattered whisper, half plea, half prayer, torn from Liam’s chest and lost against the wet skin of Finn’s shoulder.
“Finn.”