ross_mosss



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    "Andrew doesn't have friends," Aaron says. Blurts, really—loud and undignified and not what he meant to say. But like a bandaid from a too-fresh wound, it tears him open. "He has things. He just doesn't like that his things"—he makes a maliciously sarcastic set of air quotes—"play nicely together without him."

    If Andrew had been carved from marble, he might have been livelier. Every inch of him now is stone, from the hard set of his jaw to the tension bunching in his thighs.

    "I'm right, aren't I?" Aaron continues. There's something dangerous in him, howling down every synapse and nerve fiber until he's shaking with it. He doesn't have it in him to leash it; not today, not freshly off the high of a potential future built on want and not binding contracts. "You can't stand that you're not in control anymore, that we might not need you."

    "You don't need me," Andrew says, voice gravel.

    "Isn't it enough to want you?" Andrew's eyes go wide, but Aaron isn't finished. "Jesus, don't you get it? It's enough for your pet striker, so why can't it be enough for your own goddamn brother?"

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    11 Mar 2026