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Mr. Eames was a salty-haired gentlemen of 45 that enjoyed hand-knit sweaters and greasy American food. He didn’t much look like his son, but was still handsome, had the same straight nose and grey eyes, and was a bit of a pervert at his age. Mrs. Penrose had taken to him instantly when they met.
Unfortunately, her 11-year-old son had taken a similar shine to his 19-year-old son.
The house wasn’t big enough for the four of them at the time, and Eames and Arthur had needed to bunk up. This hadn’t been much of a problem until Arthur hit puberty and started complaining that he needed his own room, embarrassed every morning to wake up with a hard-on and a smug grin from his new older brother. Much to Arthur’s frustration, they hadn’t had the money at the time to purchase a new house, which lead to dozens of occasions where Eames walked in on Arthur jerking off, and hours of howling laughter from the elder boy.
When Arthur was 13, their parents took out a loan from the bank to buy a bigger house. This meant the addition of a garage, a bigger kitchen, and (oh god yes!) a new bedroom so the boys no longer had to share.
Except a week into the boys’ separation, Arthur realized he was incredibly lonely. He’d enjoyed waking up to Eames’ laughter, Eames’ bed-hair, Eames’ thickly muscled legs in boxer shorts, his gaudy tattoos he seemed to love to collect… He kept going to Eames’ doorframe and peaking in, picking at the wood paneling as he frowned at the spacious room that did not belong to him.
Arthur’s moping did not go unnoticed and Eames began to appear more often at his baby brother’s door, arms crossed over his thick chest and a curl at his lips. “Let’s go out for ice-cream,” he’d offer, and Arthur would be more than happy to oblige, excited to once again feel like part of his brother’s life.
Their second week in the new home, it had begun to rain. For days it didn’t stop, and then the thunder started. It went on into the night, and Arthur couldn’t sleep through it, would be woken up every time the thunder struck nearby. The power had gone out at some point.
Just as he began to seriously consider slinking off to Eames’ room, he heard his door open. He lay completely still, ears perked to listen for who it was, and then his blanket was being lifted and a warm body was slipping in next to his. It was Eames. Arthur knew by the bulk of his body and the weight of his hand on Arthur’s hip, the smell of that minty gum Eames was always chewing now thick between them as the older boy spoke.
“Sorry mate, hope you don’t mind.”
Arthur almost felt ashamed that he still needed a bedmate during such weather, ashamed that Eames pitied him enough to do this for him (but was it pity?). He’d never been able to sleep through thunder, had always felt too uneasy, too jumpy to get a good night’s rest. He used to go to his mother’s bed during storms, but after her and Mr. Eames got together, he was encouraged to tough it out in his own room with Eames as company. The teenager had pitied him enough to let the boy climb into his bed, and that’s how Arthur had learned to weather late-night storms—with Eames’ help.
Eames goaded Arthur onto his side and curled an arm around the young boy’s front, spooning him with his nose buried deep in Arthur’s soft brown hair. It took Arthur a while to get to sleep, what with the feel of Eames’ soft prick nestled at his thigh, but before he knew it, he’d dropped off to sweet dreams.
…And then woken up with a vehement erection straining the front of his sleep-pants, Eames snoring behind him with his hand still loosely at Arthur’s hip.
Surely Eames wouldn’t wake up, not with how deeply he was snoozing? Arthur looked to heaven and sent a silent prayer that he’d be safe as he slipped a hand down his waistband and began to gently tug at his cock. His breathing became shallow, breathes coming in short puffs, tongue darting out to lick his lips and God it felt great but the way they were laying, Arthur couldn’t get a good angle and it just wasn’t enough.
He moved to brush Eames’ hand away gently, and realized all of a sudden that Eames’ snores had quieted. He turned to make sure the older boy was still asleep and his stomach dropped, his face blanching.
“Oh, don’t stop on account of me, mate. Take your time.”
Arthur scrambled out of bed, hitting the floor on unsteady feet. “Piss off!” he squawked, covering himself as he ran for the bathroom.
At breakfast, Mrs. Eames smiled at her baby boy. “Did you sleep okay last night, honey?”
His gaze immediately flicked to Eames, who stifled a smile behind a glass of orange juice.
Arthur blushed. “Yeah. I did.”