Thinking of a Monkey

Thinking of a Monkey

Rating: NC-17 for consensual incest

Pairing: Bobby Waide/Porter Waide

Disclaimer: "Brother's Keeper," with its related characters and themes, does not belong to me. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor.

Wherein Bobby makes references to Ghostbusters, Deena won't listen to Nine Inch Nails, and a San Francisco kitchen becomes an upstate New York forest.

Warning: Porter and Bobby are brothers. This is a consensual incest fic.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Come on, it'll be fun! We can roast marshmallows, set them on fire-"

"You, of all people, are not setting fires near my son."

"He can set fires, too. It's part of American culture! I thought that you were into that stuff."

"Setting fire to marshmallows is not a celebrated cultural heritage."

"Sure it is! It's deeply ingrained in the American subconscious. Like in Ghostbusters!"

"What?"

"Sure! You know, when Dan Akroyd couldn't get the big marshmallow guy out of his head. Don't think of a monkey! See, now all you can think of is a monkey."

"'Deeply ingrained in the American subconscious'? Bobby, you don't even know what those words mean. Where do you get this stuff?"

"Deena's been listening to those self-help tapes in the car. I tried to tell her that in the long run Nine Inch Nails is better for her, but you know Deena, once she gets those ideas in her head-"

"Nine Inch Nails is better than motivational tapes? How is that possible?"

"What would you rather hear? Some guy muttering on about how your whole life is a journey, or 'I want to fuck you like an animal'?"

"Don't use language like that in my house!"

"English? Hey, you want me to talk in pig Latin? I can, you know."

"Terrific. You speak pig Latin, I speak Latin-"

"You don't know Latin."

"All right, maybe I don't 'know Latin,' but I can recognize it when I see it, and I can - - you wouldn't know Chinese from French."

"Sure I would. French people smell."

"Not the people, the language!"

"French has that funky accent. All nasal and snotty. Plus they spell everything wrong."

"I don't even want to know what that meant."

"Hey, Porter."

"What?" Porter groaned.

"You wanna go on a campout? We could do it in the backyard, set up a tent, roast marshmallows, set them on fire-"

"Aargh! Enough! All right, all right, you may sleep in the backyard tonight. I'll even lock the door so you can't come in again."

"Gee, thanks, Porter. You think of everything."

Porter watched Bobby smile and run downstairs into the basement. He moaned and called up the stairs. "Oscar!"

"Yeah Dad?" Oscar came running down the stairs.

"Your Uncle Bobby is going to be camping outside tonight."

"Cool! We can look at the stars!"

"We can see the stars through the window," Porter said.

"No, that's not the same," Bobby said, coming up from the basement. "That's not cool at all. You should lie on your back and look up at the stars. Orion's belt, Orion's boxer shorts, Orion's-"

"Orion's not wearing boxer shorts," Porter said.

"You mean he's naked?" Bobby asked. "Wow, cool! I should have paid more attention in astronomy class."

"You didn't take astronomy," Porter said.

"What class was that, then?" Bobby asked.

"I won't even try to guess," Porter said.

"We can have marshmallows," Bobby told Oscar.

"Too much sugar," Porter said. "No way."

"And set them on fire," Bobby added with a wide smile.

"No fires," Porter said. "I don't want my son near a fire, I don't want you anywhere near a fire, and I certainly don't want you and my son near a fire. Besides which, it's probably against some local law or code."

"So we'll use cigarette lighters," Bobby said.

"You have cigarettes?" Oscar asked.

"No, he doesn't have cigarettes," Porter said. "Bobby? You have cigarettes?"

"No, I don't have cigarettes," Bobby said, frowning. "I don't do that stuff. I have to stay healthy! I'm an athlete."

"An athlete," Porter repeated. "You kick a ball."

"Yeah. And what's your definition of an athlete?" Bobby asked.

"Besides which, you're hardly healthy," Porter said. "You drink beer all of the time, you have sex with women and who knows what sorts of diseases you're getting from them."

"You want to talk about that in front of Oscar?" Bobby asked.

"Yes," Oscar said.

"Good god no," Porter said. "Oscar, you didn't hear any of that."

"Bring your sleeping bag and we'll get set up," Bobby told Oscar.

"I don't have a sleeping bag," Oscar said.

"You don't have a sleeping bag?" Bobby asked. "Porter, can we use yours?"

"I don't have one either," Porter said.

"What kind of American male are you?" Bobby demanded. "You don't have sleeping bags? You do have a tent, don't you?"

"No we do not," Porter said. "We are healthy modern American males who live in a home with a roof and beds."

"Well that sucks," Bobby said. "What kind of fun are we supposed to have now? No sleeping bags, no marshmallows, no fire. We can tell ghost stories!"

"No!" Oscar shouted.

"No," Porter said, firmly if not as loudly. "You will not terrorize my son again."

"Come on, I'll tell a good one this time," Bobby said.

"No," Porter said.

"You're such a wuss," Bobby accused. "You hate ghost stories, they always made you wet your pants, and you passed that gene along to your son."

"I did not wet my pants," Porter said. "And there is no gene for disliking ghost stories. I happen to be fond of ghost stories, but they scare Oscar. He's too young."

"You're fond of ghost stories," Bobby said.

"Yes, I am."

"So tell one."

"All right. I will."

"Wait! Not yet!"

"What?" Porter asked.

"You send Oscar to bed, I'll get my sleeping bag, and then you can tell me."

"I am not-"

"Come on, just this once."

"All right, but you are not setting my son on fire."

"I don't want to set Oscar on fire," Bobby said. "I eat little boys raw!" He chased Oscar up the stairs. Porter followed slowly, sighing, smiling, listening to Bobby teasing and tickling Oscar, who shrieked and giggled. Porter calmed Oscar down and put his son to bed. Then Bobby ran around while Porter got ready for bed himself. Porter went downstairs and found Bobby lying in a half-open, oversized sleeping bag with a flashlight, cigarette lighters, and a package of marshmallows.

Bobby set up the large flashlight so that it sat on its base, lighting the ceiling. He settled on his stomach and flicked a lighter, then held the marshmallow over the flame with his fingers.

"You're going to burn yourself," Porter said.

"Porter! Come on, have one."

"No," Porter said. "You can't seriously be thinking of sleeping here."

"Why not?" Bobby asked. "It's comfy. See?"

"Comfy," Porter repeated. "Lying on that thin bag on the kitchen floor? You don't even have a pillow."

"So get me one," Bobby said.

"No," Porter said. "Oh, all right, hold on." He went and got a pillow from Bobby's bed. Bobby munched happily on a marshmallow and said, "Try one." Porter rolled his eyes, then sat by the sleeping bag and turned on a lighter. He held up a marshmallow.

"So tell me my ghost story," Bobby said. "Come on."

"Bobby-"

"No, wait, you can't do it like that, sitting over there. You gotta make it all private and cosy, dark and secretive, you and the dark scary world. Come here. Porter, I don't have cooties."

Porter turned off his lighter and stuffed his marshmallow in his mouth. "What the hell," he said, and laid down beside Bobby.

"No, you gotta be in the bag."

"In the bag."

He sighed and got in the bag. "Is that all right?"

"More marshmallows. Now start talking. Normally I can't get you to shut up."

"Why don't you tell a ghost story?" Porter asked.

"Me?"

"Go ahead. Tell me a ghost story." It was a challenge.

Bobby grinned. "You're sure about this."

"Oh, yes."

"Okay. You asked for it."

Bobby proceeded to tell Porter the most suspenseful, creepy, downright scary story he'd ever heard. He wanted to look to see who was coming behind him to kill him, because he knew that someone was lurking in the shadows right behind him, in every corner, just to kill him; but he couldn't look to check, because he was gripped by Bobby's story and he couldn't look away from Bobby's eyes. When the final shock came, he screamed. Or he would have screamed, and woken his son if not the entire neighborhood, had not Bobby's hand clamped over his mouth at the last second, muffling the noise.

"I knew you'd scream," Bobby said.

He shoved away Bobby's hand. "You're evil."

"Pretty good, wasn't it?" Bobby grinned and popped a marshmallow into Porter's mouth.

Porter chewed and swallowed. He'd never understand how Bobby's marshmallows always, ever since they were children, turned out the perfect consistency and his were always just slightly underdone or too well done. "I hate you."

"I know."

He blinked. "I didn't... I don't mean that I actually hate you. I mean, I do, but I don't... I don't hate you hate you."

"I know."

"I mean, you're my brother."

"I know."

"Would you stop saying that? You're driving me crazy."

"I-"

"Don't say it."

"Time to go to sleep."

"You can't go to sleep. You haven't brushed your teeth. You have marshmallow all over them, they'll-"

"Porter, we're having a campout. You don't brush your teeth on a campout."

"We are not having a campout. We are lying on the floor in the kitchen."

"No we're not. We're in the middle of the woods in upstate New York."

"We're what?"

"We're on a campout. With our fire and our marshmallows and our ghost stories. We're in a forest, it's dark and scary, there are owls and stuff."

"What?"

Bobby made the most accurate owl noise Porter had ever heard, and Porter once belonged to a bird club with a man who did dead-on bird calls.

"I'm going to bed," Porter said.

"You can't," Bobby said.

"I can't."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"You'd have to get up, leave the kitchen, walk through the living room, up the stairs, and down the hall. Then you'd be all alone upstairs, in your big empty bedroom, with the closest person nearby your eight-year-old son. That's a long walk, and a very dark one."

"You think that your ghost story scared me."

"Now, on the other hand, you can stay here, with me, on our campout, with the comfy sleeping bag. And no offense to Oscar, but if the bad guys come, wouldn't you rather have a professional football player here at your side? I mean, at least you could throw me at them and run with a clear conscience. You couldn't do that with Oscar."

"That's true," Porter said.

"Settle in, get comfy," Bobby said. "You want me to douse the fire?"

"You'd better."

"It'll get awfully dark."

"It's safer."

"It'll keep away the bears."

"I don't want the New York forest to catch on fire in the middle of the night."

"Good point." Bobby clicked the flashlight off, and darkness fell. It was very, very dark. Porter waited for the axe murderers to come. Then he felt Bobby's fingers threading through his. Bobby's hand was nothing like his son's, or his wife's, or the way he remembered Bobby's hand feeling from childhood. Bobby's hand was large and strong, masculine, adult. He was less frightened already. Bobby tugged on his hand and he scooted closer. Now they were sharing the pillow. He could make out Bobby's eyes in the dark, very close. They grounded him in reality. There were no axe murderers, only his brother and a story.

"Where'd you get that story?"

"Oh, I made it up. I strung together all of the good scary plotlines I remembered. That's why it was kind of long."

"It was good."

"Doesn't take much to scare you. Oh, come on, don't get mad."

"I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed. You stay down here in your upstate New York forest. You don't have a tent. I hope it rains." Porter got up and stalked away. He got to the foot of the stairs before he realized that he was afraid again. He forced himself up the stairs, then ran to his bedroom and slammed on the overhead light. He closed the door, turned on his bedside lamp, turned off the overhead light, and got into his bed.

The light wasn't as bright as he wanted it to be. He liked to sleep on his stomach or his side, but that way his back was to something, and he kept feeling someone creeping up behind him.

An hour passed. He was wide awake and starting to flip out over it.

He considered going to Oscar's room. But then he'd look like an idiot, and what could Oscar do? Besides, he couldn't risk disturbing Oscar's sleep. He couldn't just stay here, though; he had to get some sleep somehow, and at this rate he'd be awake all night. He got up, turned off the light, and made his way to the door. He went down the hallway, down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

Empty. Deserted.

He felt angry and sad and he didn't know why.

He turned and went to the basement stairs. He did not want to go into the basement. No normal sane person who was feeling on edge and afraid wanted to go into a basement. But Bobby was down there, and Bobby always knew how to make him feel less afraid, either by comforting him or by driving him so crazy that he got too distracted to remember to be afraid. So he braved it, and he went down the stairs.

Bobby was asleep. He walked over to the bed in the darkness. He sat down on the edge and shoved Bobby's shoulder. Bobby rolled away from him, providing enough room for him to lay down and steal some of the covers. Bobby rolled over again and said, "Porter?"

"Don't say a word."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Campout's over?"

"It's no fun to camp out by yourself."

Porter decided not to start a debate on that subject. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Good."

"Why is your bed more comfortable than mine?"

"I don't know."

"Everything you get is better than what I have."

"Not true. Wife, kid, house-"

"You have more money, you're famous, you're popular, you have any woman you want-"

"Plus I'm better-looking."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not."

"I'm on TV, and you have to be good-looking to be on TV."

"Bobby, you're in the NFL. You're not there because you're good-looking, you're there because you're a good athlete."

"You think I'm a good athlete."

"I-"

"You said it."

"Yes. You're a good athlete. You're in the NFL, Bobby, that means that you're a good athlete."

"But you said it. You never say it. You don't like my job."

"I don't like that you're being paid all of that money for being an irresponsible - - forget it."

"Are you jealous?"

"I'm not jealous of you."

"For the women. The women who want to have sex with me."

"Wouldn't you rather have a meaningful relationship? Get to know some of those women?"

"Usually I remember their first names," Bobby said. "Come on, Porter. Sex is sex. It's just two people with compatible body parts having orgasms. Meaningful relationships, sitting around talking, sharing and all of that - - that's not me."

"You talk to me all of the time. You could do it if you wanted."

"But you're Porter."

"So?"

"You don't count. You're Porter. I talk to you and you talk to me and, I don't know, it's probably the most meaningful relationship in my life because the only other people around are Oscar and Deena. And they're great. Well, Oscar's great. I don't know about Deena. She gives me a hard time."

"I give you a hard time."

"Yeah, but you're Porter."

"Is that your excuse for everything?"

"We're different. The two of us. You treat me different from everybody else."

"How so?"

"I don't know."

"Bobby-"

"I'm going to sleep."

"Bobby-"

"Sleep, Porter."

Porter settled on his side, facing Bobby. He was in the basement with his back to the rest of the room, but he didn't care. He was safe and warm and with his frustrating idiotic brother, in his home. He'd only repeatedly shared a bed with three people in his entire life: his wife, his son, and his brother. He and Bobby hadn't shared a bed since they were in high school on family vacations in motel rooms. They'd pointedly kept to their own sides of the mattresses, except when they were physically fighting, but he remembered how warm Bobby always was, churning out heat in sleep like a furnace. Personally, he always felt as though his body temperature dropped in sleep; he always pulled on one blanket too many.

"Bobby! Bobby! Porter!"

Porter shook himself slightly, disoriented. What was going on here? His gaze adjusted: he was in Bobby's room, in the basement. Vaguely he remembered being afraid of the dark, being in the kitchen, hearing an owl... Now here he was, and Deena was yelling something, and he was tangled in an embrace with his brother.

"Was it good for you?"

"Get off of me!"

Bobby laughed, getting out of the bed. "Deena!" Bobby shouted. "Hi Deena!"

"My god what time is it?" Porter asked, pulling on his glasses.

"You still sleep with your watch on?" Bobby asked.

"Oscar! He'll be late for school, I didn't - - why didn't you wake me up?!"

"You always wake me up," Bobby said. "I don't have an alarm clock."

"Bobby!" Deena shouted.

Porter ran upstairs. "Hi, Deena," he said to the petite redhead. "Oscar!"

"Hi, Dad." Oscar was sitting at the table, eating cereal, dressed and combed.

"You're up! Lunch, I need to make you lunch - - I'm so sorry, I don't know - - I'm going to be late for work!"

"He's sitting here calmly eating his breakfast. You're running around screaming in your underwear," Deena said. "Why do you have such a well-adjusted child?"

"I'm not in my-" He looked down at himself. He was in his boxers and T-shirt. "I am. Oscar, what are you doing?"

"Having breakfast," Oscar answered. "Are you okay?"

"You just woke up on your own?" he asked, hurriedly going through the routine of making a lunch.

"I go to bed and wake up at the same time every day. I'm used to it," Oscar said. "And it was light outside, and I looked at the clock, and you should have woken me up ten minutes before, and I went to find you and you weren't there, and I got dressed and came downstairs, and I found you sleeping with Uncle Bobby, and I didn't want to bother you, so I got breakfast myself. Then Deena came."

"I'm very proud of you for taking care of yourself. That was a very grown-up thing to do," Porter said. "You were very responsible this morning."

"Unlike you," Deena said.

"Thank you, Deena," Porter said. "I'm sorry, Oscar. I'll try my best to be more responsible in the future. We can learn from our mistakes."

"Never sleep with Bobby," Deena said.

"That's a lesson you've learned?" Porter asked.

"Believe me, I don't need to be warned about making that mistake," Deena said. "I have no intention of mixing business with pleasure. And there is nothing pleasurable about this job. Bobby!"

Bobby came up and into the kitchen in his T-shirt and boxers, heading for the fridge. "You're going to be late for work," he told Porter.

"Thank you ever so much," Porter said. "Oscar, here's your lunch. I have to go get dressed. When Rose comes, you go with her. Have a good day at school. I'm sorry about the confusion this morning."

"That's okay."

"Okay. You have a good day." He kissed the top of Oscar's head and ran upstairs.

Cleaned and dressed, he ran back downstairs to grab his briefcase. "You're still here?" he asked Deena.

"You've totally thrown him off track," Deena said. "His morning routine's completely gone because you didn't wake him up."

"Excuse me, it's his fault for not having an alarm."

"It's your fault for not checking that before you fell asleep! What were you doing down there, anyway?"

"We were... Never mind. You don't want to know."

"Bobby!" she shouted.

"Deena, may I ask you something?"

"You're going to be late for work."

"I know! I've never been late once in my entire career. I might as well be really late this one time. Do I treat Bobby differently from the way that others treat him?"

"Yes," Deena said. "Bobby!"

"I do? How?"

"You treat him like a human being. Bobby! I swear if you don't come up here in ten seconds I will come down and get you and we will leave and I don't care if you're-"

"I'm coming, I'm coming, stop yelling at me," Bobby said, jogging up the stairs. "You're still here?" he asked Porter.

"No. I'm not. I'm very very late and I'm leaving."

He rushed to the campus, ran in from the parking lot, and showed up only fifteen minutes late for his office hours. Since no one came anyway, it wasn't a big deal. On the way home, he bought an alarm clock. He picked up Oscar, made dinner, helped with Oscar's homework, looked over tomorrow's class notes, and then Bobby came home. While he read The New Yorker, Bobby and Oscar played with cars in the living room.

"Come on, Oscar, time for bed," he said, rising, setting aside his magazine.

"Come on, ten more minutes," Bobby said.

"You may stay up and play for ten more minutes," Porter said, "but Oscar needs to go to bed."

"Not really," Bobby said.

"What do you mean not really?" Porter asked. "It's his bedtime and he's going to bed."

"Are you going to pull rank again? Just because you're his father."

"Yes, I am his father," Porter said. "Oscar, let's go."

Oscar got up and headed for the stairs. "Good night, Uncle Bobby."

"I'll be up in a minute," Porter told Oscar. To Bobby, he said, "You do realize that now you have to put away all of those cars."

"What?! They're not even mine!"

"Actually, some of them are yours. You can't go to bed and leave your toys out in the middle of the floor."

"I can so!"

"Not in my house."

"Well, it is your house, and you're the dad, so you clean them up." Bobby got up and headed for the sofa.

"No you don't," Porter said. "You get right back here and clean up those cars."

"Make me," Bobby said.

"I am going to go upstairs and put Oscar to bed. When I come back, I want to see all of those cars put away where they belong. You are an adult and I expect you to contribute something to this household."

"I bought you a hot tub!"

"Then you can clean up your own messes as well." Porter went upstairs, tucked in Oscar, and went back down to find the cars as they'd been, strewn over the floor, and Bobby lounging on the sofa watching ESPN. Porter went to his desk and graded quizzes. Finally, he walked around locking doors and turning off lights. He cleaned up the cars and went up to bed.

When he left the bathroom from brushing his teeth, he found Bobby lying across his bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"You were right. My bed is better."

"Congratulations. Get out."

"Are you mad at me?"

"Here."

Bobby sat up, reaching for the box. "What's this? You got me a present?"

"It's not a present."

"You're giving me something that you bought for me. That's not a present?"

"Fine, it's a present. Don't expect anything for Christmas."

"It's a clock."

"It has an alarm. So that you can set it and get up when you need to."

"But you wake me up."

"Practice using it anyway."

"Thanks, Porter."

"Get out of my bed."

"I'm not familiar with that concept. Normally I'm being invited into a bed."

"You're right, I do hate you." Porter turned on the bedside lamp, turned off the overhead light, and got into bed.

"Grown men don't wear pajamas."

"Yes, they do."

"Only if they never get sex."

"I get sex."

"From who?"

"From whom."

"From whom?"

"Women."

"Which women?"

"The ones who - - be quiet and get out."

Bobby set down the clock and got under the covers. "This is cosy. You have a real bedroom like a grown-up. I live in a basement."

"That's because you're Crazy Uncle Bobby. It's also because there's no other place to put you."

"The curtains and the paint and the carpet match, and they all match the bedspread, and the furniture looks like it came out of one of those catalogs. How can you live like this?"

"I like it. We don't all decorate with dirty magazines and sports trophies."

"You don't have any sports trophies to decorate with."

"Yes, that's true."

"Do you have any dirty magazines?"

"No."

"No?" Bobby laughed. "Not one?"

"You have casual sex and pornography. Some of us prefer real relationships with real people."

"Miss October's a real person. I met her."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"Yeah."

"My god."

"She wasn't very good, though."

"She wasn't good? You had a pin-up model, a cover girl, in your bed, and she wasn't very good?"

"She didn't, you know... You know..."

"What? She didn't what?"

"I like something and she didn't do that. No one does. No one does it right."

"What is this thing?"

"It's, you know... Nobody ever does it right. It's hard to get anybody to do it at all anymore."

"What?!"

"I'm going to sleep."

Porter turned off the lamp and closed his eyes, wondering when he'd ever be able to hold a conversation with his brother. At the last second, he remembered frantically that he needed to turn on the alarm.

"Make it stop," came a low mumble. Porter recognized the disturbance, finally, for what it was, and turned off the alarm. Then he opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, but Bobby was here.

"God, how much do you weigh?" he asked, shoving Bobby aside.

"680," Bobby said.

"You do not," he said, getting out of the bed. "Get up, come on." Bobby moaned softly and burrowed under the covers. He sighed and left the room, went to pee and shower, pulled on clean underwear and a T-shirt, went downstairs, came back up with an ice cube, reached under the covers, and pressed the cube to the back of Bobby's neck.

Bobby yowled and fell out of the bed.

"Get up," Porter said.

Bobby grabbed the ice cube and launched himself across the bed. Porter jumped back. "Bobby, don't. Bobby, no - - I have to get Oscar - - Bobby!" He landed on his butt and Bobby dropped the ice cube neatly down his boxers. He howled, now. "Cold cold cold cold cold I'm going to cold cold cold-" He fished out the dissolving cube.

Bobby had made the villain's common mistake of stopping to laugh instead of running. Porter reached out and shoved hard; Bobby teetered; Porter kicked and Bobby fell. They wrestled across the floor, running into the wall first, then the bed frame. Bobby pinned him on his back.

"Dad?" Oscar asked from the doorway. "Are you ever going to come to wake me up?"

"I was on my way," Porter said.

"You go get dressed while I beat up your dad," Bobby said.

"Okay," Oscar said, and left.

"Would you let me up please?" Porter asked.

"Not until you say you're sorry."

"You froze my - - and you want me to apologize?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sorry. I had to wake you up or you'd be late."

"I'm always late."

"Later, then."

"Apologize."

"No."

"Apologize."

"No."

"Do you want me to beat you up?"

"You won't beat me up."

"Want to bet on it? Hey Porter."

"What?"

Bobby tickled him. He shouted and fought and twisted to get away; Bobby knew all of his most ticklish places and exploited them mercilessly. He begged Bobby to stop; finally Bobby relented. "Apologize."

"No."

"Then I'll just have to get you back." Bobby stood.

"Get me back? You stuck an ice cube down my shorts and tickled me like the evil jerk that you are! You can't get revenge now!"

"I have to," Bobby said. "You'd better hurry; you don't want to be late again today."

When Porter got home, he went over to pick up Oscar from Rose's house. There was no answer at the door and the house looked quiet. Deciding not to be completely alarmed, he ran to his own house, planning to call the school or the police or the hospitals - - and found Oscar and Rose sitting on the living room floor with Bobby.

"Oscar!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Uncle Bobby's telling us all about-"

"-football," Rose said quickly. "He's telling us about football."

"Right," Oscar said. "Football."

"What are you doing here? Where's your mother?" Porter asked Rose.

"Rose's mother had to go to the doctor," Bobby said. "She had a little accident."

"Oh my god, is she all right?" Porter asked. "What happened?"

Deena came through the front door. "My god, what was that woman thinking? She could have ruined Bobby's career, and then where would I be? Although we could have sued, and then-"

"Deena," Bobby said. "She's all right?"

"She's fine," Deena said. "I took care of everything."

"I'm going to go home now," Rose said.

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" Bobby asked. "We'll make Porter make something good. Like macaroni and cheese. Porter makes macaroni and cheese even better than out of the box."

"Nothing is better than macaroni and cheese out of the box," Rose said.

"Come on, Porter, please?" Bobby begged, on his knees, hands clasped.

"All right, all right," Porter said. "Stop begging, you look ridiculous." He set down his things at his desk, took off his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves.

"Well, I'm going home," Deena said. "In my dented and mangled car."

"Before you go, could we talk for a second?" Porter asked.

"Fine," she said, sighing, walking to the kitchen with him.

"Hey, don't distract him from his macaroni and cheese," Bobby said. "We're hungry." Bobby followed them into the kitchen.

Porter turned to them and said, "What happened to Marian?"

"She was driving drunk, she ran into my car at the bottom of the street," Deena said. "She went to the hospital and I did some fast talking with the police so they wouldn't put her in jail. Although it's where she belongs. But Bobby insisted."

"She was driving drunk?" Porter asked.

"On her way to pick up Rose and your son," Deena said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh my god," Porter said.

"So not only could she have killed herself and countless strangers, she also could have killed me, and Bobby, and Rose, and she could have killed Oscar. I say she belongs in jail. Anyway, Bobby and I picked up Rose and Oscar, and I dropped them off here so I could go talk to the police on Marian's behalf. Not that it's necessarily a good idea to leave Bobby alone to supervise two children; they'd be better off baby-sitting him."

"If she's endangering people's lives like this - - my god, Bobby, she could have killed you! And Deena. Her own daughter. Oscar! Anyone else on the road-"

"Look," Bobby said, "some people just need to mess up totally before they see that they're messing up at all. She's seen it now. Porter, you should have seen her. Sometimes it takes one big thing to make you realize where you're headed and what you're doing. This was her one big thing. And sticking her in jail isn't going to help. She's going to get help now, she's going to fix her life. She has to take care of Rose."

"Does Rose know what happened?" Porter asked.

"Rose knows her mother," Bobby said. "She doesn't need the shame of having us talk about it."

"I've done what you wanted," Deena said. "All I can say is, she'd better straighten up before anyone else gets hurt. And her insurance had better pay for my car."

"I'll pay for whatever else you need," Bobby said. "Thank you, Deena." She left.

Porter looked at Bobby.

"So are you going to make macaroni and cheese or not?"

"Bobby... I don't know whether to hug you or strangle you."

"Neither?" Bobby suggested.

"Marian is in serious trouble. If she's driving drunk, and especially knowing that she'll have her daughter in the car - - and my son... Bobby, she could have killed you."

"I'm fine."

"You rescued her. You took care of Marian and Rose and Oscar today."

"Porter?"

"I only hope that Marian learns from this," Porter said. "You've given her a real chance to turn her life around before she-"

"Porter?"

"I mean-"

"Porter!"

"What?!"

"Can you make the macaroni and cheese now? I'm starving."

"Go play with Oscar. I'll tell you when it's ready."

Through the rest of the evening, Porter was preoccupied. They ate, Rose and Oscar did homework, and Bobby took Rose home. Porter did work and put Oscar to bed. Through all of it, he was thinking. Thinking about Marian. About Rose. About whether Bobby had just enabled a troubled and destructive woman or given someone a second chance at a good life. About how much he could have lost today: two friends, a smart young girl. His brother. His son.

Bobby and Oscar were his world. He could have lost them both today. Oscar was his son, a part of him, the one thing he had to show that meant that he'd made a contribution to this world. He was prouder of Oscar than of anything he'd ever done; Oscar was his achievement, his accomplishment, worth more than any lecture or book. And Bobby, Bobby was his brother, a link to his past if Oscar was a link to his future. Bobby was from the same home, the same background, the same life, as he was; yet they were entirely different. Bobby frustrated him and confused him and tempted him to violence; but Bobby was fun and engaging and, to be honest, smart. Bobby was smart in ways that baffled him. And, to be honest, brutally and totally honest, thinking completely, Bobby was his best friend. And if anything happened to him, as much as it made him shudder to admit it, Bobby was the one person he'd choose to raise Oscar. Now that Mother Teresa had died, anyway.

He sat on the sofa in the dark in his bathrobe, pondering. He knew that Bobby was irresponsible and immature and ignorant and impressionable and, let's see, what else started with "i"? Irrepressible. Where was his dictionary?

He shrugged out of his bathrobe. He'd lost people before. His wife. But she'd left him with Oscar, and that was more than enough reason to keep on living.

Bobby, Bobby was one of the most alive people he knew. Bobby lived every second of every day, lived life to the fullest - - not through extreme sports or nonstop partying, but through enjoying every moment. Bobby was enthusiastic and simple and fun. Maybe that was why everyone liked Bobby. Porter didn't do any of that; Porter wasn't like Bobby. He hesitated, thought, planned, and worried. He couldn't just enjoy something; he had to plan to enjoy it beforehand and wonder what would go wrong. But Bobby, Bobby lived and rejoiced and enjoyed and laughed. And Bobby might have died today. He would have lost all of the laughter.

And all of the frustration, the confusion, the wish to strangle his brother. He'd spent his life hating Bobby, being jealous, being angry, being resentful. Wondering what made Bobby special. He knew what made Bobby special.

He went down into the basement. Bobby was asleep in the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on the bedside lamp.

Bobby rolled over, face in the pillow, turning away from the light, on his stomach now.

"Bobby. Bobby. Bobby!"

Bobby moaned into the pillow.

"Bobby, I want to talk to you."

"Later."

"No, now."

"Porter, I'm sleeping."

"No you're not."

Bobby flopped onto his back. "I hate you."

"Good. We need to talk."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"About what? Did Oscar tell you about the - - never mind. About what?"

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you."

"That's nice, Porter."

"Tell me that you love me."

"Didn't we do this already?"

"Once. I want to do it again."

"Not tonight, dear, I have a headache."

"Bobby, I'm serious. You could have died today. I want to say this now while I still can."

"Did you tell Oscar that you love him?"

"I tell Oscar that I love him all of the time."

"Why don't you go tell him again right now."

"I can't tell him now, he's asleep."

"So was I!"

"I don't care. Bobby, you're my brother, and my best friend, and if anything happens to me I want you to raise Oscar."

"Nothing is going to happen to you. And if it does, I hope it takes Oscar too, because I am not raising him. He'd be better off dead."

"That's not true!"

"You've said it yourself."

"I was upset at the time."

"You'd really let me raise Oscar? Your son Oscar? Me? You hate me. I'd be an awful parent and you know it."

"I don't hate you. Yes, I do, I hate you, but - - never mind."

"You love me and you hate me."

"Yes."

"A love-hate relationship. I get it. Can I go to sleep now?"

"No. I want to thank you for helping Marian, for taking care of Rose and Oscar."

"Anything else?"

"I have two questions."

"I'm going to sleep."

"Bobby-"

Bobby reached past him and turned off the lamp. "Good night, Porter."

"Bobby-"

"I'm sleeping. Don't talk to me."

"You almost died."

Bobby sat up in the pitch blackness. "It's okay, Porter. I'm okay, Oscar's okay, Deena and Rose are okay. Rose and Marian are going to be okay."

"You weren't hurt?"

"I wasn't hurt. I always wear my seatbelt, and Deena slowed down for the turn. I didn't even break a nail."

He reached out in the darkness and wrapped his arms around his brother. Bobby was strong and muscular and solid in his embrace, warm and silky and alive under his hands. After a brief moment, Bobby hugged him, too. He hadn't held anyone but Oscar for too long. Certainly no one built like this; no small shoulders, no cushion of breasts, no narrow waist.

"You're skinny."

He pulled away from Bobby. "I am not skinny. I am slender. And I've gained five pounds since you moved in, thank you very much."

"Oh, it's my fault you're getting fat?"

"I am not getting fat! You just bring too much junk food into this house. We used to eat healthy foods and balanced meals around here."

"You still do. I've had more carrots here than in the rest of my life ever. And now can we sleep? Some of us have to go to work in the morning."

"Sure."

Bobby settled down again. "You can stay. Now that you've told me you love me and hugged me and everything, it would be rude to run out on me."

"Go to sleep." Porter slid under the covers beside him, getting comfortable. "I love this bed."

"More than you love me?"

"Definitely. Bobby?"

"Mm?"

"Are you naked?"

"Totally."

"God."

"You bet."

"I didn't mean that."

"It's true, though."

"It is not."

"Is so!"

"Bobby, I'm your brother."

"Yeah, but when's the last time you saw me naked?"

"It was so traumatic that I've blocked it from my memory."

"Traumatic because you were jealous. Like always."

"I am not jealous of you. About that or anything else."

"So what were those two questions?"

"I'll ask you tomorrow."

"Okay."

There was an obnoxious loud sound. It stopped abruptly and he sank back into the warmth. Something poked his stomach. "Porter." He was so comfortable... Poke. "Porter." Sleep... Poke poke. "Porter. Porter. Porter!" He shoved, with two hands, hard. "Hey!" There was a nice crash. He snuggled in further, happy. His source of warmth was gone, though. Disappointed, he opened one eye.

Bobby climbed back onto the bed and climbed right over him, on all fours, glaring down at him. "You pushed me out of my bed."

"My bed."

"I paid for this house, I own this furniture, it's my bed." He closed his eyes. "You're still naked."

"What, you think that I get up every night at three a.m. to put on clothes before going back to sleep? You're embarrassed, aren't you? Porter's embarrassed. It's just me, Porter. I spend my life in the locker room with other guys."

"Some of us have real jobs that don't require spending a great deal of time with naked men." It hit him. "That was the alarm clock. Your new alarm clock."

"Yeah. What'd you think it was?"

"I was asleep. I don't think well when I'm sleeping."

"I know. Right before you wake up you're always weird."

"I am not weird. It just takes me an extra second or two to awaken fully. And now if you'll excuse me, I need to wake Oscar."

"Go ahead." Bobby dropped to one side, pulled up the covers, closed his eyes.

"You're not going back to sleep."

"Watch me."

He stood. "Bobby, you're already awake. And just this once you might not be late."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"You set the alarm."

"Not for me. For you."

"Oh. That was considerate of you."

"I don't want you scaring Deena running around in your underwear again."

"I didn't scare Deena."

"You totally did."

"I did not! I'm sure that Deena has seen underdressed men before in her life."

"Oh, now you think she's a slut."

"What?! I do not!"

"You do so! You think that she hangs out with naked guys."

"I think that you hang out with naked guys."

"It's my job." Bobby grinned. "The pay's great, too. You should look into it."

"Being here with you is more than enough for me."

"So you did look."

"Bobby! That is not what I - - I am going to go upstairs to waken Oscar and get ready for work. I am not coming down here again. If you can't wake up like a responsible - - what am I saying? I can't expect you to be responsible. That would be like expecting-"

"Like a great white shark eating cream cheese."

"What?"

"It ain't gonna happen."

"That's why I'm amazed. Bobby, you actually made a simile. A ridiculously strange one, but a simile nonetheless, and it works. I'm so proud of you."

"What's a simile?"

Porter couldn't help it. Normally he'd be frustrated, groan, and give up after saying something sarcastic. But he didn't have it in him to be irritated and annoyed this morning. Why should he? Bobby was just being Bobby. So, instead of saying something at Bobby's expense, which was a condescending and even mean habit, especially since Bobby usually was smiling and good-natured by this point in their exchanges - - instead of saying something at Bobby's expense, he sank to his knees, pillowed his face on his crossed arms on the bed, and laughed.

"Porter? Porter? Help! Help! Somebody dial 911!"

Porter raised his head. "What in the world-"

"You're laughinng! You're laughing and happy!" Bobby accused, frowning, pointing a finger at him.

"Bobby-"

"Who are you and what did you do with Porter?"

"All right." He rolled his shoulders, shook his head, and stood. He put on his glasses, scowled in irritation, and said, "I'm going to wake Oscar and make breakfast and get ready for work and pack Oscar's lunch. You need to get your lazy overpaid butt out of bed because I don't want to have to come down here again this morning. Just because you're a pampered and spoiled person who's gotten his own way all of his life, even when you were twelve and I wanted a-"

"That's more like it," Bobby said, satisfied. "Now go away and let me sleep."

Porter smiled and went upstairs.

Two nights later, Porter was at his desk grading papers while Bobby watched a monster truck rally on the sofa. Oscar came to stand by the desk. "Dad?"

"Yes?" he asked, setting down his pen.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No, of course I'm not mad at you. Why do you think that I am?"

"You're acting weird."

"What have I been doing?"

"You're getting along with Uncle Bobby."

Bobby turned on the sofa and grinned across the room at him.

Porter smiled back at Bobby before turning to Oscar. "I'm sorry, Oscar. I'll try to fight with him a little more tomorrow."

"Good."

"We could fight now," Bobby said.

"I'm busy now," Porter said.

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am. I have to have these papers finished-"

"No you don't. Grades aren't due until-"

"I ask my students to meet their deadlines, so I need to respect their-"

"No you don't. They're just students. They're too busy getting drunk to care anyway."

"Not everyone lives life the way you do."

"Well everyone should!"

"That's ludicrous," Porter said.

"Right. Because you think that everyone should live like you do."

"Of course I don't think that," Porter said.

"Then why do you want me and Oscar to be just like you?"

"I don't want that," Porter said, dismayed. "Oscar is a wonderful person being who he is. And you're..."

"I'm what?" Bobby was standing now, eyebrows up, hands on hips, waiting, expectant. "I'm what?"

"You're...fine just the way you are."

"Don't give me that Mr. Rogers stuff. At least he means it when he says it."

"He only means it because he's never met you."

The room was deathly silent. Porter could hear his own watch ticking.

Bobby moved.

The front door slammed.

Silence.

"I didn't mean it like that," Oscar said.

Bobby came in, later, skirting close to curfew, and went straight downstairs, wordless.

Porter couldn't sleep. He got ready for bed, got in bed, and just stared toward the ceiling in the darkness.

He'd said mean things to Bobby before, many of them. But what he'd said tonight had been needlessly cruel. He'd hurt Bobby.

The worst part of it was that they'd been getting along well. They'd always had a connection, but they'd always denied it, even done their best to kill it. For once, the first time he could remember, they'd begun to let themselves be close, bit by bit, inch by inch. And his words had set them back, maybe farther than ever.

He went downstairs, to the basement. The room was dark.

"What do you want?"

"You're awake," he said, mostly to buy himself time.

There was rustling from the bed; the bedside lamp clicked on and he could see that Bobby was sitting up in the bed. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry."

Bobby turned off the light, and the basement was swamped in blackness once more. More rustling, the creak of bedsprings.

"Bobby, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it. I didn't even mean it. It just came out of my mouth." No response. "Bobby... Bobby, I'm sorry." Nothing. His eyes were adjusting again; he came forward, found the edge of the bed, sat. "I was wrong. You aren't fine just the way you are. You're more than fine. You're a wonderful person, Bobby. I don't want you to be like me, no one should be like me, I'm sanctimonious and bitter." He found Bobby's back, shoulder. He ran his fingers over the back of Bobby's head, over Bobby's hair. It was like petting Oscar. "You're open and generous. You're unique, you're very special. Mr. Rogers missed out not getting to know you. I'm lucky. I haven't just met you, I've been...blessed...enough to spend some of my life with you."

"Stop talking before you hurt yourself."

He smiled. "Was that enough or do you want more?"

"That was enough." Bobby rolled over; he pulled his hand away and Bobby settled on the other side now, facing him. "Didn't you have questions?"

"What questions?"

"Two questions. You wanted to ask me something."

"Now?"

"I'm not busy now."

He stretched out on his stomach. "Do I treat you differently from other people?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"You're... It's like with everybody else... I'm Bobby Waide, jock, football player, one of the guys, famous, screw-up, easy lay, something like that. I have a reputation, and everybody sees that. With you, I'm just your idiot brother, you talk to me and you yell at me and you encourage me. When I'm with you, I'm me first and Bobby Waide second."

Porter was stunned. Not simply from what Bobby had said, but because Bobby had said it. But Bobby was a generous person, and sometimes Bobby could be quite open when Porter pulled back from intimacy. "What about Deena?"

"I'm Deena's job. That's different."

"Bobby...are you?"

"Am I what?"

"An easy lay?"

"Hell yes." Bobby laughed. "Depends."

"On what?"

"Who's asking. Was that your second question?"

"No."

"So ask me your second question and let me sleep."

"What's the thing...the sex thing...that you like and nobody does right?"

"You're asking me about sex?"

"Forget it."

"If you want to know I'll tell you."

"It's none of my business."

"I like blow jobs. I like to have my cock sucked. But women don't do that as much anymore, and they don't...they don't do it right." Bobby sounded dissatisfied.

"How can they do it wrong?"

"You ever got one?"

"Of course I've...had that."

"It was always good?"

"Yes," he said slowly.

"You haven't had it done right. I can tell."

"You can't tell."

"I can tell."

"Go to sleep."

A week later, Oscar was sleeping at a friend's house. To keep Porter from spending the entire night going insane worrying about Oscar sleeping away from home with fourth graders, Bobby coaxed Porter into watching a hockey game with him. They sat on the sofa with pretzels and beer. Bobby kept up a running commentary, yelling and cheering.

"Did you see that?! Check, right into the boards! They don't even hit that hard in football!"

"Oh god. What if they start to fight? What if Oscar-"

"He'll be fine."

"Fine? He'll be fine?"

"Sure. He knows what to do."

"He knows what what to do?" Porter asked, sharply suspicious.

Bobby shrugged, eyes, on the TV screen. "I showed him a few moves."

"You showed him a few moves of what?" Porter demanded. "Bobby, you're a field goal kicker, not Bruce Lee!"

"Yeah, 'cause that guy's dead."

"What did you do to my son?"

Bobby looked at Porter. "Relax. I taught him the basics. If the guy's bigger than you, has more friends than you, or has a weapon, cooperate and then tell on him. If he's smaller than you, play it cool, 'cause it's not cool to hit little kids."

"Oh." It wasn't exactly the wisdom of Confucious, but Bobby's advice wasn't really objectionable.

"Relax. Oscar's fine. He has friends. You could learn something from him."

"I have friends."

"No, you don't. You have wine-tasting friends and professor friends, who are all the same people anyway, and they're boring."

"They're not boring. They happen to be some of the-"

"Whatever."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"We're friends."

"No we're not," Bobby said with a snort.

"We are. You said so. We're friends."

"I said that?"

"When we had the house remodeled."

"When you killed that guy."

"I did not!"

"No, you're right, we're friends. Friends, brothers, housemates, co-parents."

"We are not co-parents. In fact, I'm practically your parent."

"Same difference."

"It is not!"

"This game sucks."

"I can't tell."

"It does."

"How can you tell?"

"Because it's the Rangers." Bobby turned off the TV and tossed aside the remote. "Can I tell you something?"

"Go ahead."

Bobby shifted slightly towards him, looked at him. Swallowed. Looked away from him.

Something clenched in Porter's gut.

Bobby's gaze lifted to his again. "I love you."

He shivered involuntarily.

"Take off your glasses."

He didn't need to ask why, and that frightened him more than any horror story could. He removed his glasses; Bobby took them from his hand and set them on the coffee table before moving. Bobby swung one leg over until Bobby was kneeling astride him on the sofa, hands planted on the sofa back on either side of his shoulders. Bobby was warm and solid and masculine right before him. Bobby leaned in, closer, and his eyes closed, because he didn't want to see, he didn't want to look, he didn't want to know...

Bobby's lips were warm and soft. The inside of Bobby's mouth was hot and wet, and it tasted like beer, and pretzels, and Bobby. He was tasting Bobby, and it was shockingly familiar. One of Bobby's hands was on the back of his head, in his dark hair. Bobby's kiss at once possessed him and made him an equal.

His cock hadn't been this hard in what, in retrospect, was quite a long time. That situation only became much worse when he felt Bobby's other hand suddenly fisting in his groin. Bobby kissed him a little deeper, a little harder, keeping him in place while opening his pants one-handed.

A low whisper, a promise, against his lips. "I'll make it good for you." And then Bobby slid back off of the couch onto the floor, kneeling between his thighs.

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