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It was a long time coming, really. A very long time. Hawke couldn’t say how long; couldn’t remember a time when Carver wasn’t spitting and biting, clawing at him like he wanted to rip Hawke open and live inside his body. It was a sickening, visceral knowledge, and Carver’s presence had always lived there anyway, nestled deep in his guts like a tumour.
And now it was – this. Always had been this, in some way.
(Carver, cock in hand, listening to Hawke fuck noisily against the tavern wall. Hawke, sweating and half-naked, training into the late hours of the summer afternoons. Carver, crawling into Hawke’s bed when the dreams were bad, pressing his face between Hawke’s shoulder blades. Hawke, allowing it. Hawke, turning sometimes in the night to wrap Carver up in his body until he gasped for breath, and he felt how hard he was, often, and wondered if Carver felt him, too. Carver, rutting to completion against Hawke’s thigh and begging in the gasp of his breath. Hawke, Carver, never saying anything, never stopping.)
Carver panted into Hawke’s mouth, his eyes riveted to Hawke’s lips, the glimmer of his tongue between his teeth.
“Carver,” Hawke growled. It was a warning. Carver knew Hawke’s warnings better than anyone else; he could read them in ways nobody else ever could. So it meant something when he chose to ignore them.
“Garrett.”
Maker. Fuck. Fuck.
Hawke kissed him; Carver kissed him. They met halfway, lips bruising teeth and open prying tongues. Hawke loved how Carver fought. Always had. Little fucking spitfire he was, even now, all these years later.
It was always him. Always Carver. Always Garrett.
“Be good for me, Carver,” Hawke rumbled against Carver’s spit-wet mouth. Bit down hard on his bottom lip and felt the way Carver’s hips jumped. His breath came hard, now, the beating wings of birds between their mouths, Hawke’s teeth sharp as glass.
Carver clawed his hands down Hawke’s back and kissed him with an open mouth. Hawke held him tight – any tighter and he might start cracking ribs, not that either of them would really care.
He was hard too. Rough grinding cocks; there was nothing gentle about what they were doing. It was harsh and urgent much like everything else they ever did together, a constant bashing of coarse waves head-to-head. And Hawke – Hawke wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Hawke shoved Carver down onto the bed. He landed, winded, and spread his legs even despite the stormy glower darkening his eyes. Hawke crawled between them, kissing Carver’s snide comment right from his mouth and pulling his shirt up over his head. Carver had grown lean and strong – he had left Lothering with the crooked body of a boy, but now he had grown into his shoulders and his hands, and had the handsome leanness of a man. Hawke dragged his hands down the form of him, appreciating it as obviously as he dared; he felt the heated glow of Carver’s pride.
“You’re so handsome,” Hawke told him breathlessly. Carver’s expression shuttered and his cock leaked wet against his hip. “You’d have the girls falling over you if you stopped scowling all the time.”
“Fuck you,” Carver panted, though there was no edge to it. It was desperate, disguised as something else. I want you.
Hawke made Carver open his laces. He needed to make sure Carver knew what was happening – that this was real.
You can’t ignore this, said the command.
I don’t want to, said Carver’s acquiescence.
Hawke’s cock was thick and heavy in Carver’s palm. Bigger, though not alarmingly so – where Carver might have expected to feel a sting of shame, there was only want. Desire in the space reserved for envy. A desperate, clenching absence deep in his body.
Hawke closed his hand around Carver’s cock one finger at a time. Carver’s belly clenched, but he did not move, limbs set like stone. Slowly, Hawke pressed his hips forward to slide his own cock against his palm, edging it into the space between his fingers and Carver’s shaft. Oh. Oh. Carver was breathing in, in, in, his ribs expanding until they stood out against the skin. His hands fisted in the coverlet. In. In. In.
Hawke kissed him. Carver breathed out all at once, hands unlocking and clamouring around Hawke’s neck, fucking up into his tightening fist with the terrified eagerness of a child. Carver was – scared. Scared of this, what they were doing. Of losing Hawke. Of the fragility of both of them in the world, that they might be snatched away as easily or as quickly as Bethany had been; as painfully or drawn-out as their father had been.
But not now. Not now. Fear had no place here. It was not welcome.
“So fucking good for me, Carver,” Hawke moaned, open-mouthed against his brother’s cheek. “Maker, you’re so good. I’m so proud of you.”
Carver’s breath jerked in what was not quite a sob. He clung to Hawke with all of his limbs, hips jerking at the squeeze of Hawke’s slickened fingers. The rut of their cocks together. He kissed and kissed and kissed every part of Hawke he could reach.
He needed this. Needed him. Told him so in the way he pressed his nose to Hawke’s pounding jugular, in the way he licked the sweat from his cheek, the way he urged him closer like they might just melt together, somehow, back into a single embryonic existence. Hawke’s smell suffocated him. The pungent, deep headiness of his sweat, his – everything. Pressing down and in and everywhere. Carver could fucking die like this.
He'd listened to Hawke fuck. It was a guilty pleasure that became a guilty habit. Hawke would stumble around drunk in the late hours, mumbling to whoever was lucky enough to catch his eye that night, and he would fuck them where their parents wouldn’t hear. Sometimes it was girls. Sometimes boys. Sometimes Carver wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter, really. He’d listen, and he’d slick his cock and imagine how Hawke’s weight might feel crushing him. How that throaty laugh might sound directly in his ear. Drawing desperately on memories of their sparring, or wrestling, or – anything. He knew Hawke’s weight better than anyone else. Knew the rough press of his voice. Fighting was one step away from fucking, half the time. So he’d listen. Rub himself raw and come when Hawke did. Sometimes – if he was very lucky – Hawke would end up against the wall of their shared room. Bethany always slept like the dead. So did Carver, actually, but he came to know those sounds, and soon his body woke on its own. Bethany slept, and Carver listened. Sometimes when their voices got too loud Hawke would stifle them with what Carver could only imagine was his hand, and – Maker, he wanted that. He wanted the full clap of Hawke’s meaty hand over his mouth, over his nose, choking the air out of him. It was a violent, consuming desire, this one. It scared him. Hawke could kill him and he wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t fucking care.
Now, though, Hawke was a creature of love. He didn’t fuck with the detached greed Carver had come to recognise in his exploits. Hawke had never loved them. Not like he loved Carver.
“I love you,” he said, then, as if he could read Carver’s mind. “Ah, fuck. Good boy, Carver. Aren’t you?”
Carver rasped. Nodded. Didn’t realise he was crying until the wet press of his eyes caused his vision to smear. Hawke hummed and petted his hair, kissed his face, gripped his cock.
“Do you want me to fuck you, sweet boy?” he asked against Carver’s lips. “Fill you up?”
Yes, Hawke was going to kill him. He was. There was no way Carver would survive this. And yet he nodded anyway, his body clawing at the possibility of having Hawke inside him.
The first finger went in easy enough, slick with the mess of their precome. It felt strange, but Hawke’s murmurings balmed him, and Carver’s pleasure was by then so fretful that he would have let Hawke fuck him with no preparation at all. Just – inside. He needed him there, deep.
The second finger was more difficult, but Hawke appeared in no rush. This house was not like their house in Lothering, nor in Lowtown. There was no need for urgency, nor any desire for it on Hawke’s part. They would not be disturbed.
“More,” Carver begged hoarsely, scraping his nails down Hawke’s bicep. He felt Hawke smile.
“You sure?”
“Garrett!” Now it was Carver growling, teeth bared and feral like a dog. Hawke kissed them and bullied in a third finger, swallowing the hiss it elicited. Carver’s thighs trembled as he sought to life himself off the bed, unsure if he should wrest away or jam himself down further onto Hawke’s thick fingers.
In the end, he chose the latter. Hawke didn’t even need to move his hand with the way Carver fucked himself right down to the knuckles, his body rolling in a desperate heave.
“Fuck me,” Carver spat. Hawke pulled him by the hair and bit hard into his neck.
Hawke’s weight was everything Carver could have hoped. Crushing, futile, gloating. His body hummed and he felt like an open nerve. The loss of Hawke’s fingers was disappointing, but the sudden press of his cock made Carver forget it very quickly. The slide was slow and long and torturous; Carver had never been fucked by a man before, let alone one like his brother. Hawke was big. But the pain was – well. It was a memory, really.
“You’re doing so well,” Hawke panted into his mouth. “So, so well, Carver. Fucking good boy. Your so fucking tight, Maker – !” He moaned, then, and it shook all the way up his throat like he couldn’t quite believe it, that he was inside Carver and Carver was tight and possibly one of the best fucks he’d ever had, and – it was hard to think like this. Something was burning in his face, but Hawke couldn’t be sure if it was shame or pleasure or guilt or everything. He took Carver’s face in his hands and stared at him from beneath heavy eyelids. He rolled his hips cautiously. Carver’s body shuddered and his eyes trembled in their sockets. His mouth was open – had been open since this started – and Hawke couldn’t help but spit into it.
Carver sobbed out a moan at that. Swallowed it. Extended his tongue like a baby bird and what could Hawke do but feed him? Kissing him deep, beyond neatness, fucking his tongue into his brother’s mouth as his cock speared in from the other end. He began to move properly, though kept steady. The drag of Carver’s rim against his cock was so tight it was almost painful. It made Hawke dizzy.
“I love you,” he rasped again. “So fucking much. Carver.”
Perhaps Hawke should have been surprised when Carver began to cry. His face collapsed on itself and he sobbed, over and over, until the sound began to drone together. But he wasn’t surprised, because Carver was a creature of love, too, in the end. It terrified him, how desperately he needed it.
Hawke fucked him like that, pressed down against the bed beneath the secure, familiar weight of his body. Like this he could feel the rabbit-quick stutter of Carver’s heart. He was alive, like this, indisputably. Hawke wanted to carve himself into all parts of him. Not that it mattered – he’d already made his mark where it mattered most, burrowed deep into the muscle of Carver’s heart.
When the grip of Carver’s body loosened a little, Hawke kicked up the pace. Fucked hard and deep until he was jolting Carver up the bed, forcing the breath and the voice right out of him. He could feel the desperate drag of Carver’s cock against his stomach, drooling wet between them.
“You could come like this, couldn’t you?” Hawke moaned. “I wouldn’t even need to touch you.”
Carver, in all his shame, nodded. He craned his head as far as he could of the bed in search of Hawke’s mouth, and Hawke met him eagerly, kissing those plump, pleasure-swollen lips. They had the same mouth, him and Carver. It meant something, that. Hawke wasn’t sure exactly what.
“I’m going to come inside you,” Hawke growled, a promise and a warning. Maker, he wasn’t far now. “Do you want me to come inside you? Look at me, Carver.”
Carver did look at him. It took great effort to peel open his eeys, and he stared wetly up at Hawke with the same expression he used to as a very young child, when he still allowed himself to cry openly. Hawke sighed and stilled, kissing Carver as gently as he could manage.
“Carver.”
“I want it,” Carver sobbed, clutching at Hawke like he might die. “I – need it. Garrett. Please.”
Hawke groaned. He fucked. Hard. Pounded into Carver with an almost possessed fervour, crushing him in and under and all at once until Carver was screaming into his shoulder and coming his brains out all over their stomachs, cock rubbed raw. Hawke fucked and fucked and fucked until he couldn’t, and his body seized up tight, driving him as deep inside Carver’s guts as he could get. And then he came. It never seemed to end. Carver felt the presence of Hawke’s load, the strange weight of it in his guts, and felt so full with it he had to swallow against the nausea. Hawke’s weight collapsed on top of him, and Carver couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to. He didn’t need to.
By the time Hawke’s cock slipped free of him, Carver’s hole was a mess. It struggled against Hawke’s footprint as much as the rest of his body did, raw and open and unwilling to lock up again. It knew Hawke, now, in great intimacy – and it never wanted him to leave. His whole body was a single signal of craving. Hawke very nearly gave into it.
They sat in the bath afterwards. Carver didn’t say anything and, for once, neither did Hawke. Carver let Hawke wash his back and his hair and kiss his neck, and still he said nothing. He was frowning, but Carver was always frowning, and it didn’t matter much to Hawke; because under the water Carver’s hand found his, and he held it.