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The rain in Quebec was supposed to be soothing. It was supposed to be the kind of gray, rhythmic drumming that let you dissapear into a sweater and a cup of tea. But Matthew couldn't hear the rain. He could only hear the heavy, wet thud of Alfred's boots on the hardwood floor of their shared childhood home, and the way the air in the hallway suddenly bred thick with the scent of old spice, stale beer, and want.
Matthew was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the duvet so hard that his knuckles were white. He was wearing the compression shirt. He was wearing the boxer briefs. He was wearing everything.
"Hey, Matty!"
His voice was too loud, it always was. Alfred stood in the doorway, backlit by the Hall light, looking like a golden retriever that had been fed too much meat and not enough discipline. His blue eyes were wide, unblinking, and fixed on Matthew with a hunger that had been shimmering for a decade but had finally boiled over into something ugly.
"Alfred," Matthew said, his voice quieter than he wanted it to be "Go back to your room."
Alfred didn't move. He stepped into the room, closing the door with a click that sounded like a guncocking. "Why? We're brothers. We share everything. Right? You're the other half of me. Literally."
That was the problem. Alfred didn't see Matthew. He saw a reflection. He saw a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit, and he was determined to force it.
Matthew stood up, trying to use his height, trying to look imposing. "I said go. I'm tired, Al. My head hurts."
Alfred laugh. It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in Matthew's chest. "Your head hurts? Maybe if you let me look inside, I could fix it."
Before Matthew could react, Alfred moved. It was terrifying how fast he was for someone who spend so much time eating. He crossed the room in three strides, pinning Matthew against the headboard. The mattress dipped, the spring groaning in protest.
"Alfred, get off!" Matthew showed at his brother chest, but it was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in denim.
"Shh," Alfred whispered, leaning in. His breath was hot against Matthew's ear. "Don't fight it, Matty. We're the same. You know we are. Same face, same blood. It's only natural."
"It's not natural!" Matthew screamed, the sound tearing at his throat. "You're obsessed! You're sick!"
"I'm throughout," Alfred corrected, his hand sliding down to grip Matthew's hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "And you're hiding. You're always hiding behind that smile, behind all those clothes."
Alfred hand moved lower, cupping Matthew through the boxer briefs. Matthew gasped, a sharp intake of breath that he tried to stifle, but the touch was electric and violating all at once.
"Let me see," Alfred murmured, his eyes dropping to Matthew's mind section "Let me see what's make you different. Let me see what makes you you"
"No," Matthew whimpered, his resistance faltering under the sheer weight of Alfred's presence. "Please, Al. Not this. Anything but this."
But Alfred wasn’t listening. He never listened. He was already unbuttoning his own jeans, his movements frantic, driven by a need that bordered on desperation. He grabbed Matthew’s shirt, the compression garment, and yanked it up. The fabric resisted for a moment before popping off, exposing Matthew’s torso.
Alfred eyes widened. He trace a finger down Matthew's sternum, over the flattened chest, lingering on the scar tissue from the double mastectomy. Matthew shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut. He felt naked. He felt exposed. He felt seen, and it was the most terrifying thing in the world.
"Beautiful," Alfred breathed, the word dripping with a possessive reverence that made Matthew's stomach turn. So perfect. So mine."
Alfred hand moved to Matthew's waistband. He didn't ask. He didn't wait for permission. He simply pulled. The boxer briefs were dragged down, revealing Matthew lower half, the subtle curve of his hips, and beneath it, the delicate, often overlooked anatomy that Matthew had spent years trying to reconcile his identity.
Matthew opened his eyes, tears welling up in his violet irises. "Alfred, please. I’m... I’m still figuring it out. It’s sensitive. It’s—"
"I know," Alfred interrupted, his voice dropping to a rough growl. He leaned in, pressing his body flush against Matthew’s, trapping him between the headboard and his own heat. "That’s what makes it special. That’s what makes it new."
Alfred’s hand reached down, his fingers brushing against Matthew’s most vulnerable spot. Matthew cried out, his back arching off the mattress. It was a strange sensation, a mix of dysphoria and pleasure, of fear and arousal. His body was betraying him, reacting to the touch of the one person he wanted to push away the most.
"See?" Alfred whispered, his thumb circling the clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. "Your body knows. It knows who belongs to it."
"Shut up," Matthew gasped, his hands clutching Alfred’s shoulders, not to push him away, but to anchor himself. "Just... just shut up."
Alfred smiled, a predatory, satisfied curve of his lips. He leaned in, capturing Matthew’s mouth in a kiss that was less about romance and more about conquest. It was wet and messy and tasted of beer and dominance. Matthew kissed back, half out of habit, half out of sheer panic, his mind going blank under the assault of sensation.
Alfred broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He reached for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand, uncapping it with his teeth. The cool air hit Matthew’s skin, making him shiver.
"Relax, Matty," Alfred said, dipping his finger into the slick substance. "I've got you."
He didn’t wait for Matthew to relax. He pressed two fingers against Matthew’s entrance, pushing in with a slow, relentless pressure. Matthew gasped, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes wide and unseeing. It was tight. It was so tight. And it hurt. A sharp, burning pain that made his teeth ache.
"Alfred!" Matthew cried out, his hands finding purchase on Alfred’s biceps, nails digging in. "It hurts! Slow down!"
"I am slow," Alfred grunted, pushing deeper, stretching Matthew open with a patience that felt more like torture than tenderness. "You just have to breathe through it. Think of me. Think of us."
Matthew tried to breathe, but all he could think about was the intrusion, the feeling of being filled by the one person who was supposed to understand him the most. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into the pillowcase.
Alfred withdrew his fingers, leaving Matthew feeling empty and aching. Then, he positioned himself between Matthew’s spread thighs. He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against Matthew’s entrance.
"Ready?" Alfred asked, though the question was rhetorical.
Matthew nodded, a jerky, involuntary motion. "Just... just do it. Please."
Alfred pushed in.
It was a slow, agonizing slide. Matthew screamed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed in the small room. His back arched, his toes curled, and his hands gripped Alfred’s shoulders so hard he thought he might bruise. The pain was blinding, a white-hot fire that consumed every nerve ending.
Alfred paused, letting Matthew adjust, his eyes locked on Matthew’s face, watching every micro-expression of agony and pleasure. He could see the tears, the parted lips, the dilated pupils. He looked hungry.
"Breathe, Matty," Alfred whispered, beginning to move.
The first thrust was shallow, just a test. Matthew whimpered, his body trembling. The second thrust was deeper, hitting that sweet spot that made Matthew’s vision blur. The third was a full insertion, stretching Matthew to his limit.
And then, it happened.
Alfred pulled back slightly, and when he thrust in again, he felt the resistance give way. He saw it before he felt it. A bright, vivid red blooming at the point of entry.
Matthew’s eyes flew open, wide with shock and pain. "Alfred," he choked out. "Alfred, I’m... I’m bleeding."
Alfred looked down, a smirk playing on his lips. "I know."
He pulled out, watching the blood bead on his cockhead, mixing with the clear pre-cum. Then, he pushed back in, dragging the blood inside, marking Matthew from the inside out.
"Look at that," Alfred murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So much red. Just like our flag. Just like us."
Matthew tried to speak, to curse him, to tell him to get off, but all that came out was a sob. His body was on autopilot now, reacting to the rhythm of Alfred’s hips, the friction, the fullness. The pain was still there, a sharp, stinging reminder of his violation, but it was beginning to mingle with a strange, unwelcome pleasure. His hips began to rise to meet Alfred’s thrusts, a traitorous movement that made Matthew want to scream.
"Good boy," Alfred praised, increasing the pace. "That’s it. Take it. Take your brother."
The word brother hit Matthew like a physical blow. It was the ultimate insult, the ultimate affirmation. They were brothers. They were twins. And now, they were tangled together in a mess of sweat and blood and sex.
Alfred leaned in, kissing Matthew’s neck, biting down on the sensitive skin just below his ear. Matthew cried out, his head thrashing from side to side.
"Mark him," Alfred whispered to himself, though Matthew heard him. "Make sure he knows who he belongs to."
He bit down harder, drawing a fresh line of blood that mixed with the tears on Matthew’s cheek. Matthew’s hands found Alfred’s hair, tangling in the blonde strands, pulling him closer, pushing him away, unable to decide.
The orgasm came suddenly, crashing over Matthew like a wave. It was violent and overwhelming, his body clamping down around Alfred’s cock, milking him with rhythmic contractions. Matthew screamed, his eyes rolling back in his head, his toes curling.
Alfred groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. He buried himself deep inside Matthew, holding on tight as he came, his body shuddering with release.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the rain against the window.
Alfred stayed inside for a few seconds, savoring the feeling of being wrapped in Matthew’s warmth, in his blood, in his essence. Then, slowly, he pulled out.
Matthew watched, detached, as the blood smeared on Alfred’s cockhead, dripping onto the white sheets. It looked like a war zone. It looked like a birth. It looked like a mess.
Alfred smiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "See?" he said, his voice soft, almost gentle. "We’re perfect together."
Matthew closed his eyes, turning his face to the pillow. He didn’t answer. He just lay there, bleeding, broken, and utterly alone, even with his brother beside him.
Alfred got up, grabbing a tissue to clean himself up. He tossed it onto Matthew’s chest, a final, dismissive gesture.
"Get some rest, Matty," he said, walking to the door. "We’ll do this again tomorrow."
The door clicked shut.
Matthew opened his eyes. The blood on the sheets was drying, turning a rusty brown. He reached out, touching it with a trembling finger.
It was red. Just like their flag.
And it was only the beginning.