After Frank point-blank refused to go on a mission, his parents gave him an ultimatum; he moved out rather than sacrifice two years to the church. Frank struggled to scrape by for over a year until a guy he was seeing introduced him to a barkeep. Despite growing up in a dry community, he took quickly to mixology, dazzling patrons with the flare he put into the simplest of gestures, spinning, flipping and twirling bottles as he retrieved and returned them to their slots.
The tips piled up on Thursday during the unofficial gay night. Twinks, silver foxes, otters, and bears alike licked their lips, scanning from his hairless muscular upper body down to his tight low-rise jeans.
Frank enjoyed the freedom from his hyper-religious Mormon family, but missed his little brother Timmy. A pang of guilt stung his chest when he recalled the look on his brother's face as he left home. Frank worried for sweet, quiet Timmy as he approached mission age. Their parents would surely force the same choice upon him.
After witnessing Frank's treatment, the more confrontation-shy Timmy left on a mission, only to return four months later for reasons Frank couldn't pry out of anyone.
A few days later, a knock wrapped at his apartment door. Frank shielded his eyes with a hand, climbed to his feet and wobbled to the door, avoiding a discarded shirt here, an empty bottle there. A thin, dark brown-haired boy stood sheepishly on the other side.
The boy swallowed, eyes avoidant. "Frankie?"
Frank inclined his head forward, studying. "Timmy?" His lips separated into a gleaming white smile, taking his brother into a tight embrace. He let go and with his strong hands, he held Timmy's shoulders and looked him over. "You're so tall!"
Timmy's lips twitched with a hesitant smile. He scanned his older brother. "And, uh, you're--so
big
."
Frank released Timmy's shoulders and gave a flex of a sizable bicep before giving Timmy a playful chuck on the chin. "How long has it been?"
Timmy shrugged. "Four years."
Frank gestured for Timmy to come inside.
In nothing but boxer briefs, Frank rested his hands on his hips. He marked each of his all grown up little brother's features, clear face, high cheekbones, full lips, sharp jaw. Seeing a face like that on Grindr would instantly get Frank's attention.
Timmy avoided eye contact, kicking at the carpet, noticing what a mess the place was.
"If I knew you were comin' I'd 'a baked a cake." Frank winked.
Timmy smiled before his lips quivered, tearing up, eyes dropping to the floor. "They kicked me out."
Frank drew his not-so-little-anymore brother back into his arms, "Sh." He patted Timmy's back. Gently, Frank pulled away and looked straight into his brother's eyes. "You came to the right place."
The first day after Timmy spent the night on Frank's couch, the place sparkled, without so much as a stray sock. He did the laundry, folded his brother's clothes, and even cooked.
Frank felt guilty about his homeless brother sleeping on the couch, but he couldn't invite him to bed. That'd be weird, right? He wanted to help his little brother get on his feet, so he talked his boss into giving Timmy a bar back job.
Timmy, not one to disappoint his big brother, leaned into the humble work, only pausing when he caught himself glaring at flirting patrons. Despite being the little brother, he was protective, thinking Frank deserved more respect than to be eyed like a piece of meat.
Timmy walked behind Frank and stacked clean glasses just to his side. "Where do you go after work?"
Whipping out top shelf vodka, and spinning the bottle on his palm, Frank glanced over. "Just hangin' with a friend or two."
A mix of guilt and unease churned in Frank's chest. He only hung out with friends on his days off, and was actually cruising after he left work at night. Before, he'd bring people home with him, but now... Well, he didn't want to out himself like that.
Timmy continued in a whisper, "You got home at 4 a.m. last night."
With a plop of a cherry into an old-fashioned, Frank shrugged. "Did I wake you? Sorry."
Timmy gave a thin smile and doubled back behind the bar.
Frank wasn't out to any of his family or friends back home. He presented masculine at work and in front of acquaintances, but he could queen it up if he wanted, and did occasionally for some regular gay-night patrons. Did Timmy assume it was all an act, or did he suspect?
That night, after work, rather than cruise, he joined Timmy on the walk back to their apartment. Fred broke the chilled silence. "Hey, sorry again for waking you last night."
Timmy gazed up at the street lamp, hands in his pockets, shaggy hair bouncing with each step. "S-ok."
"You alright?" Fred licked his lips.
Timmy lowered his head.
"Something bothering you?"
Timmy sighed. "I don't know. I just--I'm just not sure what I'm doing."
Frank smiled. "Boss thinks you're doing great."
Timmy released a long sigh. "Not that--like I don't know--I don't know where I'm headed."
"Sounds like someone needs a drink." Frank gave a slight chuckle.
Timmy spun to Frank, mouth open. "I--I've never--"
"Oh, I know, Mormon boy." Frank wrestled Timmy into a headlock. "Make you one when we get home."
"Really?" Timmy's voice cracked.
Frank laughed and threw an arm around Timmy's shoulders. "I'll make you something you'll like."
Back at the apartment, Timmy hovered around the counter as Frank mixed up a weak rum and Coke. Frank remembered what a lightweight he was when he drank his first cocktail. He expected Timmy wouldn't be much different.
His kid bro furrowed and sampled the dark brown beverage and nodded. "Not bad."
Frank smiled and poured himself a stronger version.
Two hours later, they were both buzzed, exchanging memories from home, school, and church. Finally, Frank asked, "So what happened?"
Timmy, head swaying, turned and stared at his brother.
"On the mission." Frank swallowed, committing to the question.
"Nothing." Timmy took a big swig of his drink.
"Hey, you can tell me. I'm not going to judge or anything."
Timmy shook his head.
Frank placed a hand on Timmy's shoulder, who jerked away.
Timmy's voice grew louder. "I said, 'it was nothing!'"
"Ok, ok." Frank lifted his hands over his head. His face tilted forward. "Sensitive subject."
"No, it isn't--" Timmy's words slurred. "Is not, k?"
Frank reached for him, but Timmy slapped his hand away before darting out the front door.
"Hey Timmy, come on, man." Frank followed from about twenty feet behind as cars zoomed by. "Let's go back inside, huh?"
Frank drew close enough and reached for his brother. Timmy lunged away, out into the street, smashing against the hood of an oncoming vehicle.
***
When Timmy awoke two days later. The sheets scratched against his skin, and the room smelled like rubbing alcohol and overcooked vegetables. Machines beeped, and the fluorescent lights gave everything a washed-out, lifeless feel.
Frank sat in a chair at the end of his bed, dark circles under his eyes. "Timmy." He called for the nurse.
Eyes focusing, both Timmy's arms and one of his legs were in full casts. The night of the accident was a total blur.
Frank drew close to Timmy's face and cupped one of his cheeks. "Really had us worried there for a minute. How do you feel?"
Timmy attempted to adjust his position. A stabbing coursed through his limbs. "Oh, ya know, I've had worse."
They chuckled.
Only a couple more days passed before Timmy went outpatient, now someone else would need to take care of him; push him around in his chair, feed, and wash him. Even wearing underwear would be too troublesome. He'd be stuck in his hospital gown.
"How could you be so careless?" Their mother asked Timmy. "Drinking now?" She scoffed and placed a palm on her forehead. "Let's get you home."
Timmy shot Frank a look, desperate, pleading.
Before he knew what he was saying, the words fell out. "I'll take care of him."
She giggled condescendingly. "You're joking."
Frank's face was stone.
"You have work--"
"I work nights." Frank's voice grew more insistent.
"No, you've done quite enough." She reached for the wheelchair handle.
Frank blocked her hand.
She glared at him, then Timmy. "Fine. Just call when it becomes too much--Oh, and it absolutely will." With a huff, she turned and walked away.
Timmy sighed, mouthing the words, "Thank you."
Frank inhaled deeply and gave a nod.
Successfully loading Timmy into the car was a miracle. Frank gingerly pressed the car door shut, one of Timmy's cast arms resting on the lip of the rolled-down window. Timmy clenched his teeth. Cars honked and drove around the brothers as they slowly made their way home, braking for ever dip and bump.
Teeth clenched, Frank rolled his brother's chair over the apartment's threshold. He gestured to his bed, then the couch. "Where'd you like to park it?" He chuckled. "Choose wisely."
Timmy frowned. If he chose the bed, Frank would move to the couch. Even if he wished he could share his big brother's bed, the casts would make it impossible. At the thought of lying next to Frankie's brawn, a swelling began between his legs. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought out.
Usually, Timmy jerked off twice a day. Once before work, and after, during a shower. He wouldn't be able to now. If he washed at all, he'd need Frank to sponge him. How would he make it through even one of those without exposing his secret? Did Frank understand how much work this would be?
Timmy pointed at the couch with his chin.
"Are you sure?" Frank asked.
"At least I can watch TV out here."
"I could move the TV into the bedroom."
"No, that's--"
"It's no big deal." Frank leaned over and unplugged the TV.
"No, no." Timmy's tone elevated. "That's too much."
"For my little bro? Never." Frank chuckled.
"But--"
"If Mom comes to check on you, what will she think if you're setup up on the couch?"
Timmy opened his mouth, but he voiced no rebuttal. He lowered his chin, and Frank lugged the TV and its stand into the bedroom.
Lying on the bed, arms stretched out at his sides, Timmy felt as if he were cuffed to the headboard.
Frank bought more pillows to elevate his arms and leg, but arranging them was proving to be more difficult than either of them expected. The pillows refused to stack neatly, shifting and collapsing every time Frank tried to adjust them. With a frustrated huff, he repositioned them again, his movements growing more careful yet no less determined.
Between the heavy casts and the stiff hospital gown, comfort was a distant dream. Timmy shifted slightly, but the pillows wobbled beneath him, threatening to undo Frank's work.
Frank sighed, running a hand through his hair. Two months. That was how long he'd be staying home, waking up earlier than usual, taking care of Timmy instead of cruising.
He glanced down at his little brother, watching the way he tried, unsuccessfully, to settle in.
***
"I need to pee!" Timmy moaned at 6 a.m.
Frank stumbled into the room from the living room couch, walked to the side of the bed, and worked carefully to lift Timmy. They hobbled together to the adjoining bathroom.
Straddling the bowl backwards, Timmy clenched his teeth. Morning wood. He leaned forward, trying to leverage the bend in his cast to point it down, but couldn't reach. Then he tried squeezing it between his thighs, but that nearly made him slip off the toilet.
Timmy let out a deep sigh.
Frank poked his head in. "What's the matter?"
Timmy turned to his brother. He shook his head tentatively, then peered back at his erection.
