Warning: This is slash (male/male relationship) and implied incest. You don't likeeither of those? Then step off and find something new to read.

The brass doorknob gleamed dully as I reached for it. As I walked in, the floorboards sang a song long forgotten yet still familiar to my ears. I could see things on the edge of my gaze from times long passed: an upright piano, its keys now chipped and yellowed; the table covered with sheets and dust, standing still like a phantom from the grave; a forgotten vase, cobwebs in the interior, tangling in the dead stems of dead roses whose brown petals lay scattered on the barren bookshelf it stood on. The silence was thick and stale, tasting sickly-sweet in my mouth. Dust danced through the air and it caught my gaze as light forced itself through the broken blinds that hung over a window smeared with frost.

The floorboards creaked behind me, but I didn’t move, didn’t move an inch. Maybe it was her ghost, wandering the halls like a faded memory. Or maybe it was just some cat, some fuzzy little fur ball that had snuck its way in. But it was neither. Strong fingers curled around my hand and twined with mine. I knew these fingers; knew the hand, the palm, each and every individual line that crisscrossed and made a pattern of a fate I –we- couldn’t read.

“She wouldn’t have wanted it like this,” a calm, husky voice whispered. His voice. Despite what I wanted- dear God, how I wanted to turn and face him- I couldn’t. Five years of not seeing him, not hearing his voice, not being able to hold his hand like I was doing…I looked down, keeping my gaze focused on the dirty patterns on my shoes. Strong fingers grabbed my chin gently and turned my head. My eyes followed unwillingly like they were being dragged through water.

I could see the edge of his face, the strong, high cheekbones, the tan cheek, and the dark flowing hair, but I kept my gaze away from his eyes as long as I could. “She wouldn’t have wanted it like this,” he repeated again. As I kept my eyes away from his, kept my eyes trained on the objects that shouldn’t have looked so dead, so old, I realized he was right.

She would have wanted this place to be alive, filled with laughter, filled with people, with lights and sound and life. Never so dusty and old and lifeless. I could feel my lips move, my mouth forming words my mind knew was true. “Of course. But what can we do?”

His hand squeezed mine, crushing the bones ever so slightly, and I moved my eyes to meet his and oh. They were just like how they looked five years ago. Still that deep, dark hazel color he inherited from our mother, still more green than brown, still surrounded by those dark curling lashes. I glanced away, feeling the heat gather and settle in my cheeks.

His laugh resounded within the empty room, curled along my spine, made me shiver. He turned, body coming closer to mine, his other square-palmed strong hand going to my lower back and fingers tugging ever so slightly at the wool of my pea coat.

“I bought it.” A statement said so simply yet carrying so much weight. My mouth dropped open.

“You did what?” A smile bloomed onto his face, teeth bright against his tan skin and his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. I should have figured he would have done something like that. Goddamn recklessness, goddamn pure stubbornness, goddamn heart…

“I bought it.” He leaned forward slightly, straight aristocratic nose bumping against my cheek playfully. “As a gift to Grandma Rose.” Wind-chapped lips brushed against my cheek and he pulled back. “Do you want to help me take care of this place?” He threw out one hand to encompass the room.

I glanced around. Grandma Rose was gone. Her house was left, forgotten, tossed aside by the rest of the family. She wouldn’t have wanted it (her forgotten house, her ruined family, her grandson’s torn relationship) like this. What could we do? (We could…)

(rebuild the house, fix it up)

We spent the rest of the day cleaning, tossing around cleansers and memories and stories. Trading what we could. And then we talked of the years that had passed. Me in little Jersey, wasting away, him in Texas, doing what he could to run away from…well, everything and anything.

(fix the strings, the ties to family)

We called mom later in the evening. Although she was mad to hear that we were in Grandma Rose’s place, she was happy to hear from us. Father wouldn’t come to the phone. Mom said he refused to talk to us until we got out of that ‘old bat’s loony bin’. There was silence and then a schedule for us to meet her in a week at the local coffee place.

(repair and mend our broken hearts)

Later in the evening, we curled up on the newly cleaned rug, bodies curled and tangled together. The place was gleaming, everything shiny and in its place, and the scent of lemon permeated the air. It tickled at my nose and when I sneezed, he laughed.

And even later, curled underneath a worn, cotton blanket that smelled of moth balls, his kisses were sweet and tender (just like five years ago) and he whispered sweet words to me- words that landed on my tongue and made me smile and made my stomach feel all fluttery (the cliché butterfly syndrome).

He spoke of how he always loved me, always would, no matter how wrong it was (cause how could something that feels so perfect be so wrong?), no matter if he would go straight to hell for it. I placed a kiss on his cheek, curled my hand in his, and told him we’d go down together. And once there, we’d meet back up with Grandma Rose.