A/N: This is what could have happened between Gunnar and James when they were younger, but didn't (unless you really it want it to have been this way) It's not necessary to read Drunk Text—the story these boys are from—to understand this one-shot, but if you are confused, it might clear some things up.

1: we, of then, are no longer the same.

It's dusk, but the with the heat, it may as well be high noon. Two brothers sit on the edge of driveway, blocked from the front window's view by squat bush.

One of them is smoking a cigarette.

"James?" The younger one asks, "Is Junior High scary?"

"What are you, a pussy?"

"No! Screw you!"

James snorts, and gives the boy an appraising look, "Nah. You're right. No younger brother of mine would be a nancy boy."

The younger (Gunnar. His name is Gunnar.) swells with pride. He says, "Teach me to smoke?"

James laughs, "Why would you want to learn that? It'll kill you, you know."

Gunnar says, "I don't care." He says, "You do it."

With a shrug, James takes a drag and hands the cigarette to Gunnar. He presses it against his lips, (it is damp from James's mouth) and inhales—most definitely a mistake. As the smoke catches and drags in his throat, he coughs until his eyes water.

James just smirks, tips back his chin to let out a lazy stream of smoke from between his parted lips, and says, "The first time is always the worst."

Gunnar thinks, he is so cool.

2: I pass by peaceably, with eyes, with shoes, with fury and forgetting.

Gunnar storms into his room already having worked himself into a rage. Stupid Melinda. Stupid big mouth girl. He doesn't even like her. He doesn't even—why the hell had he said that? Why the hell had he stammered and leaned away and said, "Oh, uh, I don't know how."

God.

And her face. Oh, her face after that had been priceless. Fantastic, really. Gunnar thinks he's never seen a face that so perfectly conveyed 'Are you flipping kidding me?' better than stupid (stupidstupidstu.pid.) Melinda. Melinda and her hair and eyes and chest like a dream.

Gunnar knows, suddenly, that he's going to have to punch something.

Instead (because there's no one around) he throws his books one-by-one to the floor with enough force to rattle the walls of his attic bedroom. Loud enough, apparently, to send James stomping up the stairs with a murderous expression on his face. "You planning on cutting that out any time soon, asshole?"

Scoffing, Gunnar hurls another book towards James' head. "The fuck?" James snarls, ducking before the book can hit him in the face.

"Get out of my room," Gunnar says, wishing he hadn't just thrown the last heavy item within reach. "Now. Get the fuck out."

James leers. And goddamn it, Gunnar hates when he does that. "My my, where did you get such a filthy mouth?"

Gunnar scowls, "From myself. Now get out."

But instead (of course) James just comes in and plops on Gunnar's beanbag, making himself at home. "Not that I particularly care, but what's the problem?"

"I don't have—"

"Quit pouting and tell me why you're chucking American History up to 1850 at my ceiling."

"It's not your ceiling, it's my floor," Gunnar argues. But he can already tell he's going to give in. He's going to tell James everything. Every embarrassing moment of the night. And James—because he's a dick—is going to laugh his ass off, and Gunnar is going to have to find another book (or maybe a shoe) to chuck at his face.

He sighs, sitting on the edge of his bed, and mumbles, "I don't understand girls."

James surprisingly doesn't even crack a smile, but says, "What about them?"

"Well, I—" Gunnar doesn't know what to say, really, because in his mind, James would have a boot in his teeth at this point, and Gunnar wouldn't have to continue right away. "One of them—Melinda—said she wanted to kiss me."

"And you're complaining?" James asks, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

"No, that's not," and here is comes, here's the miserable truth to the whole thing, "I just. I said no because I. Well, because I don't know how."

Gunnar braces himself for an outburst of laughter. Instead there's just a shuffling noise as James resituates himself on the beanbag. Finally he says, "You told her you don't know how?"

Gunnar just nods, remembering with a shot of humiliation to his veins the way her face had twisted into snorting giggles before she'd run off to tell (presumably) everyone in his grade. James sighs, "You never tell a girl that."

"I figured that out, dick face."

"Oh calm down, just—I mean, you had the right idea. You liked her, I'm guessing?" another grudging nod from Gunnar. "You never wanna go in for your first kiss with someone you actually like. The first time is always the worst."

"So what was I supposed to do?" Gunnar whines (but he has to admit he's perked up a little from James' sort-of praise).

"Doesn't matter now, does it?"

"Yes it does!" Gunnar thinks about all the girls he'll meet and how their faces will contort into that look—that Melinda look—before they dash away from him for good.

"No, because next time you'll know how to kiss." James says matter-of-factly. And then, "Scoot over."

Gunnar's mouth drops open. "What? Why?"

"Listen," James says, sliding Gunnar over and sitting beside him. Gunnar's heart starts hammering madly in his chest. "As your big brother, I figure there are a few things I'm supposed to teach you. Might as well include this one."

"I, what?" Gunnar squeaks (just when he thinks his voice has evened out, something like this goes and happens and it's like he's starting puberty all over again).

"Don't be a pansy. Now, come here."

Gunnar pulls a face. "But you're my—we're—" this has to be some kind of game. James will wait for Gunnar to lean in, and then he'll burst into laughter, call him a fucking perv, and leave. Gunnar knows it.

But when James's breath flutters over Gunnar's lips, Gunnar gulps. This seems like an awfully long way to go for a practical joke. James says smoothly, "Brothers?" with an edge that hits Gunnar right in his throat. His stomach roils, but not in a way that's completely unpleasant.

He's still not convinced this isn't a complete joke when a hot mouth presses into his. A burst of adrenaline courses through him. He has some dim idea that he should mash in harder, and move his head around a bit, but he can't right now because his breath is caught in his throat and he seems to have forgotten how to move.

James' lips slide over Gunnar's, damp and warm. He whispers, "Loosen up. Open for me," lips never losing contact with Gunnar's mouth.

Gunnar listens, letting his jaw fall slack, and then shutting it again in embarrassment over having obeyed so quickly (so enthusiastically). Somehow, in that act, he manages to catch James' lower lip between his own. Because it feels good, he sucks it into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. James makes a "Hmm," sound. Something between approval and curiosity.

It makes Gunnar pull back, "Was that...okay?"

James shrugs, stands up and heads for the stairs. Gunnar is so mortified, he wants to throw up, but then James turns around and says, "Next time a chick asks you—kiss her."

As his head disappears down the stairs, Gunnar sits absolutely still, not daring to breathe.

When he finally does let out a breath, it is sharp and fast. He thinks, Oh.

3: and it follows that I am, because you are.

Gunnar remembers being extremely surprised when James finally caved into their parents' wish for him to go to a Christian college. For one, their family wasn't all that religious (unless you count their mom's random urges to coat herself in holy water at the Catholic Church down the street—James called it her Devil Diet Syndrome). But both of their parents had become convinced sometime during James's senior year of high school (Gunnar thinks it was between the fourth and fifth traffic violation) that he needed to be Shaped Up, and that St. Thomas Christian College was the only place sturdy enough to do the job.

James lasts a semester and two months (which was way more than Gunnar had originally expected, to be fair) before he's expelled for growing weed in his dorm room. Gunnar thinks it's fantastic, because if his older brother turns out to be a pot dealer, well, that'll give Gunnar a ton of street cred, won't it?

James moves back into the room below Gunnar's in March, and the next two months are a parade of 'Oh, James, I can't believe you'd—' and 'I didn't raise you to be this way.'

Gunnar decides he's had enough of it. Because growing pot is definitely not the worst thing a person can do, and James is James, so he can pretty much do whatever he wants as far as Gunnar's concerned.

So he marches down his stairs and pokes his head in James's room. He says, "I wanted to tell you I love you."

James sets down his book (Neruda's Collected Works), looks up and says, "Yeah, I know."

Gunnar's heart is hammering in his throat, because that's all find and good that he knows, but he needs James to know. That it's not about the pot, but because Gunnar doesn't just love him like a brother, not really. That he loves him not just because of that kiss, but partly for it. That he doesn't usually think about asking for more, but that sometimes he does.

And James is looking at him, head tilted to one side, and he says, "D'you wanna know the real reason I got kicked out of St. Thomas?"

Gunnar edges in, pressing his palms against the wall and leaning back against his arms. "It wasn't because of the pot thing?"

James chuckles, and sets Neruda down. "Well, they found that, too. But that was technically after I got kicked out."

Gunnar grins because James is grinning, and it makes him feel like laughing until his stomach hurts. "So what'd you do?"

"I fucked a girl in the chapel."

Gunnar does laugh then, a deep belly laugh, and says, "So, did she get expelled, too?"

James looks thoughtful for a moment, breaks into a grin and says, "I don't know."

"How do you not know? Don't you guys talk?"

"Why would we talk?"

"Well you—"

"Fucked? Ever heard of a one-off?"

Gunnar flushes, embarrassed. "Yeah. 'Course I have. I just. Never mind."

James squints, "Wait. You have done it, right?"

"Yeah," Gunnar says, shuffling his feet, "Yeah, once. But it wasn't very good. I—well it was over pretty quick and she didn't. Well, we just. It wasn't. Um."

James stands up, for a reason Gunnar can't see but won't question, and says, "The first time is always the worst."

Gunnar closes his eyes then, because Jesus Christ. There are things he wants down to the roots of his teeth, and with James looking at him like that, saying those words—the ones that have always meant trouble and god .please. more. (the last only in the privacy of his unchecked imagination)—he's not sure if he can separate out fantasy (filthy, perverted, and dangerous) from reality. Already, his mind is racing a mile a minute—no, faster than that, messier—to figure out how to get out of the room. How to get James closer. How to stop. How to get those hands on him.

"I think the problem is," he says, wetting his lips with his tongue, "I don't know what comes first. I mean, I don't know—"

"You have to seduce her." James says, and Gunnar opens his eyes to see that James isn't across the room anymore, but close enough to reach out to. If he wanted. And he's still not sure if he does. Want.

"To be honest, I don't really have the patience for that." Gunnar says, all bravado. Widening his stance to prove it. (Prove what? That James can press hotly into the cradle of his hips if he takes two steps forward?)

James clucks his tongue in disapproval. "Patience, little brother, is the name of the game. Haven't you ever held off?" (he's closer now. One more step and their chests would hit with each inhale.) "Ever teased yourself by going so slow you had to clench your teeth to keep from the brink?"

Gunnar squeezes his eyes shut. James is crowding him against the wall, and somehow not touching an inch of him (oh god). Gunnar gasps, "Once or twice," cursing his vocal chords for giving out on him at such an inopportune time.

James says, "Mm. And what did it feel like? After waiting as long as you could possibly stand? How did it feel to come then?"

"Uhhh," Gunnar moans, headache building between his eyes from the tightness of keeping them closed.

"Yeah," James says, breath ghosting over Gunnar's left cheekbone, stirring his eyelashes. "That's what I thought."

Another breath and James steps away. Gunnar blinks, relieved and distraught all at once, heart slamming against his sternum like he's just sprinted for hours. He knows that if he's going to walk away, this is his only chance. Any touch from James and he'll be under. Gone. And is that what he wants?

No. More than anything, Gunnar wants to get out of this room. He wants Charley and her freckled thighs, her throaty voice, the way she asked if he was okay, after. How she said she was glad to be his first, even though he knew it was crap for the both of them. He wants. He wants. He says, "What's all that got to do with seduction?"

And there. The moment of escape has passed. Because James is back in his space and the room is a thousand and five degrees but he's shivering like a virgin and oh, he wants. He wants so badly he can't help the way his fingers clutch at James's side (but just his t-shirt. His skin is too hot. His skin is too brother).

A puff of air from James's laughter tickles Gunnar's lips and James says, "Everything. It's got—everything."

Gunnar makes a 'hunh' noise, that sounds like he was just punched in the gut, and really what he's feeling now (arousal splashing low in his stomach) isn't so far removed from a swift kick in the abdomen.

"Here," James says, "I'll teach you. After all, I am your big brother." And Gunnar wishes he wouldn't have said that last part. Wishes it didn't make him feel feverish all over. That it didn't make him want all the more.

James presses his palms on either side of Gunnar's shoulders, and Gunnar's arms are still trapped behind his own body. He's so hot he thinks he may just go ahead and pass out. His forehead is clammy and he can't help but wriggle a bit in the cage of James's arms. He says, "What—"

"Shhh," James murmurs, nosing along Gunnar's jaw. "Don't pretend you don't want—"

"Shut up," Gunnar hisses defiantly.

James chuckles, "I was going to say—to learn."

"You—" asshole. Pervert. Sexy fucking thing.

"Shhh, Gunnar," James's lips are pressed against Gunnar's ear and Gunnar's whole body quakes at the sound of his name in that tone. "That's tip number one, by the way," James says, "Learn her name and use it."

"Yeah," Gunnar sighs, annoyed when it sounds more like a come-on than he meant for it to.

"Tip two," James says, "use teeth."

Gunnar feels a shudder working up from his toes even before James's teeth clamp down lightly over his t-shirt covered collarbone. "Oh my god," he moans, before he can help it. And then, "Oh my god."

He tries to push James away, desperately scrambles backward even though he knows there's nowhere to go. James's teeth are scraping down his neck and Gunnar trembles again (although this time, it's more in fear that anything). "Please. James. Stop, please. I—"

But it's too late. Because James's thigh is pressed against the very thing Gunnar was trying to hide—the fact that he is horribly, painfully hard. "Don't," he pleads.

James's cheek presses against his, "Gunnar," (Gunnar grits his teeth against the lust that washes down from the crown on his head like ice water) "It's okay. Me, too."

"Wha—" Oh.

James ruts gently against Gunnar's hip, "It's supposed to happen."

"I know," Gunnar says stubbornly. He may be unpracticed but he's not stupid. It's just. This is James. And he's a little blurry on whether this is a lesson or the real thing anymore. He supposes, with James, it's probably all part of the game.

Either way, James stills his hips, but leaves himself against Gunnar, pressure almost unbearable. Gunnar barely catches his whimper behind his teeth. He says, quietly, "James?"

"Patience," James whispers. And finally, finally, his hands land on Gunnar's upper arms, pinkies searing bare skin.

Gunnar's breath stutters James mouths along his cheek, moving inwards from his ear, to the corner of his mouth. Gunnar swallows, and can't help but let his neck arch as he turns to press his lips fully against James's. For a moment, James doesn't respond, but just lets Gunnar's lips slide desperately against his, but then his tongue flickers against Gunnar's bottom lip, and Gunnar opens to let him in.

This, at least, he's done before. This, at least, he can handle.

He works his fingers into the hair at the nape of James's neck, licking and nipping at James's mouth. James kisses back—if not fiercely, at least with interest, and that's enough for now.

Enough, except that it's not. Because Gunnar's hips are twitching in an effort to keep still, and it's only because his mouth is busy that he doesn't whimper, "More."

But then, James starts a slow and gentle rhythm, rolling his pelvis forward, muscle of his thigh grinding against Gunnar's groin. Gunnar lets his eyes flutter shut with a shaky burst of breath. He says, "Oh James," because he can't help it.

James catches Gunnar's chin in his hand and kisses him. Hot. Hard. Unrelenting. (finally.) He says, "Say it again."

"James, please," Gunnar begs, arching his back to press their bodies together tighter.

James lets out a burst of air, and looks at Gunnar with half-lidded eyes. "Jesus," he says, raking his eyes over Gunnar's body (desperate, shaking, brother).

But none of that matters to Gunnar right now. He just needs. Needs. And he'll do anything to find release. To have James's hips piston into his until he comes. Right in his jeans. And he knows James will get off, too, if not from sensation then from the pure power of having Gunnar like this. So he says, "Teach me, James. God. Please."

James growls, and hauls Gunnar up so he's on his tiptoes, groin sliding along James's thigh. He grabs Gunnar's hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the peaks of his hipbones, and rocks him forward and back along his leg until Gunnar's vision tunnels and his face is so hot, he thinks he might cry. He says, "Like this."

Gunnar makes a choked sound and lets James continue rocking him, feeling the wall shake each time James's knee hits it.

He feels the heat building, washing over him from tip to tip, toes curling in his sneakers. He says, "James. James I'm—"

And he comes.

Shuddering and hot in his jeans. Against the wall. His brother still clutching him as it fades.

He thinks, That was—. He thinks, Yes.

4: I am neither good nor bad, but a man.

The last time James touches Gunnar is on Gunnar's 18th birthday, after he's taught Gunnar the fine art of being sloshed.

It's nothing as filthy as Gunnar always imagined the Last Time would be. No. Just an arm slung over Gunnar's shoulder, and lips smearing down his neck. James says, "God. Gunnar." And even as Gunnar tries to fight it, tries to will his body not to yearn forwards, up and against James's hard (broad and gorgeous) chest, he's never been able to deny himself. "You're all grown up and I've got nothing left to teach you."

Gunnar (who should have guessed. Should have taken the moment for all it was worth while he still could) says, "Pity, isn't it? That I'm such a fast learner."

James cuffs him on the head, cups the back of his neck and kisses him for all he's worth.

And Gunnar doesn't think anything at all.

After: In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

There will be moments later, (much later, after he's stopped looking for excuses to catch James alone. When he's done trying to coax him with every mention of the things he's done. The things he can do. That they could—) when Gunnar will be perched on the edge of something new, and he will think the first time is always the worst. He will think, with a savage grin, let's go.

He will think, James.

A/N: Credit to Pablo Neruda for the break text. The first and last come from "Tonight, I can write the saddest lines" 2. "Walking Around" 3. Sonnet LXIX 4. "And because Love Battles"