captionstojerkby:

“Hey, buddy.”

He doesn’t answer, but he looks up at me with a face that’s meant to be both dark and inscrutable, and that probably is to everyone in his life but me. But you grow up right next to a person, with him, alongside him, and you get to know him in a way no one else quite does—not parents, not classmates, not neighbors, not friends. (Or not the people who would have been his friends, I guess.) He’s been away for years now—weird to think he’s a junior already!—but I knew I’d still be able to find him here, find him curled up against the wall next to the sink in the upstairs bathroom. That’s where I always found him when things got bad and I took it upon myself to be his protector, a fraternal influence—or even just a distraction. I nod my head toward the door, the hall, the stairs, the noises coming from below.

“Fighting again, huh?” I cluck my tongue. “You think they’d be able to at least keep it in check when you’re back home, right?”

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” His voice is quiet, half questioning and half accusatory even though it’s almost devoid of inflection. He’s never been glad to see me, really—at least not since we were younger, not since he really grew up, and things changed between us the way they do. You know how it is.

“I heard you were coming home for a visit, so I thought I’d make an appearance, too. Get the whole happy family back together!” I chuckle, but apparently he’s too upset even for my weak and rueful humor. “How’s college?”

“Fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?" 

He doesn’t answer.

I squat down in front of him so I’m level with his eyes, but he’s trying his best to ignore me. Trying to look through me, as if I’m not even there—and as if he weren’t even there, too, I guess. A door slams, and there’s silence for a moment, and from long habit we both count the time to ourselves, the way you do when you count how long it is between the lightning and the thunder to gauge how soon you’ll be in the thick of the storm. One, two, three, four, and then there it is: the door opens, the shouting resumes. I sigh. “They really do miss you, you know?” No response. “They talk about you all the time. How they wish you stayed in touch.” I pause. “And I—I wish you’d stay in touch, too.” Still nothing. “Actually—I’ve thought about maybe coming out to visit you sometime.”

"Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” That got his attention; his voice is hard and cold and severe. His mother’s voice.

“But I’d love to see what your campus is like! Maybe come with you to a few of your classes, you know? Meet your friends. I could even stay in your dorm—you think your roommate would mind?”

“You can’t.”

“Sure I can! Think about it. Us two, together again. You can lie all you want—big man, gone off to to college—but I know you’ve missed me. You have, haven’t you? And I’ve missed you. So you just say the word and I’ll be there, whenever. For you.”

“Please,” he says, and as he’s realized I’m serious the anger has melted into urgent, desperate, pleading anxiety—his father’s. “Please. You can’t.”

He’s quick; he’s always been quick, but I’ve always been quicker. His hand reaches out to stop mine—but he can’t, of course, and my fingers connect with the thrumming root of flesh running down the side of his right thigh. I smile, vindicated; he squeezes his eyes shut in confused shame. And the yelling gets louder.

“I knew you’d miss me,” I hiss.

“Stop,” he tells me, and I don’t. I reach in with my other arm now, too, spreading his knees apart, cracking his posture open, his arms falling uselessly, helplessly to either side. As I unzip his jeans I watch his socked toes curl against the floorboards, and my body—I’ve always been a little taller than him; I’ve always made damn sure he had me to look up to—curls over his, sheltering him. Smothering him.

I softly kiss his neck and he shies away, pressing himself back against the wall even as he thrusts his hot need into my cold hands. A plate crashes into a wall downstairs. He whimpers, and maybe someone else would miss it over the sound of the fighting below us, but I don’t. As I continue to stroke him I hear each and every noise he makes, each little whine and sob and plea and hope and fear. I may ignore them, but I hear them just the same. I’ve always been the only one who can really hear him, the only one who really listens to him, the only one he’s ever had to talk to, just as he’s the only one who’s ever been able to really and truly see me. 

“C’mon,” I whisper, hands working his dick as his hips fall into a rhythm he wishes they’d forgotten. “You should be glad to have me back—most imaginary friends wouldn’t love you nearly this much.”

Woah, this is mind-blowing, fantastic caption writing. Was not expecting the twist. This has to be the caption of the year right here.