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Numb3rs fic: Kid Genius (daily writing for like, a week?)
(I'm kind of disappointed I didn't finish the mpreg for Mother's Day.)
Title: Kid Genius
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jmtorres
Summary: "Great at math, failing at life," said Charlie.
Word count: 5,756
Rating: Dreamsicle
Warning: Jul does not pass go, Jul does not collect $200. Jul goes directly to hell, because the pretty brothers are hot.
Notes:
Also on AO3.
1. Only I would choose, for my triumphant return to fanfiction and feedback whoring, a fandom this tiny. I blameniqaeli.
2. Orange sidebar onniqaeli: Every non-fannish person I know assumes that niqaeli is my girlfriend (a title currently reserved only for isabeau, who sat on my head and made me write fic when she discovered we once again had a fandom in common after many years running in parallel...) because the fannish relationship of "other half of my brain" is simply inexplicable to the non-fannish. I've taken to calling niqaeli my sister rather than try to explain the actual relationship. Ironically, this has not helped.
3. This story was not going to be as long as it is, butniqaeli informed me that I needed another scene to conclude it. And then another. I accuse her of blatant manipulation.
4. A few hundred of these words areniqaeli's, though it should probably also be noted that she knew several important bits before I'd committed them to words at all, because she is in mah brain stealin mah thoughtz.
---
The summer that I was ten--
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten? It must
have been a long one then--
~"The Centaur," by Mary Swenson
---
When Charlie was ten (and briefly, horribly, poetically inclined towards a classmate he was tutoring in algebra during study hall), he asked some question about love at the breakfast table that caused their father to say, "Ah, love, the simplest kind of math. One plus one equals two."
Don muttered, "Oh, God," into his cereal, because explaining non-mathematical things to Charlie in terms of math simply did not work: Charlie would fail to see the connection, or correct you on the math, or--
"Except when it equals three," their mother chimed in on cue, smiling.
Don watched Charlie's eyes get big and baffled, and finally took pity, saying, "Babies, she means babies."
"Oh," said Charlie, looking down in doe-eyed embarrassment, because while he'd taken enough bio to understand the concept, he was still ten years old.
Charlie came home from school that afternoon, jumping cracks in the sidewalk and kicking sour oranges back under painted white trunks, and chattering all the while about some number, one point something or other, the square root of three, because he'd decided to change the mode of operation for the act of love from addition to multiplication (which was more traditional, "be fruitful and multiply,"), so his new equation was x2 = 3--and the point something or other on the one point something or other represented the potential new life that each person carried around in the form of gametes, which were not whole people in and of themselves, but--
Don listened patiently to the entire thing, then said, "I have two questions."
"Yes?" Charlie said expectantly, because he liked answering questions.
"Does your equation take into account that doing it does not always result in babies," Don said, and, before Charlie could deal with that, "and also, how do you account for twins?"
Charlie opened his mouth, shut it again, and said, "Crap," with hearty feeling. He ran off to his room to work out something that represented the likelihood of single and multiple fertilizations to present at dinner. Don was trying to work out whether he wanted to throw in the monkey wrench of gay sex in front of their parents (not that Don enjoyed watching Charlie go in circles trying to tweak his mathematical models into line with the complexity of the real world, or anything) when their father pointed out, "You know, there's whole books on this subject," which was how Charlie ended up doing a paper on population dynamics and the Jewish Diaspora for his major project in the statistics class he was taking that year.
(He didn't get anywhere with the other kid he was tutoring, but that was Charlie for you: distract him with math and he'd forget all about ordinary human concerns like love.)
---
When Charlie was thirteen and Don was eighteen and they were both graduating high school, Charlie wanted to go to prom. Specifically, he wanted to go to the prom with Val Eng, the girl Don had asked, over which they had a fist fight on the lawn and Don nominated Charlie for most annoying younger brother of the year.
Their father didn't think it was a good idea for Charlie to go--with or without Val Eng--because all the rest of those high school kids would be spending prom night drunk and screwing, and Don heartily agreed, because he wanted to spend prom night drunk and screwing with Val. Their mother thought they shouldn't discourage Charlie when he showed interest in social interaction, and said it would be fine if Don watched out for him.
Don, seeing that this would result in Charlie chaperoning him rather than the other way around (not to mention Val getting two dates for the price of one), said, "Oh, fuck, are you kidding me?" and got himself grounded from two week's worth of parties--not so much for the obscenity itself as for the crushed look it put on Charlie's face.
After Don got over being pissed at his parents and discovered the guilt about upsetting Charlie wouldn't go away, he went up to Charlie's room, sat down on his bed, and squinted at the chalkboards until Charlie turned around from his desk and said, "What?"
"I, uh," said Don, and tried again. "Are you going with anyone to the prom?"
"You mean, is Mom taking me since you won't?" Charlie asked. "Even I'm not that stupid."
"No, I mean, are you taking anybody," Don said. "As a date." He tried a quick smile. "You know, someone who's not Val. 'Cause it would be awkward if you were taking her."
"Oh," said Charlie, looking cautiously curious. They still weren't quite over the Val thing, but--"No?" he said, so that it sounded like a question.
"Well, you have to take a date," said Don, "or else you won't have anyone to dance with. And it's not really prom unless you have to buy corsages and crap. I realize you're not going to get laid--going off to college at your age, you're not going to get laid for the rest of your life, pretty much, kiddo--" You're too much of a kid, still, not even Val would sleep with you, kiddo-- "but you have to at least have a date."
"It may have escaped your notice," Charlie said, "but I'm not exactly popular with the girls at school." He sounded so dejected that Don realized he must think his brother was now trying to come with justifications why he shouldn't go.
"I'll see what I can do," Don said. "One condition, though."
"What's that?" Charlie asked warily.
"You have to rent us a limo," Don said. "I just lost two weeks of allowance and you're the one with all those awards, so you can damn well chip in for the prom experience."
"Sure," said Charlie, looking so relieved that it was something he could do, not some impossible task designed to keep him from coming.
So Don called up Val to ask if her freshman cousin (who was therefore only two years older than Charlie, instead of five like the seniors) would like to tag along to prom. He could feel her slipping from a sure thing to never-will-I-get-into-this-girl's-pants-in-a-million-years over the phone, but he negotiated Charlie's date (and got ungrounded in time to take part in the senior prank, which involved copious amounts spray paint, several lawn chairs, and Mr. Fibula, the skeleton from the biology classroom).
And the prom thing didn't work out as bad as Don had feared. Halfway through the night, Val came back from powdering her nose and said, "Bree's got your kid brother tied up for the next few dances, let's go hang out in the limo," and if Charlie was a little starry-eyed from the Everclear in the punch by the time Don got back, well, Don made him drink enough water that he wouldn't get a hangover, and managed to convince his parents that Charlie was just feeling giddy from a night on the town.
---
The summer Don turned twenty-one, Charlie was still fifteen (wouldn't be sixteen for nearly four more months). Don was living in an apartment near the university, working a crap job delivering pizza and taking a couple of summer classes, because proximity to Charlie made him feel useless if he went three months without taking a class, even though both his roommates had gone home. Ironically, Charlie was taking the summer off from Princeton, partially because their mother wanted to come home and see their father; partially because Larry Fleinhardt, his favorite professor ever, was on sabbatical, so it wouldn't have been any fun.
On the eve of his birthday, Don delivered pizzas until midnight, then went out and bought booze, and drove by home to kidnap Charlie to his apartment. "You're coming over for your birthday tomorrow, aren't you," said his father, "your mother's making you a cake, you know."
Don said, "I know, I know, I will, I just want to spend some time with Charlie."
Charlie, who'd stayed up late expecting him, said, "We're just going to play video games and stuff," because Charlie was completely paranoid about their father figuring out Don had--and Don could picture the volume calculations flickering in Charlie's eyes if he got a glimpse of the goodie box--twenty-three point five seven liters of liquor in the trunk.
Don hurried him out before their father could get too suspicious about the unasked-for excuse, promising, "I'll bring him home before I go to class."
They didn't do anything stupid while they were drunk; they mostly just played Mario Brothers like they'd told their father. The only reason Don really wanted to feed him booze was to get him talkative--or, well, to get him to be quiet about math and receptive to talking about other things.
Don started off slow--easy things--"Semester go well?" which sparked off a ten-minute enthusiastic love letter to Princeton in general and Professor Fleinhardt in particular; then, "So you're graduating next year?"
"This winter, probably," Charlie said. "I'm already doing some TA'ing, so." He sipped on his tequila and got quiet after a mere two sentences, so Don decided it was probably time for the good stuff.
"You meet any girls at Princeton?" Don asked.
"No," Charlie said, half-laughing, glancing at Don and away again quickly.
"Any guys?" Don suggested, keeping his tone light.
Charlie did a spit-take and turned cherry red. It was normally hard to see a blush on Charlie's complexion, but the alcohol brought the blood right to his skin.
"So it is guys," Don said smugly.
"Not--exclusively?" Charlie protested.
"You said no girls," Don said, teasing.
"But there haven't been any guys either," Charlie said. He slumped into the couch. "It's all purely theoretical at this point."
"Okay," said Don, and offered, "You wanna kick my ass at Dr. Mario again?" because Charlie looked so miserable that he didn't want to push.
Charlie slept on the couch, and Don slept on the floor by him, which was part intentional decision and part being too tired and tipsy to get up and go to bed. Don asked, as Charlie was stretching out, fluffing a couch cushion, "Does Mom know?" because Don had to figure Dad didn't or Don would have heard about it by now.
Charlie went still, and Don waited to see whether he was going to pretend to be asleep or actually answer the question. After a moment, Charlie said, "It's not like I--like I can ask anybody out, or--they're all older than me. And I mean, if they did like me, it'd be creepy."
"And I would have to kill them," Don agreed. Charlie was starting to grow into his puppy hands and feet, but he was still too skinny, too fifteen. "But you haven't told her?"
Charlie shook his head, curls bouncing. "Mostly she just thinks I'm asocial and overly invested in my studies and--that's why I'm home this summer, you know. She made me take a break because I'm not acting like a normal teenager."
Don felt his mouth twitch in amusement. "You, normal? She's asking for too much."
Charlie fidgeted, and Don pushed up on his elbow so he could look at Charlie over the edge of the seat cushions. Charlie's eyes were big and soulful and white all the way around. "You're better than normal, you know that, right?" Don asked. "Supernormal. Incredible."
"Great at math, failing at life," said Charlie.
"Oh, come on, Charlie," said Don. "You are not failing at life, and you know that if you were I'd tell you so."
"Okay," said Charlie, and smiled like he believed Don, so Don lay back down and went to sleep.
In the morning, Don cut class and made them both prairie oysters. Charlie eyed the raw egg yolk doubtfully and said, "Is that hygienic?"
"The brandy'll kill any germs," Don said confidently, and handed Charlie his. Charlie sipped at it, sucked up brandy and worcestershire sauce without coming anywhere near the egg, and Don said, "You have to swallow the yolk whole."
"You know, I'm not that hung over," Charlie said.
"Just drink it," Don said, and gulped his down. When he set his glass down, Charlie was staring at him in horrified fascination. "Double-dog dare ya," said Don.
"That's not a reason to--I--" Under Don's playful glare, Charlie had a go at it. He broke the yolk on his teeth and spluttered half of it back out in the glass. "Oh, God, give me a glass of water," Charlie begged, and Don laughed and did.
"That was foul," Charlie said, holding his hand over his mouth.
"You poor baby," said Don. "You feel better?"
"I'm fine," Charlie said. "Happy Birthday. I, um, your present is back at the house, I didn't think, last night--"
"Don't worry about it, you can give it to me tonight," said Don.
"And I know it's your birthday so it's your turn to get presents, not give them, but I was kind of hoping that you could maybe," Charlie said, conspicuously not looking at Don, "do me a favor?"
"Sure, what kind of favor?" Don asked.
"I want you to teach me," said Charlie, and stopped.
"Teach you what?" said Don. "Come on, what can I teach you that you don't already know, huh, smarty-pants?"
"Teach me how to kiss, and, stuff," Charlie said. "Teach me how to--Don, by the time I get there, by the time I ever have a relationship, whoever it's with is not going to be a virgin fumbling around like me. And I hate not knowing what I'm doing, I hate not knowing--I don't want to be just. Clueless."
This is a really bad idea, Don thought but didn't say, because he couldn't hurt Charlie that way. I only know how to do girls, I don't know what good that's gonna do you, he thought but didn't say, because it was an excuse, and Charlie deserved better than that. I can't, he thought but didn't say, chest aching, because he knew it wasn't true.
"You want me to teach you how to kiss," said Don, "and stuff." He was playing dumb, it was the only thing he could think to do. "Do you think I have a slideshow around here somewhere, tongue techniques for the uninitiated?"
"No, I--" Charlie looked flustered, and hurt, and pretty. "I want you to, to, to demonstrate."
"Oh, Charlie," said Don, because he couldn't help it. "Is that really what you want? Wouldn't you rather save your first kiss for someone special?"
Charlie ducked his head and looked at Don through his eyelashes, and his mouth opened to speak but no words came out. Don heard him think but not say, But you would be, and wondered if he was this transparent to Charlie, too.
"Charlie," said Don, and saw his heart start to break. Don reached forward, put his hands on Charlie's face, cupped Charlie's jaw in his palms. "Okay," he said, and at Charlie's startlement, turned it into a question. "Okay?"
"What do I do with my hands?" Charlie asked plaintively.
"On my waist," said Don, leaning in, and kissed Charlie before he had the chance to get settled. He felt Charlie's hands, jittery fluttering, until finally Charlie hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Don's jeans. Don grinned, let their lips part, asked softly, "You ready, now?"
"I think so," said Charlie, into Don's cheek.
So now that Don knew he had Charlie's full attention, that Charlie wasn't worrying about something as stupid as where to put his hands, Don kissed him good and proper, wet and open-mouthed, pressure and hunger and light on tongue, because all jokes aside that tended to scare the uninitiated. Don felt Charlie tugging at his belt loops, and was about to break off and tease Charlie about being eager, when he realized that Charlie wasn't quite holding up his own weight, and Don had to break off to put an arm around him. "You okay, there?"
"I'm good," said Charlie, starry-eyed. Intoxicated. He'd been about to swoon, thought Don.
With amused affection, Don kissed Charlie on the end of the nose.
"I'm, uh, not familiar with that move," said Charlie, a ragged edge of absurd levity coming up under the smooth, academic tone he was trying for.
"It's for when your partner is too cute to live," Don said.
"Thanks, I think," Charlie said wryly.
"And this," Don said, pressing a kiss to Charlie's neck, "is for when you wanna get," and another, "someone hot and bothered--"
"Uh-huh," Charlie agreed.
"You suck, you make a hickey," Don said. "I'm not gonna do that to you where anyone can see, but--" He undid two buttons of Charlie's shirt (plaid shirt and khakis: uniform of every math department Don had ever seen), pushed it aside, pressed his mouth to Charlie's collarbone and sucked, smooth-and-salty feel of skin on his tongue. Charlie clung to Don's jeans. His breaths were shallow and half-voiced, like he was trying not to make embarrassing noises and not quite managing.
"So what kind of stuff," Don asked, teasing, "did you have in mind for 'stuff'?"
"I, um," said Charlie, and when Don lifted his head and met Charlie's gaze, Charlie swallowed hard and stared at him wide-eyed. "Not--not--all the way. You were still a virgin when you were fifteen, right?" Charlie blurted out.
"Yeah, but I'd fooled around," Don said. "Let go," he added gently, easing Charlie's fingers from his jeans. Charlie, young and insecure and every second of those fifteen years, started to look scared and rejected, and Don said, "Trust me," and kissed him one more time for good measure before he dropped down on his knees.
"What, uh," Charlie stuttered as Don pulled at Charlie's zipper. His eyes went wide and dark as he realized what Don was doing. "You, you don't have to," he said, helplessly.
Don rolled his eyes and got Charlie's pants and boxers down enough to get Charlie out of them. Charlie was warm under his hand, gratifyingly hard already, and Charlie stumbled slightly at the contact. Don put his other hand up on Charlie's hip, steadying him--Charlie was going to fall over at this rate.
"Don," Charlie whispered as Don dropped his head, breathing in the raw smell of Charlie from the damp curls. Don opened his mouth to say something, it's okay maybe, but really it wasn't, so he took Charlie in instead, dropping his jaw and running his tongue over the head of Charlie's cock.
Charlie stumbled backwards a half step ending up against the tiny wedge of counter that went with the sink of Don's tiny kitchen. Don followed and let his tongue slide down the vein on Charlie's cock and brought his hand up to meet it. That got him a breathy gasp and some harsh breathing from Charlie.
Don pulled away, breathing heavily himself. His jaw was hurting already but mostly his own dick was killing him, hard and trapped in his own jeans. It probably said something about Don that he was getting off on this--on going down on his brother--without anything near his own cock to provide the excuse of just physical, but it wasn't something he was really interested in thinking about.
Charlie looked at Don glassily, pupils completely blown, and clutched at the counter convulsively when Don caught his breath and went back down on Charlie. "Oh my God, Don, I, I can't," Charlie said incoherently as Don slid his mouth around most of Charlie until Charlie hit the back of his throat and Don had to pull back at the startling jolt of it. And Charlie was still saying, "I can't, I can't," so Don lifted his head and looked up at Charlie staring down at him, and said,
"Can't what, Charlie? Can't what?" Because if Charlie needed to back out--if Charlie had changed his mind--
"Can't think," said Charlie desperately.
Oh, poor Charlie. Don couldn't help laughing, pressing his forehead to Charlie's hip. "That's normal," he said, turning his head so his lips brushed Charlie's cock as he said it.
"Not--permanent?" Charlie gasped.
"No," Don assured him, though it occurred to him to wonder, as he wrapped his mouth around the head of Charlie's cock, if he were lying. He knew guys like that, sex-stupid, who seemed to live purely to chase tail. If Don broke Charlie's brain--oh, God, their parents would kill him.
(And why was Don only thinking about how their parents would kill him now?)
While Don was worrying, wondering, Charlie, all hitching breaths and white fingers gripping the countertop, came on Don's tongue. Don swallowed fast, pretended it was the oyster in the prairie oyster, and then let Charlie's cock slip from his lips. Don stood, feeling as unsteady as Charlie, and asked, teasingly, "Did you see God?"
Charlie's head was dropped back so his curls hung down and his Adam's apple stuck out like his nose, prominent and lickable. "Math," said Charlie. "Mandelbrot sets. Fractals--they're infinite, self-repeating geometric patterns, like, like, snowflakes and broccoli, the same on any scale--"
That was so Charlie. That was just so damn Charlie that Don hugged him in relief. After a moment, Charlie let go his grip on the counter and hugged Don back, pressing his face into Don's neck. "So, uh," Charlie said, muffled, so Don let him go, "is it my turn? Do I get to try now?"
Don could see a possibility, an inevitability at the end of an unbreakable chain of causality, dominoes falling, could see it with such clarity that he wondered if this was how Charlie saw math--he saw that if he said yes, that this would become not Charlie's trial run, but Charlie's real thing, Charlie's true love until the end of time, Charlie's worst and most terrible mistake. "Nope," said Don, as if it were easy, hand on Charlie's cheek, fingers up under his curls (and oh, to slide his hands through Charlie's curls with Charlie on his knees--). "That was your demonstration. You want someone to practice on, you're on your own."
Charlie looked down, and Don let his hand drop and felt his heart twist, waiting, but Charlie gave him a small smile when he looked back up, like he understood. "Okay," said Charlie. "Okay. Thank you."
"Sure thing," said Don. "Hey, um, pull your pants back up and go draw broccoli for a minute, I gotta take care of something," said Don, and high-tailed it to the bathroom to jerk off as quietly as possible, staring at the water stain on the ceiling his roommate claimed looked like a bearded lady fucking a goat.
When Don came back out, ashamed but mostly presentable, Charlie was laying on his stomach on the couch, sketching in a notebook--one of Don's, American History post-WWII. "It's a dragon curve," Charlie volunteered when Don perched on the arm of the couch to see it. "Tessellating fractal."
"Uh-huh," said Don. He reached down and ruffled Charlie's hair, which Charlie bore with surprisingly little complaint. He fumbled for something to say, something to put them back to where was normal for them, and came up with--oh, Charlie would be mad, but Don was his big brother, that was normal--"So who's your so-old-it's-creepy crush at Princeton?"
Charlie paused in his drawing for a moment, and mumbled something to the notebook.
"What's that?" said Don. "Richard the Lionheart? He is pretty old. What is it, eight, nine hundred years--"
"Professor Fleinhardt," Charlie snapped, ducking out from under Don's hand to glare up at him.
Don snickered. "Gee, really?" he asked. "I would never have guessed."
Charlie's glare had already started to melt into something scarily moonier. "When will I be old enough that that's not creepy anymore?" he asked.
"Oh, let's see," Don mused. "That would be on, probably, the fifth of never."
Charlie heaved a couch cushion at him and said, "I hate you so much."
Don hugged the cushion to his chest and said, "I love you," because sometimes things filled you up so much that you had to say them, even when it was stupid to.
Charlie looked up at him, trusting and soft, and said, "I love you too," and then Don felt slightly less stupid.
Then Charlie started explaining how you constructed a dragon curve and the ratio of its dimensions, and Don felt stupid all over again, but stupid in the way Charlie always made him feel, which was perfectly normal.
---
By the time Charlie turned nineteen, their parents were letting him live on his own at Stanford, at least partly because Don guilted them into it by pointing out he'd been living in the dorm his freshman year. And Charlie followed in Don's footsteps by bringing home enormous bags of laundry every time he bussed down to visit.
The Thanksgiving right after Charlie turned nineteen, Charlie brought home his laundry and a boyfriend.
Not that Charlie introduced him as his boyfriend--Charlie introduced him as Ravi Chandra, computer engineering major who couldn't get home for Thanksgiving--"His family's all on the East coast, well, half of them, the other half's in India--" and since the campus was about to be completely empty, Charlie had invited him home, because they had room for one more at the table, didn't they?
Then over sweet potatoes, Charlie laced his fingers with Ravi conspicuously on the table and said, "Mom, Dad, I, um, uh, well," while Ravi attempted to look composed and mostly looked scared stiff.
"Yes, honey?" their mother said.
Don pressed his napkin to his mouth and pretended to be choking on cranberry sauce. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he wheezed when the urge to guffaw had passed. "You were saying, Charlie?"
"I'm with Ravi," Charlie blurted out.
"Yes, we can see, you're sitting right next to him," said their father. "Don't hog the rolls, son."
Ravi blinked, and Charlie looked shaky, so Don, against his better judgement, intervened. "I think what Charlie's trying to say is that they're--" What word could he use here to actually get the point across without ruining Thanksgiving? "--dating."
There was a brief pause. Ravi added helpfully, "Each other."
"Charlie?" their mother asked. "Is that what you're trying to say?"
Charlie was staring at his plate, looking horribly embarrassed. He nodded without looking up.
"Well, how long has this been going on?" said their father.
"Maybe I should go," said Ravi, starting to rise, although Charlie showed no sign of letting go of his hand.
"Sit down and eat your turkey," said their father. Ravi thumped back down in his seat. "Now, how long," their father said, gesturing at Ravi with his fork, "have you been seeing my baby boy?"
"Dad," Charlie protested, his head whipping up so fast his curls bounced.
"About two months," Ravi said bravely.
"You're working on your masters, is that right?" their mother asked.
"But he's only twenty-two," Don said, interpreting that as probe for his age, "and yes-I-keep-tabs-on-my-baby-brother," he singsonged half to their parents, half to see Charlie splutter, "and if-you-hurt-him-you-die," he cheerfully added to Ravi.
"And how long have you known about this?" their mother said, waving a green bean at him.
"About Ravi, or about Charlie being gay?" Don asked.
"Don!" Charlie said.
Don had some of his drink to try to keep his breathing under control, rather than breaking out in chuckles. "Yes?" he asked.
"Since when can Charlie tell you things he can't tell his own mother and father?" their father demanded.
"I don't--it's not--!" Charlie said.
"It really isn't like that," Don confirmed. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I knew before Charlie, considering he was exhibiting signs back before he'd figured out basic human social interaction. Does he still flirt with math?" Don asked Ravi. "Because he used to try to impress the kids in grade school, and that just--"
"But his math is impressive!" Ravi broke in.
"Ah," said Don, "so it's not so much that he's learned better as that he's found someone who can appreciate it. See, it's a match made in heaven."
"Thank the Lord for small favors," their mother sighed.
"Hey, at least he won't turn out like Turing, right?" Don asked.
"Donald," said their mother said, "what a horrible thing to say."
"Pi," said Charlie, and it was always a bad sign when he refused to talk in anything but numbers. "I want pi. Pumpkin pi and--" Oh. Huh. Pie. "--whipped cream." He gave their mother a trembly-chinned look of piteousness.
"Of course, honey," their mother said, half out of her seat when their father interrupted--
"Don't be ridiculous, you haven't even eaten any turkey yet! The both of you. Charlie, how do you expect your boyfriend to eat anything if you don't let go of his hand?"
Charlie stared at their father. Don was rather impressed, himself--dropping boyfriend in there. Nice. Looking shame-faced, Charlie let go of Ravi's hand.
"Thank you, sir," Ravi said quietly. "I was getting very hungry."
Don lost it and choked on a pecan.
(Later on, their mother asked Charlie, "Are you happy? Are you really happy?"
Charlie said, "Yes, Mom," with all the wide-eyed sincerity he could muster. "I'm happy."
Don said, "Yes, Mom, gay can mean happy."
Charlie scooped half the whipped cream off his pie and flung it at Don's head. Don attempted to return fire but Charlie ducked down behind Ravi, and Ravi had such a caught-in-the-headlights look that Don backed down.
Until Charlie sat back up for another bit of pie.
"What are you, twelve?" said their father. "Boys.")
---
When Charlie was twenty-two, Don was twenty-seven and working manhunts with Coop, on the road all the time and hardly ever calling home. It wasn't as if he had the time. He was busy.
He wasn't avoiding anything. He just didn't have the time.
So when Coop took a few days off after Christmas and Don didn't have a partner or an assignment through New Year's, he also didn't have an excuse.
Don called home from a motel room outside Chicago, and, of all the dumb luck, Charlie answered.
"Hi," said Don, "it's me," and exchanged holiday greetings and pleasantries for a few minutes, heard Charlie's big news about working for CalSci, congratulated him on that. He asked, hopefully, "Is Dad there? Or Mom?"
"No, they're out," Charlie said, so firmly that Don was certain he was lying. If they really had been out, Charlie wouldn't have noticed. He would have had to run around the house looking for them. Don then heard something suspiciously like a door shutting. "Can I ask you something?" Charlie said.
"Sure, what's up?" Don answered.
"It's--it's--it's like terns. Did you know that terns," said Charlie, "migrate the farthest of any bird? They fly from the Arctic to the Antarctic and back again every year, which I don't entirely understand, since most birds fly south for the winter because wherever they are is too cold--and you'd think the South pole would be just as cold as the North pole, wouldn't you?"
"No, Charlie," Don said, "I didn't know that," because he couldn't figure out why Charlie was asking him about birds.
"It doesn't make sense," Charlie said. "Where you come from exerts a force like gravity on you--social scientists actually model migrations patterns on gravity, it's fascinating--few people travel very far from their homes, and nobody travels farther than they need to. The friction of distance keeps people--birds, lemmings, butterflies--from migrating any farther than they have to in order to get away from whatever push factor made them leave in the first place."
Don seriously did not like where this was going. "Sometimes people have to move for jobs," he said. "People travel thousands of miles because they get transferred places. It's not that something pushed them away, it's that they're just going where their living is."
"Pull factors have a much lesser influence on migration patterns than push factors," said Charlie. "Why go anywhere looking for better things, warmer climates, if where you are is just fine? No--people only leave because there's something wrong with where they're at." Charlie took a deep breath, and Don felt his stomach drop. Charlie was about to get to the point. "What's your push factor, Don? What froze you out?"
"Hey," said Don, as lightly as he could. "Just because Mom and Dad's gravity dragged you in to live at home doesn't mean everybody should. Most people move out when they grow up."
"Most people don't run away to the other end of the country," said Charlie.
"I didn't run away," said Don.
"Then how come we never see you?" Charlie asked. "How come you never call?"
"I'm just busy," said Don. "It's not like you need me around, is it?" he added, cajoling. "You got your own life all together, don't you? The math, the boyfriend, getting that all worked out with Mom and Dad, the job? Look at you, tenured at twenty-two."
"It's not--" Charlie made a frustrated noise. "Why would you think that just because I don't need you that I don't want you around? Families don't work like that. You don't just hang around until your family doesn't need anything from you anymore, and then just leave. Family is--is--"
"Like a black hole," Don suggested wryly. "With that inescapable gravity."
Charlie laughed softly. "Maybe," he said. "And anyway, I do need you."
"What for?" Don asked. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Charlie said, "except that I haven't seen my big brother in over a year. I don't need you for anything. I just need you."
"Damn it, Charlie," said Don. He had a death grip on the phone.
"Sorry," Charlie said, so fast it seemed like a reflex.
"What are you sorry for?" Don demanded. What had Charlie said that he thought was worth being sorry for? It wasn't like any of it wasn't true.
"Exerting my gravity on you," said Charlie.
"Yeah," said Don. "You make me fall right in."
~fin
Title: Kid Genius
Author:
jmtorres Summary: "Great at math, failing at life," said Charlie.
Word count: 5,756
Rating: Dreamsicle
Warning: Jul does not pass go, Jul does not collect $200. Jul goes directly to hell, because the pretty brothers are hot.
Notes:
Also on AO3.
1. Only I would choose, for my triumphant return to fanfiction and feedback whoring, a fandom this tiny. I blame
niqaeli.2. Orange sidebar on
niqaeli: Every non-fannish person I know assumes that niqaeli is my girlfriend (a title currently reserved only for isabeau, who sat on my head and made me write fic when she discovered we once again had a fandom in common after many years running in parallel...) because the fannish relationship of "other half of my brain" is simply inexplicable to the non-fannish. I've taken to calling niqaeli my sister rather than try to explain the actual relationship. Ironically, this has not helped.3. This story was not going to be as long as it is, but
niqaeli informed me that I needed another scene to conclude it. And then another. I accuse her of blatant manipulation.4. A few hundred of these words are
niqaeli's, though it should probably also be noted that she knew several important bits before I'd committed them to words at all, because she is in mah brain stealin mah thoughtz. ---
The summer that I was ten--
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten? It must
have been a long one then--
~"The Centaur," by Mary Swenson
---
When Charlie was ten (and briefly, horribly, poetically inclined towards a classmate he was tutoring in algebra during study hall), he asked some question about love at the breakfast table that caused their father to say, "Ah, love, the simplest kind of math. One plus one equals two."
Don muttered, "Oh, God," into his cereal, because explaining non-mathematical things to Charlie in terms of math simply did not work: Charlie would fail to see the connection, or correct you on the math, or--
"Except when it equals three," their mother chimed in on cue, smiling.
Don watched Charlie's eyes get big and baffled, and finally took pity, saying, "Babies, she means babies."
"Oh," said Charlie, looking down in doe-eyed embarrassment, because while he'd taken enough bio to understand the concept, he was still ten years old.
Charlie came home from school that afternoon, jumping cracks in the sidewalk and kicking sour oranges back under painted white trunks, and chattering all the while about some number, one point something or other, the square root of three, because he'd decided to change the mode of operation for the act of love from addition to multiplication (which was more traditional, "be fruitful and multiply,"), so his new equation was x2 = 3--and the point something or other on the one point something or other represented the potential new life that each person carried around in the form of gametes, which were not whole people in and of themselves, but--
Don listened patiently to the entire thing, then said, "I have two questions."
"Yes?" Charlie said expectantly, because he liked answering questions.
"Does your equation take into account that doing it does not always result in babies," Don said, and, before Charlie could deal with that, "and also, how do you account for twins?"
Charlie opened his mouth, shut it again, and said, "Crap," with hearty feeling. He ran off to his room to work out something that represented the likelihood of single and multiple fertilizations to present at dinner. Don was trying to work out whether he wanted to throw in the monkey wrench of gay sex in front of their parents (not that Don enjoyed watching Charlie go in circles trying to tweak his mathematical models into line with the complexity of the real world, or anything) when their father pointed out, "You know, there's whole books on this subject," which was how Charlie ended up doing a paper on population dynamics and the Jewish Diaspora for his major project in the statistics class he was taking that year.
(He didn't get anywhere with the other kid he was tutoring, but that was Charlie for you: distract him with math and he'd forget all about ordinary human concerns like love.)
---
When Charlie was thirteen and Don was eighteen and they were both graduating high school, Charlie wanted to go to prom. Specifically, he wanted to go to the prom with Val Eng, the girl Don had asked, over which they had a fist fight on the lawn and Don nominated Charlie for most annoying younger brother of the year.
Their father didn't think it was a good idea for Charlie to go--with or without Val Eng--because all the rest of those high school kids would be spending prom night drunk and screwing, and Don heartily agreed, because he wanted to spend prom night drunk and screwing with Val. Their mother thought they shouldn't discourage Charlie when he showed interest in social interaction, and said it would be fine if Don watched out for him.
Don, seeing that this would result in Charlie chaperoning him rather than the other way around (not to mention Val getting two dates for the price of one), said, "Oh, fuck, are you kidding me?" and got himself grounded from two week's worth of parties--not so much for the obscenity itself as for the crushed look it put on Charlie's face.
After Don got over being pissed at his parents and discovered the guilt about upsetting Charlie wouldn't go away, he went up to Charlie's room, sat down on his bed, and squinted at the chalkboards until Charlie turned around from his desk and said, "What?"
"I, uh," said Don, and tried again. "Are you going with anyone to the prom?"
"You mean, is Mom taking me since you won't?" Charlie asked. "Even I'm not that stupid."
"No, I mean, are you taking anybody," Don said. "As a date." He tried a quick smile. "You know, someone who's not Val. 'Cause it would be awkward if you were taking her."
"Oh," said Charlie, looking cautiously curious. They still weren't quite over the Val thing, but--"No?" he said, so that it sounded like a question.
"Well, you have to take a date," said Don, "or else you won't have anyone to dance with. And it's not really prom unless you have to buy corsages and crap. I realize you're not going to get laid--going off to college at your age, you're not going to get laid for the rest of your life, pretty much, kiddo--" You're too much of a kid, still, not even Val would sleep with you, kiddo-- "but you have to at least have a date."
"It may have escaped your notice," Charlie said, "but I'm not exactly popular with the girls at school." He sounded so dejected that Don realized he must think his brother was now trying to come with justifications why he shouldn't go.
"I'll see what I can do," Don said. "One condition, though."
"What's that?" Charlie asked warily.
"You have to rent us a limo," Don said. "I just lost two weeks of allowance and you're the one with all those awards, so you can damn well chip in for the prom experience."
"Sure," said Charlie, looking so relieved that it was something he could do, not some impossible task designed to keep him from coming.
So Don called up Val to ask if her freshman cousin (who was therefore only two years older than Charlie, instead of five like the seniors) would like to tag along to prom. He could feel her slipping from a sure thing to never-will-I-get-into-this-girl's-pants-in-a-million-years over the phone, but he negotiated Charlie's date (and got ungrounded in time to take part in the senior prank, which involved copious amounts spray paint, several lawn chairs, and Mr. Fibula, the skeleton from the biology classroom).
And the prom thing didn't work out as bad as Don had feared. Halfway through the night, Val came back from powdering her nose and said, "Bree's got your kid brother tied up for the next few dances, let's go hang out in the limo," and if Charlie was a little starry-eyed from the Everclear in the punch by the time Don got back, well, Don made him drink enough water that he wouldn't get a hangover, and managed to convince his parents that Charlie was just feeling giddy from a night on the town.
---
The summer Don turned twenty-one, Charlie was still fifteen (wouldn't be sixteen for nearly four more months). Don was living in an apartment near the university, working a crap job delivering pizza and taking a couple of summer classes, because proximity to Charlie made him feel useless if he went three months without taking a class, even though both his roommates had gone home. Ironically, Charlie was taking the summer off from Princeton, partially because their mother wanted to come home and see their father; partially because Larry Fleinhardt, his favorite professor ever, was on sabbatical, so it wouldn't have been any fun.
On the eve of his birthday, Don delivered pizzas until midnight, then went out and bought booze, and drove by home to kidnap Charlie to his apartment. "You're coming over for your birthday tomorrow, aren't you," said his father, "your mother's making you a cake, you know."
Don said, "I know, I know, I will, I just want to spend some time with Charlie."
Charlie, who'd stayed up late expecting him, said, "We're just going to play video games and stuff," because Charlie was completely paranoid about their father figuring out Don had--and Don could picture the volume calculations flickering in Charlie's eyes if he got a glimpse of the goodie box--twenty-three point five seven liters of liquor in the trunk.
Don hurried him out before their father could get too suspicious about the unasked-for excuse, promising, "I'll bring him home before I go to class."
They didn't do anything stupid while they were drunk; they mostly just played Mario Brothers like they'd told their father. The only reason Don really wanted to feed him booze was to get him talkative--or, well, to get him to be quiet about math and receptive to talking about other things.
Don started off slow--easy things--"Semester go well?" which sparked off a ten-minute enthusiastic love letter to Princeton in general and Professor Fleinhardt in particular; then, "So you're graduating next year?"
"This winter, probably," Charlie said. "I'm already doing some TA'ing, so." He sipped on his tequila and got quiet after a mere two sentences, so Don decided it was probably time for the good stuff.
"You meet any girls at Princeton?" Don asked.
"No," Charlie said, half-laughing, glancing at Don and away again quickly.
"Any guys?" Don suggested, keeping his tone light.
Charlie did a spit-take and turned cherry red. It was normally hard to see a blush on Charlie's complexion, but the alcohol brought the blood right to his skin.
"So it is guys," Don said smugly.
"Not--exclusively?" Charlie protested.
"You said no girls," Don said, teasing.
"But there haven't been any guys either," Charlie said. He slumped into the couch. "It's all purely theoretical at this point."
"Okay," said Don, and offered, "You wanna kick my ass at Dr. Mario again?" because Charlie looked so miserable that he didn't want to push.
Charlie slept on the couch, and Don slept on the floor by him, which was part intentional decision and part being too tired and tipsy to get up and go to bed. Don asked, as Charlie was stretching out, fluffing a couch cushion, "Does Mom know?" because Don had to figure Dad didn't or Don would have heard about it by now.
Charlie went still, and Don waited to see whether he was going to pretend to be asleep or actually answer the question. After a moment, Charlie said, "It's not like I--like I can ask anybody out, or--they're all older than me. And I mean, if they did like me, it'd be creepy."
"And I would have to kill them," Don agreed. Charlie was starting to grow into his puppy hands and feet, but he was still too skinny, too fifteen. "But you haven't told her?"
Charlie shook his head, curls bouncing. "Mostly she just thinks I'm asocial and overly invested in my studies and--that's why I'm home this summer, you know. She made me take a break because I'm not acting like a normal teenager."
Don felt his mouth twitch in amusement. "You, normal? She's asking for too much."
Charlie fidgeted, and Don pushed up on his elbow so he could look at Charlie over the edge of the seat cushions. Charlie's eyes were big and soulful and white all the way around. "You're better than normal, you know that, right?" Don asked. "Supernormal. Incredible."
"Great at math, failing at life," said Charlie.
"Oh, come on, Charlie," said Don. "You are not failing at life, and you know that if you were I'd tell you so."
"Okay," said Charlie, and smiled like he believed Don, so Don lay back down and went to sleep.
In the morning, Don cut class and made them both prairie oysters. Charlie eyed the raw egg yolk doubtfully and said, "Is that hygienic?"
"The brandy'll kill any germs," Don said confidently, and handed Charlie his. Charlie sipped at it, sucked up brandy and worcestershire sauce without coming anywhere near the egg, and Don said, "You have to swallow the yolk whole."
"You know, I'm not that hung over," Charlie said.
"Just drink it," Don said, and gulped his down. When he set his glass down, Charlie was staring at him in horrified fascination. "Double-dog dare ya," said Don.
"That's not a reason to--I--" Under Don's playful glare, Charlie had a go at it. He broke the yolk on his teeth and spluttered half of it back out in the glass. "Oh, God, give me a glass of water," Charlie begged, and Don laughed and did.
"That was foul," Charlie said, holding his hand over his mouth.
"You poor baby," said Don. "You feel better?"
"I'm fine," Charlie said. "Happy Birthday. I, um, your present is back at the house, I didn't think, last night--"
"Don't worry about it, you can give it to me tonight," said Don.
"And I know it's your birthday so it's your turn to get presents, not give them, but I was kind of hoping that you could maybe," Charlie said, conspicuously not looking at Don, "do me a favor?"
"Sure, what kind of favor?" Don asked.
"I want you to teach me," said Charlie, and stopped.
"Teach you what?" said Don. "Come on, what can I teach you that you don't already know, huh, smarty-pants?"
"Teach me how to kiss, and, stuff," Charlie said. "Teach me how to--Don, by the time I get there, by the time I ever have a relationship, whoever it's with is not going to be a virgin fumbling around like me. And I hate not knowing what I'm doing, I hate not knowing--I don't want to be just. Clueless."
This is a really bad idea, Don thought but didn't say, because he couldn't hurt Charlie that way. I only know how to do girls, I don't know what good that's gonna do you, he thought but didn't say, because it was an excuse, and Charlie deserved better than that. I can't, he thought but didn't say, chest aching, because he knew it wasn't true.
"You want me to teach you how to kiss," said Don, "and stuff." He was playing dumb, it was the only thing he could think to do. "Do you think I have a slideshow around here somewhere, tongue techniques for the uninitiated?"
"No, I--" Charlie looked flustered, and hurt, and pretty. "I want you to, to, to demonstrate."
"Oh, Charlie," said Don, because he couldn't help it. "Is that really what you want? Wouldn't you rather save your first kiss for someone special?"
Charlie ducked his head and looked at Don through his eyelashes, and his mouth opened to speak but no words came out. Don heard him think but not say, But you would be, and wondered if he was this transparent to Charlie, too.
"Charlie," said Don, and saw his heart start to break. Don reached forward, put his hands on Charlie's face, cupped Charlie's jaw in his palms. "Okay," he said, and at Charlie's startlement, turned it into a question. "Okay?"
"What do I do with my hands?" Charlie asked plaintively.
"On my waist," said Don, leaning in, and kissed Charlie before he had the chance to get settled. He felt Charlie's hands, jittery fluttering, until finally Charlie hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Don's jeans. Don grinned, let their lips part, asked softly, "You ready, now?"
"I think so," said Charlie, into Don's cheek.
So now that Don knew he had Charlie's full attention, that Charlie wasn't worrying about something as stupid as where to put his hands, Don kissed him good and proper, wet and open-mouthed, pressure and hunger and light on tongue, because all jokes aside that tended to scare the uninitiated. Don felt Charlie tugging at his belt loops, and was about to break off and tease Charlie about being eager, when he realized that Charlie wasn't quite holding up his own weight, and Don had to break off to put an arm around him. "You okay, there?"
"I'm good," said Charlie, starry-eyed. Intoxicated. He'd been about to swoon, thought Don.
With amused affection, Don kissed Charlie on the end of the nose.
"I'm, uh, not familiar with that move," said Charlie, a ragged edge of absurd levity coming up under the smooth, academic tone he was trying for.
"It's for when your partner is too cute to live," Don said.
"Thanks, I think," Charlie said wryly.
"And this," Don said, pressing a kiss to Charlie's neck, "is for when you wanna get," and another, "someone hot and bothered--"
"Uh-huh," Charlie agreed.
"You suck, you make a hickey," Don said. "I'm not gonna do that to you where anyone can see, but--" He undid two buttons of Charlie's shirt (plaid shirt and khakis: uniform of every math department Don had ever seen), pushed it aside, pressed his mouth to Charlie's collarbone and sucked, smooth-and-salty feel of skin on his tongue. Charlie clung to Don's jeans. His breaths were shallow and half-voiced, like he was trying not to make embarrassing noises and not quite managing.
"So what kind of stuff," Don asked, teasing, "did you have in mind for 'stuff'?"
"I, um," said Charlie, and when Don lifted his head and met Charlie's gaze, Charlie swallowed hard and stared at him wide-eyed. "Not--not--all the way. You were still a virgin when you were fifteen, right?" Charlie blurted out.
"Yeah, but I'd fooled around," Don said. "Let go," he added gently, easing Charlie's fingers from his jeans. Charlie, young and insecure and every second of those fifteen years, started to look scared and rejected, and Don said, "Trust me," and kissed him one more time for good measure before he dropped down on his knees.
"What, uh," Charlie stuttered as Don pulled at Charlie's zipper. His eyes went wide and dark as he realized what Don was doing. "You, you don't have to," he said, helplessly.
Don rolled his eyes and got Charlie's pants and boxers down enough to get Charlie out of them. Charlie was warm under his hand, gratifyingly hard already, and Charlie stumbled slightly at the contact. Don put his other hand up on Charlie's hip, steadying him--Charlie was going to fall over at this rate.
"Don," Charlie whispered as Don dropped his head, breathing in the raw smell of Charlie from the damp curls. Don opened his mouth to say something, it's okay maybe, but really it wasn't, so he took Charlie in instead, dropping his jaw and running his tongue over the head of Charlie's cock.
Charlie stumbled backwards a half step ending up against the tiny wedge of counter that went with the sink of Don's tiny kitchen. Don followed and let his tongue slide down the vein on Charlie's cock and brought his hand up to meet it. That got him a breathy gasp and some harsh breathing from Charlie.
Don pulled away, breathing heavily himself. His jaw was hurting already but mostly his own dick was killing him, hard and trapped in his own jeans. It probably said something about Don that he was getting off on this--on going down on his brother--without anything near his own cock to provide the excuse of just physical, but it wasn't something he was really interested in thinking about.
Charlie looked at Don glassily, pupils completely blown, and clutched at the counter convulsively when Don caught his breath and went back down on Charlie. "Oh my God, Don, I, I can't," Charlie said incoherently as Don slid his mouth around most of Charlie until Charlie hit the back of his throat and Don had to pull back at the startling jolt of it. And Charlie was still saying, "I can't, I can't," so Don lifted his head and looked up at Charlie staring down at him, and said,
"Can't what, Charlie? Can't what?" Because if Charlie needed to back out--if Charlie had changed his mind--
"Can't think," said Charlie desperately.
Oh, poor Charlie. Don couldn't help laughing, pressing his forehead to Charlie's hip. "That's normal," he said, turning his head so his lips brushed Charlie's cock as he said it.
"Not--permanent?" Charlie gasped.
"No," Don assured him, though it occurred to him to wonder, as he wrapped his mouth around the head of Charlie's cock, if he were lying. He knew guys like that, sex-stupid, who seemed to live purely to chase tail. If Don broke Charlie's brain--oh, God, their parents would kill him.
(And why was Don only thinking about how their parents would kill him now?)
While Don was worrying, wondering, Charlie, all hitching breaths and white fingers gripping the countertop, came on Don's tongue. Don swallowed fast, pretended it was the oyster in the prairie oyster, and then let Charlie's cock slip from his lips. Don stood, feeling as unsteady as Charlie, and asked, teasingly, "Did you see God?"
Charlie's head was dropped back so his curls hung down and his Adam's apple stuck out like his nose, prominent and lickable. "Math," said Charlie. "Mandelbrot sets. Fractals--they're infinite, self-repeating geometric patterns, like, like, snowflakes and broccoli, the same on any scale--"
That was so Charlie. That was just so damn Charlie that Don hugged him in relief. After a moment, Charlie let go his grip on the counter and hugged Don back, pressing his face into Don's neck. "So, uh," Charlie said, muffled, so Don let him go, "is it my turn? Do I get to try now?"
Don could see a possibility, an inevitability at the end of an unbreakable chain of causality, dominoes falling, could see it with such clarity that he wondered if this was how Charlie saw math--he saw that if he said yes, that this would become not Charlie's trial run, but Charlie's real thing, Charlie's true love until the end of time, Charlie's worst and most terrible mistake. "Nope," said Don, as if it were easy, hand on Charlie's cheek, fingers up under his curls (and oh, to slide his hands through Charlie's curls with Charlie on his knees--). "That was your demonstration. You want someone to practice on, you're on your own."
Charlie looked down, and Don let his hand drop and felt his heart twist, waiting, but Charlie gave him a small smile when he looked back up, like he understood. "Okay," said Charlie. "Okay. Thank you."
"Sure thing," said Don. "Hey, um, pull your pants back up and go draw broccoli for a minute, I gotta take care of something," said Don, and high-tailed it to the bathroom to jerk off as quietly as possible, staring at the water stain on the ceiling his roommate claimed looked like a bearded lady fucking a goat.
When Don came back out, ashamed but mostly presentable, Charlie was laying on his stomach on the couch, sketching in a notebook--one of Don's, American History post-WWII. "It's a dragon curve," Charlie volunteered when Don perched on the arm of the couch to see it. "Tessellating fractal."
"Uh-huh," said Don. He reached down and ruffled Charlie's hair, which Charlie bore with surprisingly little complaint. He fumbled for something to say, something to put them back to where was normal for them, and came up with--oh, Charlie would be mad, but Don was his big brother, that was normal--"So who's your so-old-it's-creepy crush at Princeton?"
Charlie paused in his drawing for a moment, and mumbled something to the notebook.
"What's that?" said Don. "Richard the Lionheart? He is pretty old. What is it, eight, nine hundred years--"
"Professor Fleinhardt," Charlie snapped, ducking out from under Don's hand to glare up at him.
Don snickered. "Gee, really?" he asked. "I would never have guessed."
Charlie's glare had already started to melt into something scarily moonier. "When will I be old enough that that's not creepy anymore?" he asked.
"Oh, let's see," Don mused. "That would be on, probably, the fifth of never."
Charlie heaved a couch cushion at him and said, "I hate you so much."
Don hugged the cushion to his chest and said, "I love you," because sometimes things filled you up so much that you had to say them, even when it was stupid to.
Charlie looked up at him, trusting and soft, and said, "I love you too," and then Don felt slightly less stupid.
Then Charlie started explaining how you constructed a dragon curve and the ratio of its dimensions, and Don felt stupid all over again, but stupid in the way Charlie always made him feel, which was perfectly normal.
---
By the time Charlie turned nineteen, their parents were letting him live on his own at Stanford, at least partly because Don guilted them into it by pointing out he'd been living in the dorm his freshman year. And Charlie followed in Don's footsteps by bringing home enormous bags of laundry every time he bussed down to visit.
The Thanksgiving right after Charlie turned nineteen, Charlie brought home his laundry and a boyfriend.
Not that Charlie introduced him as his boyfriend--Charlie introduced him as Ravi Chandra, computer engineering major who couldn't get home for Thanksgiving--"His family's all on the East coast, well, half of them, the other half's in India--" and since the campus was about to be completely empty, Charlie had invited him home, because they had room for one more at the table, didn't they?
Then over sweet potatoes, Charlie laced his fingers with Ravi conspicuously on the table and said, "Mom, Dad, I, um, uh, well," while Ravi attempted to look composed and mostly looked scared stiff.
"Yes, honey?" their mother said.
Don pressed his napkin to his mouth and pretended to be choking on cranberry sauce. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he wheezed when the urge to guffaw had passed. "You were saying, Charlie?"
"I'm with Ravi," Charlie blurted out.
"Yes, we can see, you're sitting right next to him," said their father. "Don't hog the rolls, son."
Ravi blinked, and Charlie looked shaky, so Don, against his better judgement, intervened. "I think what Charlie's trying to say is that they're--" What word could he use here to actually get the point across without ruining Thanksgiving? "--dating."
There was a brief pause. Ravi added helpfully, "Each other."
"Charlie?" their mother asked. "Is that what you're trying to say?"
Charlie was staring at his plate, looking horribly embarrassed. He nodded without looking up.
"Well, how long has this been going on?" said their father.
"Maybe I should go," said Ravi, starting to rise, although Charlie showed no sign of letting go of his hand.
"Sit down and eat your turkey," said their father. Ravi thumped back down in his seat. "Now, how long," their father said, gesturing at Ravi with his fork, "have you been seeing my baby boy?"
"Dad," Charlie protested, his head whipping up so fast his curls bounced.
"About two months," Ravi said bravely.
"You're working on your masters, is that right?" their mother asked.
"But he's only twenty-two," Don said, interpreting that as probe for his age, "and yes-I-keep-tabs-on-my-baby-brother," he singsonged half to their parents, half to see Charlie splutter, "and if-you-hurt-him-you-die," he cheerfully added to Ravi.
"And how long have you known about this?" their mother said, waving a green bean at him.
"About Ravi, or about Charlie being gay?" Don asked.
"Don!" Charlie said.
Don had some of his drink to try to keep his breathing under control, rather than breaking out in chuckles. "Yes?" he asked.
"Since when can Charlie tell you things he can't tell his own mother and father?" their father demanded.
"I don't--it's not--!" Charlie said.
"It really isn't like that," Don confirmed. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I knew before Charlie, considering he was exhibiting signs back before he'd figured out basic human social interaction. Does he still flirt with math?" Don asked Ravi. "Because he used to try to impress the kids in grade school, and that just--"
"But his math is impressive!" Ravi broke in.
"Ah," said Don, "so it's not so much that he's learned better as that he's found someone who can appreciate it. See, it's a match made in heaven."
"Thank the Lord for small favors," their mother sighed.
"Hey, at least he won't turn out like Turing, right?" Don asked.
"Donald," said their mother said, "what a horrible thing to say."
"Pi," said Charlie, and it was always a bad sign when he refused to talk in anything but numbers. "I want pi. Pumpkin pi and--" Oh. Huh. Pie. "--whipped cream." He gave their mother a trembly-chinned look of piteousness.
"Of course, honey," their mother said, half out of her seat when their father interrupted--
"Don't be ridiculous, you haven't even eaten any turkey yet! The both of you. Charlie, how do you expect your boyfriend to eat anything if you don't let go of his hand?"
Charlie stared at their father. Don was rather impressed, himself--dropping boyfriend in there. Nice. Looking shame-faced, Charlie let go of Ravi's hand.
"Thank you, sir," Ravi said quietly. "I was getting very hungry."
Don lost it and choked on a pecan.
(Later on, their mother asked Charlie, "Are you happy? Are you really happy?"
Charlie said, "Yes, Mom," with all the wide-eyed sincerity he could muster. "I'm happy."
Don said, "Yes, Mom, gay can mean happy."
Charlie scooped half the whipped cream off his pie and flung it at Don's head. Don attempted to return fire but Charlie ducked down behind Ravi, and Ravi had such a caught-in-the-headlights look that Don backed down.
Until Charlie sat back up for another bit of pie.
"What are you, twelve?" said their father. "Boys.")
---
When Charlie was twenty-two, Don was twenty-seven and working manhunts with Coop, on the road all the time and hardly ever calling home. It wasn't as if he had the time. He was busy.
He wasn't avoiding anything. He just didn't have the time.
So when Coop took a few days off after Christmas and Don didn't have a partner or an assignment through New Year's, he also didn't have an excuse.
Don called home from a motel room outside Chicago, and, of all the dumb luck, Charlie answered.
"Hi," said Don, "it's me," and exchanged holiday greetings and pleasantries for a few minutes, heard Charlie's big news about working for CalSci, congratulated him on that. He asked, hopefully, "Is Dad there? Or Mom?"
"No, they're out," Charlie said, so firmly that Don was certain he was lying. If they really had been out, Charlie wouldn't have noticed. He would have had to run around the house looking for them. Don then heard something suspiciously like a door shutting. "Can I ask you something?" Charlie said.
"Sure, what's up?" Don answered.
"It's--it's--it's like terns. Did you know that terns," said Charlie, "migrate the farthest of any bird? They fly from the Arctic to the Antarctic and back again every year, which I don't entirely understand, since most birds fly south for the winter because wherever they are is too cold--and you'd think the South pole would be just as cold as the North pole, wouldn't you?"
"No, Charlie," Don said, "I didn't know that," because he couldn't figure out why Charlie was asking him about birds.
"It doesn't make sense," Charlie said. "Where you come from exerts a force like gravity on you--social scientists actually model migrations patterns on gravity, it's fascinating--few people travel very far from their homes, and nobody travels farther than they need to. The friction of distance keeps people--birds, lemmings, butterflies--from migrating any farther than they have to in order to get away from whatever push factor made them leave in the first place."
Don seriously did not like where this was going. "Sometimes people have to move for jobs," he said. "People travel thousands of miles because they get transferred places. It's not that something pushed them away, it's that they're just going where their living is."
"Pull factors have a much lesser influence on migration patterns than push factors," said Charlie. "Why go anywhere looking for better things, warmer climates, if where you are is just fine? No--people only leave because there's something wrong with where they're at." Charlie took a deep breath, and Don felt his stomach drop. Charlie was about to get to the point. "What's your push factor, Don? What froze you out?"
"Hey," said Don, as lightly as he could. "Just because Mom and Dad's gravity dragged you in to live at home doesn't mean everybody should. Most people move out when they grow up."
"Most people don't run away to the other end of the country," said Charlie.
"I didn't run away," said Don.
"Then how come we never see you?" Charlie asked. "How come you never call?"
"I'm just busy," said Don. "It's not like you need me around, is it?" he added, cajoling. "You got your own life all together, don't you? The math, the boyfriend, getting that all worked out with Mom and Dad, the job? Look at you, tenured at twenty-two."
"It's not--" Charlie made a frustrated noise. "Why would you think that just because I don't need you that I don't want you around? Families don't work like that. You don't just hang around until your family doesn't need anything from you anymore, and then just leave. Family is--is--"
"Like a black hole," Don suggested wryly. "With that inescapable gravity."
Charlie laughed softly. "Maybe," he said. "And anyway, I do need you."
"What for?" Don asked. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Charlie said, "except that I haven't seen my big brother in over a year. I don't need you for anything. I just need you."
"Damn it, Charlie," said Don. He had a death grip on the phone.
"Sorry," Charlie said, so fast it seemed like a reflex.
"What are you sorry for?" Don demanded. What had Charlie said that he thought was worth being sorry for? It wasn't like any of it wasn't true.
"Exerting my gravity on you," said Charlie.
"Yeah," said Don. "You make me fall right in."
~fin