Three

3

It's one of those nights again.

Raistlin has lain waiting in his bed for hours. He is exhausted from studying until almost midnight, but he will not allow himself to fall asleep. Not yet.

It's one of those cursed nights he should be sitting in front of a cozy fireplace in a cabin not very far away, arranging and carefully handling a vast collection of herbs with Weird Meggin, listening to the peaceful and respectful voice of the lonely woman, who is telling him everything she knows about herbalism but never in an educating, condescending tone.

He won't go. Not tonight. And he despises himself for it. He can hardly recognize the stranger who is lying in his bed wearing his naked features, not giving a damn about magic, so sick with lust that he cannot even stand on his two feet. That obscene, repulsive fiend has chosen to give up a voluntary yet important part of his education for something so earthly and pitiable that he almost feels like laughing. Magic is all you need, magic is your only one, it is your bride, your lover, your whore - that's what he always tells himself. And yet here he is, isn't he, waiting fervently for the main door to open. Sooner or later it will - Caramon thinks he is gone, that he is studying like a good boy with Weird Meggin, because that is precisely what he has told him. That is what he has told his brother for months now.

Raistlin lays on his stomach on the cold bed sheets; his one hand hangs freely over the side of the bed while the other is pressed tightly under his fragile, needing body. Closing his deep blue eyes now blackened by the night, he lets his mind fill with images of what is to come soon. First, there will be drunken giggling followed by feeble, formal protesting. Then breathless laughter that turns into moaning. And then, eventually, furious creaking of the bed on the far wall of their little, shadowy kitchen. The images in his mind's eye make his blood burn, but he controls himself and keeps watching the shadows that play across the floor. He listens to the wailing autumn wind in the trees outside the window, dying to hear the staggering footsteps approach the house. With a heated smile on his thin lips, he glances at the door of his bedroom to make sure it is slightly ajar.

He must have fallen asleep for a while, for he suddenly wakes up with a jump to the feeling of someone moving in the kitchen - at last they have arrived, his brother and his chosen slut of the night. Raistlin can instantly smell the strong, sickening odor of spirits and hear the disgusting, simple-minded giggle of the girl - what fools his fellow humans are, what plain and despicable, pitifully predictable wrecks! He hates his brother for touching her. And he loves his brother - that big, clumsy, ignorant dimwit - for giving this to him, for letting him share without even knowing it.

Only a few times has he seen the shape of his brother standing in the faintly lit doorway. On some of those occasions he has even seen Caramon push the door open some more to make sure he truly is alone with his plaything before disappearing from sight and taking her like only he can, straightforward and unimaginative, completely unaware of the secret presence of the third. Raistlin does find it a bit peculiar, though, that, peering into the bedroom, Caramon never notices him or senses his presence. Of course, he always lies very still under the blanket, and there is no light - and knowing his brother's intellectual capacity, Raistlin is in no way suprised by his missing what is right before his eyes. Besides, he is of course half blinded by lust, the bastard.

It happened for the first time two moons ago when there were still leaves on the trees and the summer wind sang tenderly in Solace's fields of gold. Raistlin had had a terrible headache - an omen of thunder coming - so he had thrown himself into bed instead of paying a visit to Weird Meggin. He had lain there in the soothing darkness, hoping that sleeping in serene silence would cure him by the morning. Only, the silence did not last long. The main door opened, and suddenly the kitchen was filled with drunken chattering and tuneless singing, great merriment and mindless laughter at something Raistlin was certain was not even funny.

In the following moments, he came to know his brother like he'd never known him before. Drunk like a pig, Caramon was gibbering intoxicated, rude suggestions to the girl in a lecherous, hoarse voice. Raistlin was shocked at first; he wished to shut out that awkward voice and so he tried to wrap the pillow around his head, covering his ears with his hands. It didn't work; he could still hear every single dirty thing Caramon wanted to do to the girl. Not that the idiot had any reason to keep his voice down; after all, he had told him earlier the house would be empty all night long. Vexed by the uncomfortable loss of his peaceful solitude, Raistlin turned over to lie on his back and, placing the pillow over his face, tried to ignore the voice of his brother. Gods, the things he said! Judging from the sounds that followed, the girl was agreeable to everything. Unable to suppress a cough, Raistlin took the dusty pillow off his face and laid still like a statue, certain that he had been heard. Nothing changed - if anything, their voices got louder. Apparently he could have stood right next to those two rutting dullards and they wouldn't have noticed a thing. He closed his eyes and listened, making believe that he did not notice what was happening to him. For a while he kept telling himself he was lying so still because he was trying to concentrate on shutting away the world. But soon enough he had to admit that he was not just listening anymore - he was paying careful attention, now very much aware of the intense tightening of his pants. What followed was the fastest, most draining relief he had ever experienced.

And now the voices are back again. Caramon is so strong, so pleasing, so able. Nothing like Raistlin, weak and easily out of breath, completely unable, so he believes, to perform any acts of love. Oh yeah, as if love has anything to do with it, he thinks sullenly. No, not love. What happens in the kitchen, what will start happening there soon, is nothing more than mindless lust, reserved for those who did not know a thing about high goals in life. But as for love... He stops cold. No. He will not let his mind travel those dull emotional paths it sometimes travels while he is deep asleep, unconsciously returning to the narrow, warm and watery cradle he shared with his brother before life began.

But there are other dreams, too, dreams in which love has no place. Dreams that make him feel ashamed and unclean. In those wicked dreams he has a girl under him, some dirty, annoying whore begging for a man, maybe Miranda or some other, and he is that man, giving her what she needs, hard and good. He is that man, but he is not himself, not completely. It is his other self, strong and pleasing and able, and the blunt girl under him moans his name, Caramon, oh yes, Caramon, harder, faster. And sometimes, when he takes a look at the girl's face between the pushes, he sees his own face, instead. From those dreams he always wakes up when it starts to feel unbearably good, climaxing hard in his pants and breathing heavily in the dark, dead afraid that his brother, sleeping on the other side of the room, has noticed, has heard him panting his name. Caramon always continues to sleep without so much as a stir, but Raistlin cannot be sure - his brother is often lying with his back to him. For all he knows, his eyes could be wide open, wide open and aghast.

"What about your little brother, hey?"

Raistlin is shaken from his thoughts by the whispering voice; a bolt of anger shoots through him at the girl's ignorant choice of words, even as the growing excitement makes his blood burn.

"Dontcha worry, miss. He's not home. We'll have the whole house for ourselves. Ain't that nice? Huh?"

Caramon's voice, a trifle faltering, colored by dozens of drinks enjoyed earlier in the night.

The girl giggles like it is the funniest thing she ever heard. "Are you offering me some sugar?"

"You bet. Come here, I'll show you. Its' right... here."

More laughter, sighs of pleasure. Get on with it, you fool, Raistlin thinks to himself, almost aching with the need to finish what he has started. He knows what Caramon is doing; it is as if he can see through his eyes. He is cupping the girl's presumably enormous breasts with his hand - he knows his brother's taste in girls, alright - he is gently moving downward and forcing her legs open in order to rub her, to make her ready. Without much success, Raistlin tries to even his breathing that has started to shake uncontrollably, afraid that a small moaning sound might escape his lips and reveal his intrusive presence. He is harder than ever, at least that is how it feels like every time; his hardness throbs against his slender fingers.

Harsh moans. The girl gets louder; she's almost crying of happiness, the bitch. Caramon has lain her on their sister's old bed and enters her - here comes the begging, that cheap, degrading begging. Oh yes, Caramon, yes, she wails, you're so big, you do me so good, more, more, more meaningless lies. And Caramon gives him more, always so obedient and potent, his grandiose physique all sweat-covered in the light of the three candles lit in the kitchen. His voice joins the girl's. He never says anything, just breathes hard and manly in her ear in a voice that, without words and on the level of pure instincts, sounds so much like Raistlin's; it's almost as if he isn't the only one fucking her, yes, it's almost as if Raistlin is there, too, and that is one of the reasons why Raistlin never has to get up and sneak behind the door to actually watch them with his own eyes.

The sounds echoing from the kitchen are almost enough to bring him off right away, but he desperately wants to wait for the right moment, the moment when the movement in the tell-tale kitchen bed grows faster and faster, his brother's voice heavier. It never takes long, luckily, for even a tiny amount of effort tires Raistlin out; a mere rocking of his own body or a straining movement of his hand is often enough to send him into minutes of breathless fatigue. He could never think about doing the real thing; it would end in catastrophe, he would most likely drop dead on the girl. Of course, it isn't really a problem. He won't have to worry about it, because all the girls want Caramon, not him, and so he settles with pleasure for this strange, weekly triangle that never fails to satisfy him. Who would guess, he thinks, and a dark smile twists his lips, who would ever guess that he has scored as many girls as Caramon, almost precisely as many.

The moment comes. It is almost over, very fast like always. He can tell his twin is near the top now; it is a sign for him to start his own game for good. Encouraged by Caramon's drowning voice, he turns over on his stomach, clutches the wooden headboard and starts to move against the soft bed as if it were a girl. The sweaty curls of his auburn hair get glued to his neck. He buries his face in the pillow, unable to control his ragged breathing, unable to stop himself from whispering curses, words he would usually feel unfit for his refined, sharp mouth, but he does not mind, not at all, for this whole damned moment is something that does not fit him, something that he cannot bare to think in bright daylight for the life of him.

Caramon's breathing roughens until it suddenly ends with a smothered, long gasp as he is finally done and, unbeknownst to them, Raistlin gasps at the same moment, smearing the bed sheets in perfect synchrony as several spurts shake his frail body. When the last of the convulsions dies out, he lies motionless like a corpse for a long time, completely out of breath. Blood is pounding in his ears, and, feeling the cool, embarassing dampness against his loins, he absolutely detests what he has done. Once again.

His whole body radiating with drowsy pleasure, Raistlin waits in silence for Caramon to get rid of the girl and get to bed. After Caramon blows out the candles, he too can relax and go to sleep, knowing that his little cantrip of the night has once more gone unnoticed.

Before long he can hear Caramon's content voice. "Sure was great. We'll have to do this again some night, won't we?"

Raistlin laughs to himself, contemptuously. With her? As if.

A sense of hurry; hands searching for clothes, legs slipping back into the discarded skirt, fear of father finding the daughter's bed empty in the morning.

Hurriedly, Caramon sees the girl off with suave promises.

The door bangs shut.

The candles go out one by one.

But the kitchen bed doesn't creak like it always does.

It makes Raistlin nervous. What is Caramon doing? Is he just standing there in the darkness? Go to bed, you idiot, you got what you wanted. He turns cautiously on his side and curls up into a ball, burying himself deeper under the blanket. From the corner of his eye he can see Lunitari emerge behind the black night clouds; the red moon peeks through the window, stares at him knowingly.

It seems like forever before he can finally hear Caramon move. But his brother's footsteps do not approach the kitchen bed - they approach the door of the bedroom. Raistlin's eyes widen, and suddenly he feels like he never does, confused and horrified. He attempts to stop Caramon mentally, but it makes no difference - the footsteps keep getting closer and closer.

The door opens with a soft creak. It almost makes Raistlin's heart stop, as he stares at the wall with unseeing eyes and tries to merge with the shadows.

Contrary to the noisy act just a moment ago, Caramon now moves without a sound, but his bed squeaks as he sits on it, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees.

"Hi, Raist," he says.

 

THE END