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Mikey had gained weight. Gee had insisted on it, feeding him elaborate meals he'd cooked in Frank's body—pastas, roasts, chocolate cakes—watching Mikey eat until his stomach ached, his soft belly pressing against his small waistband. "You're too thin," Gee would say, Frank's fingers tracing Mikey's jaw, the faint discoloration at the tips just a shadow, easy to ignore if you didn't look too close. Gee would get sad if Mikey tried to resist it. "You were disappearing. I won't let you disappear," he would say, and Mikey gave in every time.
Tonight it was chocolate pudding, thick and sweet, the kind from a box that Gee used to make when they were teenagers on fend-for-yourself nights. He'd found it in Mikey's cabinet, outdated by two years but still good, pumped full of enough chemicals to last until the sun implodes. Gee had never tried eating in Frank's body before. He didn't feel hunger—ghosts didn't—but he'd watched Mikey eat for three weeks now, watched his belly swell, and curiosity had finally won out.
"I want to taste it," Gee said, holding the spoon himself, examining the way the light hit the pudding. "Through him. I want to see how different it is."
Mikey took the bowl without thinking, settling on the floor in front of Frank's body, looking up at Gee with tired, obedient eyes. He'd learned not to hesitate with most things he asked for; he had to admit, though, that it was weird being the one doing the feeding for once.
"Open," Mikey said softly, watching Gee's face as he forced Frank's throat to swallow, dimly considering the strange intimacy of caretaking for something that wasn't alive. He fed Gee— Frank— spoonful after spoonful of the sweet pudding, watching Gee's eyes flutter shut with the effort of experiencing human sensation.
Then something shifted.
Frank's body convulsed, Gee's control slipping just enough for Mikey to see the shock in the eyes—genuine surprise, he hadn't known this would happen. The pudding came back up in a rush, hot and sweet, splattering onto the floor between them, onto Mikey's knee, onto Frank's thigh.
Gee stared down at it, Frank's face breaking into a delighted grin. "Oh," he breathed, reverent. "Oh, that's perfect. I could never get my own body to do that. Not so clean, so easy." He looked up at Mikey, eyes dark and hungry. "Lick it up."
Mikey froze, the bowl still in his hands. "Gee—"
"Lick it up," Gee repeated, and his voice had dropped, become cold, become scary. "From the floor. From his leg. I want to see you take it back."
"I don't want to," Mikey whispered, his stomach churning at the thought, the smell already rising—sweet, cloying, wrong.
Gee's hand shot out, fingers digging into Mikey's jaw, forcing his head up. "You don't want to?" The voice was soft, dangerous. "Mikey. I watched you eat for three weeks. I made you soft and round and mine. Practically kept you from starving to death. And you can't do this one thing for me?" His thumb pressed hard against Mikey's lip, threatening. "I saw you watching me that day. Thirteen years old, standing in the doorway while I looked at those girls. You knew what I wanted even then. And now you act surprised?"
Mikey's breath hitched, tears pricking his eyes. "That was different, you never—"
"I never had the guts," Gee finished, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I'm dead now, baby brother. This is all I have. Just you. Just this." He released Mikey's jaw, gesturing to the mess on the floor. "Lick it up. Or I'll make you wish you had."
Mikey bent slowly forward, his stomach protesting, his full belly pressing against his thighs. He put his tongue to the floor first, the tile cold against his knees, and tasted it—sweet, sour, warm, Frank's body had entirely rejected what Gee had forced into it. Mikey gagged, his throat convulsing, tears streaming down his face.
"Good," Gee murmured, his hand petting Mikey's hair, watching him lick the floor, then Frank's thigh, cleaning the mess with his mouth. "That's good. You taste it?"
Mikey didn't answer. Gee didn't seem to notice.
"You know what's funny," he said with a thoughtful tone. "Death doesn't taste like anything special. People think it's blood. Copper. Some big dramatic flavor." Gee tilted his head, just slightly farther than what would be natural without hurting anybody who was alive. "It's not. It's just flat. Empty. Like something with the middle scooped out."
His fingers tightened, pulling Mikey's head back to look up at him, straightening Frank's neck again with a small crack. "You keep it down. You keep me in your belly, in your blood, in your warm fucking body. And you clean up the mess."
Mikey nodded, his mouth full of the taste, his stomach churning, and bent to lick again with a quiet sob. Gee kept watching with hungry, delighted eyes.
Mikey's stomach heaved before he could stop it.
The combination of the pudding and the horror and the smell rose up his throat faster than he could swallow it down. He tried to turn away, to aim for anything but Gee's feet, but Gee's hand was still fisted in his hair, holding him in place.
The vomit hit the floor between them, mixing with the mess already there, and Mikey's whole body convulsed with the force of it, his eyes watering, his nose running, his throat burning. He couldn't stop—once it started, his body took over, emptying itself in wrenching waves until there was nothing left but bile and dry heaving.
"Oh," Gee breathed, and his voice had gone high, delighted, almost childlike in its excitement. "Oh, Mikey, look at you. Look at you."
Mikey couldn't look. He was shaking too hard, his forehead pressed against the cool tile, tears and snot smearing his face. He felt emptied out, hollowed, his stomach clenching around nothing. The smell was everywhere now, coating the back of his throat, impossible to escape.
Gee's hands were on him, hauling him up, and Mikey's legs wouldn't work, buckling immediately. Gee didn't let him fall—he dragged him, Frank's arms supernaturally brutal, hauling Mikey across the floor to the couch and shoving him over the arm. Mikey's cheek hit the upholstery, his hands scrabbling for purchase, his knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise.
"Don't move," Gee commanded, already working at the fastenings of Frank's jeans, his movements jerky, eager, uncoordinated in a way that suggested Frank was fighting him, again, and losing, again. "Don't you fucking move."
Mikey didn't move. He couldn't have if he'd wanted to—his body felt like it belonged to someone else, someone exhausted and broken and so tired. He hadn't slept in days, not really. When he did drift off, it was shallow and dreamless, his body too wired with trauma to let him sink into real rest. He'd wake up at every creak of the floorboards, every shift of Frank's body beside him, terrified of what Gee might do while he was unconscious. Gee never slept.
"Please," Mikey whispered into the couch cushion, not even sure what he was begging for anymore. "Gee, please—"
"You're perfect," Gee said, and he was behind Mikey now, hauling his jeans down, his hands rough and cold and everywhere. "Look at you, baby brother. Look at you emptied out and messy and mine." He pressed forward, hard and ready, and Mikey cried out, his body too dry, too sore, too everything.
It burned. Gee didn't prepare him— he almost never did anymore— just pushed in with a groan that sounded like it was being torn out of Frank's chest against his will. Mikey's hands found the couch cushions, gripping until his knuckles went white, his whole body tensing around the intrusion.
"Frank's watching," Gee gasped, his hips snapping forward, setting a brutal pace immediately. "He can feel everything, Mikey. Everything. I love it so much. Want him to see what you are when you're like this."
Mikey sobbed, his face mashed into the couch, his body rocking with every thrust. He could feel Frank in there somewhere, horror and helplessness and rage, and the thought that Frank was trapped, witnessing this, made it worse somehow. Made it more real.
"He's going to watch me take care of you," Gee continued, his voice breathless, ecstatic, his hands gripping Mikey's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints that would bloom into bruises by morning. "Going to watch me fill you up, make you whole again. You were nothing without me, Mikey. Nothing. And now look—look what I make you feel."
It hurt. Everything hurt—his stomach, his throat, his body, his mind. But Mikey didn't fight. He lay there and took it, his eyes fixed on the wall, his breath coming in shallow gasps that barely sustained him. He was so tired. Endlessly tired.
"That's it," Gee crooned, his pace faltering, becoming erratic, desperate. "Just take it. Keep being good for me. Be my good boy."
Mikey closed his eyes. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be anywhere. But he was here, and Gee was using him, and there was nothing he could do but endure until it was over.
"You're not hard," Gee said quietly, still buried deep, his hips going suddenly still. His voice had shifted—still Frank's vocal cords, but the tone had gone flat, dangerous, the playful cruelty evaporating into something colder. Mikey felt the hand in his hair tighten, pulling his head back until he was forced to meet those dark, wrong eyes. "I fuck you like that and you're not even hard for me?"
Mikey's breath hitched, fear spiking through his exhaustion even as Gee remained inside him, heavy and cold and unmoving. "I'm sorry—"
"Sorry?" Gee's grip tightened until Mikey's scalp burned, his face hovering close enough that Mikey could see the way Frank's features twisted, momentarily ugly with rage. He thrust once, sharp and punishing, making Mikey cry out. "You used to get hard when I looked at you. When I touched your shoulder. And now—" His free hand dropped to Mikey's limp cock, gripping too hard, making him whimper as Gee stayed lodged inside him, refusing to pull out even to make this easier. "Nothing?"
For a second, the anger was naked, raw, terrifying—and then it was gone, smoothed over into something worse. Gee's expression shifted even as he kept Mikey pinned open beneath him, rearranging itself into sympathy that didn't reach his eyes, a performance of concern that made Mikey's skin crawl worse than the anger had.
"Is it Frank?" Gee asked softly, his thumb stroking Mikey's cheek with a grotesque gentleness. "Do you want him instead? I can let him up, you know. For a little while. He'd hold you. He'd be so gentle with you, baby brother. Would you like that?"
Mikey's whole body went rigid, panic flooding his system. Frank had surfaced only a handful of times since the mansion—brief, fractured moments where he'd clawed his way to the surface of his own body, eyes wild with horror, hands shaking as they reached for Mikey. Frank had apologized, over and over, voice breaking, tears streaming down his face, unable to stop shaking. Each time, Mikey had felt the guilt like a physical weight, crushing and endless—Frank suffering because of him, trapped because of him, and there was nothing Mikey could do to help, nothing he could say to make it better before Gee dragged him back down.
"No," Mikey gasped, his hands finding the couch cushions, clutching desperately. "Please, no, I don't want him—I want you, Gee, please, just you—"
The faux sympathy vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, predatory delight. Gee's face lit up, the smile stretching too wide, too pleased, and he resumed moving, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. "That's my good boy," he purred, and his hand was on Mikey's cock, working him with rough, insistent strokes even as he kept fucking him, relentless and deep. "Knew you were still in there. Knew you still wanted me."
Mikey whimpered, his body responding despite itself to the familiar rhythm, the way Gee knew exactly how to touch him, exactly where to press, all while keeping himself buried to the hilt. Gee brought his hand to his mouth—no, not spit he gathered, something else, something that gleamed faintly in the light that Gee always kept dim, thicker and colder and wrong—and used it to slick his grip on Mikey's cock, the unnatural lubricant making his hand slide smooth and relentless even as his hips never stopped their brutal pace.
"Look at you," Gee breathed, his thrusts quickening, his eyes fixed on Mikey's face with hungry fascination. "Look at you getting hard for me while I'm inside you. Even now. Even like this." He leaned in, his mouth against Mikey's ear, his hand working mercilessly while his hips snapped forward, driving deep. "You can't help it, can you? You never could. Mine, Mikey. Always mine."
Mikey's hips jerked involuntarily, his body betraying him completely, responding to the skilled hand, the familiar voice, the desperate, horrible need to please that Gee had cultivated in him since childhood. He was crying again, he realized dimly, tears tracking down his temples into his hair, his breath coming in ragged sobs as Gee used him from both angles, inside and out.
"That's it," Gee crooned, his grip tightening, his thumb circling the head, pressing just hard enough to hurt, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Show me you mean it. Show me you're still mine, baby brother. Come on my cock like you used to."
Mikey came with a broken cry, his body convulsing around Gee, spilling over his hand in humiliating pulses that left him shaking and hollow. Gee worked him through it, relentless, watching his face with dark satisfaction, not stopping until Mikey was whimpering, oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the touch even as Gee kept fucking him, chasing his own finish now with single-minded hunger.
"Good boy," Gee whispered, his hand finally releasing him to grip Mikey's hips instead, pulling him back onto every thrust, hard and brutal and claiming. "See? Still mine. Always—fucking—mine."
Gee came with a sound that was hardly human, and Mikey felt it like a brand, like a claim, like something that would never wash out. He didn't cry when Gee pulled out, when he felt the mess dripping down his thighs, when Gee's hand petted his hair with obscene tenderness.
"Sleep now," Gee whispered, lifting him, arranging him on the couch like a doll, Frank's body moving with careful, possessive grace. "I'll watch over you. Forever, Mikey. Forever."
Mikey lay still, staring at the ceiling, and knew he wouldn't sleep. Not really. But he closed his eyes anyway, and pretended he couldn't feel his friend's stolen eyes boring holes into him.