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remix_reduxTitle: It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing (Doo-Wop Doo-Wop Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
poisontaster
Summary: He's not racing his brother
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Ugly Betty
Warnings: Incest. Language.
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ask, Don't Tell".
Original Story: It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing bytrollprincess
It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing (Doo-Wop, Doo-Wop Remix)
Daniel's not sure when the thought occurs to him. There's not a lot of time here, all of it compressed and slowed and possibly set to the theme from Chariots of Fire.
Daniel realizes: He's not racing his brother.
There is, of course, a literal reading here. Alex is now Alexis, blonde and curvaceous and…so not going there. But the point is, of course Daniel knows he's not racing his brother…though he's not quite ready to relabel Alex as his sister.
But no, that's not it.
Daniel is not racing his brother.
He is, instead, racing with his brother. And this, he feels, is somehow momentous. Somehow more than these few brief seconds of flight down a New York block can contain. Because he looks at Alexis and, more than ever, he sees Alex. He sees him and Alex, together again after that long, horrible, separation and his heart beats a little faster and his blood runs a little faster.
Me and Alex.
He looks at Alex (Alexis) to see if he's there, if he feels it too. But Alex's eyes are forward, fixed. Alex's smile isn't for him; Alex's smile is for the chase, for the win.
Always for the fucking win.
*
This.
This is when he felt most loved:
It's just the two of them; the parents are off to some gala and what staff they have is off for the night or sleeping. It's just the two of them.
"Danny…" Alex breathes into his shoulder as he thrusts in, slow and careful. Daniel buries his face in the pillow and groans. When he's all the way inside, Alex's arm snakes around Daniel's chest, pulling him up and back, onto his knees. For a moment Daniel can't breathe through it, the fullness, the heat of Alex's skin all around him, the sense of enclosure, as if nothing else exists. Only Danny and Alex. And he's only ever Danny for Alex.
"They were fighting again," Daniel whispers. He doesn't know why he says it, other than he has to say something before he breaks into pieces over this feeling, his brother inside him, moving, sliding, stroking. "Before they left. They were fighting."
"Shhh." Alex's hand skirts over his hair, soothing, distracting, then trails down Daniel's body until it reaches his cock. Daniel moans and arches into the touch. "Not now, Danny."
"Alex. Alex…"
"Shhh. I know, Danny. I know."
*
Somehow Daniel thinks he should have known.
No. Scratch that.
Somehow Daniel thinks maybe he did know. That moment of instant attraction to the hotass blonde in the doorway was really just his body recognizing what it would take his brain several hours to comprehend. Which makes sense, in a perverse, Meade sort of way.
He wasn't kidding when he told Betty they were strange people.
Alex.
Alex is dead.
Except Alex is never really dead.
Not to his dad. Not to his mom.
Not to him.
Alex.
Alex is dead.
But what if…?
What if?
It's the 'what if' that makes him start drinking. Not the fact that Alex is—somehow—alive.
Alive is…
That's too large a concept for his brain to handle. Just the 'what if' is giving him enough trouble, thank you, kindly.
*
I thought you'd be just like Dad.
Now wait a minute. Wait one goddamned minute.
If anything, Alex is the one who was always like Dad. Alex.
How many dinners did Daniel sit through while Mom drank her supper and Dad and Alex sat with their heads together, talking business and sports like it was a secret language? While he sat in silence and ignored, other than the cursory catalogue of his current list of failures?
I thought you'd be just like Dad.
Heh. Well, hell, Alex, here I thought you'd be just like Dad. Looks like we were both wrong.
(or maybe not)
*
Six days after Fashion Week, she shows up on his doorstep. It's not the first time.
But this time, after his usual litany of this is not going to happen. This is not going to happen, he lets her in.
It's not symbolic, shut up. And anyway, he failed that class in college.
It's weird to hear his stories—their stories—come from those smooth, rouged lips. He doesn't know how to feel about knowing the name of her lipstick: Smutty Roses. He blames Mode.
After a while, though, he realizes that underneath, the shape of his—her—lips is the same. Exactly. The. Same.
And he remembers those lips against his, whispering, Shh, shhh, be quiet, Danny; they'll hear.
God, he's drunk. He's too drunk. He can feel it all backing up inside of him, a reverse peristalsis of thirty years of memories trying to fill two of aching emptiness.
"Why did you do it?"
Alex—Alexis's—smile falters. "I told you, Danny. My entire life, I’ve felt like –"
"Yeah, I got that," Daniel says. She doesn't understand. Of course, she doesn't understand. "I meant, why did you fuck me with a cock you didn’t even want?"
Alex was never rattled by anything Daniel had to say. He doesn't expect it when the wineglass tumbles from her perfectly manicured fingers, spilling Chateau Margeaux across the carpet. He stares at the stain while Alexis makes her fast—but unsteady—exit.
He thinks the stain looks like his third grade teacher's toupee.
What? He said he failed at this symbolism stuff.
*
“What if I said I just wanted to use it while I still could?” she asks.
A week. That's all it's taken, from that doorway at Fashion Week to his lap in private.
I'd say that was bullshit, he answers, but only in his head. He doesn't have the words to say these things. Not to Alex, not to Alexis.
“You expect me to believe that?” he says instead.
Against his neck, she smiles. Alex's smile. (Shh, Danny…) “I expect you to play along.”
*
Daniel's lived a double life before. Hell, when he lived at home, it was practically a career.
(except the times he wanted to be caught, wanted Dad's—someone's—attention)
But it was never quite like this.
In a yawningly boring meeting—aren't they all?—his eyes meet Alexis's, a rare moment of silent understanding.
Daniel thinks, in this world, there never was a Danny who fucked Alex into a wall last night, and it's true.
Here, they are not Danny and Alex.
He draws the line at the strap-on, though.
They're not those people anymore.
*
"I think we should see other people," Alexis says, getting dressed to go. She hasn't mastered hose yet, too impatient; there's already a run laddering down the back of her thigh, where she can't see it.
Daniel blinks and reaches for his wine, still on the nightstand. "I thought we already were."
Alexis jumps a little and looks at him over her shoulder.
*
Looking back, Daniel realizes it's always been this way.
Running with (after) Alex and Alex looking ahead. Never looking behind, never looking at him.
Not now, Danny…
Alex for the win. For the motherfucking win.
Daniel slows.
This isn't his race anymore.
Author:
poisontasterSummary: He's not racing his brother
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Ugly Betty
Warnings: Incest. Language.
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ask, Don't Tell".
Original Story: It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing by
trollprincessDaniel's not sure when the thought occurs to him. There's not a lot of time here, all of it compressed and slowed and possibly set to the theme from Chariots of Fire.
Daniel realizes: He's not racing his brother.
There is, of course, a literal reading here. Alex is now Alexis, blonde and curvaceous and…so not going there. But the point is, of course Daniel knows he's not racing his brother…though he's not quite ready to relabel Alex as his sister.
But no, that's not it.
Daniel is not racing his brother.
He is, instead, racing with his brother. And this, he feels, is somehow momentous. Somehow more than these few brief seconds of flight down a New York block can contain. Because he looks at Alexis and, more than ever, he sees Alex. He sees him and Alex, together again after that long, horrible, separation and his heart beats a little faster and his blood runs a little faster.
Me and Alex.
He looks at Alex (Alexis) to see if he's there, if he feels it too. But Alex's eyes are forward, fixed. Alex's smile isn't for him; Alex's smile is for the chase, for the win.
Always for the fucking win.
This.
This is when he felt most loved:
It's just the two of them; the parents are off to some gala and what staff they have is off for the night or sleeping. It's just the two of them.
"Danny…" Alex breathes into his shoulder as he thrusts in, slow and careful. Daniel buries his face in the pillow and groans. When he's all the way inside, Alex's arm snakes around Daniel's chest, pulling him up and back, onto his knees. For a moment Daniel can't breathe through it, the fullness, the heat of Alex's skin all around him, the sense of enclosure, as if nothing else exists. Only Danny and Alex. And he's only ever Danny for Alex.
"They were fighting again," Daniel whispers. He doesn't know why he says it, other than he has to say something before he breaks into pieces over this feeling, his brother inside him, moving, sliding, stroking. "Before they left. They were fighting."
"Shhh." Alex's hand skirts over his hair, soothing, distracting, then trails down Daniel's body until it reaches his cock. Daniel moans and arches into the touch. "Not now, Danny."
"Alex. Alex…"
"Shhh. I know, Danny. I know."
Somehow Daniel thinks he should have known.
No. Scratch that.
Somehow Daniel thinks maybe he did know. That moment of instant attraction to the hotass blonde in the doorway was really just his body recognizing what it would take his brain several hours to comprehend. Which makes sense, in a perverse, Meade sort of way.
He wasn't kidding when he told Betty they were strange people.
Alex.
Alex is dead.
Except Alex is never really dead.
Not to his dad. Not to his mom.
Not to him.
Alex.
Alex is dead.
But what if…?
What if?
It's the 'what if' that makes him start drinking. Not the fact that Alex is—somehow—alive.
Alive is…
That's too large a concept for his brain to handle. Just the 'what if' is giving him enough trouble, thank you, kindly.
I thought you'd be just like Dad.
Now wait a minute. Wait one goddamned minute.
If anything, Alex is the one who was always like Dad. Alex.
How many dinners did Daniel sit through while Mom drank her supper and Dad and Alex sat with their heads together, talking business and sports like it was a secret language? While he sat in silence and ignored, other than the cursory catalogue of his current list of failures?
I thought you'd be just like Dad.
Heh. Well, hell, Alex, here I thought you'd be just like Dad. Looks like we were both wrong.
(or maybe not)
Six days after Fashion Week, she shows up on his doorstep. It's not the first time.
But this time, after his usual litany of this is not going to happen. This is not going to happen, he lets her in.
It's not symbolic, shut up. And anyway, he failed that class in college.
It's weird to hear his stories—their stories—come from those smooth, rouged lips. He doesn't know how to feel about knowing the name of her lipstick: Smutty Roses. He blames Mode.
After a while, though, he realizes that underneath, the shape of his—her—lips is the same. Exactly. The. Same.
And he remembers those lips against his, whispering, Shh, shhh, be quiet, Danny; they'll hear.
God, he's drunk. He's too drunk. He can feel it all backing up inside of him, a reverse peristalsis of thirty years of memories trying to fill two of aching emptiness.
"Why did you do it?"
Alex—Alexis's—smile falters. "I told you, Danny. My entire life, I’ve felt like –"
"Yeah, I got that," Daniel says. She doesn't understand. Of course, she doesn't understand. "I meant, why did you fuck me with a cock you didn’t even want?"
Alex was never rattled by anything Daniel had to say. He doesn't expect it when the wineglass tumbles from her perfectly manicured fingers, spilling Chateau Margeaux across the carpet. He stares at the stain while Alexis makes her fast—but unsteady—exit.
He thinks the stain looks like his third grade teacher's toupee.
What? He said he failed at this symbolism stuff.
“What if I said I just wanted to use it while I still could?” she asks.
A week. That's all it's taken, from that doorway at Fashion Week to his lap in private.
I'd say that was bullshit, he answers, but only in his head. He doesn't have the words to say these things. Not to Alex, not to Alexis.
“You expect me to believe that?” he says instead.
Against his neck, she smiles. Alex's smile. (Shh, Danny…) “I expect you to play along.”
Daniel's lived a double life before. Hell, when he lived at home, it was practically a career.
(except the times he wanted to be caught, wanted Dad's—someone's—attention)
But it was never quite like this.
In a yawningly boring meeting—aren't they all?—his eyes meet Alexis's, a rare moment of silent understanding.
Daniel thinks, in this world, there never was a Danny who fucked Alex into a wall last night, and it's true.
Here, they are not Danny and Alex.
He draws the line at the strap-on, though.
They're not those people anymore.
"I think we should see other people," Alexis says, getting dressed to go. She hasn't mastered hose yet, too impatient; there's already a run laddering down the back of her thigh, where she can't see it.
Daniel blinks and reaches for his wine, still on the nightstand. "I thought we already were."
Alexis jumps a little and looks at him over her shoulder.
Looking back, Daniel realizes it's always been this way.
Running with (after) Alex and Alex looking ahead. Never looking behind, never looking at him.
Not now, Danny…
Alex for the win. For the motherfucking win.
Daniel slows.
This isn't his race anymore.
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*squeaks*
Date: 2007-04-22 04:36 pm (UTC)*flails*
Re: *squeaks*
Date: 2007-04-23 01:58 am (UTC)Re: *squeaks*
Date: 2007-04-29 07:52 pm (UTC)Re: *squeaks*
Date: 2007-04-29 08:14 pm (UTC)The way you interspersed the race=♥. And Daniel's voice throughout the whole thing=perfect!
:D
Re: *squeaks*
Date: 2007-04-29 07:51 pm (UTC)ZOMG, I'm so glad you liked it, though, even if it was totally transparent. LOL. *hugs*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-25 08:15 am (UTC)