Page 5 of Deviant Need

Selective mutism, the doctors called it, like giving it a name made it less infuriating. My voice stops working when anxiety spikes and nothing I do can force it back. I know exactly what I want to say. The words are right there, perfectly formed, sitting in my throat like they’ve forgotten how to move.

With Mikhail it’s effortless. We used to go to our tree every single day after we found it, whether it was raining or snowing, it didn’t matter. He’d sit me down and try to teach me how to talk, patient in a way he’s never been with anything else in his entire life. He never got frustrated with me, never made me feel broken for not being able to speak.

He didn’t give up even when my first word didn’t come until I was eight years old, three full years of sitting there with me and getting nothing in return. And when it finally happened, when I finally managed to push that first word out, he was the one sitting there when it came. After that, the words started flowing, spilling out easier each time, but only for him. Every word I’ve ever spoken belongs to Mikhail. Always has, always will.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out my ID and hand it to her.

She looks confused for a second, glancing between me and the ID. Then her eyes go wide and her whole demeanor shifts, spine straightening. “Yes, of course. One o’clock. Mr. Daniil Avrorin.”

I want to roll my eyes but settle for a nod.

She smooths her skirt and stands. “Follow me.”

My stomach turns the whole walk down the sterile hallway. She opens a door into an office where a man sits at a desk, glancing up when we walk in.

“Your one o’clock. Daniil Avrorin.”

“Mr. Avrorin, welcome. Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk.

I drop into it and watch him pull supplies together without saying anything. No small talk. He actually read that part of my email. Thank god.

“I’ll swab the inside of your cheek. Thirty seconds each side. That’ll give us everything we need. Genetic markers, family matching, future health risk indicators. All of it.” He steps close, swipes the inside of my cheek, the cotton rough and invasive, then turns around and drops the swab into a tube and seals it.

“That’s it. Results in about two weeks.”

Two weeks to find out the truth about who I am.

I’m up and walking out to my car before the thought finishes forming.

The car door slams behind me, and the breath I let out feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for the last forty minutes. I drag my hands down my face, wiping away sweat, and sit there staring at nothing through the windshield for a full minute trying to collect myself.

I can’t believe I actually did it. Mikhail wanted to come with me, probably figured I’d lose my nerve at the last second and needed backup, but I had to do this alone.

Starting the car, “Life is Beautiful” by Lil Peep blasts through the speakers and I crank it louder.

Next stop: pick up Mikhail from the gym. He lost his license driving under the influence, which makes me his chauffeur, though I don’t mind it since we’re together constantly anyway. Traffic’s heavy from the lunch rush, but I make it fast enough.

The second the doors open, the smell hits me: sweat and leather and whatever cleaning product they’re supposed to use but clearly don’t bother with.

Our father forced him into the fights when his temper started becoming a problem, thought fighting would give him an outlet that served a purpose instead of getting himself killed somewhere inconvenient. Now he does private cage matches constantly, underground invite-only bullshit where the rules are more of a loose suggestion. Costs thousands just to get a ticket to watch.

He drags me to spar with him constantly, even though he’s six-four and I’m barely five-nine. Not exactly fair, but I’ve learned a lot over the years, and it’s fun, even when I’m sore for days after. My body’s changed since we started training together, put on muscle, filled out from the scrawny disaster I used to be.

I spot him in the far corner doing jump rope drills while his trainer watches. He’s moving at insane speeds with his feet barely touching the mat, wearing nothing but black athletic shorts that sit low on his hips. Sweat drips off his buzzcut and runs down his tattooed chest, sliding over the defined lines of his eight-pack as the rope snaps against the mat in perfect, relentless rhythm.

My feet stop because I can’t walk and ogle at the same time, and right now ogling is winning. Ugh. No one should be allowed to look that hot. It’s not fair to the rest of us.

Eight years.

Eight fucking years since I figured out I was in love with him. Eight years of looking away when he changes clothes, when he walks around shirtless, when he does this exact thing right here.

The realization that I liked men, or a specific one anyway, happened because of him. The one person in the world I shouldn’t feel this way about. Brothers don’t want each other like this because they’re not supposed to. Also, our father’s a raging homophobe, so this fucked-up secret crush stays buried forever.

It took me a while to piece together that I’m demisexual, too, which explained why it was only ever him. Why I’ve never looked at anyone else this way.

I want to bite into those muscles so badly it’s embarrassing. I’m not stupid; I know it’s wrong, and I should stop feeling like this. But knowing something’s wrong and actually stopping are two different things, and I can’t make myself stop no matter how hard I try.

The worst part is he’s completely oblivious and has no idea what he does to me. He wants to cuddle and hug me constantly, crawls into my bed at night, holds my hand under tables, pulls me against him whenever he feels like it. Does all these things that blur every line we’re supposed to have and doesn’t realize what it does to me.