Warnings: Contains incestual thoughts. Only PG rated, but you have been warned. Flames will be paraded with pride. Bill/Percy pairing.
A Modern Sin.
There is something sinful about all this, I am sure. Though these rules I am breaking simply by allowing my eyes to linger so are not age old, they are rules that have been around for many more generations than I. That the Egyptians and the Romans, two of the greatest civilisations that time has ever been graced with, saw such lust and emotions as acceptable, is something that our lesser periods seem to have forgotten.
And they wonder why I love the past so much. Perhaps it is because such matters of the heart and groin were undiluted by common sense and practicality. Or maybe, we have simply adapted the meaning of morality so much, that its definition is closer to rigid than romantic.
Either way, it is why I only look, why I dare to do no more. Just like being home takes me further still from Ancient Egypt, it reminds me also that the taboos of my culture cling to me also.
He is my brother. It is something even I cannot ignore. As I cannot ignore him.
He would be up in his room at this moment, inaccessible to my studious eyes, if it was not for the twins. Always, it comes down to the twins. They had thought it hilarious, when the series of stink bombs had exploded in Percy's room, sending him rushing down the stairs in anger. They love to get under his masks, to watch him lose even just an inch of his control.
I love to simply watch him.
He hadn't appreciated their joke, although the twins and I certainly did, for far different reasons. Unless that is, the only reason that Fred and George are both sitting in the lounge is so they can spy on their older brother. The way they keep snickering quietly to each other, I wouldn't be surprised if perhaps they were.
He isn't with us in the lounge, even though there is a desk he could have used. I'm sure he feels we would serve as nothing but distractions, he doesn't realise that it is quite the reverse. In the kitchen, we still have a full view of him, even if any quiet conversation between the three of us in the lounge might come across as muted to him.
There is nothing muted about Percy. Not his brilliant hair, a deep rouge that isn't streaked with strawberry blonde or weather beaten like the rest of ours. Work has stolen him from the sun too often, and while his fair, marblesque skin may be one of the more obvious signs of this, that his hair maintains shine and has yet to fade to an almost rustic red like mine or the twins, is another, less examined example.
His eyes are another story, although I cannot see them from this angle. There is nothing of the crystal blue in them that flashes in Charlie's eyes or my own, nor that of the twins. Neither is there a rich brown that comes from mother's side of the family, which is reflected in the warmth of Ginny or Ron's eyes. Once, before illness robbed him initially of his sight, I'm sure that they must have been like ours, although I was only 12 when he had initially become sick, and cannot remember. Months of spells and potions had restored his sight somewhat, and with the aid of wizard glasses, his sight is now as good as my own. But, such things come at a price, for my baby brother, it was the sparkle that lurks in all Weasley eyes. He despises the pale, insipid blue that they are, the fact they reflect concrete better than they do emotion. In his eyes, it is simply one more loathsome thing that makes him different to the rest of us.
He doesn't realise that they are beautiful, in their own way. I doubt anyone has told him either, that the way his glasses frame them is so very pretty, with his dark eyelashes and slender cheekbones.
One day, I will. When society resembles less the archaic and more the past.
The only time I see him slouch is when he is at a desk. At all other times, he seems to try and pull himself up impossibly high. He desires attention, not knowing that he has mine, unconditionally. When he is working however, he chooses to collapse into himself, his wine red hair spilling down the side of his face, one hand busily scrawling on the parchment. His other elbow is propped up on the desk, his free hand snaking around the back of his neck, where it rests there, occasionally rubbing the stiff muscles.
My eyes lock there, on his smooth hand as he gently caresses the soft hollow between his neck and collarbone with his thumb. I doubt he even realises the small, circular movements he is making, nor how erotic such a simple action is. And yet, I am memorised. It is not difficult to imagine myself gently kissing his hand away, claiming that hollow as my own. Feathered touches with my lips, teeth scraped just so over his exposed collarbone, he would lean his head to the side to allow me more access to his swanlike neck, groaning as my lips traveled lightly up the willing curve.
But he is no Zeus to my Leda. I cannot think of whom from history he reminds me of in his place, although the instant comparison to Menelaus and Agamemnon is unstoppable, if only for the fiery hair. But he is little like them in personality, and if the Trojan War is to be a source, then it is Helenus of Troy who perhaps my brother most reflects. Both from a family of five brothers, one sister, both the one time was destined to neglect. Both overlooked, even though they would outshine all others, if only given the chance.
Yes, perhaps he is much like Helenus. Although if he starts sprouting prophecies, I'll likely ignore his words like the Trojans did. Unless they are words mumbled softly into my mouth, then I have a feeling I would agree with everything he says.
Such a pretty, innocent mouth. There is so much I could teach him.
He shatters my thoughts when he throws down his quill angrily, muttering something dark before rising to pour himself a drink. He stalks when he is frustrated, unable to control his pace or heavy steps. He then rubs his eyes with annoyance, displacing his glasses as he shields them tiredly with a hand, leaning gently against the far wall. Lust fades into concern, and I rise from my chair.
"Come sit down, Perce, you don't want to strain your eyes." He has undoubtedly been working for hours, even though his eyes must have been paining him for some time.
"My eyes are fine," he replies stiffly, and it is almost as though he is daring me to challenge him on this issue. He despises having to admit to any weakness, even when it is one he has no control over.
"Mum wanted us to cook dinner, anyway," George chimes in, and for once, I think his interruption is intentional. "And it is your turn to help, Percy."
"I have far too much work to do!" he replies importantly, protesting as Fred sweeps his books off the table, stacking them untidily on the floor.
"Would you rather face the wrath of mum?" Fred replies, and I smile, just slightly, when Percy pauses as he bends down to grab his books, before straightening up with a sigh. He glares at me, before snatching one of the aprons that George is innocently holding for him.
"I believe it is your night to assist, as well, Bill."
Of course it is. I drew up the rosters.