Title: Untouchable (Collab. w/ Lolly aka heartless_day)
Pairing: Malcolm Young/Angus Young
Warning: slash, incestuous content
Disclaimer: This work is entirely fictional and meant for the reader's enjoyment. I own nothing whatsoever, no profit is being made, and no harm/defame is intended/provoked towards the characters in this story.
A/N: Cross posted at acdc_fic. Broke away from the drabble again. It's kinda long, not gonna lie. Don't kill me. <___< Hence why I made the type small. *shot*
Angus was about one or so when he realized that, yes, those things attached from his hips down that his mother so viably tried to get him to stand on could move him around. And by the time he was about one and a half, he realized they could get him from room to room and up the stairs. And when he was about two, he realized they could carry him to the kitchen, push him up on his toes and try to assist him in reaching for the large, colorful jar on the counter their mother filled with cookies every Sunday.
His fingers brushed the cold glass to no avail, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth was he gripped the counter edge, face tight with concentration as he tried to lift himself higher---and fell back on the floor with a thud, unsuccessful. And like every small child, he began to cry, more so out of not getting what he wanted than the fact he was hurt.
“Izzis what you wanted?” A voice asked and Angus looked up, tears tracking down his cheeks as he found Malcolm crouched down beside him, a cookie in his hand, waving it at him. His eyes followed it a moment before his face lit up and he reached for it greedily, Malcolm laughing as he took it, stuffing it in his mouth. His brother ruffled his hair and he grinned, sucking the chocolate smears from his fingers.
“You're too short to reach the jar l'il buddy,” Malcolm patted his head with a quirk of the lips, “S'a l'il outta yer reach, untouchable,” Angus nodded, frowning slightly as he picked himself up to his feet, his brother stretching out his hand to him, “If you share, I'll get 'em for ya.” Malcolm grinned and Angus hugged him, taking the hand, clasping it in his own.
“'Cause no matter what, if you can't get to somethin', can't touch it,” Malcolm gave his hand a squeeze, “You can always touch me.”
He was six years old and they were leaving.
Angus looked around his room, face crumpling as he eyed the blank, carpeted room, the only place he'd known for the first few years of his life. He touched the wall, fingers trailing across the chipped paint as he looked out the window, watching as his oldest brother, Alex, and his father helped the moving men pack the moving truck.
Scotland was such a pretty place. He was going to miss it...
His eyes caught the open doors of the closet and the searched it a moment---and he froze, staring up at the small shelf above the hanger rack.
“Ralph!” The small, patchwork-stuffed dog with an eye missing, the colors faded, sat up atop the shelf, an ear torn, a few seams jutting out as they had come loose. He'd completely forgotten about the toy. His father had put it up there last summer when he officially declared him too old to be carrying around a stuffed animal...
“Oh William, he's just a little boy-”
“Margaret, he's too old for that thing. He's got to learn to put it down or he'll never get rid of it.”
“Give it here son...”
Angus looked up at the shelf, reaching for it---and missed by a good few inches. He sighed, glaring up at the toy, both hands reaching out, fingers clenching at air.
“Having trouble?” Angus jumped a mile and a half as Malcolm was suddenly standing beside him.
“I can get it.” He said defiantly, unable to reach it again, grasp it, or touch it. Malcolm laughed, reaching up despite Angus' protests and grabbed the dog, handing it to him. Angus snatched it away, glaring at him, a strange warmth filling him as he clutched the toy to him.
“Do we have to go?” He looked up at his brother and Malcolm shrugged.
“I guess so.”
“I dunno. George says it's 'cause we can't pay the rent any more.” Malcolm strung an arm around Angus' shoulder. Angus sighed, stopping a moment as his brother tried to lead him from the room and he looked back, as if expecting to see something else he'd missed.
There was nothing but the faded carpet.
Their mother called up the stairs, “C'mon boys! Our plane leaves in two hours, we've gotta head out!” Malcolm tugged on his arm and he followed down the winding staircase, outdoors where one car was already packed with their mother and six of the kids, and the other car held their father with two inside, waiting for them. Angus looked over at the house one last time as he climbed into the car.
His father was backing out of the driveway, head cocked over the shoulder of his chair---and his eyes caught the dog. Without word or warning, he reached out and snatched it away.
“You're too old for things like these anymore.”
“Just sit tight, and before you know it, you'll be forgetting all about this,” He held up the dog and then pushed it away under his seat, “And this place...” Angus' chest tightened, eyes welling with tears as he tried to hold them back, receiving a weathered stare from his father in the rear-view mirror.
“Angus, no more,” His father snapped, “Now be a good boy and be quiet.” He tried to protest again, but Malcolm grasped his hand, squeezing tightly with a tight lipped smile as his thumb stroked small circles on the back of his hand.
Those things, the dog and house alike, might be untouchable, but as he returned the smile, Malcolm wasn't.
Angus was twelve years old when he realized, yeah, girls were pretty, but there was something so much more...enticing about men.
And within that awakened strange feelings of fear and spite, his father already being heavily Catholic being his main cause for stress and worry. It built up inside of him like a dam, the emotions and confusion and lack of himself leading to frequent panic attacks and breathing problems that no one besides him could make up a reason for.
Even the doctor was confused when his mother handed in the check for the $150 worth of an inhaler and medicine he was told he needed by the school nurse.
And maybe it had been the fact men were something of an attraction for him that made him worry and panic. But searching deeper, he knew it was far worse than that because every time Malcolm walked into the room, stress or no stress, he still couldn't breathe...
Malcolm had soccer practice every day after school during the week, a game each Saturday, and was only free on Sunday. That usually left Angus to himself for most of the time, or hanging out with friends. When he was by himself, though, he would sneak into Malcolm's room and take the guitar from the stand, teaching himself how to play idle notes and chords from the scattered music sheets around the room.
He'd been five when he'd tried to pick up guitar, excelling at it, but he'd lost interest in it as he did not have one himself---and when Malcolm got one for Christmas last year, the interest had sparked up again. Malcolm protected that guitar like it were a lover, constantly playing it when he was near it, tightening the strings and waxing the covers...
And when he wasn't there, fourteen year old fingers would dance across the frets in an absent rhythm before they tucked the guitar away again, acting as if nothing of the sort had happened.
Angus stayed in Malcolm's room if anyone else was home, keeping the guitar playing soft as he practiced steadily. Yet, lord forbid, if no one was home, on those rare occasions, he'd take Mal's guitar down to the living room and he'd turn on the radio and he'd lose it from there.
He would play the guitar along with whatever song came on, brushing his fingers across it as he jumped from the couch to the ottoman to the recliner and hop to the floor, his knee bouncing in time with the music, head bobbing to the beat as he'd slide about the carpet, sometimes falling into a pit of spasms on the floor.
He'd been doing some kind of duck walk from the hall way to the kitchen when the music just cut, the silence almost more deafening than the screeching guitar. He jerked to a stop, looking up, pushing the sunglasses he'd stolen from George's room up his head---and froze, Malcolm standing at the end of the hallway, swinging the plug to the stereo in his hand.
He blushed, “Hey Mal.”
“S'at my guitar?” As soon as the words were spoken, Angus hitched it off his shoulder and held it out. Malcolm took it from him, face slightly disgruntled.
“You do this often?”
“Well...down here...not really 'cause everyone's usually home.”
“...What were you doing with my guitar anyway?” Malcolm asked, eyes narrowing.
“Being famous?” Angus quirked a hopeful grin but it faltered as his brother's expression stayed the same and he shifted uneasily on either foot, fully prepared to run from the room if the other came after him, “Sorry...” And he was glad all he had to turn down the hall and make a break for it, because no sooner had he apologized, Malcolm had put down the guitar and came after him.
He made it to the bottom of the stairs, his foot on the first one when he was grabbed by the back of the shirt and turned about and tackled to the floor.
“I said I was sorry!”
“You don't touch my stuff!”
“Maaaaal! C'mooon,” Angus squirmed to get out of his brother's grasp, fingers curling into the plush carpet as he tried to drag himself forward---and was drug back about another foot, a surprised yelp tearing from his throat, “I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!”
“You don't touch my stuff.” Malcolm repeated, glaring down at him, enunciating every other word. Angus nodded rapidly, face flushing bright as he struggled and Malcolm leaned in against him to hold him down. He turned his face away, giving his wrists an experimental yank, but Malcolm held tight.
“Mal, wait, I-” A sudden wave of fear washed over him as a sparking heat began to well in his stomach and he pulled harder at his restrained hands. It wasn't until the confusion painted across Malcolm's face disintegrated into wide-eyed understanding that Angus froze. He blushed violently.
“'m sorry...” He murmured, eyes falling away, but Malcolm didn't move.
“Don't touch my stuff,” His brother repeated, the words soft and Angus looked back at him, curiousness and shame giving way to surprise as a hand left his wrists and firmly groped him through his jeans. A whine tore from Angus's throat, his legs jerking slightly as he wasn't sure whether he should push his brother off him or let him continue; he wasn't given the choice before a hand had undone the zipper and had worked inside his pants, lips sealing to the side of his neck.
Angus writhed against the carpet, eyes screwing shut as he arched eagerly into his brother's grasp, the friction driving him wild. His head fell back as his hips came off the floor, one of Malcolm's hands bracing the base of his spine for support. Teeth nipped at his ear, fingers expertly twisting about him, squeezing firmly as he gasped for breath, coming with a shout, his blush only deepening at how quick it had been.
He could feel Malcolm's smirk against the slope of his shoulder, practically hear it growing.
“You can't touch my stuff,” Malcolm said yet again, snatching one of Angus's hands and letting it trail over his stomach before he jammed it deep inside his jeans, his hand curling over his brother's and forcing the nervous fingers to wrap about him, “But you can always touch me...”
Because unlike a lot of things, Malcolm wasn't untouchable.
He was sixteen. He'd dropped out of school about a year ago despite many the protests of his family and gone to work for a soft-core porn studio called Ribald, making enough money that finally, finally, he had enough money to afford a guitar of his own.
He'd gathered a band together of a few friends from school and they hung out during the day, writing out songs, practicing, and raiding cigarettes from whoever had them in the house.
He enjoyed himself for the most part, but something was missing. Something wasn't right. The thrill. There was no thrill, nothing to back him up, nothing for him to reach for and as much as he wanted it, it all just seemed a little too far out of his reach.
For a little while anyway.
“I can't fuckin' stand playin' with 'em any more. It ain't goin' anywhere.” Angus dropped onto the couch of his brother's newly rented apartment, splaying out across it with a sigh as covered his face with his hands. Malcolm leaned over the edge, looking down at him with a wry smile.
“Then stop playin' with them.”
“If everything's so untouchable, unreachable and all that with 'em, then don't play."
"But I like playing."
"Is it getting you anywhere?"
"I never said you couldn't play, I just said not with them."
"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" He glared up at his brother who was grinning down at him as he climbed over the top of the couch, straddling his waist.
"Y'know, I've got a little somethin' goin' with Dave Evans."
"That fairy prick of a senior?"
"Oh excuse me if I'm not too friendly with the guy who pantsed me my sophomore year of gym."
"Hey, that was funny."
"No, that was embarr-" His was cut off as his brother kissed him, tongue flicking out against his lips, urging them to part. He shoved him back, gasping sharply for air, face flushed.
"I'm having a bit of a dilemma here and all you can do is kiss me?"
"Join our band."
"You expect me just to give because---wait, what?"
"Join our band."
"Seriously. George already has us booked for a recording this Saturday." Malcolm grinned down at him and Angus stared up, brow furrowed slightly before a wide smile broke out across his features.
"You mean it?"
"Angus. I'mma gonna smack you in about five seconds if you ask again."
"...you're serious though?" In the back of his mind, images of screaming fans and heated stage lights and wild crunching music assaulted him, so vivid he could almost touch it; just like his brother who had been not-so-subtly trying to get his hands up his shirt.
"For the love of---just shuttup Ang." Malcolm kissed him again and Angus reached out, touching whatever he could.
Angus was eighteen, the taste of stardom on his tongue, fame biting the tips of his figners just as sharply as the strings of the guitar did.
He was eighteen and he found he could almost care less about it because all he wanted to do was play. Just wanted the neck in his hand, the pick in his fingers and the wide range to run about and lose whatever sanity he had left, if only for a little while.
He was eighteen and frustrated with his height. He shouldn't be this short. But at least it made his school boy outfit look ten times more convincing when he wore it.
He was eighteen and he found out that the six cups of coffee he drank every day was fucking up his heart. He was angry that he had to pay nearly two hundred dollars to get the oxygen tank and pills that came with it; he made Phil remind him when to take them.
He was eighteen and he'd been able to say 'I love you' for the first time and mean it.
He was eighteen when Malcolm said it back.
He was eighteen and he realized how much that really sounded like some kind of corny Hollywood soap opera and he loved it anyway.
Malcolm tackled him to the bed, the two already breathing heavy as hands were everywhere, groping and touching and ragging across every inch of skin they came across. The bed gave a protesting creak as Malcolm reached up, gripping his brother's wrists and pinning them to the sheets, hips giving a slow roll into the form beneath him that writhed against the comforter with a loud moan.
"Happy birthday." The words were whispered against his neck, quiet enough he almost didn't hear them as clothes were torn from each other's bodies in a frenzy until bare flesh was barred against heated flesh, sweat breaking out in a sheen across them both. Angus rolled them over, sitting atop his brother's lap, meshing their lips together in a hungry kiss before drawing away---and he was toppled back against the sheets.
In an impatient effort, Angus shoved his brother off of him and climbed atop his waist again, hands sifting through his hair and letting it drift between his fingers as he kissed his neck and the slope of his jaw before coming to his lips again. Malcolm wasn't one to give up, immediately grasping his brother's wrists and using the momentum to switch their positions---and effectively dumped the both of them onto the floor.
It didn't stop either of them. Well, at first it didn't.
Angus clung to Malcolm almost immediately, biting into his shoulder as the other moved against him, face tucked away in the crook of his neck, the soft, dark hair fanning out across his shoulder.
"Gonna get a fuckin' burn from the carpet."
"Shouldn'ta been so fussy."
"Wasn't bein' fussy," Angus protested, gasping as Malcolm's hand curled around him, giving a firm squeeze, "Just...my birthday is all, should get to do," A breathless moan and an arch of the hips, "Get to do what...what I want."
"I'll take that into account on my birthday."
"Love you too." Malcolm chuckled, kissing the hollow beneath his brother's ear as his hips eagerly followed his hand. Nails dug into his shoulders, pants heated against his neck as a whine met the air. He slipped between his brother's legs, grinding against him eagerly, his own breath coming short as he wet down two fingers, reaching lower and-
"Wh-what's that?" Malcolm paused at Angus's words, irritation building up in a quick huff as the ache between his legs gave a painful throb.
"What's what?" He snapped hautily, looking up and following his brother's gaze to under the bed—-before clamping a hand over his brother's eyes, "You weren't supposed to see that." Angus reached up, trying to pull Malcolm's hand away to no avail.
"What is it?" He grasped his brother's wrist and pried it away, looking back under the bed for only a quick second before the hand was back over his eyes.
"It's kinda sorta your present." It never failed to amuse him as his brother's face lit up and he made a vicious swipe for his hand and tugged it away. He scrabbled an arm under the bed and Malcolm growled, tugging it away.
"Don't touch it!"
"It's my gift!"
"Yeah? And I bought it."
"Mal, c'mon!" Angus made a grab for under the bed again and this time Malcolm pulled back, yanking his brother with him.
"Ow!" The rug burned against the back of thighs as his brother held him firm against the floor.
"We are in the middle of something."
"We were...until I spotted the gift."
"Angus Mckinnon Young-"
"Malcolm Mitchell Young."
"You are twenty one today. You should've been acting mature, what? Four years ago?"
"...The fact I still dress in a school boy outfit doesn't drop you any hints?"
"Fuck this." Malcolm crushed their lips together again, his fingers still wet from before as he reached down, pushing them firm up inside of him. His brother jerked against him, tearing away from his lips in a sharp gasp, teeth gritting together.
"I will give you your gift after we're done here," He stated bluntly, giving his fingers a firm thrust and Angus all but lost in on the spot, nodding wildly, "Don't touch it." Angus gripped his brother tightly, a third finger working inside of him and he groaned, hips pushing back against them.
"Y-you mean this...this i-isn't my gift?" He let his hands sift down Malcolm's spine, his brother trembling against him, teeth sinking into his neck.
"It certainly ain't that one." Malcolm nipped at his ear as he gave his finger a twist and a shove and Angus practically screamed, legs locking about his waist, tightening as his arms wrapped about his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.
"But, y'see, with this one..." Malcolm panted, his breath quickening against as the tight heat engulfed him, his brother squirming beneath him, clutching at him almost desperately, his sentence trailing off into a low groan. He took his brothers arms from his shoulders, pinning his wrists to the floor before he sifted his hands upwards, interlocking their fingers together, giving them a tight squeeze.
"The...the difference with this g-gift is that..." Malcolm trailed off slightly as he gave a gentl arch into the trembling body beneath him that gasped his name, the face flushing bright shades of red. He leant in, kissing him deeply, their bodies molding together as soft whines and groans went muffled into each other's mouths before Malcolm pulled away, their faces so close their noses brushed.
"Izzat, this one..." He let go of Angus's hands, and they immediately roamed over his body as his pace quickened, his brother's moans arching against the air, grasping volume. They kissed again, tongues dancing as Malcolm reached a shaking hand between them, jerking him roughly. Eagerly, Angus followed his hand, tearing away with a sharp cry as his brother found that perfect angle and slid home, that sweet bundle of nerves buried inside of him washing pleasure throughout his body.
It didn't take long before Malcolm's hips took up a feverish pace, thrusting hard and deep, the tight heat dissolving him into a mess of incoherent mumbling and groaning as his brother cried out, that spot sparking again and this time, a heated splash of white blossomed against his hand. Those muscles clenched tight about him and Malcolm pushed deep, his entire body going rigid as he drowned in the waves of pleasure before his entire body slackened and he practically crushed his brother into the floor as he collapsed atop of him...
"This one..." He gasped sharply, leaning in and kissing him again, his brother's panting heavy in his ear as he interlaced one of their hands together, "You...you've always be-been able to touch."
Because unlike a lot of things, Malcolm had never been untouchable.