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It doesn’t really matter–she knows that. Has known that since she knew what the toilet was for. Has known that since she had to potty-train herself because her parents kept forgetting to.
(She’d lost a year of pre-school because of it.)
It’s fine, she thinks, they have better things to do. Rachel and Lewis and Beast and Daphne keep them running pretty amok at times. She’s the middle child–being forgotten is part of it.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
Except–except it's not, is it? This is the third time they’ve forgotten her birthday. Ethan didn't, luckily, but then Ethan never makes the same mistake again–at least not when it comes to her. She’s grateful for that.
(These days, she can count on one hand the things she’s grateful for.)
“I can’t believe they’ve forgotten again,” Ethan says, his hand holding hers. She doesn't glance at him, sketching out a vague invention on a piece of blue paper that Ethan had gifted her. He stands up, “I should go and–”
Her hand tightens on his, and she says, “No.”
One time, the first time, she’d stopped him because she’d wanted the sweet seat. Next, she’d forgotten about it herself, though he hadn’t. This time, this time she just doesn't care enough. Doesn't care about the fucking birthday box, or the photos or the cake. She just wants peace.
“Whaddya mean, no? Cause guilt tripping didn't work so well last time–”
“I don’t want anything,” she interrupts him again. “It’s too late to get a cake anyway, dad’ll probably whip out Tony’s again. The candle’s just wax at this point–we’re basically lighting the cake on fire. That crown gave me lice last time. Lice! How the hell did they survive three months without blood, Ethan?!”
“Vampires,” Ethan mutters, shaking his head. His hand is still in hers. He’s letting her hold onto him and she’s glad for it–glad for him.
They sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound her scratching out the diagram. She doesn't know what it’s turning out to be, at this point she’s simply drawing squiggles waiting for inspiration. Well, that and–
Her throat feels tight, gets tighter every second she ignores it, the weight of unshed tears heavy and painful. Last time had been Rachel’s second pregnancy scare–well, that’s what they told the family anyway. She’d had an abortion and dragged Harley right into that mess of a relationship with her ex. Harley had helped her, of course she had, and it wasn’t until Ethan cornered her in the bathroom and thrust her gift in her face that she’d remembered. He’d been angry, not at her, but at Rachel. Mom and Dad too, for going on vacation on her birthday and leaving them under Rachel’s care, who had, as soon as they stepped out, dragged both Harley and Georgie to the clinic with her.
He’d been angry at a lot of things that year, on her behalf.
She’d been relieved, somehow, inexplicably so–to know that her BFTF was still hers, still stuck with her while everything else unraveled.
Now, back in the present, she sits at his desk, his hand in hers, quietly sketching and mostly trying not to break down.
Or at least that's what she thinks, until she jolts at the feeling of his knuckles skimming her cheek and pushing her falling hair away from her face. His hand is no longer in hers, instead it’s tracing her jaw now, pushing up her chin. His other hand takes the pencil away from her.
Ethan’s standing over her, his face inches away from hers when she tilts it towards him, helpless to his silent pleas.
His thumb is on her pulse and she swallows, something curling at the base of her spine as she looks into his dark eyes. They mirror hers.
The blood that runs in his veins runs in hers, and like always attracts like.
(This thing, this forbidden, disgusting, shameful thing between them is the best that’s ever happened to her, to them. It’s always good–with him. Fun and heavy and hot, too. Thrilling, toe curling, maddening. Fast and slow, one touch of his lights her up, a combination of feelings and intentions and thoughts, dangerous and arousing. It’s not a done thing, the thing between them. It’s not, and that’s what makes it so good. For both of them.)
“I’m sorry,” Ethan says, sincere and heavy and just a little sad. His thumb brushes the corner of her lip. Her own hand comes up to hold his wrist.
She smiles. “I know,” she says, “It’s alright. I’m Wednesday, remember?” Harley tilts her head up, and kisses him.
It’s soft and sweet, until it's not. Until she pushes up, presses their lips together tighter, harder, until it's not just a brush of lips but a dance, a push and pull, sensuous and agonizing. Until his lips, his hands and the heat of his body is all she can feel, all she can focus on. Harley twists her hand into his hair, pulls, and he moans low in his throat.
Arousal pools in her cunt, makes it throb with need.
She needs to have her brother in her, needs his cock pounding into her and his hands on her breasts, using them as anchors as he fucks her deeper, harder. She needs it, and aches with it.
“Ethan,” she gasps, wrenching away from him. “Ethan,” she says again, helpless and breathless.
He surges back into her, his hands framing her face as he pushes her against the desk. “Shh,” he says. He’s trembling, and fuck, yes. She loves this, loves him.
As he pulls off her t-shirt and starts kissing down the valley of her breasts while working the clasp of her bra, she thinks it doesn’t matter that her family doesn’t remember her birthday for the third time.
It doesn’t matter, because here, right now, with the way Ethan’s intent on worshiping her–it doesn’t matter.
As long as Ethan’s hers, and only hers–she moans, her chain of thought breaking as his thigh rubs against her core–as long as Ethan is here, she can deal with being stuck in the middle.