#amateurhocuspocus

The young blond went by 'Luke' at camp, and after Michael was once caught calling him by his full name—as the boy's parents had—Luke had made it painfully obvious that 'Lucifer' was never to be spoken aloud at camp, and his last name remained a mystery.

Goodbyes to his own parents given, Michael hauled himself to the cabin he'd be sharing with Lucifer and about six other boys, all between the ages of ten and fourteen. The initial summer had been hell; Lucifer had a temper and a cruel streak, but he could also be the most childish when he wasn't allowed to do things his way.

The second summer, Michael went home with an indian burn so bad that his mother filed a complaint with the staff following Michael's arrival home in August.

The third, it was poison ivy. Lucifer had waited until the very last moment on the nature hike, to push Michael into the dense underbrush. The three-leaved bush encompassed Michael's entire body and its sticky, oily residue wreaked havoc with his sensitive skin, causing him to be sent home early.

The fourth summer was spent alone; the other boys were in the cabin and were great company, but Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. The staff were heard talking about it—some sort of family emergency involving Lucifer's mother and his baby brother—but it wasn't exactly the campers' business, so no formal reason was told to the boys. Michael enjoyed his time without the pranks and jibes, but found the summer to be lacking something.

By the seventh summer, both boys were well into their teenage years and Michael no longer hated seeing Lucifer at the gate, before camp had even begun. The pair had volunteered to staff the place—with their parents' cajoling—and while Michael actually enjoyed it as supplementary community service in order to graduate high school, Lucifer saw it as a continued punishment.

“Just trying to keep me from breaking into cars and slumming it in that abandoned warehouse by the tracks. Remember I told you about that place, Mikey?”

Michael nodded, polishing off his soda and tossing the can into the blue bin. “The one with the dead hobo? Jeez, Luke...nothing but living rough for you, huh?”

The family emergency years before had thrown Lucifer's family into a bit of a rut; his father was absent a lot since their deaths, and it caused Lucifer to lash out, committing petty crimes for kicks and spending all of his free time causing trouble, rather than finishing high school or getting a job. Staffing at the camp was merely a way for his father to keep Lucifer out of the hands of the local police.

Lucifer smiled and gave a long, slow shrug. “Gotta roll with the punches when you're down, right?”

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The summer of Michael's eighteenth birthday, the boys exchanged phone numbers after the closing ceremonies for that year; Lucifer begrudgingly and Michael with a bit of hesitation. They had shared so much throughout the near-decade of tolerance between them, and it was a friendship that went beyond two boys forced to bunk together at summer camp.

Michael had graduated high school the month before and Lucifer had taken Michael's advice and went back to it; making Lucifer's home life a little better and making Michael feel that oft-neglected sense of self-worth. His advise was never taken to heart, but he was pleased that Lucifer seemed to take his to heart, far more than that of the adults in his life.

“I'm gonna, uh...gonna miss you, Luke,” Michael said softly, as they waited under the overhead gate, parents milling about to collect their children. “Don't think I'm gonna be back next year, what with university and all starting in September.”

Lucifer nodded, obviously hurt, but at sixteen years old, he'd still have two years before he graduated high school and if he kept up with it, he'd still be able to mentor children at the camp for a little while longer.

But he already didn't want to, if Michael wasn't going to be there beside him. Lucifer dug into his duffel bag and hauled out a long, white feather—from a swan that resided in the camp's lake—and handed it to Michael, who promptly tucked it behind his ear like a trophy.

Michael climbed into his mother's car when the camp was finally emptied out and he waved to Lucifer; the tall, lanky teen lifting his hand to wave, being left in the dusty roadway for his father to come for him. His board shorts were dusty, his feet dusty, his flip flops dusty. If Michael looked long enough as the car went down the road, he'd see Lucifer standing there until the car was finally out of sight.

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Michael got phone calls for the first little while that he was away at university; his parents had the calls rerouted to his dorm room because the amount of people calling for him was too much for them, and Michael was eternally grateful. The calls from Lucifer started off friendly enough, but towards the beginning of the second semester—after Christmas break—the calls got shorter and shorter, and then they came less often than before. Where once they were daily, they had become weekly, and at random intervals, never the same night. Michael called Lucifer's place to speak to him but usually got the boy's father; the man's voice gruff and tired, always with a hint of malice in it.

A few calls were missed and voice messages were left; some snide, others cruel, still others almost frightening:

'Hope you're having fun, Mikey. Got myself into trouble and called to hear you tell me off about it. Guess you're not in. Catch you later.'

'Mikey, answer the goddamn phone. Really wanted to talk to you, and you said I could call anytime.'

The messages grew ever more vague, until finally Michael arrived home at the dorm from a final in May, to find two messages waiting for him, the time stamp on the machine telling him that they came one right after the other, within a matter of a half hour.

'I miss you, brother. Been too long since I talked to you. You were keeping me sane, you know. Once camp ended, I went off the deep end. My old man couldn't control me, and he tossed me out back in February.' -there was a cough here; a wet, raspy cough that Michael grimaced at- 'Broke back in to call you when I could, but you were always out. Guess that means you've moved on and I know you always did what your daddy wanted; be a big man, well-educated and important.' -a pause- 'Proud of you.'

The second message, recorded 27 minutes later, came from a voice Michael didn't immediately recognize, though he knew who it was once the words were spoken.

'Uh, yeah, this is for Mikey, least that's the name beside the number. It's Gord, Lucifer's dad. He, uh...he died...sometime overnight, and I was cleaning out his room and found this notebook with your name and number in it, along with 'Camp Paradise' beside it. Not sure if he even kept in contact with you anymore, but I thought you should know. It was an accident, in some warehouse on the south side. Cops found him after they saw the smoke and called it in. Just, uh...take care. You ever wanna talk, you can call. Number won't change.'

Michael sat down on his bed, as the machine beeped and saved the message into its memory. His throat felt tight, his head hurt, his stomach hurt.

Lucifer was dead.

Luke.

His Luke.

And he was Michael's. Never any mention of girls they wanted, no people to vie for Luke's attention, with dead relatives and an absentee father. Michael was Lucifer's whole world, and he turned his back on him to pursue his own goals. Michael ran for the bathroom and vomited what little he had eaten before his final, coughing up bile when nothing else came.

Michael sighed the breath he didn't realize he was holding and slipped the hot pink panties from his duffel bag, sliding them on over warm, damp skin. He sighed again but this time while gazing at himself in the mirror, a hand on his chest and the other hanging beside him, unwilling to block the view of his slim frame clothed in the lacy cotton.

His cargo shorts and a plain, white t-shirt were tugged on to cover himself up and Michael booked it home, dodging questions from his brothers, but offering Gabriel a tiny pat on the head. He locked himself in his room—as well as he could, as locks weren't allowed on their bedroom doors, and Lucifer would need in when it was his bedtime—and tossed his soiled uniform in the hamper, changing into his pajama pants and going topless.

One more glance in the mirror with the waistband pulled down so he could see the pink lace, and Michael moaned softly, cutting it short as he heard the creak of the top-most step in the hallway.

“Shit!” he whispered, hurrying to tug the waistband back up and settle in to something normal for him; reading something, writing in his journal, organizing his closet.

“Hey Mikey, you in here?”

Michael looked up from the journal to see Lucifer walk right in, the smug look on his face promising a headache. He loved his brother—and loved his brother, if he were truly honest with himself—but sometimes, the younger teen was nothing but a problem.

“Hi, Luce. I'm here.” Lucifer looked to the desk, licking his bottom lip as Michael turned back around to continue. “Dad got things covered for dinner, huh? Did you help him out with it?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes as he pushed the door closed and shoved the hamper in front of it, sidling his way right up to Michael's back. He draped himself over the older boy's shoulders, burying his face in the soft, dark hair.

“Crockpot casserole and salad. Gabe cut the veggies and I supervised. The usual.” He inhaled deeply and gave a strangled sort of moan, his hands splayed over Michael's bare chest. “Used that fruity shampoo after the game again, huh? That mean you've got them on?”

Michael stiffened and sat up a little straighter, his pen dropped into the crotch of the book. Lucifer's hands slipped from Michael's shoulders to wind around his waist and Michael unconsciously parted his legs a little, as the overly warm hands slid beneath the waistband.

“You do have them on,” Lucifer whispered, one hand holding Michael's hip while the other cupped his crotch. “Jesus, Mikey...feels awesome. Show them off for me.”

Michael could feel himself colouring in the face, the warmth creeping up from his neck and across his hairline. He loved girly clothing as much as his brother apparently did—possibly more so—and the frillier, the better. The lacy panties were only a taste of what his closet contained, in the drawers hidden at the back.

“Throw something else on, and I'll make sure nobody's coming in,” Lucifer ordered, stripping down to only his own pajama pants, likewise topless. “Pink, though. Stay with pink.”

Michael closed the journal and tidied the desk up, before stripping out of his pants, leaving the barest hint of clothing covering him, the panties too small to hide everything in front and the back of them slowly disappearing into the crack of his ass.

He took out the tutu Lucifer had bought online for him the month before; all baby pink and hot pink tulle, with a satin bow at the back and elastic in the waist. He slipped it on and gave a little shake of his ass, the fabric bouncing along with the subtle shifts of his cheeks. Lucifer groaned from behind him so Michael cast a glance over his shoulder, getting a twitch of arousal in response to Lucifer's hand down the front of his pants.

“Gonna blow before I even show you my moves, Luce?” Michael asked, a saucy grin on his blushing face. “The girls had a hot number tonight, too.”

Lucifer shook his head and waved a hand for Michael to continue, eying the marabou boa when Michael untucked it from the secret drawer. It was draped over the muscled shoulders and then the older teen struck a pose, the music all in his head.

He'd do anything for Lucifer, that much was obvious. The flounce of the tutu was mesmerizing and Lucifer's eyes were glued to the tiny glimpses of ass, as Michael performed a spot-on rendition of the cheerleading routine done that afternoon.

He bent over while facing away from Lucifer and suddenly felt hands on his hips, flattening his own against the floor to support them, as Lucifer ground against his lace-covered ass. Michael closed his eyes but continued to smile, Lucifer's hands holding tight so he could rub himself off against the pink lace, his pajama pants around his ankles.

Michael soiled the panties the second he felt Lucifer tip over the edge, the cloth dirtied anyway, so he didn't feel too guilty about it. His knees gave out and he fell to all fours, Lucifer chuckling as he stepped out of his pants and tossed them in Michael's direction.

“To clean yourself up, Princess,” he sneered, not angrily or sourly, but as part of the act. “Make sure you wash those up so they're always ready.”

Michael nodded, pulling everything off that needed to be washed, so he could hand wash it all. The risk too great of putting it in the hamper and having their father—or god forbid, Gabriel or Raphael—finding them by accident.

“Your turn.”

Lucifer looked innocently from beside the door, still keeping it secured in case Gabriel wandered upstairs. “I'm sorry, did you say my turn?”