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Chris’s plan fails. Utterly.
Going back to the past does nothing to save Wyatt. Instead, it creates problems. Almost results in Chris’s death, were magic not what it is. When the youngest of the Halliwell heirs wakes up in his own time again, shocked and marveled at the realization that, yes, he’s alive, Chris is treated to a heartbreaking sight.
The same world he left behind is still there; the same world he thought his actions had averted exists. It roars around him in full force. Tears come to Chris’s eyes, he feels sobs swelling in his chest. Chris takes no time to observe where he is, not explicitly.
He’s overwhelmed by his colossal failure. By the understanding that, sometimes, not even magic can change what is meant to be.
“I’m so sorry,” Chris cries, tears running free down his pale cheeks. “I’m so sorry…”
It seems like Chris just lays there, crying and apologizing to his family, to Wyatt, for forever. Where he is doesn’t matter, his specific location holds no meaning.
Chris’s grief is a talisman of the worst kind. It protects him, numbs his disappointing return to a reality he could not avert.
Eventually, demons come for him, the sounds of their arrival undeniable, and Chris decides he’ll put up no fight. If they are to be his end, then so be it. He’s surprised by the fact that they don’t attack him.
The demons merely approach Chris, circling around him as they regard him with weary eyes. Then one of them raises a hand, says a word in a language Chris recognizes as being some forgotten offshoot of Latin, and he’s stunned.
Chris falls flat on his face, blacking out as soon as his forehead meets the ground.
When he awakes, Chris finds himself sprawled in a bed he knows all too well.
The pink wallpaper, the wooden high ceiling above him, the scattered room around him… it’s the house. Their house. Chris is repulsed by how wrong his surroundings feel. It’s the damaged pulse of the Nexus below, he senses, its magic corrupted by Wyatt’s constant use of it and crying out against it perpetually.
Chris closes his eyes for a few minutes, forces himself to sink into the moment, to breathe deeply. That this house that was once their home is this far gone, that this integral part of the magic world has been so scarred by his brother’s unchangeable descent to evil, is but another confirmation that Chris’s mission was an abject failure.
He moves from his bed in a daze, grunts at the sore bump he feels at the side of his forehead, knowing it will soon mar his skin with unwanted redness.
The bathroom is still in the same state as it was the last time Chris saw it; he’s shocked to see his things still around, his toothbrush and cologne so close at hand. Chris searches the medicine cabinet in absolute silence, swallows down a Tylenol and hopes it’ll be enough to dull out some of the pain from the headache he knows he’ll soon be getting.
Chris thinks of his mother then, nearly cries as her face pops into his mind’s eye. He wanders the second floor idly, makes his way to Wyatt’s room, curious about the lack of demons around, of bodyguards for the replacement to the once fear-inducing Source of All Evil.
I should be afraid, Chris thinks to himself as he knocks on Wyatt’s door. I should be shaking in my boots, wondering how I’m going to get out of this. There is no fear, however. Chris only feels a strange serenity, a raw acceptance of what has come to be.
“Come in,” Wyatt’s voice calls gently from inside the room.
Chris’s heart begins to race frantically in his chest, and his vision blurs again with tears. These tears go away, though, retreat once Chris steps into his brother’s room and is greeted by the soft glow of ethereal candlelight. They’re everywhere, these candles- all around the room.
Wyatt is sitting at the edge of his bed, reclining against the headboard, completely at ease. Chris is struck mute by the sight of his brother, by the sheer magnitude of his presence. He can’t believe how much love he feels for Wyatt, even now. Can’t believe how happy he is, in spite of everything, that Wyatt is still alive.
In the end, it doesn’t matter how powerful you are. Being heirs to the Charmed Ones taught both young men that. There is always someone lusting after your power, craving what you have, ready to push you off the cliff to claim your crown.
Chris is ecstatic, downright giddy, that no one has come for Wyatt while he’s been absent. That his older brother, this bearded, curly haired shirtless young man with the face of an avenging angel, remains. The deaths of their mother and aunts are monstrous events no magic can alter, that no rebellious act of wild can course-correct.
But Wyatt’s presence in Chris’s life, in his past, present and future, is untouchable.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Wyatt tells Chris with a delicate sigh. He’s not taunting, there’s no cruelty in his voice, and when Wyatt pats the space beside him on the bed, Chris joins him.
There are plenty of books on the floor beneath them, old texts and scrolls Chris recognizes as having belonged- once- to Magic School. They are Wyatt’s now, part of his dark inheritance.
“I know,” Chris admits, avoiding Wyatt’s gaze. He doesn’t want his brother to see the mixed emotions coursing through him and warming his cheeks, the scalding guilt and delight that race through his veins and boil in his gut, right below his bellybutton.
“And still, you did it,” Wyatt goes on. His left arm settles around Chris’s shoulder, Wyatt’s hand caressing his brother’s shoulder lightly.
Chris nods. He sniffles. “Yes.”
Wyatt is quiet for a few minutes, still as a statue beside Chris, and the younger whitelighter has no choice but to look up, to fix his gaze on his brother.
There is no hate in Wyatt’s perfectly sculpted face, no meanness marking the corners of his supple mouth. No, he looks every bit the Twice Blessed Child with his wild blonde hair and vivid eyes, the supernatural maverick prophesied over and over again. When Wyatt brings his hand to the side of Chris’s face, placing it gently over the sensitive flesh there, Chris doesn’t even flinch.
He leans into his brother’s hand, into the soft, healing touch. Chris lets Wyatt take away the pain, sighs with relief once it’s entirely gone. Wyatt removes his hand, but before it can vanish from sight, Chris grabs it and squeezes it.
He looks into Wyatt’s eyes, tries to let his older brother know in their private, silent way that all his adventures in time travel were only for good. Done under the belief that, if Chris averted some great harm done against Wyatt, then perhaps they didn’t have to lose their family.
Perhaps they wouldn’t have to lose each other.
“But we never will, Chris,” Wyatt tells his younger brother, the smile lighting up his face never fading, almost another candle in the dark. Gently, Wyatt kisses Chris’s forehead, holds onto Chris’s chin tenderly while tilting the dark haired young man’s face upwards. “Everything I’ve done is so we wouldn’t lose each other. So that what happened to our aunt, to our mom, won’t happen to us.”
Chris nods. He cries. Cries until the sobs in his chest can’t be contained, can’t be stopped. Wyatt takes him in his arms, their muscular strength a fortress Chris is more than thankful for. He breathes in his brother’s scent, lets it fill his lungs until it’s the only thing he’s aware of.
It’s Chris’s cologne that Wyatt is wearing, Chris’s cologne and it’s scent that seems to be filling up the room.
When Wyatt kisses the top of his head, then moves Chris’s face so he can kiss his cheeks, nose and lips, Chris practically melts into his brother’s grasp. He kisses Wyatt back, groaning at the feel of Wyatt’s tongue exploring his mouth roughly, caressing Chris’s own.
Yes, this Chris has definitely missed. No matter how hard he worked to ensure Wyatt followed the path of Good, of the Elders and the Halliwell’s who came before them, within Chris, there has always been a deep, gritty love for his brother that breached the boundaries of what many would dub normal.
Chris laughs when Wyatt throws him on his back and begins to strip him of his clothes. Gone are his shirt, his pants, and finally, his underwear. Being naked under Wyatt’s gaze has always electrified Chris, and in a way, it’s why he enlisted Bianca to help him initially.
Bianca had been a force with a wicked edge to it, like Wyatt. An ally who could numb out the pain of possibly losing the Wyatt Chris had loved forever. The feel of the real Wyatt, still here, still very much in love with Chris, is transcendent and anchors Chris, finally, in the present.
Chris watches his brother undress for him in silent awe, feels his cock pulse between his legs at the sight of Wyatt completely bare and approaching him in the shadows. The light, downy coat of blonde hair that circles Wyatt’s nipples and then guides down his torso and towards his reddened prick is intoxicating, and Chris falls upon his brother to trail it with his mouth.
Wyatt lets Chris slide on top of him, move over him freely while he sucks on Wyatt’s sensitive nipples and torso. I missed you so much, each love-bruise that Chris leaves behind seems to say. I belong to you, their languorous kissing seems to profess. By the time they’re grinding against each other, cocks rubbing together deliciously, slick with precum, Chris can’t even recall why he left in the first place.
He belongs to Wyatt, was made for Wyatt. As his brother’s fingers sneak between his cheeks and probe at his hole, sliding in nearly effortlessly as Chris rocks back on the digits, Chris decides that his efforts were futile, but not pointless.
He went back in time to realize, to accept, that Wyatt is the way. That whatever Wyatt seeks to do, Chris will support. Chris moans wantonly as three of Wyatt’s fingers continue their assault on him, as their cocks continue to rub together.
“Don’t leave,” Wyatt begs, his eyes burning holes through Chris, through their shared, blissful haze. “Don’t you ever leave me again.”
Chris leans down, pants a complaint when Wyatt’s fingers slip out of his hole one by one, leaving him sore and somewhat open. He plants a kiss on his brother’s expecting mouth. “Never again,” he promises. And he means it.
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate to slide right into Chris after shifting his weight so that the younger Halliwell heir is hovering directly above his older brother’s prick. Inch by inch Wyatt feeds his cock to Chris’s hole, watches it disappear into his brother as Chris holds onto him, fingernails breaking skin and spilling blood.
“See?” Wyatt grunts, a hand caressing Chris’s cheek. He pistols in and out of Chris, hips crashing against hips, in and out of the tight heat. “You were made for me. We were meant for each other.”
Chris can’t argue with his brother. He doesn’t want to. Deep down, he’s always known this to be true. Chris welcomes each one of Wyatt’s thrusts, meets them excitedly at the feel of his older brother buried deep inside of him, stretching him to then retreat and begin their dance all over again.
“Harder, harder, harder…” Chris begs, feeling his impending orgasm approaching, his insides tightening for the final release.
Beneath him, Wyatt doubles his efforts. His thrusts become brutal, harsh, demonic. Tears come to Chris’s eyes, tears of unspeakable pleasure, of fulfilled dark dreams and imaginings, and he comes holding onto his brother, screaming Wyatt’s name like it’s scripture.
Wyatt comes right after, the squeeze of Chris’s hole tightening around his prick effectively driving him over the edge. Chris meets Wyatt’s erratic final thrusts, milks volley after volley of come his brother releases inside him, feeling the liquid love overflowing and dripping from his asshole.
“I love you,” Wyatt tells his brother, kissing his forehead once again. He’s still buried in Chris, his prick submerged in heat and his own spilled come.
“I love you more,” Chris confesses.
At the edge of the room, a shadow moves, catching Chris’s attention, and the young man can’t believe he didn’t spot it as soon as he stepped into the room. That’s how dazed he’d been, how difficult the return to his own time had been. But now, purified, his doubts cast away and his fears destroyed, Chris can see.
It’s Leo in the shadows, sitting at the other side of the room in a stately chair, where the candlelight can barely reach. Chris stares at the naked figure in amazement, feels a smile blossoming across his face as he beholds the wonder that is his father, jerking off at the sight of his two sons in post-coital bliss.
Their father comes with a loud bellow, his seed falling to form a small pool at the man’s feet. Leo smiles at his sons, at Chris.
“Welcome home, baby.”