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Once upon a time, there was a pair of brothers. Two halves of a whole, the line running between them was jagged and bleeding. One could only speak the Truth, while the other could only speak in Lies (pretty lies, white lies, but lies nonetheless).
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
It’s a riddle, but like any puzzle, it’s easy once you know the solution. The trick is to ask one what the other would say, then you’re sure to never get the truth - the liar always lies, but the truthteller speaks the truth by voicing the other’s lie. It’s a foolproof plan, as long as you know how to read between the lines. When everything is a lie, the only truth is what remains unspoken.
In the dark, in stolen moments together, lines blur and twist and it becomes harder to tell where one leaves off and the other starts. They press their jagged edges together, bleeding into each other, painting each other in their own colors. They’re made for each other, matching grooves interlocking, puzzle pieces that were always meant to come back together again and again.
“You love me,” says one.
“No I don’t,” says the other.
They know what each other means.
~
Once upon a time, there was a pair of brothers. Two halves of a whole, ying and yang, black and white, hero and villain. One can only be Good, while the other can only be Bad (honest and forthright, but bad nonetheless).
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
When they’re in front of the others, when they’re forced apart and into their separate boxes, they play their parts. They never asked for this, never wanted to be opposite sides of the same coin. When they’re forced to conform to the roles they’ve been unwillingly cast in, they speak their lines in the only language they can.
“I hate you,” says one.
“No you don’t,” says the other.
They know what each other means.