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Peter wanted to be alone. He did not like the conversation that was happening, but as this was his apartment, he refused to be the one to leave.
“The Polyhedron is wrong,” Farkhad stated simply. “We bring to life things that shouldn’t be, sure, but that thing is an error upon life in this town. Many in town think this, and I tried to tell your brother but he won’t listen without you.”
A growl reached his ears, and Peter thought for a moment that his brother had arrived, for it sounded so much like him. It was closer, though, and vibrated through him, and he figured it made sense for twins to sound so alike in rage.
Farkhad noticed and frowned, his expression turning to pity. “I understand, friend. It is so hard to let go of our creations, of ourselves, but sometimes it is for the better. I promise, you will come out of this whole and well.”
There was a knife stuck in the wall across from him, forced there during a particularly bad episode a few months prior. It pulled at him and he followed, pace slow and swaying. His fists opened and closed in rhythm, face slipping in and out of a grimace. Farkhad should leave, but instead the man stayed. Always stayed.
“I know it is hard, so I will take care of having it dismantled in your stead.”
No.
No.
The rush of emotion almost swept him off his feet, fear and despair and uncertainty and anger, but at what he was unsure. All Peter knew was that he did not like it.
One of his fists buried itself in his hair, pulling hard, while the other beat against his leg once, then his chest twice, then his face once. It wasn’t enough, and a despairing scream caught in his throat
Footsteps behind him, Farkhad approaching to see if he was alright. The handle of the knife was worn and hard to grip, but Peter yanked it free and spun with a familiar snarl.
He had never been as strong as his brother, or even as strong as Farkhad himself, and they grappled as Peter tried unsuccessfully to get the blade near the other man. Despite having the advantage of height, he was thin while Farkhad was stocky, lithe where the other was built.
Words felt like they were physically blocked in his throat. Farkhad managed to wrench his arm enough to hurt, enough to make him drop the knife which clattered to the floor before placing a wide hand on the back of his neck and shoving Peter to the ground, his head smacking the table on the way down.
Pushing off the floor, he raised himself on shaky arms before sitting back, curled into himself. He felt warmth trickle down his face from where his head had collided with the hard wooden table. Farkhad gasped and stepped forward.
“Peter, I am so s-“ he was drowned out, however, by a loud, jovial voice calling out from below, announcing the arrival of the end.
“What’s all the ruckus? You boys getting randy up there?” The heavy sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, a fearful glance from Farkhad as he took in the situation. “I’m not about to walk in on something, am I?”
As Andrey passed through the threshold, the happy look and easy smile slipped off, leaving him blank. He seemed to draw himself up to his full height as he scanned the men, the room, and every object out of place. His hands twitched at his sides and started a rhythm, not of his usual clenching and unclenching, but only in his thumbs as they repeatedly curled in over his palms.
I will take care in having it dismantled.
It was a selfish decision, really.
Peter spread his arms, reaching, crying out his twin’s name like a child to its mother. Andrey stiffened, not unlike a dog when its leash is yanked, before moving into action. Farkhad raised his hands, taking a hasty step back.
“Andrey, Andrey I know what this looks like but I was trying to help him, help both of you! Something… Something’s wrong with it, surely you know that?”
It being the Polyhedron, Farkhad meant. It being Peter, Andrey thought.
An animalistic, feral sound tore from Andrey as he seemed like an animal raising its hackles at those words. He lunged for Farkhad who barely dodged in time. Farkhad, who then made his next mistake.
His eyes fell on the knife still on the floor and he swept down and grabbed it, holding it out defensively against Andrey. This did not have its desired effect in warding him off, and Farkhad seemed to consider his chances.
Andrey wasn’t Peter, though. They shared the same towering height, but as Peter had begun to turn thin, his twin had a hard buildup of muscle and experience from his lifestyle. Andrey knew the violence that he was capable of, and was rather proud of the fact.
Its funny, how bothered Andrey had been when Peter grew sullen. At how they no longer looked the same. As if it wasn’t he who kept his hair short, as if his face and body’s collection of scars and marks didn’t paint them as entirely different entities. Peter wondered how long it had been since his twin had actually seen himself.
Farkhad seemed to decide that the chances weren’t in his favor for that fight, so he changed strategies. Side-stepping Andrey, he reached for Peter who still sat on the floor, a desperate man looking for leverage. He pulled roughly at his arm, trying in vain to get him upright.
At the sight of a knife approaching his brother, Andrey snarled again, a frantic look in his glazed eyes. He loomed up behind Farkhad and wrapped his thick arms around the man’s neck, a brutal headlock that Peter had seen far too many times.
The man gagged and dropped the knife, hands clawing at the brawny arms that held him as he was dragged away from Peter.
Peter, who sat and watched in growing horror as his twin’s arms flexed and jerked. Peter, who flinched at the sickening crack, at the sight of Farkhad collapsing to the ground lifeless.
He looked up at his twin who stood motionless, the haze leaving his eyes as he came back from wherever he was. Peter let out a shaking, horrified breath. Unable to tell whether he was horrified with his brother, himself, or simply both of them, he shook his head.
“What did you… what did we do? Andrey, Andrey what are we supposed to do now? Oh, Farkhad.”