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"Go away."
Aaron takes his time, shifting his inconsequential weight from one foot to the other by the door. Go away. As he definitely expected, Andrew isn't sleeping, and he sure as hell doesn't look like someone who would fall asleep any soon. Miles and miles away from the overheated room, from them, perhaps from the world itself, Andrew is staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head and his size ridiculously minuscule if compared to that of the bed. Aaron wonders if there's a way to overcome that apathy of his, if he could at least break it down one bit and just... pry inside. One day, it's going to happen, one way or another. Aaron is almost sure of that. It ought to happen . He just doesn't know how utterly awful the whole thing will turn out to be.
He huffs out a small, barely detectable sigh, but he strides to the bed nonetheless. If Drew really wanted him to go away, he would have said "I don't want you here". In that case, Aaron would have taken the hint and he would have turned on his heels, knowing that his twin brother needed some 'me time'. But he doesn't.
Go away.
Climbing onto the oversized mattress it's a complicated matter for someone who's as dramatically deficient in height as him, the fucking thing as high as the motherfucking Eiffel Tower or some equally oversized shit. By the time he's managed to haul himself under the covers and has promptly kicked them away, Andrew is still staring at the ceiling, as blank and unreadable as he has always been.
Aaron would definitely prefer his brother to talk like a functioning human being, like someone who's actually alive and not just... passing by , but his brother is far from normal, far from functioning and he can cope with that, yeah, he can. Slowly but steadily, he's getting there. And one day, if he's insightful enough, he'll be able to see something in the golden pit of nothing that is Andrew's eyes.
He tries to relax on the bed. They are not crammed, how could they be? Such a bed can't be filled by their tiny, bony bodies. There would be plenty of space to stretch out, if he wanted to, but he's too afraid of startling Andrew away to do anything more than curling up in a ball and, basically, wait. For anything, really. Even a punch in the face would be something, though he knows better that Andrew would never lay a single finger on him. It's comforting and confusing at the same time.
Aaron's throat is sand-dry when he manages a strained "Goodnight, Drew" which doesn't even get acknowledged by his brother whatsoever.
The tension is Andrew's shoulders is so subtle and flickering that Aaron is sure to have imagined it.
He tries his best to even out his own breath, slowing it down so he can retain what shard of dignity he's left, and he even makes a grand show of fluffing out his pillow. This disturbance captures Andrew's attention, if only for a handful of seconds, then the blank, hollow void darting towards the ceiling and miles and miles into the galaxies beyond is back, cold emptiness fitted for a bag of dead meat and still blood, not for a real, living person. Aaron clenches his teeth against the thought that his twin brother might be, in facts, dead inside and not just metaphorically so; the grinding sound is enough to put Andrew into slow, careful motion, his head slowly turning on the definitely too soft pillow until Aaron finds himself facing the emptiness of his gaze again.
"Don't," Andrew whispers softly, and the hand he raises to put in on his twin's mouth hangs in mid air for a moment, until he decides to draw back again. "You said goodnight. Sleep."
Aaron's voice comes from the pit of his stomach.
"You're not sleeping."
"Neither are you."
"But you should."
"Lie."
He considers the idea of dragging his brother's face back to him when Andrew resumes his perfectly still position, but he's still extremely attached to his own set of teeth, so thanks but no thanks, Andrew can stare in the distance for as long as he likes, for what it's worth. Aaron can be content with watching the shallow, steady rise and fall of Andrew's chest, carefully avoiding to let his eyes roam on the ruined skin of his forearms, now so naked and vulnerable without the armbands to hide the self-inflicted mess from prying eyes.
Somehow during the long half of an hour in which nothing at all happens - save from a low, single cough coming from Andrew that speaks of one too many cigarettes burning through his lungs - Aaron begins dozing off. It comes in comforting waves and it is so weird, because it's been a while since he has had the luxury of drifting off without even realizing it, and when his eyelids feel too heavy he just gives in, whatever gruesome nightmare may come afterwards.
Surprisingly enough, when he wakes up it's not for a scream locked tight inside his heaving chest, nor because he's drenched in his own sweat and crying his soul out while biting in the pillow to muffle the heart-wrenching sobs that usually accompany his night terrors. It's a pleasant, slow awakening, like those he remembers from a lifetime ago, when he was so small he could fit in his mother's arms and she cradled him all night long after having watched a movie together on the beat-up tv in the crammed living room. It's just like that, and something totally different at once. The small - he would dare say fragile if he didn't know any better - body pressed against his is so strikingly similar to his own Aaron could point out the exact position of any single bone, string of muscles and tendons, hair or birthmark if he wanted to. The arms around him are possessive, muscular, tight. One of Andrew's limp, relaxed hands is pressed flat over his heart. When Aaron tries tentatively to disentangle from his twin brother's limbs, he ends up in a twice as messed up tangle of arms and legs. He plays along, relaxing into Andrew's inhumanly strong arms, and the broken sound his brother makes while breathing softly in his nape almost shatters him into a million pieces.
He knows, he knows that Andrew doesn't like - he doesn't want - to be touched, but his hand is definitely quicker than his brain, and he finds himself stroking the back of Andrew's hand and covering it with his own, in a vain attempt at comforting him.
It's the same hand. Almost. Aaron's is marred, a small pink scar stretching along the thin veins, a souvenir from the blade of a dealer -- a lifetime ago. Predictably enough, Andrew jerks awake, and it's a miracle that he doesn't smash his skull into Aaron's. This doesn't spare him from being punched rather hard in the guts, but still. Might have been worth it.
"Drew," he breathlessly calls, trying to still his squirming brother. Andrew freezes. It's so weird and unexpected that Aaron's heart leaps in his throat.
"Let go of me."
Aaron shakes his head.
"I'm not holding you. Breathe."
The gentle, yet firm command in Aaron's voice does the trick. Andrew stills, his body tense and almost shuddering, knees planted firmly in Aaron's flesh -- no doubt it will bruise come morning, but for now it's just uncomfortable, not painful enough to let go.
Andrew's feverish warmth is overwhelming. He's not just warm, he's downright hot, as if his body is perennially consumed by some kind of ailment. Even his breath is warm, though now it's slightly less close than it was before and it doesn't tickle Aaron's nape anymore.
It takes them a painstakingly long while to relax again -- as if Andrew is ever relaxed. Aaron is tempted to shake his head, but with Andrew already on his toes and as tense as the fucking strings of a well tuned guitar he can’t risk it. His hand is frozen still on Andrew’s as he tries to memorize how the feeling of his skin is, in every way, identical to that of his own, scars aside.
It’s shocking to lean so close, to learn Andrew this way. It’s shocking to finally realize that, to some extent, he is Andrew and Andrew is him, no matter how different the circumstances of their lives have been. The sudden realization knocks the air out of his lungs, and it’s only when Andrew’s fingers tug sharply and urgently at his t-shirt that Aaron remembers how to breathe.
Possessive arms are now slightly lax, gentler against his pliable ribcage. Andrew doesn’t let go, though it’s clear that every fiber in his body is literally begging him to pull back. It’s a fight that Aaron can’t win. He’s determined to snatch off whatever scrap he can get, though.
It’s true, their relationship is far from idyllic - and he can’t really say he himself is not to blame - but this is the first time they’re acknowledging each other like this, so unguarded and vulnerable, all alone, pressed together in a thin stripe of mattress and sharing the same pillow. Talking hasn’t gotten them anywhere. They aren’t made for grand speeches and pompous declarations -- they’re both barely people at all, Andrew only half-functioning and he hanging by a thin thread, dancing on the brink of failure, half of his mind struggling to tear away from the constant obsession of addiction and the other half caught up in a whirlwind of dark thoughts that threaten to make him spiral down at every step.
But it doesn’t matter now, does it?
It doesn’t matter.
Andrew’s hand is hard and bony under his palm, fingers twitching ever so slightly, his nicely manicured nails scratching against Aaron’s chest as if to carve out his heart and scratch into the bloody muscle until he digs out what he’s obviously looking for. Now, this is something that has never occurred to Aaron but that would differentiate them pretty nicely, if people were keen to pay attention to such insignificant details: their fingernails. Whereas Andrew’s are always manicured almost manically, Aarons are chewed on, unequal, ruined and adorned with half-ripped, bloody cuticles.
“Your nails-” he starts, but words die on his tongue as soon as he realizes that he’s going to make a fool of himself. Andrew takes the wrong hint, and his nervous hand freezes flat again, pressing a tad too hard against Aaron’s chest and forcing him to swift slightly, pushing back into Andrew’s curled frame until the space between them is pretty much nonexistent.
Another small, broken sound escapes his twin brother’s lips. Aaron whispers something that sounds like it’s all right, whatever, it’s hard to tell with his thoughts racing a mile a minute, bouncing back and forth the walls of his brain.
They go still again, adjusting their bodies to the new, odd sensation.
Andrew smells of fresh laundry, clean clothes, but there’s a subtle hint of sweat breaking through the lavender notes. Anxiety. Or downright panic, he can’t say, Andrew is unreadable, a mystery that he has long given up on solving.
He takes a deep, steadying breath, and he mouths again a barely audible “Goodnight, Drew”.
He doesn’t close his eyes. Not even when Andrew’s forehead touches his nape again. He supposes that his brother has fallen asleep, though; a fully awake Andrew would never just drop his forehead casually against someone.
Aaron focuses. Hard. The tapping of Andrew’s heart against his back is both soothing and unnerving at once. He counts the beats silently. 75, 85, 95, 115. One hundred and fifteen beats per minute. Funnily enough, he was expecting their heartbeats to match. They should match, shouldn't they? After all, they're twin brothers. Two halves of a whole pile of shit. Same features, same height, same food allergies...mostly. Andrew doesn't spend his whole night crouched by the toilet if he eats garlic or raw onion. Aaron knows better than to shake his head, if only to himself. Still, Andrew's heart beats much faster than his own, a jackrabbit pace throbbing against his back, past the thin fabric of his tattered t-shirt.
Aaron frowns.
When he tries to move, Andrew’s strong arms give him a warning squeeze.
“Don’t.”
There’s no bite in his voice, of course. Just the usual emptiness. Hooded stares and vaguely snobbish disinterest. Oh, how much Aaron would beat some life into that achingly familiar face. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Also, Andrew’s racing heart is proof enough that he isn’t dead just yet.
“Let me. I need to...do something.”
“You can’t do anything,” Andrew rebukes. “We are in bed.”
Aaron bites back a ‘please’ and goes for a “Let me turn on the other side. My shoulder aches”. Which isn’t a lie per se. Drew loathes lies. Besides, his shoulder does really ache, still sore from a previous match in which he has been shoved mercilessly into the plexiglass wall of the inner court by a guy who was easily three times his size. So.
Andrew’s grip loosens just so, but it’s enough for him to squeeze a bit and turn without evirating his brother in the process.
“Sleep,” Andrew says then, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. Aaron shakes his head. It’s damn difficult for him to crawl his hand between their bodies without pushing Andrew away, but when he does ask as gently as he can for his brother to stay still, Andrew does, his breath caught through his gritted teeth. As Aaron expected, Andrew shudders and jolts back when he presses his hand against his overworked heart, planting his nails into Aaron’s back and warning him with a half growl.
For once, Aaron stands his ground.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, and he means it. Aaron doesn’t know why, but Andrew seems to trust him on that, because he slips back closer until Aaron’s hand can touch his chest again, the pounding underneath the thick layer of lean muscle slamming hard and fast against his palm, the frightening staccato of a cornered animal ready for the slaughterhouse.
The reality of the horrors that Andrew might have witnessed in his brief, ruined life hits Aaron all at once, and his blood boils with burning hatred for those who have dared turning his brother into a caged, desperate beast that has barricaded itself from a world that hurts and hurts and hurts until there’s nothing left to do but to pick bleached bones clean.
Let them burn.
Hurt them all as much as they have hurt him.
Something grim and dark crosses his features. If Andrew notices it, he doesn’t ask.
“The hand stays there. Don’t roam around,” he commands. Aaron nods. The frantic beating slows gently until it’s back to one hundred and fifteen, but the more Andrew’s eyelids flutter, the slower it gets, settling to a considerably more acceptable eighty-six beats per minute when Andrew does finally give in, his mouth going slack with the exhaustion of the day and the events of the night. It could be morning already. Aaron doesn’t bother with checking.
***
He falls asleep after an ungodly amount of time, his forehead pressed into Andrew’s and their knees touching, his brother’s arms loosely draped across his middle as he keeps his hand steadily on his chest, just as he promised.
No roaming.
He’s too tired to roam, anyway.
***
Aaron wakes up drenched in sweat, the intolerable heat of the room exacerbated by the fact that Andrew must have covered him - or both of them - at some point with the heavy blanket they had discarded at night. He kicks it away with a huff, the stench of industrial laundry harsh in his nostrils. He feels dizzy, though he manages to haul himself into a sitting position to take in his surroundings and scan the room for any sign of Andrew.
He checks under the bed for good measure. One can never be sure, when it comes to Andrew. His twin brother, however, is nowhere in sight, the only tangible evidence of his existence a pair of discarded socks that Aaron would never wear and one shoe, just one -- he doesn’t have the energy now to wonder where the other is, but whatever, he’s not his brother’s keeper and he can’t give a flying fuck about his brother’s shoes.
He drags his ass out of the bed with a groan.
He’s crossed so many lines...maybe he’s sore because Andrew has drugged him up and then beaten him senseless. For how much he knows Andrew would never, the thought is entertaining enough, as it is fleeting.
He checks his legs. Bruised right where he had thought they would bruise. Another grunt propels him to the closed door. He yanks it open, but the heat is the same in the small common area opening up right past the bedroom. He considers swearing, but he keeps a steady stream of curses to himself as he marches for the table, unsurprised to find Andrew perched up there, reading Proust with a half-empty cup of coffee hanging idly from his hand.
Of course Andrew doesn't even acknowledge him. He shouldn't expect anything but, Jesus fuck, a " good morning, Aaron" would be appreciated.
He surveys the room. Kevin is out of sight, but the loud snoring upstairs is unmistakable. Only Kevin Day can snore so loud and that's one of the many reasons why Aaron hates him. At least he sleeps peacefully enough.
He glances at Andrew.
"Nicky?"
His twin brother doesn't drag his bored stare away from his book and simply says "Out."
Aaron shakes his head, a fuck you dancing on the tip of his tongue. Yesterday, he would have poured out all of his spite and fucking drowned Andrew in it. Today, he just doesn't feel like it. It just doesn't feel right, and it bugs him that it has taken him one single night in a bed with Andrew to soften his temper so much.
"Coffee?"
It's a grunt more than a word. Andrew's unimpressed gaze trails towards the kitchen.
"Cold."
He waves his brother away. Cold caffeine is better than no caffeine at all. Andrew's bare foot dangles idly from the edge of the table, caught in the jello-thick air. He pours himself a cup and considers wolfing down an aspirin while he's at it, but it's not like he has a headache or something, it's just so terribly hot in here that he'll gladly rip the very skin off his muscles if it could help him in such a dreadful predicament. He opens up the kitchen window to let some cool air in, and he sits at the breakfast table, letting the breeze dry off the sweat on his forehead. Andrew materializes in the doorway, mildly annoyed, and he resumes his reading there, perched up on top of the kitchen counter, one leg folded under him.
"One of your shoes is missing," Aaron clarifies, and it's such a stupid thing to say he would gladly smash the cup on his own face until he passes out. Andrew doesn't dignify with an answer.
Aaron sighs, defeated.
It's going to be a fucking long day.