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"To love someone, you have to love yourself."
Mickey 17 had never understood this phrase.
It always seemed silly to him - as if loving oneself was something natural, taken for granted. What if he couldn't? What if he didn't know how?
He had lived more lives than the average person could imagine, but never once had he felt love for himself - not for who he was now, nor for those who had existed before him. The 16th, the 15th, the 14th... they weren't individuals. They were resources. They were used as long as they were needed and then sent to the recycler, turning their bodies into fuel for the ship. Mickey 17 knew the same fate awaited him. He realized he was not a person - just a function, a series of replaceable parts in a machine that ran nonstop. He could remember pain, fear, death, but he never felt a real connection to who he used to be. Each of his selves was temporary, not real. He didn't think about loving himself, he was just surviving. But then Mickey 18 came along and for the first time in his entire life, Mickey 17 felt something new. Something that threatened to break him.
...
At first it was predictable: fear, panic, the desire to kill each other because no two copies could be the same in the same world - or, more precisely, on the same ship, but the world around them no longer worked the way it was supposed to.
They agreed to take turns working together, and Mickey 17 began to notice a strange thing: the longer he was around 18, the more different he felt. They understood each other without words, could anticipate each other's actions because they were the same person, but... not really. They didn't kill each other, which meant they had to live together. At first, things didn't go well. They annoyed each other. 17 was pissed off at how easily 18 slipped into his life, how he joked around like it was all just a funny situation, but the worst part was that he spent too much time with Nasha. She was his rock, the only thing that made his existence even slightly real, and now 18 was talking to her, smiling at her like he had a right to.
One day 17 couldn't take it anymore.
“Do you even notice how clingy you are to her?”
18 looked up lazily.
“What's it to you?”
“She's mine.”
18 smirked.
“Not yours. She doesn't belong to either of us.”
17 hated him for that truth.
They made rules. While one worked, the other stayed in the room. No one could find out. But one day, Nasha saw them both. She wasn't scared, though, just staring.
“Don't tell anyone,” 17 began.
“I'm not going to,” she interrupted.
“Why?”
She smiled gently.
“Because I love you,” she looked first at him, then at 18, “Any of you.”
Mickey didn't know what to make of it. Nasha just accepted, but something inside 17 still kept him uneasy. He began to notice too many details - the way 18 smirked as he waited for his reaction; the way his eyes squinted slightly when he was focused; the way he sat with his hands behind his head as if the whole world belonged to him. 17 pondered this for a long time. If 18 was him, why did he have such feelings for him? Shouldn't it just be an acceptance of himself? But this was different. He noticed the way 18 frowned when he thought, the way he moved his hands when he explained something passionately; the way he smirked when he succeeded in something impossible. Mickey noticed things about him that he'd never seen in a mirror and 17 realized he'd been looking at him. Perhaps even for too long.
...
“You think too much,” 18 said once, without lifting his eyes from the book.
17 frowned.
“And you think too little.”
“That's because I know you're already doing all the mental work for both of us.”
“You act like this whole thing is a joke.”
18 smirked.
“Isn't it funny?”
“No. It's not normal.”
“What exactly?”
17 gritted his teeth.
“I'm falling in love with myself.”
18 looked at him carefully.
“Not really,” he replied.
“What?”
“You're not falling in love with yourself,” he stepped forward, his voice a little quieter, “You're falling in love with me .”
17 swallowed. He wanted to object, to say that it was impossible, that it was disgusting, that it shouldn't be like that; he wanted to jab, to scream, but his tongue wouldn't listen, because he knew it was true.
...
They sat across from each other. The air between them became heavy, tense, almost tangible. 17 felt his insides tighten, not from fear or anger, but from something else, something he didn't fully understand, and 18, as always, just waited.
“You…” 17 began, but his voice treacherously shook.
18 grinned.
“Me?”
“You're mocking me.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You're... you're not even denying it!”
18 tilted his head slightly to the side, eyeing him with obvious interest.
“And you want me to deny it?”
“Yes! No! I don't... I don't see how that's possible!”
“What a coincidence, me neither.”
18 said it too easily, as if he was just watching something funny, and 17 was angry. He didn't understand why this brat could accept what was happening so calmly, while he was torn with internal contradictions.
“It... it doesn't make sense,” 17 said, looking down at the floor.
“You and I are basically a walking paradox,” said 18 thoughtfully, “You know, at first I thought we should kill each other.”
“Maybe you want to do it again?”
It was more emotionally than seriously, and 18 understood that very well.
“You don't want to kill me anymore,” he said.
17 raised his head sharply, but 18 met his gaze completely calmly. And it was true - he couldn't kill him. Even when they'd had the fight in the processing bay, even when the hatred had seemed real, he hadn't been able to do it, and now the hatred had been replaced by something else. Something more disturbing.
“I don't understand,” 17 finally admitted.
18 nodded slightly.
“That's better now.”
“Better?”
“You finally stopped running.”
17 swallowed, clenching his hands into fists. He wanted to say it was all nonsense, that it was impossible, that he hated him-but that was a lie. He couldn't hate 18 because he looked at him differently. Because he noticed too much in him. Because every conversation they had, every look they exchanged, every encounter in their room made his heart skip a beat.
Because...
“You're smiling,” 18 said suddenly.
“What?” 17 asked incomprehensibly.
18 slowly shook his head, grinning.
“You. You're smiling.”
17 immediately pressed his lips together, averting his gaze.
“You're imagining it.”
“No.”
“Shut up.”
18 paused.
“You know that's... cute,” he said after a few seconds.
17 said nothing, causing 18 to giggle merrily across the room. 17 hated that sound... or maybe he wanted to hear it too much to hear it again.
“You're acting like this whole thing is funny,” he muttered.
“Wasn't it?” 18 was still smiling, “Think about it: you're arguing with me about whether it's possible to fall in love with your own clone. That doesn't even sound absurd.”
“It is absurd.”
“Why?”
17 froze.
Why? Because it shouldn't be? Because they're the same person? Because he doesn't understand how it's possible but still can't stop thinking about him?
“You're confusing things,” he said.
“I am?” 18 raised his eyebrows, “I'm not the one arguing with myself about what's normal and what's not.”
“You're pissing me off.”
“I know.”
17 closed his eyes and sighed, trying to calm down. This isn't normal, he thought. But then why did it feel like this was exactly what was supposed to happen?
...
As time went on, living next to 18 became unbearable. They continued to take shifts on the job, continuing to keep secrets from the others. While one performed duties, the other stayed in a room locked to the rest of the crew. Everything seemed to be going as it should. No one was exposing them and everything was staying in place, but 17 knew that wasn't the case. Because every time he went back, he knew 18 would be waiting there. His clone and his strange obsession. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't help but think about him. He began to catch himself deliberately lingering before he went into the room to avoid seeing him a little longer, because every conversation they had ended the same way - 18 was watching him, intently, patiently, and always finding something to say to throw 17 off balance.
Like once, for example, when 17 came back into the room and found 18 sitting on the bed, pensively looking at an old photograph of him.
“You have no right to touch that,” 17 said sharply, snatching the picture out of his hands.
18 didn't even flinch.
“Why not? It's my memory, too.”
17 frowned.
“No. It's... it's mine.”
18 looked at him with a slight smile.
“Do you really want to separate us so badly?”
“We're different enough as it is.”
“But you're still afraid of it.”
“Of what?” 17 asked in confusion.
18 tilted his head to the side, still smirking.
“You're afraid to admit that you like me.”
17 couldn't take it anymore. He threw the photograph on the table and grabbed 18 by the collar of his sweater, pulling him sharply toward him.
“Shut up,” he hissed irritably.
18 smiled wider.
“See?” he said quietly, “You're not pushing me away anymore.”
17 realized that he really wasn't pushing away. His hands clenched into fists, his breathing hitched, his heart pounding so loudly it seemed to be audible in the hallway.
He's close. Too close.
17 unclenched his fingers and stepped back, feeling the heat rising to his face, and 18 smirked even more brazenly.
“Oh, this is getting interesting,” he said.
“You're just... you're just playing with me,” 17 muttered, averting his gaze.
“And you're playing with me.”
“What?!”
18 slowly stood up, stretching lazily before looking at him again.
“You're testing me too, right? You want to understand how I feel. You want to know if I'm real.”
“We're both real,” 17 answered quietly.
“Then why are you acting like I'm just a phantom?”
17 couldn't find anything to say, because part of him really did think that.
He wanted to believe that 18 was just a mistake, a glitch in the system; that if he disappeared, everything would become familiar, understandable again, but he didn't want him to disappear.
He couldn't want him to. They continued to live like this - in constant tension, in this strange game. 17 was still trying to keep himself in check, and 18 was testing his limits more and more. Every word, movement, look and 17 hated that he could no longer imagine his life without him. He was beginning to believe that falling in love with himself was absurd. But falling in love with 18... it was inevitable.
...
When the door opened, 17 immediately realized that 18 was up to something as he stepped inside the room. Mischief flashed in his eyes as he pulled a piece of bread out of his pants pocket and almost held it out to 17, but he pulled his hand away at the last moment, clutching the food in his fingers.
“Come on,” 17 said, “Give it to me.”
“What if I want you to earn it?” prodded 18, sitting down on the bed.
17 squinted his eyes.
“Earn it?”
18 said nothing, but instead of answering, he gently clamped the bread with his teeth, leaving only the edge free. His eyes glittered with mockery.
“You-” 17 recoiled, realizing where this was going.
“Come on,” 18 mumbled through the bread, moving a little closer, “Eat it.”
17 felt his ears flare.
“You're making fun of me.”
“Always.”
17 knew full well that if he just took the bread with his hands, 18 would yank it away, only to continue the bullying. The only other option...
No. He wouldn't give in
17 tensed, lowering his gaze. He couldn't do that. It was too weird, but his stomach painfully reminded him that he hadn't eaten in hours, and 18 kept staring at him in anticipation.
'Come on. It's just a game. You're just hungry,' 17 thought.
He took a deep breath, sat down next to him on the bed and slowly leaned forward. Bread was so close that 17 could feel the clone's warm breath. He cautiously opened his mouth and tried to grasp the loose edge with his teeth, but 18 suddenly jerked forward sharply, shortening the distance. It was getting too close.
17's lips almost touched his. He suddenly froze, his body tensed and his breathing hitched. 18 was definitely amused by this. He squinted, not moving away.
“Is it really that hard for you?”
His voice sounded quiet, slightly muffled over the bread.
“You're pissing me off,” 17 muttered.
“Say that again and I'll eat it myself.”
17, angry with himself, jerked forward sharply and grasped the bread with his teeth.
They both froze, clutching the piece of bread, face to face, lips dangerously close to each other. And at that moment 18 grinned - right in his face.
17 almost dropped the bread. Quickly jerking away, he chewed his piece, feeling his heart pounding frantically in his chest. 18 just sat up straighter, chewing the remaining bread easily, and nodded.
“Good boy.”
17 realized his breathing had hitched.
...
Ever since 17 had snapped at that stupid piece of bread, the tension between them had only grown. It hung in the air, heavy, dense, permeating their every dialog, every glance, every casual touch. But nothing happened, because they were too stubborn and knew each other too well. Right now 17 was standing at the mirror in his room, fiddling irritably with the collar of his uniform. He didn't want to think about 18, didn't want to remember how things had changed in the last few days. But it was only when he lowered his head slightly that he noticed the reflection behind him. Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, 18 watched, as he always did.
“You look like hell,” 18 said lazily, not moving from his seat.
“Thank you, I value your opinion so much,” 17 snapped at him, trying to focus on his clothes.
But he could still feel someone else's eyes on him. 18 was looking too intently, too evaluating, too... greedy ?
17 turned around abruptly.
“What are you trying to accomplish?”
18 raised an eyebrow slightly, smiling innocently.
“Nothing. I just like to watch.”
17 took a step toward him.
“You're doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“You're driving me crazy.”
“You're doing it yourself.”
Fuck. He was right.
17 wanted to push him over the edge first, but 18 wasn't gonna give in.
“Are you holding on?” 18 said mockingly, tilting his head to the side.
17 glared. It was this self-assurance that pissed him off. That easy, almost innocent expression on his face. That endless control. And at the same time...
He couldn't look away, couldn't stop. They were too close. It seemed too long.
18 bowed his head slightly and his lips curved in a familiar grin, as if he knew everything in advance and at that moment 17 snapped. He grabbed 18 by the collar and pulled him sharply to him, locking his lips on his. 18 didn't pull back, he only grinned louder through the kiss, like he'd been waiting for this. As if he'd won. And 17 realized it was true. But damn it... if it was a defeat - he didn't mind losing again. And when 17 finally pulled away, breathing hard, cheeks burning and heart racing wildly, 18 looked at him. Long, intently, penetratingly and quietly, with a satisfied grin, said:
“Finally.”
…
They were sitting on the bed, too close, but neither moved. 17 could still feel his lips on hers. His heart was pounding so loudly that it seemed 18 could hear him. 18 watched. Staring intently and intently. His eyes glittered with mockery, but there was something else behind it. Something not fully understood.
“Well?” 18 finally broke the silence, bowing his head slightly, “Are you going to say something clever?”
17 tensed.
“Like what?”
“Like explaining what just happened.”
17 opened his mouth... and immediately closed it. Fuck. He didn't know what to say. How to explain it? What to tell him if he didn't fully understand?
“You... know everything yourself,” 17 finally squeezed out, averting his gaze.
18 grinned.
“Oh, of course I do. But I wonder how you explain it to yourself.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
17 felt his ears flare. He wanted to turn away, get up, walk away - anything to avoid that look, that understanding, mocking expression, but 18 wouldn't let him escape. He stepped forward a little, closing the distance.
“Admit it, you like the feeling, don't you?” his voice sounded low, almost purring.
17 turned sharply toward him.
“What feeling?”
18 smiled.
“When you're drawn to someone in a way you can't even think.”
17 clenched his jaws.
“You're having fun, aren't you?” he said.
“Fun?” 18 looked at him thoughtfully, then suddenly reached forward, wrapping his fingers around his chin. Gently, but firmly.
“No,” he breathed out, “This is so damn interesting.”
17 wasn't breathing. He couldn't breathe because 18 was too close again; because his fingers were warm and his gaze too attentive; because he was right. This really was something new. Something incredibly frightening. But even more so, something incredibly alluring.
17 swallowed, and 18 smiled back slightly.
“Okay, then,” he muttered, not letting go of his face, “Now what are you going to do?”
17 didn't know, but one thing he knew for sure, he couldn't back down anymore.
He didn't know how long they sat like that. His heart was still beating too loudly, the air in the room was charged-as if they moved, something irreversible would happen-and 18 still wouldn't let go of his chin. Wouldn't let him turn away or run.
“Well?” he spoke softly, almost playfully, but there was something different in his eyes and 17 knew he was about to give up.
But it still didn't make sense. How could it be? How could you reach out to yourself? How could you feel something for someone who wore your face, your voice, your memories? It shouldn't have been possible. And yet...
18's lips were so close, his hand warm and inside him everything clenched in a wild, tugging sensation.
“Do you hate me?” 18 asked suddenly.
17 blinked.
“What?”
18 smiled faintly at the corner of his lips, but his gaze was intense.
“You've been trying to convince yourself for a long time that I'm just an annoying doppelganger that pisses you off, haven't you? Now, if you want to continue this game, it's time to say it again.”
17 swallowed. He needed to say something, but he couldn't lie.
“So what is it?” 18 didn't back down, his voice was almost a whisper.
17 took a breath and closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them...
“The hell with you-”
Before he could change his mind, before he scared himself, he pulled 18 to him and kissed him. Hard. Forcefully. Without a trace of doubt or thought. Just desire. 18 wasn't surprised, didn't pull away, didn't break the kiss. Of course, he'd known this would happen, he'd waited. And when his hands squeezed the fabric of 17's shirt, responding with the same force, when his lips closed in response, when the kiss grew deeper, 17 suddenly realized he could no longer deny it, no longer wanted to.
The kiss was greedy, even too greedy, as if they had both waited too long for this moment, as if all the taunting, all the teasing, the furtive glances had only led here.
18's hands gripped his shirt tightly, and 17 felt that pressure - not letting go, but he didn't want to. He responded with the same strength, the same inner tension that had been building up all along, but it was the other thing that frightened 17 the most. How natural it was, as if it was meant to happen, as if there was nothing wrong with it. 18 pressed him tighter, deepening the kiss a little more, and 17 almost gasped. More air, more feeling. 18 was hot, fingers sliding down his neck and then into his hair, and everything inside clenched. 17 lost track of time. The kiss lingered, growing deeper, softer, slower. Without the greed that it had been the first time, but with something more. With something 17 couldn't explain and didn't want to. 18's hands slid over his shoulders, fingers lightly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, in no hurry to let go. 17 could feel his warmth, his breath, the way he smiled slightly through the kiss, as if... as if he knew it was supposed to end this way.
Damn it. Why was he always right?
When 18 finally pulled away, 17 could still feel his lips on hers. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. There was no going back. And yet, despite this, 18 didn't remove his hands.
“There,” his voice sounded relaxed, as if he'd just put an end to an argument, “It's not so scary, is it?”
17 covered his eyes. Damn, he was winding him up again, but now in a... different way.
“You're incorrigible.”
18 grinned.
“And you're slow.”
He pulled him slightly closer, gently, almost subtly, and 17 felt his heart skip a beat again.
“I'm just not crazy,” he mumbled, but even he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.
18 tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“So I'm a psycho?”
“Is that a secret?”
18 grinned, but there was no anger in his eyes. Just a familiar warmth... his own.
“You gave in after all,” 18 spoke low, almost purring, and 17 felt his fingers clench a little tighter in his hair, “So, do you feel better now?”
17 didn't answer. Just sat there, feeling his body burn, as if something inside him was breaking down and reassembling itself. 18 chuckled softly.
“Do you realize there's no turning back now?” 18 ran his fingers along the back of his head, making it quiver.
17 slowly looked up and looked directly into his deep but warm eyes.
“I know,” 17 sighed heavily and before he could change his mind, he pulled 18 himself and kissed him first. This time consciously, for real, and 18 didn't grin anymore.
He only responded.
…
Something had changed after the second kiss. 17 felt it in everything - in the way 18 looked at him now, in the way he no longer teased so wickedly, in the way their interaction had become... different. More natural. And perhaps that was the most frightening thing of all. For the first time in a long time, 17 didn't feel the need to run, to pretend that nothing had happened, because now he knew - there was no turning back. And for the first time in his life, it didn't scare him.
They sat across from each other on the bed, too close, but it didn't seem strange now. 18 was looking at him lazily, hands still on his shoulders, but now he wasn't in a hurry to break the silence. This was new, as they had never been silent for so long.
“Tell me,” 18 finally spoke, his voice a little quieter than usual, “Did you think I hadn't noticed?”
17 blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“About the way you look at me,” 18 replied.
17 flinched, but didn't say anything. 18 shook his head slightly.
“Stubborn,” he sighed, but there was no irritation in his tone, “I knew it would come to this, didn't I?”
“You always know everything,” 17 murmured, not looking away.
“Yes.”
18 smiled - for real.
“You knew, too, didn't you?”
17 didn't answer, but 18 understood without words, because now they had nothing more to hide.
…
After that, everything changed and at the same time, nothing. 17 and 18 still took turns, kept to their schedules, hid from everyone. Everything was the same as before. But still 17 could feel the difference. There was something else between them now.
Something they didn't talk about out loud.
At least 17 didn't know what to call it, and 18 didn't seem to be in a hurry to define what they had now.
It was just...was.
No talking, no questions. Just glances that lingered longer than necessary. Casual touches that would have meant a challenge before, but now... only confirmed what had long been obvious.
…
Now, after long shifts, after exhausting tasks, 17 could gently touch 18 and he would not pull away. At first it was almost imperceptible. Once, when 18 returned from a particularly hard day's work, he just sat silently on the bed, dropping his head tiredly on his hands.
“How did it go?”
“Same as always,” 18 said, but his voice was muffled.
17 came closer and, without thinking, put his palm on his shoulder. Before, 18 would have moved away immediately, but this time he stayed still.
“You look like shit,” 17 said quietly.”
“Thanks, I feel better.”
17 smiled with the corner of his lips, but didn't remove his hand.
“You're tired.”
“And you're a genius,” 18 muttered, but didn't mind when 17 squeezed his shoulder a little, kneading the tense muscles.
Before, 18 would have snorted, brushed it off, walked away, but now he just sat there, letting 17 be there for him. Later, things started happening even more often.
After particularly rough days, 17 could sit next to him without asking and just run his palm over his back, feeling the tenseness of his body under his fingers.
One day, when 18 lay down with his eyes closed, 17 just lay next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Without words or explanation and 18 didn't move away. He just stayed.
At first he pretended not to care, but then... 17 noticed that 18 himself began to seek out those touches. He no longer wrinkled his nose if 17 accidentally touched him, no longer pulled away when 17 delayed the touch. And one day, when 17, unsuspecting, sat down next to him and habitually placed his palm on his hand... 18 covered it with his own. Slowly, as if checking to see if 17 would pull his hand away first. He didn't and then 18 just squeezed his fingers, letting himself forget that he'd ever been against it. Now it was their norm and familiar.
Before, touching between them had been something abrupt, a challenge, a game of testing boundaries. Now... now 17 could just touch 18 for no reason and he wouldn't pull away. Now 18 himself could pass by, casually touch 17's shoulder or give his wrist a quick squeeze before leaving, as if involuntarily, just for fun. Now 17 could put his hand on his neck, squeeze it a little, and 18 wouldn't wrinkle it, wouldn't flinch, wouldn't flinch away. He just let it. Sometimes, when 17 lingered in the hallway longer than usual, 18 would meet him in his room and lean back against him tiredly.
“Still alive?” he'd mutter.
“Almost,” 17 answered, resting his chin lazily on his shoulder.
18 hummed, but didn't remove it. Before, he would have, wouldn't have let it go, but now it was normal.
Now it was habitual.
…
One evening when 17 returned to the room after changing 18, he was already waiting for him, sitting on the bed.
“How did it go?” He asked, stretching his legs lazily.
17 only shrugged.
“As usual.”
“No one suspected anything?” 18 asked.
“Not yet, no.”
18 nodded, but 17 could see he wanted to say something else.
“What?” he asked.
18 tilted his head slightly.
“We can't go on like this forever.”
17 tensed.
“We've gone too far already.”
“I know,” 18 sighed, interlocking his fingers, “It's just... we do realize that sooner or later something's going to go wrong, don't we?”
17 kept quiet, because he thought about it almost every night too, but hearing it from 18... it was weird.
Like it was the first time he wasn't talking for a joke, but seriously.
“Are you suggesting a change?”
18 looked away, frowning thoughtfully.
“I don't know yet,” he answered.
They both fell silent again.
“What about Nasha?” 17 finally asked, meeting his gaze.
18 grinned a little.
“What about her?”
“She knows and... she's quiet for now.”
18 nodded easily.
“She loves you.”
“She loves us both,” 17 replied.
18 smiled again.
“So what's the problem then?”
“The problem is that now we know it can't go on like this.”
18 looked at him carefully, and 17 shifted his gaze to the walls of the room.
“We've got to think of something,” he said at last, “Before we're exposed.”
18 nodded, but didn't look particularly concerned. He was always like that - not fussy, even when he knew disaster was near.
“Any options?”
17 snorted.
“If there were, I wouldn't be sitting here torturing myself with this.”
“You already like to torture yourself,” 18 smiled slightly.
“Don't you?”
“I prefer not to dwell on it.”
17 looked at him.
“So we'll just leave it at that?”
18 shrugged.
“Until a better idea comes along, yes.”
There was silence again. It was no longer tense, but 17 still felt something hanging in the air. Something important.
“What if they find out?”
18 nodded slowly, as if he was thinking about it himself.
“Then one of us will have to disappear.”
17 looked at him sharply.
“We're not going to let that happen, are we?”
18 smiled again, but didn't answer.
That was enough.
“Okay,” 17 sighed, closing his eyes, “We're just waiting.”
“Exactly.”
He opened his eyes.
“Nasha…”
18 tilted his head thoughtfully.
“I think she should be given time, too.”
17 frowned slightly.
“Do you really believe that everything can resolve itself?”
18 leaned closer, his voice a little lower.
“Do you really believe that everything can be kept under control?”
17 didn't say anything, but 18 understood.
…
The door opened abruptly, almost irritably. 18 stepped into the room, slamming it shut behind him. He looked exhausted - his shoulders tense, his movements abrupt, his thoughts seeming to rush through his head without respite. At that moment, 17 was just coming out of the shower. His wet hair clung to his skin, his pajamas sat softly, and a light steam was still coming off him. He was wiping his head with a towel, but when he saw 18, he froze for a second.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
18 didn't answer. He walked silently across the room and plopped down on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands behind his head.
Silence hung in the air.
17 took a step and carefully sat down next to him. 18 was tense as a taut string, and 17 could feel it without even touching him. He removed the towel from his head and set it aside.
“Had a bad day?”
18 sighed.
“As if you cared.”
17 didn't answer, just stared at him. For a while 18 tried to ignore it, but then he felt... warm.
17 slowly pulled him to himself.
He didn't even immediately realize what was happening until he felt his body sink down onto the bed and his head gently rest on 17's lap.
What...?
18 froze, his breathing hitched for a second.
His head rested on 17's lap, and his palm lay on 18's hair, gently, almost hesitantly. 18 felt a strange, incomprehensible current run through his body.
“What are you…”
“Just lie here.”
17's voice sounded soft. Not the way he usually did, which should have made 18 resentful. Should have pushed him away, but instead he slowly closed his eyes, feeling 17's fingers gently running through his hair.
It was... strange, but not unpleasant.
18 felt the tension begin to slowly recede. How the thoughts that had been keeping him awake suddenly subsided; how 17's warm fingers going through the strands of his hair made him feel like he was safe here, now. He hadn't expected it, but at this moment he didn't want to pull away. He couldn't.
…
It was a hard day.
17 fell asleep restless, tossing and turning and then... the nightmare happened: blurry shadows, a voice he couldn't make out, terror clutching at his chest. He jerked, sat up abruptly, sucking in air noisily. The room was dark, but someone nearby moved and 17 realized that 18 was awake.
“Are you all right?” came a soft voice, muffled by sleepiness.
17 didn't answer right away. He exhaled deeply, sinking back onto the bed, but he felt warmth nearby. 18 didn't ask what was wrong, he just... moved closer so that their shoulders touched. So much so that 17 felt his palm gently touch his hand. 17 tensed a little, but 18 didn't pull away and after a few seconds he turned toward him himself, carefully, without thinking. So much so that he could rest his forehead against his shoulder. So much so that he felt 18's quiet, calm breathing beside him. So much so that he let himself relax, and 18, without saying a word, slowly put his arms around him. 17 thought it would be impossible to fall asleep again, but...
The warmth of other's(?) body, his hands on his back, the slow rhythm of his breathing next to him...
And he fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning they didn't even discuss it, because there was no need.
It wasn't strange anymore.
…
At some point, 17 realized that he no longer thought of himself as separate from 18. And Mickey 18 seemed to feel the same way. They no longer existed as two people who had suddenly collided and were trying to figure out what to do next - they had become one.
But what to do next?
They discussed it at night, lying on their bed. Each in a different pose, but still touching each other with their hands.
“We can't live like this forever,” 17 said, looking up at the ceiling.
“Why not?” 18 was lying on his side, slightly raised on his elbow.
“Because that's not living.”
“What is it then?”
17 shifted his gaze to him.
“Freedom.”
18 froze for a second, then slowly grinned.
“You're serious, aren't you?”
“More than serious.”
He thought 18 was going to start teasing again, that he'd chuckle or avoid answering, but 18 suddenly looked at him differently.
“So we need a plan.”
17 raised up on his elbow a little, looking at him.
“A plan?”
“Yes,” 18 leaned back, folding his hands behind his head, “We're not just going to leave. We're gonna destroy everything that made us this way.”
The room grew quiet.
“Commander in chief?” 17 asked quietly.
“He and all his pawns,” something dark gleamed in 18's eyes, “And most importantly... we're going to tear the damn printer apart.”
The printer that printed a copy of the same Mickey over and over again. The one that created them and kept them from being themselves.
“If we do that…” 17 took a deep breath, “There will be no more new copies.”
“Yes,” 18 replied calmly.
“There will be no more me.”
18 turned to him slowly, his gaze was attentive, penetrating.
“There will be,” he said, “You already are. The real you.”
17 stared at him for a long time and suddenly realized: he wants it, not just wants it, he craves it. He wants to survive. Not just exist, not just survive tomorrow.
To really live.
“Okay,” 17 said more firmly, “So we'll come up with a plan.”
18 grinned more resolutely.
“Good, Mickey.”
…
17 closed his eyes tiredly, leaning back against the pillow. His thoughts were confused, his body aching after a long shift, and the weight of what was to come settled in his chest. He wasn't afraid, but he realized that tomorrow would change everything.
“Hey,” 18's voice came from nearby, quiet but confident.
17 didn't open his eyes, only felt the mattress sag under his weight as he sat down next to him.
“Mick,” 18 said softly.
17 flinched. He'd never called him that before. He opened his eyes and met 18's warm gaze.
“What?” he muttered.
18 didn't answer immediately. He only touched his hand lightly, barely perceptibly, but enough for 17 to feel his touch.
“You're too tense,” 18 said, leaning closer, “Relax a little.”
“Relax?” 17 chuckled, “We're going to kill the commander in chief tomorrow and you're telling me to relax?”
“Yes,” 18 replied simply, “Because if you're all fractured from stress, you're not going to be much use.”
17 opened his mouth to object, but 18 suddenly put his arms around him gently. Warm hands slid over his shoulders, and 17 sighed, tilting his head so that his forehead touched 18's shoulder.
“You annoy me sometimes,” he murmured.
“Oh, I know, Mick,” Mickey grinned, 18 and ran his palm down his back, “But you love me anyway.”
17 closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
18 froze a little, but after a moment his hands clenched a little tighter. 17 felt the other man's warm breath on his skin, felt him lazily running his fingers over his back.
“Tomorrow is going to be hell,” 18 said quietly, his lips touching 17's temple.
“I know.”
18 smiled, not removing his hands from the other man's back.
“But I don't care. The important thing is that you're there for me.”
17 inhaled deeply. He looked into the semi-darkness of the room, but he didn't see fear.
He saw the two of them, surviving against all odds. Two who should have hated, but instead had learned to love.
He suddenly remembered that phrase.
“To love someone, you have to love yourself.”
He hadn't realized the meaning before.
How can you love yourself when you're just a copy of yourself? When your life is a series of deaths and rebirths?
But now...
Now he understood.
Loving yourself is not just accepting your reflection. To love yourself is to accept the one who stands in front of you, who looks at you through your own eyes, who lives the same life with you and makes it real. To love yourself is to love 18. 17 closed his eyes and squeezed his palm tighter.
Tomorrow there will be fighting and blood, possibly wounded, but they will survive no matter what. Because they are no longer alone.