Chapter Text
Ryland’s never cared this much about his hair before. Since he was old enough to bat his mother’s pomade-sticky fingers away from his head and tell his father off for all the overbearing manly expectations being imposed on him, his hair has been a careless, tousled nest of blonde that shapes itself however it pleases. It’s not for lack of wanting to appear ‘nice’ and put-together; it’s just that Ryland’s always had better things to worry about, and he likes to think he pulls off careless reasonably well.
But careless isn’t the vibe he’s aiming to project to a conference room full of future peers and colleagues who have the power to either make or break his career before it even starts. He didn’t bust his ass for six years to earn his Ph.D and the subsequent right to share his potentially life-altering research with the world, just for his boyish hair to discredit his intelligence in the eyes of his predecessors.
He futzes and fiddles with lock after lock atop his head, meticulously smoothing each strand into the most perfect, precise, neat position. The smoother it gets, the more he thinks he looks like his dad, and he can’t help but grimace at the realization. He also can’t help but cast the thought aside as soon as it arises, because he truly can’t be busied with anything related to his father right now. Had the old man had it his way, Ryland wouldn’t even be in this position today—blessed with the opportunity to follow his dreams and passion as a scholar.
Dropping his arms to his sides and staring at his reflection in the mirror, Ryland’s inclined to believe his father, who couldn’t have been more wrong more times about Ryland and his prospects for success throughout his entire upbringing, was only ever right in one respect:
Neat hair does make a man look smarter.
Ryland drums his hands against the sides of his legs, fingers picking at the khaki fabric of his slacks. He takes stock of his appearance. Suits aren’t really his thing. The wool jackets are too itchy. There are too many layers. Too many buttons. Too many bells and whistles. He gets hot easily, especially when he’s nervous—and he’s always prone to nerves at events that demand a suit of him.
He looks fine enough, he supposes. The charcoal gray hue of the jacket and pants is inoffensive, though a closer inspection—should anyone care so much—would reveal that the jacket hangs a little loose over his shoulders. The light blue undershirt is tidy and unwrinkled. The top two buttons are undone, and while he prefers the look and feel of that, he worries it makes him look careless; he may have to sacrifice his desire to let his neck breathe for the sake of professionalism.
The burgundy tie he absolutely doesn’t want to wear is perched in his periphery, on the back of his hotel room sofa…
He’s clean-shaven, which he doesn’t particularly like the look of either; sure, it’s more ‘polished’ in theory, but he’d much prefer a bit of stubble to help conceal his stubborn spots of stress-acne.
He lifts a shaky hand up to adjust the seat of his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, puffing out a short breath.
“Okay, Ryland…” He clears his throat. “Dr. Grace—” he cringes and shakes his head at himself. Stupid. One more self-composing breath, and then he meets his eyes in the mirror. “You’ve done this talk a million times. Everyone at the lab approved of it. You’re prepared. You know your stuff. You just gotta present it one more time. They’re all gonna love it.”
He feels like a whole entire dork doing this, but the frantic hammering his heart’s been doing behind his sternum since he woke up that morning is starting to ease up, so his confidence must be coming back to him at least a little bit.
He gives himself a nod and a sure smile, ready to take on the day ahead—
“Wow, you’re still doing those corny mirror pep-talks after all these years?”
Ryland will be ashamed of it in ten seconds-time, but in the moment, he bounds into the air and lets out a shrill scream at the sudden, intruding voice. He plasters his back against the nearest wall and brandishes the hotel hairdryer out in front of him before he can even think to do it consciously, eyes round as dinner plates and chest heaving.
“Easy there, Officer. Don’t shoot.”
Ryland blinks at the scene before him, all made of blurry blobs of color, and he realizes he lost his glasses somewhere in the brief burst of chaos. Not daring to lower the hairdryer, he squints his vision into focus. Stood in front of him, just beyond the threshold of the bathroom doorway, is a man clad in ripped, washed denim jeans, a pair of ratty combat boots, and a red-and-black leather jacket that Ryland is now painfully aware must have the words Miami Vice Stunt Team printed on the back.
Well, doesn’t this just figure? It’s the single most important day of Ryland’s life, and his idiot twin brother is here to set it all on fire.
“Jesus Christ, Colt.” Ryland tosses the hairdryer haphazardly onto the sink counter and drags his hands down his face, willing away the surge of adrenaline in his veins. “How did you get into my room?”
“You’re seriously asking how your identical twin managed to swindle an extra room key out of the front desk agent?”
Ryland deflates, thoroughly exasperated. He makes a vague, half-assed gesture with his hand that’s some kind of cross between a concession to Colt’s reasoning and a general expression of irritability.
The thing is—Colt doesn’t actually look much like Ryland at all. The bone structure is the same, the height is the same, the hair color and eye color are the same. But they each carry themselves so differently in drastic proportion that anyone could pick either of them out in a crowded room and correctly identify them.
Colt is all charm and devilish smiles and devil-may-care, blasé attitudes. He’s got sun-bleached streaks in his messy hair, and his facial hair is grown out longer than Ryland would ever tolerate for himself. His nose has a slight crook to it from the break it sustained last year at a D-list martial arts movie shoot. It’s actually offensive, in some obscure way, that that hotel agent could’ve ever mistaken Colt for Ryland.
“You dropped these.” The fuzzy figure of Colt stoops to pluck something off the bathroom floor and offers it Ryland’s way.
Ryland begrudgingly takes it, feeling the familiar form of thin metal between his fingers. He unfolds the temples and slips his glasses back onto his face. His vision clears crystalline, and he finds Colt smirking at him, looking him up and down—as if it’s so ridiculous that Ryland is dressed like a professional at a professional conference.
Ryland purses his lips and brushes past Colt to park himself in front of the big, decorative mirror in the main room. “What’re you doing here?”
“Was in the neighborhood.” In the mirror’s reflection, Ryland can see Colt sauntering out of the bathroom, hands hooked coyly behind his back. “Thought I’d drop by.”
“I didn’t realize Miami was in the neighborhood of Copenhagen.”
“Only a nine-hour flight.”
“Right.” Ryland glares at himself in the mirror. His nice, neat hair is a mess again, thanks to all the flailing Colt’s jumpscare had him doing.
Frankly, he thinks it looks ten times better this way, but he’s not about to lend Colt’s unsolicited visit any credence. He diligently begins smoothing his hair back down.
In the background, Colt flops down onto the white, suede sofa, settling in comfortably with his limbs sprawled out in an absurd lazy star formation—one arm dangling off the edge, the other thrown behind his head, one foot planted on the floor, the other tossed up and over the back of the sofa.
A frown of disapproval weighs on Ryland’s face. “You’re getting your Florida Man spray tan all over that very nice couch.”
Colt cranes his neck to burn holes into the back of Ryland’s head with his eyes. “It’s not a spray tan, dummy. Unlike you, I actually spend time outdoors instead of sitting hunched over a microscope all day-long.”
“You had to get a basal cell carcinoma tumor removed from your shoulder two months ago. I think I’ll stick to my microscope,” Ryland retorts dryly.
He likes his microscope. He likes his centrifuges, and his pipettes, and his electrophoresis systems, and his thermal cyclers. He likes who he is, and he’s more than a little sick of having people imply there’s something wrong with that.
Maybe he’s projecting a little. It’s not like Colt wasn’t picked on by their father, too. Neither of them turned out the way he wanted. Unlike their father, Colt doesn’t so much want to change Ryland as he just doesn’t fully understand him. Still, sometimes it becomes terribly evident that there are shades of the old man in them both darkening the path to forging the ever-so-coveted ‘twin closeness’ they were always supposed to have with each other.
It can’t be helped. Ryland learned that a long time ago. Colt never quite seemed to grasp the concept.
The heavy sigh that Colt lets out is utterly loaded. The following silence, even more so.
Ryland, against his better judgment, entertains Colt’s wordless prompting. “What?”
“Nothing,” Colt says, in that infuriating way he does when he’s trying to plant tiny seeds of guilt in someone. “Just wondering if you might need a little lube to help extract that ginormous stick from your ass.”
Ryland wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. He shouldn’t have asked.
“C’mon, Ry! You used to be so fun. What happened to you?”
Ryland scoffs. “Real life. Responsibilities. A job demanding professional conduct. You should try it sometime.”
Colt sits bolt-upright on the couch, posture bristling. “Excuse the fuck out of you. I work three shows a day, six days a week, and I rehearse new material sixteen hours every other seventh—and I’ve never missed a single day in the entire three years I’ve been doing it. I’m the definition of professional conduct.”
“You do tricks for kids and divorced dads at a theme park.”
Ryland regrets saying it the second it comes out. He knows Colt works hard. He knows Colt is pursuing his dreams and passions, just the same as Ryland. For the next handful of seconds, tension dangling thick in the air between them, he finds himself reeling internally trying to puzzle out what the hell even possessed him to say something so scathing and dismissive.
He doesn’t have to wade overly far into the tumultuous waters of his psyche to find the answer. The image of their father’s stony blue stare that insists upon itself in his mind’s eye tells him everything he needs to know.
In that one awful instant, Ryland’s mouth became nothing more than a record player for all their father’s greatest hits on vinyl.
“Well, shit, Ryland—why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” Colt’s voice wobbles just so, almost imperceptible. But Ryland hears it clear as day, and it has his chest tightening with remorse.
In the mirror’s reflection, Ryland sees Colt stand, ready to walk out and never come back—and suddenly Ryland feels like he’s the idiot. Because Colt hasn’t missed a single day of work in three years, and yet Colt is here, in Denmark, and it somehow hadn’t occurred to Ryland at all that his workhorse of a brother wouldn’t be here unless it was for a very good reason.
Colt is impulsive and reckless and—yes—occasionally a bit of an idiot. But he cares. This is his way of showing he cares. And apparently, Ryland’s version of returning the favor is to crap all over Colt’s career and use his life choices as toilet paper.
“Wait, don’t go—Colt, come on…” Ryland scuttles across the room to grab Colt by the shoulders before he can slip out the door and guide him back over to the couch.
Colt doesn’t fight him, but he doesn’t look him in the eyes or give him any deserved snark either. He just sits in the middle of the couch with his head hung low, and his body sunken.
He’s always been the more sensitive of the two. Twenty-three minutes older, but his heart is softer. More easily crushed and broken.
“Look, I didn’t mean it, okay? I’m sorry,” Ryland says lamely, though he’s solemn in every word. He is sorry. Verily so.
“Then why did you say it?” mutters Colt. He’s still looking at the floor.
Ryland breathes a long, steady exhale, a strained set in his jaw. He turns to peer out the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows; peering back at him is the big, grand convention center surrounded by all the world’s flags and flooded with thousands of the most influential global academic elite. His heart is hammering yet again.
“I’m under a lot of pressure right now,” he explains, and coming as no shock to him, it sounds just as lame as the last thing he said. “I’m not—I don’t…” He swallows roughly, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. Finally, he settles to admit, “I don’t think I belong here.”
That gets Colt’s attention. He lifts his gaze, looking up at Ryland like a kicked—but curious—puppy. “What do you mean?”
Ryland feels itchy, skin too tight for his skeleton. He fidgets, tucking his glasses under his chin to scrub at his face with sweaty palms as he lowers himself to a sit on the minimalistic Scandinavian coffee table in front of Colt.
“I don’t know,” he says, and drops his hands into his lap. “I don’t know—I mean… I’m not a natural at this sort of stuff. You know me: I don’t like presenting in front of large crowds, I don’t like having to change the way I look to get people to take me seriously, I don’t think it’s fair or right that dissenting opinions in scientific fields are so discouraged that meaningful discussions that should be had aren’t happening. This place embodies everything I’m not.”
In some ways, high academia itself is antithetical to Ryland’s character. He knows he’s smart, he knows he deserves the accolades he’s achieved—but there’s a certain somber ache in knowing it all stems from an institution he doesn’t exactly fit into.
Colt’s lucky. He fits in precisely where he’s placed himself. Thrillseeker. Acrobat. Athlete with a stunning understanding of physics in his own right. There isn’t a job more tailored to Colton Grace than that of a stuntman. And he gets to be happy. He gets to go to work every day and not question where he belongs on the stage of his dreams and passions, because he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that his place is right in the middle of it all.
So perhaps Ryland resents Colt, not because Colt did anything wrong, but because Ryland could never discern what was right for himself. He adores his research, and he believes in the wonders and conclusions his education has led him to; he’s just not confident in the stage upon which he’s chosen to fulfill his dreams.
He leaves all of that unsaid, of course. It’s too much to dump on Colt, and really, he’s not so sure they’re close enough to justify him sharing such a deep expression of honesty.
Colt, however, is watching him like he’s seeing every wretched thought spiraling about in Ryland’s head. Like he can hear the unsaid, said. And hell, maybe he can. Maybe Ryland is lucky enough to have someone in his life who can read between the lines he habitually hardens into steel boundaries, and he simply didn’t know it until now.
Maybe Ryland doesn’t have to say out-loud that he’s so ridiculously jealous of Colt and the life he’s built that it makes him question everything he thinks he knows about himself, even when he’s a mere stone’s throw from an opportunity millions of people would kill to have—including him if he didn’t have it.
Colt nods faintly, tipping his head to the side to catch Ryland’s eye in some pleasant, unprovoking manner that’s eerily reminiscent of their late mother. “This whole science-y conference thing’s about sharing something new, right?”
Ryland considers this. He thinks it’s a bit reductive of what UNESCO and the weight of its importance is, but he supposes, at its core… “Yeah.”
“Then share something new,” Colt says, like it’s obvious. “If a place isn’t made for you, you make a place for yourself. You think I started doing stuntwork one day and everything went seamlessly from the start for me?”
Well. Yeah, actually. At least, that’s always how it seemed.
Ryland doesn’t feel like continuing to look vulnerable and pathetic longer than he already has though, so he just gives a noncommittal shrug and doesn’t say anything.
“The trick is to make yourself so irreplaceable that you can do and be whatever you want, and no one can tell you no,” Colt adds, like it’s easy.
Can it be that easy? What exactly can Ryland do to make himself irreplaceable in his field? There’s thousands like him, as smart or smarter, more connected and well-funded, all over the world. What does he have to offer that they don’t, besides…?
Right.
Something new.
Well—if there’s anything he’s got in store for this conference, it’s definitely something new. Whether it’ll be popular is another thing entirely.
Ryland’s not sure how to express gratitude for Colt’s valiant attempts at motivational speaking, since he’s neither totally convinced of the validity of Colt’s philosophies nor certain that Colt understands what he’s trying to motivate Ryland to do—so Ryland makes the executive decision to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Why’re you here, Colt?” It’s the second time he’s asking in the last ten minutes. This time, the question’s not interwoven with inklings of accusation and annoyance. Conversely, Ryland can hear the unintended softness in his voice wrapped around the words—delicate and unguarded like he hasn’t been in years.
Colt draws in a breath. “Because I knew Dad wouldn’t be.”
Ryland flinches, taken aback by the earnest delivery of that sentiment. He stares at Colt, and Colt stares right back, his brow pinched and upturned, resembling a look of sympathy.
It almost has Ryland shutting himself back down, shuttering the doors he’s reluctantly opened to this exchange, cowering behind his carefully-crafted mask of stoicism. He really can’t fathom how their father’s become such a prominent guest-star on the single most pivotal day of his career, and the man isn’t even here.
He’s back home in frigid, gray Rochester, New York, most assuredly sloshing way too much beer in front of the TV after putting in overtime mopping floors and slinging garbage bags at the Eastman Kodak building downtown. He’s probably not even thinking about Ryland’s imminent conference presentation at all—not that Ryland didn’t invite him, all expenses paid. Then again, he’d seemed surprisingly open to the idea of attending until Ryland dropped the all expenses paid part, so really, it’s on Ryland that the guy’s not here for him.
In retrospect, Ryland should’ve known. The old man is too prideful and too insecure about his role in the world as a man to accept so-called ‘charity.’ Especially from his own son.
Ryland had tried to explain that it doesn’t work like that. It’s not charity to have the institution you’re employed at pay to send you and a guest or two to prestigious events. That’s the norm in academia.
His father chose to believe Ryland was mocking him. And that was that.
“This is the biggest moment of your life, Ry. I just… Didn’t think it was fair for you to have to do it all alone,” Colt tells him. His leg’s begun to bounce restlessly, as if he’s dreading the potential of a rejection on Ryland’s part. As if he’s afraid he’s miscalculated, and Ryland doesn’t want him here.
Ryland is far too occupied with bewilderment at the implication in Colt’s tone to properly grasp just how nervous his brother looks all of a sudden.
Blinking, wide-eyed, he asks, “are you saying you wanna attend my ultra-boring, hour-long, dry science talk?”
It’s a foolish notion. Colt is just as smart as Ryland, and there’s no doubt in Ryland’s mind that if he’d gone to college and pursued a similar career path, Colt would be standing right beside him on that conference stage across the street in several hours. But Colt didn’t go to college or pursue a remotely similar career path, explicitly because he despises the stuffy, stale elitism of academia.
Ryland’s semi-convinced that Colt would sooner jab icepicks into his ears than voluntarily subject himself to a scientific presentation at a major international conference.
“I wouldn’t exactly be there for the science,” Colt says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Though I’m sure whatever it is you’re planning to talk about is interesting in its own way.”
Despite himself, Ryland snorts. A hint of amusement.
“Anyway…” Colt waves his hand about halfheartedly, appearing to be searching for words to snatch out of thin air. “I’m your big brother, Ry—”
“We’re the same age.”
“Twenty-three minutes older is still older.”
Ryland gives him a blank look that he ignores completely.
“Look—” Colt huffs, gathering the nerve to finally meet Ryland’s eyes— “let me make up for the old man’s bullshit, will ya? It’s what big brothers do.” It’s what I want to do is something left without a voice, but Ryland sees echoes of it in Colt’s painfully sincere gaze.
Ryland sighs. He has to look away, knowing that Colt’s golden retriever pleading eyes have an annoying knack for persuasion that Ryland can’t afford to fall prey to without taking a good amount of time to weigh the pros and cons of his brother’s request.
Here’s the thing: Ryland and Colt have a complicated relationship. They love each other—of course they do; they’re brothers—but their lack of genuine closeness throughout their upbringing and into their adult years has made it difficult to trust one another. It’s not like Ryland thinks Colt has any malicious intentions. He knows more than enough about Colt to attest that there isn’t a single malicious bone in his body. However, just because there’s an absence of malintent, doesn’t mean there’s an absence of propensity to mess things up.
Colt is a jokester. He doesn’t take himself or anything seriously. And when he tries, he only digs his proverbial holes deeper and makes sure to carve out enough space in the grave for the people he brings down with him.
If Colt is allowed in that conference hall—if he’s allowed to sit in among the world’s top scholars in molecular biology, Ryland’s peers—Ryland can’t simply pretend they’re not related so he can weasel out of any disaster Colt might stir up. They’re twins, for God’s sake.
Colt will moan and groan about the unfairness of Ryland’s pristine memory until the end of time, but Ryland still vividly recalls Colt visiting him on campus and trying to chat up a woman four years ago without realizing she was Ryland’s Master’s research advisor, and it made for an absolutely painstaking and awkward final few months preparing for his thesis defense.
“How the hell was I supposed to know a twenty-four year-old woman can have a Ph.D and teach at a university?” Colt had complained.
And Ryland, frazzled and humiliated, had snapped back, “she’s a genius, you big dumb imbecile—that’s why she’s my advisor!”
Every time he had a meeting with her after that incident, he could tell she was endlessly weirded out by the fact that he, her student, and the guy who dropped the worst pickup lines in history on her, had the same damn face.
Surely, though, Colt’s wised up since then. Ryland would like to think so. After all, Colt does have a massively demanding job that he performs admirably, and he traveled all the way to Denmark because he had enough sense to know Ryland would appreciate—even if he won’t outright admit it—someone being there for him and supporting him in his most stressful and bold undertaking yet.
Decisions, decisions…
Ryland eyes the dark little smudge on the arm of the couch, and an idea flickers to life in his head.
“You gonna pay for the damages to the couch?” he asks.
Colt’s mouth falls open with affront. “What damages? I don’t have a spray tan!”
Ryland gets up and pointedly taps the smudge before retrieving his tie from the back of the sofa. He moves back into the bathroom without saying another word.
When he casts a side-eyed glance back at Colt, he sees him blinking at the smudge, a sheepish flush prickling in his cheeks.
“Yeah, fine. Okay. What is it, like—five-hundred bucks? No biggie.”
There’s a slight uptick at the corner of Ryland’s mouth as he tends to his tie, buttoning up the collar of his shirt and wrapping the burgundy fabric snug around his neck.
The old Colt would’ve argued until he was blue in the face that he wasn’t at fault for the smudge to get out of having to take any kind of responsibility. Indeed, it seems he’s grown quite a bit.
“I’m messing with you, man,” Ryland confesses. “The smudge was there before you got here.”
A beat of silence passes. Colt is definitely staring at him like he’s crazy.
“Oh, good. So you are still capable of making a joke.”
“On rare, glorious occasion.” Ryland finishes tightening his tie, nice and snug, then turns to face Colt again. “So—you really wanna come to my talk?”
Colt lifts his hands up in a show of befuddlement. “What, do you honestly believe I took my first day off in years to fly halfway across the world and loaf around in your hotel room while you go do important nerd shit for the betterment of humanity?”
“You’ve committed far more outrageous nonsense before.”
Colt jabs an accusing finger at him. “I resent that.”
“You snapped your ankle doing a flip off the roof into our neighbors’ trash can just to get Suzy Peters to give you her number in sophomore year, and she—”
“Didn’t even give it to me—yeah, yeah, I get it. I was there too, you know. You don’t have to keep bringing it up.”
Ryland allows himself to smile freely at the indignant pout on Colt’s face. He meanders his way back over to the couch, propping his hands on the back of it. He takes a second to collect his thoughts, centering himself.
Then he says, mind made up, “promise me you’re not gonna do anything crazy.”
Colt tips his head back to beam at Ryland, eyes lit up with relief. “Yeah, of course! I promise.”
Ryland hums, nodding his head once. He hopes he doesn’t regret this.
He wanders over to the other mirror across the room to do one last check of his appearance.
“I have an extra suit hanging in the closet,” he tells Colt.
Only for Colt to respond obliviously, “uh… Okay? And?”
Ryland deadpans into the mirror. “And put it on. You’re not wearing stuntman chic at a UNESCO conference.”
Colt groans in trademark dramatic fashion, but there’s a subsequent shuffling-around and clicking open of closet doors that suggest he’s acquiescing at Ryland’s behest. “I’ll wear the drab suit, but you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m gonna slick my hair down. ‘Cause no offense, Ry, but you look like a middle school science teacher who takes himself unbearably seriously.”
Ryland’s face twists up into a pissy little pinch, but Colt’s already shut himself away in the bathroom to change, leaving no room for a snappy comeback.
Whatever. Back to the task at hand.
For the umpteenth time, Ryland evaluates his appearance. And for the second time, he grimaces at it.
It really is the hair, like Colt said. There’s something about it, and it’s not just the fact that it makes him look uncannily and uncomfortably like his dad. It’s… Not him. At all. He doesn’t even look like himself.
Worrying his lip between his teeth, he tentatively reaches a hand up to give his hair a gentle ruffle—enough to shake a few strands loose. Not careless, but deliberate.
He glances himself over one final time. And—
That’s better.
He recognizes the man staring back at him. The one that slaved over countless hours of practical lab assessments, research articles, and the nightmarish process of peer review to earn his spot at this conference. That other guy who bothers himself too much with his appearance and desperately attempts to project a perfect image of professionalism doesn’t know jack about the Goldilocks Zone or extraterrestrial habitability theory.
Yeah. Colt was right about the hair.
Admittedly, Ryland does look like a middle school science teacher. But at least he doesn’t look like he takes himself too seriously. Because that’s not the kind of person he is or wants to be.
He’s just here to share something new, and make a place for himself where he fits while he’s at it...