Prompt: #7 – Repeat
Warnings: Twincest, sexual content, in denial!Tom, some sap.
Rating: NC-17 to be safe
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
Summary: Nothing’s changed. If Tom tells himself this enough, he might actually start to believe it.
Comments: I had too much fun for my own good writing this one. I enjoyed torturing both of them, making them so confused and needy and whatnot. Written for 100_prompts. I hope you all enjoy! ^_^
It starts with looking, because looking is the most innocent—more innocent than touching or tasting or even thinking about doing either of those things, anyway. Looking doesn’t have to involve touching or tasting or thinking, really. One can exist without the others. And isn’t “Look but don’t touch” the general rule, anyway? Yeah, that’s how it goes: Look, but don’t touch. Don’t even think about touching.
Nevermind the fact that they touch all of the time: a brush of fingers against a wrist or a hand on a shoulder or a press of lips to the cheek or the forehead. They are brothers, and twins at that. They were together before ever seeing the (sometimes) harsh light of the world, so it’s only natural that they feel the need to be close now, for they always have been.
Besides, they never touch in the way that Tom is never supposed to think about. They don’t touch in the way that Tom doesn’t think about, because that would be just plain wrong.
Looking isn’t wrong. Looking is safe. Looking is normal. Everyone looks at Bill anyway, because Bill is meant to be looked at. Everyone notices the way his hips sway slightly sometimes when he’s onstage and has lost himself in the music. Everyone notices his smile, because it is brilliant and it is genuine—no feigned happiness from him. There are so many things that everyone notices about Bill: things that are impossible to not notice. Surely it is not Tom’s fault that he notices these things too.
There are other things which others do not notice about Bill, though. There are some things that others never see, like the way Bill sometimes curls up into a little ball in his sleep, or the way he looks when his hair hasn’t even been brushed (so that it looks like rats have been sleeping in it). Others don’t get to see that smile Bill gives him, either—that smile is for Tom and Tom alone. It always has been since they were little.
Tom notices everything about Bill—watches carefully even when he knows it isn’t necessary. He watches. He looks, because he always has, so nothing has changed. Really.
If he looks at Bill like the others do (like he is less than a brother but more than a brother), he figures there’s no harm in that, either. Looking isn’t touching. Looking isn’t thinking.
One day, Bill catches him looking—really looking (practically staring), and with a playful smile and an equally playful glint in his eye, he asks: “Do you see something you like, Tomi?”
Tom snorts and rolls his eyes, for he’s quite familiar with his twin’s brand of teasing. “Why would I see something I like? Do you know that the biggest part of your body is your hair?”
Bill huffs in indignation and tosses his hairbrush at Tom. The brush sails right over his head (a purposeful miscalculation), missing him by a good foot.
“You’re an ass sometimes,” Bill says, feigning a pout.
Tom grins, inwardly relieved that Bill has dropped the subject. He doesn’t want to open that particular can of worms.
“Yes, I am,” Tom agrees, crossing the room until he’s standing in front of Bill. He affectionately ruffles his little brother’s hair, making it stick out in odd places. Bill yelps and jerks away, muttering that he’d already fixed his hair perfectly and Tom shouldn’t have ruined it.
Typical Bill. Typical Tom. Typical routine.
And nothing changes.
Eventually, without Tom’s consent and without any effort on his part at all, looking turns into thinking: He starts thinking about his twin when they aren’t in one another’s line of sight. At first, the thoughts are as innocent as his secretive glances had been, once upon a time.
They don’t stay that way. They don’t stay sweet and innocent like the way fond thoughts of one’s brother ought to. His thoughts delve into much darker places, where there’s no innocence at all. There is only heat and want—stifling and overwhelming, and in no way natural, for this is not the order of things, is it? Tom’s the older brother here (even if only by ten minutes); he is supposed to protect his younger brother and tease him about girls. That’s how it’s supposed to go.
Except only it doesn’t quite work that way. Of course he protects Bill. Of course he teases him about girls (part of the job description); he isn’t supposed to think about Bill in the way that he thinks about him sometimes (or more than sometimes), though.
He isn’t supposed to think about Bill the way others think about him—the way he knows some (or all) of their fans think about him. He knows it’s wrong, because Bill is his brother—his flesh and blood. His twin. His other half.
That knowledge doesn’t keep the thoughts at bay, though. There is nothing he can do to rid himself of them—all he can really do is deal with it. He’ll find a few minutes of privacy in a bathroom or someplace decently secluded and he’ll get himself off, those thoughts that he should not be having dancing wildly in his mind the entire time. It isn’t enough—it’s never enough, because he knows it’s his own hand and not Bill’s. On the other hand, he also knows that he shouldn’t want it to be Bill’s hand. Or Bill’s mouth. Or Bill’s anything. Knowing this does nothing except leave him with a slightly sickening feeling afterwards, always. He supposes that the almost-nausea should be there, but it never lasts long. It makes him think of a weakened version of Disulfiram therapy: It’s something that’s meant to deter him from what has become a bad habit (perhaps even an addiction), but it doesn’t quite work. The fact that Bill is his brother doesn’t keep him from thinking about sliding his hands over Bill’s bare skin.
He thinks that it would probably be a lot easier to be an alcoholic on Disulfiram therapy at the moment as opposed to existing as whatever sick and twisted… thing he is right now. It isn’t right. He isn’t right, and his ‘therapy’ (the constant repetition of ‘he’s my brother, he’s my brother’ over and over in his mind) does little to help him.
Yeah. Alcoholism would be so much easier. So much more forgiving. Go to rehab, do your twelve steps, say something contrite, and the world loves you again. There is no twelve-step program for what he has.
But when his eyes are closed and his hand is on his cock, he doesn’t worry about any of that. He only thinks of Bill—of Bill’s hands and Bill’s face, and the way Bill’s lashes curve against his cheeks. Later, after his orgasm, he can deal with the nausea (that’s never enough—never enough to make him stop, to keep him away from that second or third or fourth sip, only this isn’t alcohol; this is his own mind and these are his own private thoughts, and there is no therapy strong enough to cure it) and the almost-but-not-quite guilt.
Not quite guilt, because he’s only thinking about touching Bill in sexual ways. He never goes so far as to actually touch.
But he wants to. He wants to touch. Right now. His fingers are tingling with the urge to touch and to take, and he’s getting hard just thinking about it.
Tom likes the hotels best, because they’re always nice (okay, almost always), and there’s always plenty of room and he doesn’t have to sneak around like he does on the bus. Enclosed within the four walls of his spacious hotel room, the only one he has to try to convince is himself.
Or so he thinks.
At this moment, he’s lying on the bed, palming his erection through his jeans, and trying his damndest to pay attention to the porn flick that he’s turned it to. He tells himself that the reason he’s got a raging hard-on is because of the curvy, large-breasted blonde on the television (she’s his type, after all). He tells himself that he’s hard because her thighs are spread and she’s begging to be fucked. He tells himself that he can’t possibly be aroused by the thought of his twin looking up at him in the same manner that that blonde woman is looking at the camera right now.
But he is. He is, and he’s never been very good at convincing people of untruths, least of all himself. Doesn’t stop him from trying, though.
When a knock sounds at the door, he panics—he isn’t expecting anyone; this is his free time, damnit, and he should be able to have a fucking orgasm in peace!
“Tomi? Can I come in?”
Hot on panic’s heels is that wave of semi-nausea that doesn’t usually hit him until after he’s had release, but things are different right now: Bill is outside of his door and asking if he can come in, and Tom can’t possibly say no, because Bill wouldn’t understand. Bill would only feel upset if Tom denied his request.
He turns the television to another channel even though the porn movie isn’t the cause of his current problem and he replies in a voice that has gone up slightly in pitch (it’s the panic, he knows—the adrenaline rush): “Give me a minute!”
He can hear Bill snort outside the door. “Come on, Tomi. You’re not naked or anything, are you?”
”No,” Tom answers hurriedly, the word a very unmanly near-squeak. It’s true that he isn’t naked, but this is one of those times in which he could kill himself for not lying to his twin. Stupid, stupid stupid! “Just… give me a minute, like I said!” And here, he begins thinking of the unsexiest things that his mind can conjure up, such as Gustav in a tutu and ballet slippers.
“I have a key, you know,” Bill says in a sing-song voice. “I can just come on in, if I want~.”
“You’re awful,” Tom mutters, rolling over onto his side and curling up into the fetal position, clutching his pillow close to his chest. The mental image of Gustav in a frilly tutu is beginning to do the trick. He can get through this. He can.
There is a beep as the lock accepts Bill’s keycard, and then two clicks as Bill opens and closes the door without Tom’s permission. “So what’re you doing, Tomi?” he asks as he all but bounds towards Tom’s bed and leaps onto it, jolting Tom in the process. “Why did you want me to give you a minute?”
Tom groans and rolls his eyes before turning over onto his opposite side so that he is facing Bill. He doesn’t quite meet his twin’s gaze. “You have to ask, don’t you?”
Bill’s eyes widen and he leans in closer, his warm breath tickling Tom’s cheek, stirring things low in Tom’s belly once again. “You could’ve told me to leave you alone if you were… you know.” He laughs then, drawing back slightly. “Bet it was a blonde, on television. Big breasts, long hair. Nice ass. Am I right?”
It’s Tom’s turn to widen his eyes. “How do you know….?”
Bill grins and wiggles his fingers before lightly tapping Tom on the nose. “I get porn in my room too, you know. She’s not… quite… my type, though. Lost interest and decided to bug you instead. He frowns then. “But if you… erm. Want to get back to what you were doing, I’ll go….” He starts to sit up, but Tom reaches for him (which might also be a stupid idea), curling entreating fingers around his twin’s wrist.
“You can stay,” he tells Bill, voice soft, and when Bill looks at him questioningly, he hurries to explain. “She’s not my type, either,” he says, and he figures it’s as good a cover as any.
Bill smiles and cuddles close again, resting his head on Tom’s shoulder. “Okay.”
They don’t mention the porn anymore, and Tom is grateful, for there’s been enough awkwardness between them for one afternoon. Instead, they watch a movie together. Tom would like to think that it’s safer this way, but again, he can’t quite convince himself, because Bill is right here and he’s warm and smiling and—
Gustav in a tutu, Gustav in a tutu, Gustav in a tutu, Gustav in a tutu
—And nothing changes.
One night, when both of them are more than a little drunk, thoughts become actions, and Tom doesn’t mean for it to happen—it just does. No thinking, just touching. No thinking about if it’s right or wrong, because right and wrong suddenly have no place here.
They’re together, on Bill’s bed this time, and Bill’s breathing is slow and even and Tom is still wide awake and still feeling the effects of the alcohol coursing through his arteries and veins. The television isn’t on but Tom doesn’t need it—doesn’t even really need his imagination right now, because it’s dark and Bill is close and Tom can hear and feel him breathing, and ohhh, this is wrongwrongwrong, but Tom doesn’t care at the moment. He’s too aroused to care, and if he can just get himself off, he knows he’ll be able to go to sleep, and his breathing will match Bill’s, and everything will be okay again in the morning.
He just has to be careful right now, is all. If he goes to the bathroom, he knows he will wake Bill up. If he moves too much in the bed or makes too much noise, he’ll wake Bill up. There’s something achingly erotic about that—about the thought that Bill might catch him touching himself. It gives him a thrill, and a sick one at that, but it goes straight to his groin and makes him throb and he moans, trying his best to keep it as low-key as possible. He doesn’t want to wake Bill, does he? No, of course not.
Except only some small part of him does.
As he slips his hand down into his baggy jeans and into his boxers, he listens carefully to Bill’s breathing and, not noting any changes, he curls his fingers around his aching cock and he begins stroking himself, slowly and cautiously. When Bill does not stir, he dares to move his hand a little faster, and the friction is good. The sound of Bill’s breathing is good. The warmth of Bill’s body is good.
“Fuck, Bill,” he slurs, tasting the alcohol on his breath, mixed with his desperation. God, he wants. He wants Bill to wake up and he wants Bill to touch him, even though he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. He shouldn’t want what he wants.
But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing and he doesn’t stop wanting; he doesn’t stop wishing for Bill to wake up.
He does pause, however, and he does stop wishing when he hears Bill’s breath hitch. There’s no time for panic to set in, because now Bill is moving and Tom isn’t, and Bill’s lips are on his ear as the vocalist says, “Let me, Tomi. Let me.” He smells slightly of alcohol, too, but not as strongly as Tom, because he hadn’t had quite as much.
No time to think; no time to panic; no time to speak. There’s only enough time to act, and that’s what Tom does: he rolls over and nuzzles against Bill’s neck, nodding.
There are no more words—there’s just the sound of jeans being unzipped and skin-on-skin as hands find what they’re searching for. There’s the sound of Bill’s heavy breathing, too, and Tom focuses on that—he listens to the way it gets faster and faster the harder Tom strokes Bill. He listens to the little half-whines that Bill makes between the stolen breaths, and it makes him twitch in Bill’s hand.
There is no uncertainty between them, no shyness, and it seems that Bill knows exactly where and how to touch to make Tom’s spine arch. Tom would tell himself that it’s just the alcohol, but he knows better. Tonight, he’s not going to try to pretend. His cock is in Bill’s hand, for crying out fucking loud.
It’s over in a matter of minutes; they give twin shudders (oh, the irony) and soft cries and Tom feels that tension snap—feels himself come on Bill’s hand just as he feels his twin come on his. It’s warm and slightly sticky, and it feels very wrong and very right all at once.
Without a word, they wipe their hands on opposite corners of the fitted sheet and pull the covers more snugly over their bodies. Tom waits for Bill’s breathing to even out again before he follows him into a dreamless sleep, ignoring the knots that have formed in his stomach. He’s too drowsy and too sated right now to bother with that emotion deep within him that wants very badly to be guilt.
Before he drifts off, he tells himself that there will be no repercussions to deal with in the morning, because, by morning, Bill will have forgotten all about this stolen moment of heat and wonder. Nothing will change. Nothing will change. Nothing will change.
If he tells himself enough, he might actually start to believe it.
Morning brings guilt and a persistent sense of nausea that will not go away and has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol Tom had consumed the night before. Tom’s belly feels… gross, but dried cum isn’t exactly supposed to feel refreshing, is it?
Bill is awake before he is—he is awake and alert and watching, deathly quiet, as though waiting for Tom to speak first.
“Hi,” Tom breathes uncertainly, suddenly realizing that his and Bill’s legs are still intertwined. He feels like he needs to put some distance between them, and he’s never felt that way before. They’ve always been close. Inseparable. But maybe that’s what got them into this mess to begin with.
“Hi,” Bill whispers in reply, and his voice holds the same uncertainty that Tom’s voice holds. It’s fairly obvious (judging by the look in his eyes) that he remembers the events of last night. Tom had hoped that he wouldn’t; he’d hoped that it would be forgotten, but even as he’d thought it, he’d known better.
And he knows better now. He’s wide awake and more alert than he should be at this hour. He realizes that he is the quiet one now—the observer; he’s watching the way Bill’s chest is rising and falling. He’s watching the way Bill is watching him. The silence is awkward, but Tom isn’t certain what he should do about it. The damage has been done already, and he doesn’t think it can be undone. He wishes that it could; he wishes that it could have all been a dream, because dreams aren’t capable of causing pain. Reality is.
“… I’m gonna go to my room and take a shower,” Tom tells his twin. “I’m feeling a little… uhm. Sticky.”
Bill blushes bright red. “Oh. Uhm. Yeah. Okay.” He disentangles his legs from Tom’s, and Tom feels a little less trapped and a little more incomplete all at once. There’s a rift between them now. Tom can feel it and practically see it, and he doesn’t want it there. He wants things to go back to normal, or at least as normal as possible. He wants to turn back time—wants to be the one who looks and thinks about his brother but never actually gets to have him in that way. He wants last night to disappear; he wants to tear his hair out for giving in to impulse—for letting himself be so weak.
Tom sits up and Bill reaches for him—a mirror image of how Tom had reached for him countless times when he hadn’t felt strong enough, or when he simply had wanted the comfort of his other half by his side.
Bill needs him now. Bill needs him to stay; Bill needs to be comforted.
But Tom can’t be what Bill needs him to be right now. He can’t be the supportive, comforting big brother that he’s supposed to be. Not while he carries the knowledge of what he’s done. Not while his stomach is torn between doing that sickening roll and that flip-flop of near-elation. It’s too complicated – too much – and Tom can’t process it. He can’t make it better; he can’t make it be one or the other. It has to be both.
“Last night…” Bill trails off, and he’s still blushing. He wants to talk about last night, clearly, but Tom does not. Tom can not.
“Didn’t happen,” Tom finishes, voice firm and a little more harsh than he’d intended.
The wounded look in Bill’s eyes upsets him more and makes him worry. But Bill quickly replies, “Of course not,” and lets Tom’s wrist go. “It didn’t happen.” He lies back down, dark hair no longer framing his face thanks to gravity. He looks disappointed. And hurt. Tom wants to comfort him, to soothe that hurt, but he can’t.
“A hand is a hand, Bill,” he says as he adjusts his jeans, heading toward the door. “It’s going to feel good, no matter who does it.” It’s complete bullshit and he knows that Bill knows it, but that doesn’t keep him from saying it.
They’ll forget about it. They will, and eventually, everything will fall back into place.
And nothing will change.
They pretend for a little while. They pretend that they haven’t crossed a line—they pretend that they’d never touched one another the way they had that night. It works (only not really) for a little while, but neither can forget. How can they?
To Tom’s credit, he tries. Instead of thinking about Bill when he jerks off, he thinks about girls with large breasts and long hair and no names—he thinks about their hands instead of Bill’s, and his orgasm isn’t anywhere near as strong, but it’s good enough.
Except only it isn’t, and neither of them likes the awkwardness between them.
They’re in another hotel – in a city they won’t remember the name of within a week – when it happens again. Tom is the first to touch, because he can’t bear to see his twin looking so lost and alone. He cannot bear knowing that he is the cause of that look in Bill’s eyes. So as soon as they are alone, he pulls his brother close and combs gentle fingers through his hair, half-heartedly murmuring that Bill is going to be the death of the ozone layer, with all of the hairspray he uses.
Bill pinches Tom’s side. “Will not,” he retorts, and his voice has the slightest tremble in it.
Tom sighs and presses his lips against Bill’s throat, feeling his pulse—feeling the way I jumps when he slides his hands under his twin’s shirt to skim his fingers over bare skin. It feels achingly good to be this close to Bill again, and it’s all too easy to ignore the bright red warning signs flashing over and over again in his mind. Bill takes priority above all else—even his own conscience, and Bill needs the reassurance right now more than Tom needs the ten-thousand reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this.
He wants to tell Bill that he’s sorry. He wants to tell Bill to forget that he’d ever told him to forget in the first place, when he’d known the whole time that forgetting would be beyond impossible.
He wants to tell his twin these things, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slides his hands down, takes firm hold of Bill’s hips, and he grinds shallowly against him until his twin is squirming and panting and Tom himself is so hard that it’s literally painful.
“Tomi,” Bill whispers, “please.” He rocks his hips into Tom’s and they moan in unison, Tom’s head tipping slightly back whilst Bill’s head lolls forward, forehead bumping against Tom’s shoulder. “Please,” he repeats.
Bill’s voice sounds so strained, like he’s been holding this back for two weeks, just like Tom himself has been holding back. This whole thing is ridiculous, and Tom knows it. Tom knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be this difficult to convince himself to stop. It shouldn’t be this easy to give in.
But it is. Bill is waiting, and he clearly wants something that Tom can give him.
Two sets of hands fumble hurriedly with belts and buttons and zippers, and they’re touching again, stroking one another to a quick orgasm—only this time, they aren’t shrouded in darkness. It is broad daylight, sun streaming brightly through the large windows of Bill’s hotel room. Their eyes are wide open and they’re watching one another: Tom stares into twin pools of brown, watching Bill while Bill watches him. The look in their eyes is exactly the same, which doesn’t exactly surprise Tom, but all the same, it fills him with a sense of wonder as his hand moves faster and faster along his brother’s cock.
This wouldn’t feel as good to Bill if Tom wasn’t the one touching him. That’s what he sees in Bill’s eyes. Confirmation that the whole ‘a hand is just a hand’ theory really is bullshit.
Tom keeps his eyes open, drinking in that knowledge, until he can’t anymore—when his orgasm crashes over him, his eyes automatically snap shut and he shudders violently, his release (and Bill’s too—he can feel it on his palm and fingers) spilling between them, staining their clothing.
They lean against one another for a few moments, trying to catch their breath, and when Tom finally trusts his voice again, he clears his throat and quietly says: “Guess we should change out of these clothes and get them washed as soon as possible, huh?” He takes a step back, and Bill looks at him confusedly. “My clothes are in my room,” he explains, and there’s that disappointed look again. Tom doesn’t like to see it, so he turns away, adjusting himself and zipping his jeans back up.
“Tomi,” Bill says seriously. “Tomi, listen--”
“I’m going to go change,” Tom interrupts. “And then… I’ll come back, Bill. I promise.”
And he will come back, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t running away right now – right at this moment – just like always.
Of course, nothing has changed.
The number of sexual encounters between the two of then increases until even that becomes almost commonplace. It’s as normal as breathing, except only Tom knows that there’s nothing normal at all about this.
It might be as vital as breathing, though, and Tom knows that’s dangerous—he knows it’s dangerous to rely on Bill for something that he could get from anyone else he wanted, really.
The only difference between Bill and ‘someone else’ is… everything. There’s a connection between them; an unspoken understanding that’s been there since birth (or perhaps even before then). Tom knows he’ll never have that with another person aside from Bill, ever.
They never talk when they’re together sexually. They never say anything more than ‘please’ and ‘more’ and ‘yes’, because if they really talk, Tom is terrified that their words will change everything. He thinks that, if they talk, the momentary spell that has been cast over them – the spell that makes this okay for just a little while – will be broken and they will be left staring disbelievingly at one another, disgusted with themselves. Tom doesn’t want that to happen, so he never says anything about what they do behind closed doors, and he never gives his twin the opportunity to say anything about it, either.
They don’t kiss, either. At least, not on the lips. Sure, Tom has thought about it, but he makes a conscious effort to avoid letting his lips touch Bill’s Kissing like that is far too intimate—more suitable for lovers, which they are not. They walk some fine, invisible line located somewhere between brother and lover. Sometimes, Tom feels like he neither to Bill, and sometimes, he feels like he is both. He doesn’t know if giving in and kissing his twin like he secretly wants would make things better or worse between them, but he has no real intention of finding out. This is one impulse that Tom plans on keeping in check.
There are moments when it’s hard to avoid either, or both. There are moments when Tom longs to say something and there are moments when the desire to press his lips to Bill’s is so strong that it burns somewhere deep within him. He ignores it though, as best as he can, because no matter how grown-up he considers himself to be sometimes, he is still filled with the childish belief that if you ignore something long enough, it’ll eventually go away.
Nevermind that he doesn’t have any actual proof of this whatsoever. Also forget the fact that he sees those same urges (and wants and needs) reflected back at him every single time he looks at Bill. Bill wants to talk. Bill wants to kiss—really kiss.
It’s too much, though, what they want. In several ways, kissing (lie the want to) is more intimate than a handjob, more intimate than a blowjob, and even more intimate than fucking. Tom settles for the ‘less intimate’ things, stifling his urge to kiss his twin by crawling down his body and wrapping his lips around Bill’s cock instead—a much-needed distraction for both of them.
Three slick fingers work their way into Bill’s body whilst Tom’s tongue explores the entire length of Bill’s cock, swirling and licking at tasting, and Tom almost manages to convince himself that if he’s rough instead of gentle, neither of them will enjoy it as much. If he’s not gentle, it’ll make what they’re doing less of a sacrilege. Less… terrible. Less sickening (except Tom doesn’t feel even the slightest hint of nausea when they’re together like this anymore, which should speak for itself, but Tom won’t let it).
So, when he twists his wrist and curls his fingers inside of his twin’s body, he is not gentle. He isn’t gentle when he replaces his fingers with his cock, either: he shoves in hard and he takes all that Bill is offering and then some, his teeth sharp against Bill’s neck.
Part of him expects his twin to ask him to stop—to push him away and say that it’s too much because Tom hasn’t been rough like this before. Surprisingly (and unsurprisingly), Bill doesn’t. He holds Tom close and meets each of his harsh thrusts with equal ferocity, nails digging in and raking down the skin of Tom’s back. Pain and pleasure intermingle, and Tom doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow down. He doesn’t even make an effort to lessen the roughness of it, because it’s clear that Bill likes it this way too, and no matter how hard he tries, Tom just can’t find it in him to deny his other half what he wants in moments like these.
It’s over almost before it’s started, and they’re left panting and sticky and shaken, gazing silently at one another as though waiting for something. What is there to wait for?
”Tomi,” Bill begins, the look in his eyes soft and serious, “I--”
Tom interrupts him by doing what he swore to himself he’d never do—he leans down and presses his lips to Bill’s, taking full advantage of the fact that those warm, inviting lips are half-parted by exploring Bill’s mouth with his tongue, groaning when his twin’s tongue almost shyly flicks against his own.
It’s not much different from kissing anyone else, really, except that it’s entirely different. They fit perfectly, and that frightens Tom more than he’s willing to admit.
The only thing that is possibly scarier is what Bill might have said had Tom not interrupted him. He’d chosen the lesser evil by kissing Bill instead of listening to him.
When he pulls back for air, Bill looks at him with questioning, piercing eyes, but he doesn’t breathe a word.
And nothing changes.
They always joke in front of the cameras together. Always. Of course, there are times that call for seriousness, too; for instance, when Tom had referred to Bill as his soulmate, he’d genuinely meant it. Bill had affectionately called him a complete sap for it, but later that evening, he’d curled close to Tom and he’d rested his head on Tom’s shoulder. That night, he’d said: “You’re mine too, you know. We’re twins. Two halves. We’re only whole when we’re together.”
Tom had then jokingly called Bill a bigger sap, and they’d lapsed into a comfortable silence.
That point in their lives seems so long ago and far away now, though it’s only been a little over a year, in reality. Back then, Tom would have never even imagined he and Bill would be doing the sorts of things they do with one another now, when they are shielded from public view. And if he would’ve imagined it, he surely wouldn’t have acted on it.
He’s thinking too much now, about the past and the future and about events that haven’t taken place in this room, though they could, under the right circumstances. Tom could press Bill against the far wall and take him that way, from behind. He could—
He isn’t focusing on the interview they are currently engaged in. He knows ht’s rude and he knows that Gustav and Georg and the interviewer are all wondering what in the hell has gotten him so distracted, but he isn’t about to satisfy their curiosity. He doesn’t need to satisfy Bill’s curiosity, because he’s sure that there’s none to satisfy; he’s sure his twin already knows.
Tom has missed the question, and he grins embarrassedly at the woman interviewing them – a pretty brunette with startlingly green eyes – before asking her to please repeat the question. He asks politely, though he practically drawls the words, ever the flirt that he is, though he never really means it.
With one exception.
She returns his easy smile and even blushes a little as she repeats the question: “Being the ‘older’ brother here, what do you feel is good advice that you could offer Bill regarding romantic relationships?”
For the first time during the entire interview, Tom actually frowns. What the hell is that supposed to mean, and how in the hell is he supposed to answer it?
He has to answer, though, because they are waiting and the silence is deafening. He has to answer, even though he isn’t fit to. He has to answer even though he has no right to. He’s as much at fault for this… whatever the fuck they’ve gotten themselves into as Bill. Maybe even more so.
He answers the only way he knows how: With a lopsided smile and words that ring with laughter, and yet are tinged with the slightest hints of seriousness and doubt. “I’d say that it’s not always about rescuing the damsel in distress or finding the prince on the white horse. I’d say those are just fairy tales for children and that the ‘Happily Ever After’ thing is just bull. It doesn’t work that way. It’s not some rose-colored bubble.”
For another moment (which seems to stretch on forever), all is silent and Tom has to take that moment for himself just so he can process what he’s just said. And then he’s laughing, trying to cover, and everyone is laughing with him. He’s always the joker, too. Everyone knows this.
Bill is not laughing. He is smiling, but it isn’t genuine—he is not happy or amused at all; he’s simply smiling tightly and without meaning in order to keep from drawing unwanted attention and making an already-not-so-great situation even worse.
Later, when they’re back on the bus and everyone is sleeping except for Tom (or so Tom thinks), Tom climbs out of bed and heads into the bathroom, grumbling about his uncomfortably full bladder and realizing yet again that his mother had been right about a handful (okay, so that’s an understatement) of the things she’d told him and Bill when they were younger, the most important one being not to drink too much of anything before going to bed.
He’s barely managed to wash his hands and open the bathroom door before Bill is suddenly in front of him, all frantic hands and angry eyes, and he’s shoving Tom back into the bathroom and locking the door behind them, flipping on the light switch and filling the room with a harsh, fluorescent glow. Tom has to blink several times before his eyes can readjust.
“You think I don’t fucking know, Tom?” Bill hisses, poking Tom sharply in the chest with an index finger. “You think I don’t know that this isn’t some goddamn fairy tale? You think I’m that stupid?” His voice gets louder with every question asked, and Tom frantically tries to shush him, or at least get him to calm down a little, but Bill jerks away, glaring hotly. If looks could kill….
Tom tries again, only this time, he attempts to tell his twin that it had been a stupid question and his answer had been a joke (mostly—only mostly, because there was an element of truth in it), but Bill interrupts him, shaking his head frantically.
“What gives you the right to do this, when you never hear me out?” He is angry – very much so – but he’s hurting too, and the knowledge that Tom has caused this hurt cuts him to the core.
And before he can blink, Bill is kissing him roughly—no finesse, and it’s bruising and painful in a way, but Tom doesn’t pull back, not even when he tastes the salty, metallic flavor of blood – his blood – between them: on Bill’s tongue, on his own bottom lip. Instead of shoving Bill away like he knows he probably ought to, he grabs Bill’s hips with equal force and grinds their bodies together so hard that it really does hurt—pain-laced pleasure. Neither backs down.
When Bill drops to his knees and takes Tom’s cock into his mouth, he sucks hard and fast, the muscles of his throat contracting and relaxing around Tom’s heated flesh, and even like this, Tom can tell his brother is angry.
He feels teeth, sudden and sharp, dragging along the entire length of his cock, and he barely has time to process that before Bill is doing something at the head with his tongue and then his teeth are there too and it’s too much and Tom is coming hard. That hurts too.
Bill pulls away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Tom reaches for him, but Bill declines the offer for assistance. Instead, he stands to his full height (he is merely inches taller than Tom but at this moment, Tom feels very small and insignificant and stupid, and it seems like Bill towers over him) and he backs away. He’s hard still (that much is obvious), but he’s also still very angry; Tom can see that anger burning in his dark eyes. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
His twin leaves, and Tom is left alone with a dull ache in his chest. He tries to tell himself that Bill will have forgiven and forgotten everything by morning, but he honestly isn’t so sure he believes it’ll be that easy. It’s not like Bill has a bad memory, at all.
He wants to believe it’ll be that easy, though. He wants to believe that everything will fall back into place and everything will be as normal as it can be between them, but he doesn’t think it’s going to happen in the way that he wants.
He’d been the one to say that ‘Happily Ever After’ never works, hadn’t he?
Still, he tells himself that it’s going to be okay, and nothing will change.
Nothing can change, despite the fact that Fate – or whatever the hell it’s called – is seemingly working against him to prove him dead wrong.
One week later, and things are still shaky and tense between them. Bill doesn’t smile at or laugh with Tom like he used to, and he doesn’t come to Tom in the middle of the night, either. What they have – or had – has been derailed—has crashed and burned, all because of one stupid comment.
Or maybe this has been inevitable since the beginning. Fucking one’s brother is not the order of things, after all. But Tom had disregarded that – and so had Bill – in favor of a few stolen moments of mutual forbidden pleasure.
Sometimes, when Tom is left alone with his thoughts (which is a more frequent occurrence now since Bill is still angry with him) he wonders if the things he hasn’t said that have ruined them, rather than the things he has said.
When they have to speak to one another now, they are nothing but cordial—they are the perfect epitomes of politeness, like they are nothing more than strangers passing on the street. It’s nothing like it used to be just a few short days ago. Georg and Gustav notice it too, of course. It’s impossible not to notice-the tension is so thick that one could practically choke on it. Tom thinks he is, sometimes. He thinks he’s choking – drowning – but not in the way he used to with Bill. Things are all wrong now, and Tom has to struggle to tread the water; he has to struggle to not drown in his own miserable loneliness.
And there’s nothing worse than being in the same room with the person that means the world to you, and feeling completely alone. They’ve been angry at one another before, but it’s never been like this: Tom has never felt out of place or lost, not with his brother beside him.
Georg and Gustav crack jokes just like the used to—they act normal when things are most assuredly not normal, and Tom can’t say that he really blames them. They are trying in their own way to make this a little more bearable.
It’s very much the same when Tom and Bill arrive home for a week—a much-needed mini-vacation. Simone and Gordon are waiting for them at the door, and as soon as smiles and greetings have been exchanged, Gordon heads into the living room and Bill announces in a strained voice that he’s going to his room (his, not theirs, even though it is theirs). Tom watches him go, but makes no move to follow him, and Simone raises one perfectly-shaped eyebrow in question, though she doesn’t breathe a word. She knows in that motherly way of hers that something is wrong.
She doesn’t ask for details; she doesn’t even ask Tom to tell her what’s going on, but Tom tells her anyway. His voice is thick with suppressed emotion as he says, “I did something stupid and now he hates me.” He realizes his words sound very childish—like a little boy who’s tattling on his sibling for not playing with him. He can’t help it.
Simone shakes her head and smiles, pulling him close and gently petting his hair, giving comfort in the way that only a mother can. “That’s the thing about family, honey. Family will always forgive you for the stupid things that you do.”
“He hasn’t forgiven me yet,” Tom mumbles, shoulders slumping. He’s not sure that Bill will forgive him, either.
“Have you talked to him?” their mother asks, and her voice is soothing, just like it had always been back in Tom’s younger days when he’d managed to come down with a cold or the flu or some other ailment that had kept him in bed for days at a time.
“Tried to.” He sighs, feeling even more miserable that he would have if he’d had the flu. Soup, rest, fluids, and medicine can’t fix this. It’s not that simple, but he wishes it were. “He won’t listen to me.”
Simone gives him a half-smile. “But have you listened to him?”
Tom thinks of all the times he’s refused to hear Bill out, for fear of things between them changing. He thinks of the times he’s interrupted him and times he’s made up some shit excuse to leave when Bill’s been in mid-sentence. It makes him feel horribly guilty, just as it should.
Simone is right: What right does Tom have, expecting his twin to hear him out when all he himself has done for months is not listen?
Eyes downcast, Tom replies, “Not when he’s really needed me to listen, no.” Guilt isn’t a good feeling at all.
She doesn’t scold him, even though Tom kind of feels like she should. She doesn’t even sound the least bit disappointed in him. Maybe it’s because he is feeling disappointed enough for the both of them.
“So listen to him,” she tells him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Say what he needs to hear, and he’ll listen. He’s always been a stubborn boy – just like you – but he’s always cracked, when it comes to you. You’re his brother, Tom. His twin. Those don’t come along but once in a lifetime, and never again. He’ll forgive you. You’ll see—you’ll be back to your regular selves in no time.”
And she sounds so confident when she says it that Tom can’t help but believe her, just a little.
They’re going to be okay, one way or another. They’ll get through this.
And everything will be the same again.
It is well past midnight before Tom can work up the courage to talk to his brother. Bill isn’t asleep, either—he can tell by his breathing that Bill is as wide awake as he himself.
With some effort (fear of rejection makes him feel reluctant), Tom pushes his covers back and sits up, taking a deep, steadying breath before slipping out of his bed and crossing the distance between them, coming to a stop beside Bill’s bed. They’re old enough to have their own rooms – have been for years – but neither has ever requested it. They’re old enough now to move out on their own, but that isn’t an issue they talk much about, either—they’re away from here more often than they’re actually here, so they should enjoy it while it lasts. A day, a weekend, a week, however long it is, and then they’re back on the road again, sleeping in small bunks and in hotel beds that always have the covers turned back the exact same way. Always, no matter where they go.
Bill isn’t looking at him, but Tom can tell that his twin is aware of his presence. His breathing has changed again. Tom’s has too, and his heart is pounding loudly in his ears. He wonders if Bill can hear it. He wonders if Bill’s heart is racing, too.
“Bill?” he asks hoarsely, trying again when he is not acknowledged. “Bill, I know you’re awake. Let me…. Can I stay with you?”
It’s like a complete reversal of earlier days, when Bill would come to Tom’s bed because something – real or imaginary – had frightened him, and he’d insisted that he only felt safe with Tom. Tom would let him stay, always.
Tom is the one who’s afraid now, though his fears have nothing to do with boogie-men or thunderstorms or strange shadows or things that go bump in the night. His fear encompasses all of those: He fears that he may somehow lose Bill in almost all ways that it is possible to lose a person—he fears that they will still live, side-by-side, but not together as they always have, and that scares him.
“Why do you want me to let you stay?” Bill finally asks, and Tom flinches at the coldness of his words, though he knows he deserves it, and worse. “So you can tell me something else that’s perfectly fucking obvious, or so you can hold me and deny in your deluded little mind that anything is going on? Or maybe you want to do both?”
Tom worries at his bottom lip, shaking his head even though he’s not quite sure his brother can see it. His voice is much quieter than Bill’s: “I want to listen. I want you to talk to me about things I didn’t want you to talk to me about, before. I really want to listen, Bill. Please let me.”
”You never wanted to know about it before,” Bill responds, his voice louder now and full of accusation (which Tom also deserves). “As I recall, you did everything to keep me from talking about it.”
Tom blinks rapidly in the darkness, making out his twin’s outline. “I know,” he replies in a placating tone, trying his best to keep his voice even and reasonable, though he can’t help that slight little catch in it—that little waver that makes how much this is weighing on his heart and mind obvious. “I was stupid, Bill.” The moment he says it, he knows it’s true. “I was stupid, and I’m sorry. I don’t enjoy fighting with you, and I want things to be like they were.”
“It’s not a rose-colored bubble,” Bill quips, an echo of the words Tom had said not so long ago. “That’s what you said, right? It doesn’t work that way. Can’t always get what you want, and all that.”
For another few terrifying seconds, Tom is deathly afraid that Bill will tell him to fuck off and go back to his own bed, but Bill eventually moves, cloth sliding along skin as he slides over, making room for Tom in the bed.
“Thank you,” Tom whispers hoarsely before climbing into bed next to Bill and slipping under the covers, not quite touching the other teen. He waits in silence for Bill to continue speaking.
He doesn’t wait long.
“You tell me it isn’t a rose-colored bubble and it’s not easy, but you want it to be. You want it to be that simple. You don’t want things to change, but they’re constantly changing. You’re afraid of it, and so am I. You have a choice—you can either run or face it. I’ve been trying my fucking best to face it and to deal with it, and you’ve been running, Tom.” Bill sighs, sounding exhausted. “You’ve been running. From this. From us. From me.”
Bill always knows these things somehow, in spite of Tom’s best efforts to hide them. But then again, is it really possible to hide one’s feelings from the other half of one’s self?
“I have,” Tom agrees, nodding. The pillow is soft against his cheek, and the bed feels good, and Bill is warm beside him, but Tom can’t relax. Not yet. “I didn’t know what to do, Bill. I didn’t want to talk about it, because that would make it more real, and--”
“It was real,” Bill interjects, sounding even more exhausted than before. He sounds so very tired. Tired of trying. Tired of chasing Tom. In a way, that’s even worse than his anger. “It is real, and you can’t keep pretending that it isn’t. You can’t touch me like that and then push me away—can’t pretend it didn’t happen just because of who and what we are. That’s the worst part, Tom. Not the stupid thing you said in that interview, but the fact that you would never talk to me. We’d get off, and then five seconds later, you’d act like it never happened, until it happened again. Rinse and repeat, and I can’t, you know. I can’t.”
“You’re my brother,” Tom says, and his words are barely audible to his own ears. It’s the same thing he’d told himself the first time he’d jerked off while fantasizing about Bill. It had given him pause, but it had never made him stop. That in itself is wrong, isn’t it? It hadn’t stopped him from touching Bill, either. It hadn’t stopped him from fucking Bill.
“I am,” Bill agrees, his voice now equally soft. “I’ll never stop being that, you know. I don’t want to. Even if things could have been different, I still would have wanted you to be my brother. Always. Just because something isn’t ‘normal’ in society’s eyes doesn’t mean that it can’t be right, Tom.”
Tom’s heart is racing again, at a rate he believes is possibly unhealthy. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like he is capable of drawing breath, but he manages. On the exhale, he asks, “Did it… feel right to you? When we would touch? Kiss? Uhm….”
“Have sex?” Bull supplies helpfully, and Tom nods, not quite trusting his voice. “All of it felt right. And I was afraid of that. I still am, but… the way you see things is really what matters, not the way the rest of the world sees things. “I made my choice a while back. It’s time that you made yours. I’m tired of the silence, Tomi. I’m tired of the mixed signals.”
“… What choice did you make?” Tom blurts, wanting to hear Bill say it even though he’s fairly sure that he already knows his twin’s answer. There’s some strange uplifting sensation within his chest, and his mind vaguely recognizes it to be hope.
“To stop running,” Bill replies. “I’ve said what I need to say, but I haven’t heard what I need to hear. It’s your turn. What do you want this – us – to be?”
Tom is almost afraid to answer. He knows what he wants, but he isn’t sure how to ask for it, or if he even has the right to ask for it, considering all that’s happened. He knows he could tell Bill that he wants to forget that anything beyond brotherly acts had occurred between them, and Bill would try his best to make that happen. He knows that they could try being just brothers again, and nothing more or less than that.
“I… want things to be the way they were before,” he repeats, not really sure how to say what it is that he wants to say. The words are there somewhere, but they aren’t cooperating.
“Before or after the sex?” Bill asks gently after a brief silence. His voice is calm and even, but Tom can tell that there is underlying fear there, too—fear that Bill is trying so hard to hide. But they are twins; Bill cannot hide from him, just as he cannot hide from Bill.
“Can’t it be both?” Tom shifts, pressing closer to Bill so that they are touching, but only just barely. He wants things to be like they were before the sex—he wants them to be able to laugh and talk and poke fun at each other like brothers do, like they always used to. He also wants the same level of intimacy that they’ve only recently discovered—he wants to be able to watch Bill’s face as he comes; he still wants to feel Bill shiver in his arms; he still wants to feel Bill’s lips, soft and warm against his own.
Bill doesn’t answer, and Tom feels the old familiar beginnings of panic sinking in. Has he given Bill the wrong answer? Is he asking for entirely too much? Is he asking for something his twin cannot give him? Has he managed to completely screw things up yet again?
Tom can’t stand the silence. “I know it’s a lot to ask for, Bill. I know I’m being selfish when I probably don’t even have the right to be. I know I’m an idiot, but you have to know that I love you.” As a brother. As a friend. As a soulmate. As a lover. “I love you, and--”
“Tom.” Bill sounds very serious and stern, and Tom cringes, wondering for half a second or so if he should go back to his own bed. But then Bill continues: “Shut up,” he says, his fingers brushing against Tom’s cheek. “I love you, too.”
At those words, something within Tom relaxes—the little knots in his stomach unravel and the pressure on his chest lessens. They’re going to be okay—they really are, and Tom knows it this time. They’ll be okay, with or without the approval of the rest of the world.
Bill’s lips find his in the darkness, and they kiss like lovers that have been reunited after years of separation. They kiss like soulmates who are devoted completely to each other and no-one else. They kiss like they need nothing else—like air (or the lack of) is not an issue.
Tom can’t tell if the wetness on his cheeks is from Bill or himself or the both of them, and he can’t be bothered to care because Bill’s lips are as warm and soft as he remembers them to be, and those lips are parted and Bill’s clever tongue is teasing his own. It’s just like he remembers, only… better, in some way.
And nothing – except everything - changes.
And this time, Tom isn’t running.
In-denial!Tom is a lot of fun to write, and I like making Bill so calm and collected until Tom’s denial pisses him off to the point of where he has to react to it. Ah, angry!Bill is quite the smex, yes? :D
And by the way, you guys, I’m a nurse, so forgive me if the whole mention of Disulfiram therapy confused you. I learned about it in nursing school. Brief explanation:
Disulfiram is an alcohol deterrent used for alcoholic dependence. It sensitizes the patient to alcohol, so a Disulfiram-alcohol reaction occurs if alcohol is ingested. The Disulfiram-alcohol reaction can include: facial flushing, sweating, throbbing headache, neck pain, nausea and vomiting, low blood pressure, fast heart rate, and respiratory distress.
Hope that clears that up for you. :) And, as always, I hope you all enjoyed the read. Thank you. <3333