Prompt: #9 – Write
Warnings: Twincest, some angst, some schmoopiness.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
Summary: And suddenly, Bill’s task was to write, but not to write music: To write out his needs and his desires, and anything else that he felt had to be said.
Comments: Deals with the whole issue of Bill’s throat problems and throat surgery back in 2008. Sequel/companion piece to All He Can Ask For. Written for 100_prompts.
It was the waiting that was the worst. Tom paced in the waiting room, ignoring Simone’s and Gordon’s pleas for him to sit down and rest for a little while. Their words fell on deaf ears, and he continued pacing, counting each step he took, because it gave him something to focus on aside from the fact that his one and only brother was in an operating room right now, unconscious and bleeding. He understood that the surgery was important – was vital - but that did not change the fact that he was not with Bill right now, and he’d always promised that he would be, through everything.
But not this.
And what if something went wrong? What if Bill never woke up? As far-fetched as that idea sounded, Tom knew it was possible – the doctors had said so – and Bill had decided to go through with it in spite of the warnings, because in the end, if it fixed his voice, then it would all be worth it. The threat of possible death meant nothing as long as Bill could still sing.
At least, this had been Bill’s train of thought. Tom’s had been – and still was – slightly different. He wanted Bill to continue singing for as long as it made Bill happy, but he didn’t want to have to potentially risk his twin’s life in order to preserve Bill’s ability to sing.
The choice had not been his to make, though, and that was why he was here now, pacing, and ignoring Georg’s and Gustav’s remarks that he was making a trench in the floor, what with all of his walking back and forth. They had a point, but it was unimportant.
He didn’t know how many minutes or hours had passed before the surgeon entered the waiting room; he only knew that he was up to four-thousand-five-hundred-and-eight steps, and the moment the surgeon walked in, he stopped dead-still, heart leaping into his throat and making it difficult to breathe.
But the surgeon was smiling, which meant that Bill had to be okay, and Tom instantly released the breath he’d been holding, his heart no longer thudding violently, no longer threatening to beat right out of his chest. He found himself smiling too, unable to help it because smiles like that were contagious—smiles like that were reserved for good things (and good news) only.
Strangely enough, Tom couldn’t focus on all of the surgeon’s words—it was like he, in his overjoyed state, was only hearing bits and pieces of what he was saying. The most important part came first: “He’s okay,” and “The surgery was a success,” and “No problems were encountered.” After that, it was like trying to listen to someone on a cell phone with really bad reception, because his thoughts were elsewhere—on Bill again, but in a different light, not pervaded with fear and doubt and ‘what-if’s’. He was okay.
He was okay.
And that was all that mattered, really.
But then the slightest of frowns tugged at the surgeon’s lips, and Tom zeroed in on it, made himself hear what the man had to say next, because his heart was doing that leaping-into-his-throat thing again and it wasn’t pleasant, and because that frown meant that there was a catch. Of course—all good things had to come with those, didn’t they? It was like some weird unspoken rule.
“He will need to rest his voice for ten days. No speaking at all—nothing even resembling speech. He’ll need to use pen and paper for communication. And then he’ll need some vocal retraining…. Even after that, there’s a very slight chance that his voice won’t be as it once was.”
Which meant, in lesser words, that there was still a possibility that Bill would not be able to sing. At least, that’s what it sounded like it meant to Tom.
He bit down on his tongue and closed his eyes, refusing to ask questions that began with “What if?” because if he did that, there was a distinct possibility that he might somehow be setting them up for disappointment—for failure. He wasn’t a superstitious person, but in the past couple of weeks, his world had been turned upside-down, so perhaps it was time to start being just a little superstitious.
Tom wouldn’t ask those questions in front of Bill, either, because he knew that Bill would only be asking them to himself. Simone, Gordon, Gustav, Georg, and Andreas probably (definitely) wouldn’t ask those questions, not in front of Bill, and not in front of Tom.
For Bill’s sake, and for their own, Tom knew, they would not speak about the darker, undesired possibility while Bill was recovering.
Maybe, one of these days, when Bill was back on stage and singing his heart out, they would be able to look back on this and laugh at the absurdity of even suspecting that Bill – and the rest of them, because there was no Tokio Hotel without Bill – would not be able to continue his (their) career, no matter what some fancy surgeon with his fancy medical terminology and his fancy clothes and his fancy title had said.
But today was not the day for that, and Bill was in the recovery room, and he needed Tom now just as much as Tom needed him.
Tom was the first one in the room, just as he’d silently promised. Bill was groggy – the drugs were still doing their job, obviously – and he kept trying to talk or make some sort of noise, only to be gently reprimanded by one of the nurses or one of the doctors nearby.
He visibly brightened when he saw Tom, and when he reached for Tom, Tom went to him without a second of hesitation. His hands clutched at Bill’s and he held on tightly, reassured by his brother’s warmth and the look in his eyes. He was here and he was awake and whole. He wouldn’t be allowed to speak for ten days, but Tom could deal with that (possibly much better than Bill would be able to deal with it, anyway), because Bill was okay.
“You’re okay,” Tom whispered, and he wasn’t sure if it was more for Bill’s benefit or his own. “You’re… I know you’re not going to like that you can’t talk for ten days, but, you know… I guess they know what they’re doing.”
Bill frowned and shook his head, his grip on Tom’s hands tightening, but he surprisingly obeyed and didn’t breathe a word. No, he didn’t like this. He didn’t like it already. That was obvious.
Simone’s hands were suddenly over theirs, her voice soft and sweet and gentle, the edges colored with ten-thousand different emotions, the strongest of which being pure relief. “We’ll have a notepad and a pen so that you can write everything down, honey,” she reassured him. “Don’t worry—you’ll still be able to communicate perfectly with us. It’ll just be a little slower.”
And suddenly, Bill’s task was to write, but not to write music: To write out his needs and his desires, and anything else that he felt had to be said. He wasn’t happy with it, and all of them knew it, but Tom was just grateful that Bill had woken up at all to begin with.
He tried to push those dreaded ‘what-if’s out of his mind. He tried not to think about what might happen if Bill’s voice didn’t return to normal. He tried not to think about how badly that would hurt his twin, and how badly it would hurt him, too, because Bill’s pain was his own. It had always been that way.
The days in the hospital dragged on and on, with Bill scribbling furiously on the notepad Simone had gotten him. Sometimes, he’d get his words wrong and would scratch everything out and start over. Once, he’d written: This would be so much easier if I could actually talk.
“But you can’t yet,” Gordon had reminded him unnecessarily. Bill hadn’t been disoriented—he’d known what day it was. He’d been counting down the days.
“Just a little longer,” Simone had reminded him cheerfully. She’d been trying to put on a brave face, too; she’d been trying not to think about the graver possibility the surgeon had mentioned.
“It’s kinda nice not hearing you fuss at us all of the time,” Gustav had said the day they’d arrived back home—home being their parents’ house, because Simone had begged them to stay for a couple of weeks. Georg had laughed. Bill had glared, clearly not amused. He hadn’t needed the notepad to get his point across; he’d only needed his steely glare and his middle finger.
As the days continued to drag, Bill would use the notepad less and less with Tom. Sometimes, they could speak volumes without words in any form, and even though Tom knew that both of them liked the fact that they could do this—that they were connected enough to communicate in that way, Bill still grew restless.
The longer Bill had to go without talking, the more difficult not talking became, and Bill became grumpier and grumpier with each day that passed.
On the seventh post-op day, Bill apparently decided that he wanted to be a little… frisky. At their parents’ house. They’d been careful before—Simone’s and Gordon’s room was several feet down the hall, on the other side of the stairwell, and they’d always been able to keep their sounds of pleasure low-key here (when they were alone, however, it was an entirely different story—they didn’t have to hold anything back).
Now, they had to contend with the fact that Bill could not make any noise at all and Tom was fairly certain that Bill would not be able to manage that during sex. Hell, he hardly managed to keep his mouth shut during perfectly innocent activities which did not involve hot, insistent mouths and greedy, wandering hands.
So when Bill got a little carried away with their kissing session late that evening, tongue tangling with Tom’s whilst his hands slid beneath Tom’s shirt, blunt nails raking over Tom’s skin and leaving faint pink marks behind, Tom let him, for a few blissful moments, simply because he’d missed this as much as Bill had.
And then one of his own hands found the patch of exposed skin at Bill’s waist, where his jeans had ridden down and his shirt had ridden up, and Bill inhaled sharply, drawing back from the kiss and looking at Tom with such need, and Tom felt torn.
“… We can’t,” he eventually (regretfully) said, and Bill immediately made a face, pulling away from him entirely and rolling onto his side, facing away from Tom. He didn’t have to scribble the words down for Tom to know that he was. Not. Happy. Tom wasn’t happy about it either—he didn’t like being unable to give Bill what he wanted; he didn’t like being unable to give himself what he wanted, either (which was Bill), but he knew that Bill had to do what the doctor had said, and the doctor had told him to avoid making any sound altogether.
Tom scooted close to Bill, spooning him from behind. Bill was unresponsive, tense in his arms. Unwelcoming.
Tom was unperturbed. “Come on, Bill,” he tried to reason with his twin. “You know you have to listen to what the doctor said. You aren’t supposed to make any sound at all until the ten days are up. I’m not happy about it either, and I miss your voice, but you know that you can’t stay perfectly silent during sex. I know it too, because I’ve had sex with you plenty enough to know.”
Bill remained tense. Tom couldn’t see his face, but he knew that his brother was pouting.
“It’s only three more days,” Tom continued. “And then there’s the vocal retraining, but I promise you, Bill, as soon as the ten days are up, I’ll stop torturing the both of us, and I’ll let you make as much noise as you want.” He smiled then, pressing a soft kiss to Bill’s neck. “You can’t stay mad at me forever. You know I want you as much as you want me.”
The fact that his half-hard length was currently pressing into Bill’s backside should have been proof enough of that.
Eventually, Bill relented, relaxing in Tom’s arms and nodding once, briefly. They stayed like that for several minutes, each one calming himself down, and then they released soft sighs at the same time.
Bill rolled over again, now facing Tom, dark eyes focusing on Tom’s face, meeting his gaze. The look in those eyes was profound and filled with such emotion that it made Tom’s heart ache.
Bill didn’t need his voice or pen and paper to get his point across.
Tom’s smile widened and he pulled Bill a little closer, nearly sighing in contentment (again) when Bill buried his face against his neck.
I know, Tom almost said, but didn’t. He didn’t have to.
There wasn’t any point in letting words ruin something that was perfectly understood without them, anyway.
The cute. It just keeps sneaking in, no matter how hard I try for angst. XD And I’m good at writing angsty stuff! I LIKE writing angsty stuff! Sheesh.
Not that I’m complaining, because the cute is so difficult to resist when it comes to writing these two. ^_^