Just Like Starting Over {TWDS}

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

His head hurt.

His head fackin' HURT.

That was Thursday's first thought as he returned to consciousness; the second was to wonder where the hell he was, because this was not his bed.

The third was a sudden jump as he recalled that he wasn't supposed to be waking up at all.

Thursday sat bolt upright in bed with a sickening feeling of failure, but it was quickly replaced by a sharper and much more physical pain in his side. Flippin' OW. What the hell?! He cried out and looked down at his side in shock - unbeknownst to him, he had cracked a rib from the impact of the fall - and that was when he realized he was in a hospital gown. In a hospital bed. In the hospital.

The smell of antiseptic hit his nose like a great, deliciously sterilized freight train, and he recoiled, falling back onto the bed with a despairing thump. Failed. Just like he'd failed to keep his brother. Just like he failed at every fucking thing else.

Thursday put his hands over his face, thinking he was alone, and made a strangled sound of sorrow and frustration. What moron had been saintly enough to save him?! He didn't WANT to be saved! He had WANTED to just die and get this all over with!

But...like...wait. Maybe he wasn't really alive. Maybe this was Limbo--

...he was being a complete idiot.

Like it or not, he was alive. He even pinched himself to make sure. No matter how completely and utterly against the plan it was for him to be alive right now, he was definitely alive. And his side seriously hurt.

"All wrong," he muttered to himself, hands over his face. "All wrong."

But...the last thing he remembered was the bridge and the water. How did he get here from there?

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

He was slumped in the chair beside an Intensive Care Unit at Sacred Heart Hospital, cradling his head in his hands. There was a heart rate monitor next to him beeping little high pitched car horn noises every time his brother breathed.

He was breathing. He breathed. Living people breathed too, right?

Of course, living people also, like, got up and walked around and talked and stuff. And living people went to parties and watched Criminal Minds and played Settlers of Catan at stupid hours of the night and broke into McDonalds and ran around school dances injecting the school’s water supply with red kool-aid, and living people played rugby and listened to Rod Stewart and ate hamburgers and…oh God, Thursday wasn’t doing any of those things right now. Oh God, Thursday was just lying there like some dumb lump on a log, and holy shit, holy shit, there were wires in him, and Jesus, there were fluids going into him, and this was just like that episode of House where the kid was just like, sleeping there, just lying there, for like, forty odd hours, and the brother was just, like, sitting there, being a dumb guest star, and then there was a condom commercial and some stuff happened and he kissed his girlfriend, and that stupid kid in the damn hospital bed just sat there, with those machines, those fucking machines just kept pumping shit into him until one day he just…he just…he just…

Damnit. That was twice in one day he’d used the firetruck word. Twice in one day. He and Thursday never used the firetruck word. Never. What was going on with him? He felt like he didn’t even know himself anymore. Like that guy on that one show with the…with the…with the…

No. No. He couldn’t cry. Not now, not here. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t cry, over and over and over again, for those centuries that he’d waited, soaked to the bone on the bank of the river hugging his brother’s stupid empty body so tightly that water squeezed itself out through every possible opening. He’d promised as he clung relentlessly to Thursday while the medics tugged and tugged him towards the ambulance. Thursday was ]his twin, not theirs. His. And he couldn’t cry. Tuesday stared at the insides of his own fingers, his thoughts swirling in directions he couldn’t even follow. He was seventeen years old, an adult as far as he and Thursday were concerned, and adults didn’t cry. Men didn’t cry, not over anything.

Don’t cry, Tuesday. Don’t cry.

Thursday was sitting up. Thursday was sitting up. Thursday was sitting up.

Tuesday raised his head slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but the rhetoric that usually flowed gratuitously through his lips wouldn’t come. He’d forgotten what words meant. He’d forgotten how languages worked.

"All wrong," he muttered to himself, hands over his face. "All wrong.”

The thoughts still echoed in his mind. Don’t fucking cry, Tuesday Wells Davenport. Don’t you even think about crying.

His brother’s voice burst into his mind like a floodgate’s final surrender to a tidal wave. Tuesday had been holding himself together, keeping the cork firmly on the bottle, but with every decibel of his brother’s voice vibrating against his eardrums, he felt his promise to himself getting harder and harder to keep. The pressure to totally break down throbbed faster and faster and more and more violently against the inside of his skull, until finally Tuesday lost it.

He cried.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

This was such a mistake. He was a mistake. Everything he did was a mistake. He couldn't even kill himself right, clearly, seeing as he was alive here instead of at the bottom of the river. He had been hoping to find peace there, desperately hoping. Silence. Away from his thoughts. Maybe he was romanticizing death a little too much, but he didn't care; he couldn't stand one more day listening to himself think.

It was like no matter what he did, he couldn't stop himself from thinking. Constantly, thinking, thinking, thinking about what he had to do, what he couldn't do, what Tuesday wanted him to do, what Tuesday was doing, what he should be doing, who he was supposed to be, schoolwork, friends, life, what about money, God, Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday, he was a terrible brother, he was an awful person.

Thursday's frantic and obsessive thought patterns were something he had been able to deal with. In fact, they were one of the reasons he was capable of finishing anything he started -- at times, he would obsess over that thing until it was resolved. Before, it had been manageable. But with the addition of this continued stress of his estrangement from his brother, Thursday's mind had become unbearable. He could no longer focus. Every time he tried to distract himself, his mind kept coming back to Tuesday, and every time his mind came back to Tuesday, he reminded himself how utterly worthless he was in Tuesday's life.

That, more than anything, that endless cycle, had been what brought Thursday to the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge.

And now, all those thoughts were slowly coming back.

Thursday nearly screamed in frustration, but all that came out was a pathetic, pained whimper.

And that was when he thought he heard...crying?

He took his hands off from over his face.

He sat up very slowly, still wincing at the sharp pain in his side, and looked around the room.

And there was his double, his twin, head in his hands, slumped over in a chair beside his bed that he had been too preoccupied and distraught to see, and he was...

Crying?

Thursday's eyes widened. (The light still hurt them a bit, but now that didn't matter.) He bit his lip, hard. What was Tuesday doing here? How did he find out? Did he...? He...

His mind flashed back to the bridge. That had been Tuesday's voice he'd heard. The indifference in it had driven him to jump with even more certainty, though he couldn't be sure if Tuesday had known it was him.

Tuesday had been so angry all this time, so...why was he here? Why was he crying? Had he...been the one to save Thursday...? A swell of emotion started in Thursday's chest, and he tried to force it down. No. He couldn't cry...he was...he couldn't...

"T...Tuesday?" he practically croaked, his voice broken up by the tears he was trying not to shed. It was all the more he could say.

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday was a wreck. What was he, some kind of dumb baby? If his brother saw him like this he’d laugh and laugh until his like, stomach exploded or something. God, what was wrong with him? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He was a dick. That’s what it was. Tuesday perched on his stupid chair thing, hugging his legs tightly to his chest and resting his head on his knees. He was a stupid jerk who thought he knew what he wanted. He’d thought he’d wanted independence. Freedom. But he didn’t know what the fuck independence was. He didn’t know jack shit about independence or freedom, or anything, except that it had ended up hurting the people that he always…that he always…

Oh God, Thursday.

It really hadn’t hit him until now, everything that he’d done to his twin brother. All the stupid bullshit he’d put the kid through. No wonder Thursday hated him. He would hate him too, if he was…yeah.

Thursday raised his head a fraction of a centimeter, and saw that said brother was sitting up in his bed, glancing around at the blaring white room around them. It was like that scene in…that one movie. With the white stuff. He was fine. They’d said he was going to be fine. But this was wrong. This was all, all, all wrong. Tuesday was always the cool one of them. The one who kept them grounded, who kept them both together. Thursday was the angsty one, Thursday, who did his homework and read books and asked questions and criticized weird things in his weird Thursday way. Tuesday was the one with the friends and the girls: he was the cool one, the suave one. He should be the one sitting up now, being all smooth stuff. And here he was, stifling sobs like…like…no. He wasn’t even going to this time.

His name brushed past his eardrums like a tree branch in the breeze. His stupid day of the week name that felt like the only thing he and his brother shared anymore. But Tuesday couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even pull his thoughts together enough to form a coherent sentence. It should be him in that bed right now. He’d been the jerk, the stupid pathetic loser. Thursday didn’t deserve any of the shit that he’d gotten. Tuesday allowed his wrestled his…well, he wasn’t even sure what to call these rampaging rapids inside his head…into enough of a stagnation that he allowed himself to raise his head and face the kid he’d been inches away from killing.

“Thursday,” he said formally, his drenched hands clenched in fists behind his back with the effort of keeping his voice at a steady level. Calm and cool and under control. That’s what he was, always, what he’d been for his entire life. Why should today be so hard?

You almost killed your brother, you idiot.

He’d seriously almost killed his own brother, hadn’t he? Killed. He couldn’t even comprehend, like, the implications of that word. He’d almost killed the person he loved more than anyone else in this whole stupid world.

“How’s it, uh, going, bro?”

If he’d picked any other day to go strolling along the river. If he’d waited two more measly little seconds to start sprinting towards the bridge. If he or Thursday had sunk one foot deeper into the water.

“How are you…uh…”

He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t.

"I was going to ask what's going on with YOU. You're all...distracted. Do you even WANT to do this? Because I'm not making you."

He burst into tears again, able to think of nothing except that now his own brother was going to think he was a big, fat baby, and that there was no way, in the entire universe, that he, Tuesday, could ever, ever make all of this up to him.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

This was all such a huge mistake.

He was supposed to be dead. Gone. Tuesday wasn't supposed to be here, crying over a brother that he didn't need. This was all wrong, all wrong, he had meant to get out of his life, he wasn't needed anymore, he...

Thursday choked on his own tears, fighting them off and wiping angrily at his eye. Goddammit. He couldn't cry, he just...but...Tuesday was crying...

But he was the older twin, right? He had to be strong. He had to...

You're also the useless twin, you stupid twat. You're the twin who just tried to kill himself. You tell me who's the stronger twin, asshole.

That thought stabbed him in the chest and twisted painfully, and Thursday felt tears form and leak from his eyes. He didn't stop them this time. He let them slide down his face, watching Tuesday. What had brought him to this? How had they even gotten here? He wanted...he wanted the old times back, he wanted it to just be him and Tuesday and no-one else, two brothers sticking out for each other and pulling elaborate pranks. He didn't want to be here, lying in a hospital bed and watching his brother cry.

I just...want to be good enough for you, Tuesday... He bit his lip so hard he thought he might draw blood. I love you, brother...

But he couldn't say that. Not now. Not with this silence choking him and filling the air. He couldn't stand this. Tuesday...

He didn't blame Tuesday for driving him to that bridge. He blamed himself, completely. He was the one who was becoming obsolete. He was the one who couldn't function and make friends without his brother at his side. He was the one who had become depressed and listless and unhelpful. He was the one that deserved to die, but not Tuesday, never Tuesday... Tuesday was everything he would never be, carefree and funny and social. Thursday was like...one of those huge computers from the 1970s that filled the entire room and puked out numbers. Tuesday was a goddamn netbook.

Obsolete. He was. Tuesday was better off without him.

But why, then, was he crying...?

“Thursday."

The elder twin stiffened in bed at the sound of his name, wincing at how formal his brother sounded. Was this really how far they'd come?

"How's it, uh, going, bro?"

That was Tuesday, wasn't it? Trying to act cool. Thursday knew his brother, he knew he was the one who was always level-headed, whose particular brand of gives-no-shits was always more advanced than Thursday. He knew Tuesday made fun of him for reading books sometimes and doing his homework, but that had always been alright, because at the end of the day they were united in purpose and in thought. They weren't really that different...right? Right...?

He didn't want to be a separate entity from Tuesday. He wanted to be Tuesday and Thursday. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be alone...

He felt, strongly, that he was nothing alone.

“How are you…uh…”

He waited for a moment, hanging onto Tuesday's every word, before his cool-headed twin brother broke down crying.

Thursday flashed back to the mall.

“I’m sorry if I don’t care about your stupid prank."

Tuesday had left him. Left him. But now he was here, and he didn't need to be...

"T-Tuesday?" His voice sounded so weak, like he hadn't used it in months. "He-hey...it's...it's okay, I'm sorry, I didn't..." There were tears running down his own face now. "Didn't mean to cause a...d-disturbance or...waste your time..."

He choked on his own tears and bit his lip, shrinking back into his bed.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Tuesday...p-please don't cry..."

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

God, this sucked. All of this. All this loneliness and self-hatred and searing pain. Tuesday remembered once, back in sixth or seventh grade, when he’d fallen from the top of a ladder trying to disable an alarm system. He’d shattered his left arm against the tile, and the pain that seared through it had been such a terrible searing throb, like the giant spiked mace from whichever Lord of the Rings movie that was, smashing into him again and again, faster and harder every single time. And Tuesday could remember pleading, with God or Allah or Jehova or Buddha or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whoever was up there, that he would choose any type of suffering over this agony. Because nothing could be worse than tangible, physical pain.

But this was worse. This was seventeen kazillion times worse. He wasn’t sure how much more of this torture he could take. It had taken Thursday already, and his brother was a million times better of a person than Tuesday would ever be. He just wanted it to end. He just wanted all of this heavy guilt that had been pushing and poking and prodding and eating away at him to work. He just wanted this hole in his chest where his brother had been to close and be whole again. One of his limbs was missing, and he just wanted it back.

He and Thursday had been wrenched apart by…by what? By growing up? By the same hand that tugged at the angsty teenagers eager to get out of their houses and go be their own people in the world? Tuesday felt discombobulated, like one of those astronauts in Apollo 13 who cut their cords from their ship and floated off into space to explore. He hated space. He wanted happy John Williams music to play, and he wanted Tom Hanks to come with those magical clipper things and rescue him. Everything would be okay then, right? Actually, didn’t they die in the movie? No, wait, that was the one without Tom Hanks in it, where the spaceship was like, yellow or something.

But regardless, he knew that he would never, ever, ever leave the ship again.

"T-Tuesday?" His voice sounded so weak, like he hadn't used it in months. "He-hey...it's...it's okay, I'm sorry, I didn't..." There were tears running down his own face now. "Didn't mean to cause a...d-disturbance or...waste your time..."

Tuesday felt numb. He opened his mouth to speak, but at first nothing came out. “I…Thurs…it’s not…your…” he managed, trying to wrap his mind around the words. And then, suddenly, like that one movie with Jude Law in it about hurricanes or whatever, he felt as if a floodgate between his brain and his mouth had been shattered into a billion tiny pieces. “Thursday, it’s all my fault, this is all my fault, oh God, Thurs, they said your heart had stopped, and they said you were dead…” With each word the tears flowed faster, and the words took on a life of their own, flying from his mouth without boundary. Tuesday babbled like a baby, wiping his face frantically on his sleeve, but new tears skitted down his cheeks as the old ones disappeared. “And then they took you away, to this white room with some big scary purple terminator thing, and they closed the door, and they wouldn’t let me see you, and oh God, Thurs, why would you be…wasting my…God, Thurs, you’re my…and they asked if I’d pushed you in, and then they called you an idiot, and they were all like ‘oh, doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to spend that much time in freezing water’ and then they were laughing at your name, and then there was this tall guy with a big black mask thing and he was all like ‘your parents aren’t going to be happy’ and I was like ‘our parents don’t care about us’ and then he grabbed my arm, and then…”

"I'm...I'm sorry, Tuesday...p-please don't cry..."

Thursday paused to gasp for breath, hiccupping and wiping his face again. “Oh God Thurs, don’t…it’s not your…they said…they said they were going to ship you away, and they wanted papers and stuff and I didn’t have any, and they said I had to leave, and, oh God…” Tuesday was shaking, huddled like a tiny, scared little toddler against his chair. “And I just…I never realized, really, when that thing was beeping like they always show on Gray’s Anatomy, right before the patient dies and there’s all the sad music and the people crying, and I just...couldn’t stop…thinking…and like, how I’ve never really been lonely before, you know, like, two weeks ago, when that…you know, but after that I just felt so…so…”Alone. He couldn’t say it. But maybe his brother would feel it. Maybe, just maybe, their connection was still there, buried beneath all these stupid teenage hormones they’d built up around themselves.

“And I…I just….I love you, Thursday.” It was the only thing left in him. It was the only way to summarize everything he’d been trying to say for the past two weeks. He had nothing to lose. There was no one and nothing in the world he cared for more than this skinny, ragged, disheveled kid crumpled against this mattress in front of him.

God, couldn’t he come up with something more original? If he’d heard that line being spoken in a movie he would have thrown a fire poker at the TV. He was so pathetic. How did Thursday stand him?

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to think about this. He didn't want to see his brother crying or feel the way the sound tore at his heart like an angry cat. Or, like. A monster. Yeah. Big monster claws seemed a bit more tear-to-pieces-y than a cat.

But he was missing the point.

His brother was here, and his brother was crying. That had to mean...had to mean...something, if he...he had to care, right? He had to. If he was here...if he was...oh, God...

But he couldn't have been wrong! He...

He couldn't have been wrong...completely...

“I…Thurs…it’s not…your…”

Thursday bit his lip, tensing. He didn't want Tuesday to say it wasn't his fault. It was ALL his fault. He was useless and stupid and he couldn't make friends very easily without his brother around, and he was the one who got in the way and didn't know how to deal with his feelings and just let them stew until he felt so completely hollow that he threw himself off a bridge. He was the messed up one here. He was the one that should be apologizing for all the crap he put his brother through, not the other way around.

“Thursday, it’s all my fault, this is all my fault, oh God, Thurs, they said your heart had stopped, and they said you were dead…”

Thursday's eyes widened as his brother, his calm, cool, and collected brother, continued to ramble and cry.

"It's not your fault," he managed weakly.

“And then they took you away, to this white room with some big scary purple terminator thing, and they closed the door, and they wouldn’t let me see you, and oh God, Thurs, why would you be…wasting my…God, Thurs, you’re my…and they asked if I’d pushed you in, and then they called you an idiot, and they were all like ‘oh, doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to spend that much time in freezing water’ and then they were laughing at your name, and then there was this tall guy with a big black mask thing and he was all like ‘your parents aren’t going to be happy’ and I was like ‘our parents don’t care about us’ and then he grabbed my arm, and then…”

Thursday bit his lip, hard. He was filled with the overwhelming desire to just...hug his brother, and not let go. How selfish had he been, not to imagine the consequences of Tuesday himself finding and rescuing him? He should have chosen another day, he...

But...he...he was there, and he was scared...

Tuesday...

"T-Tuesday, I..."

But Tuesday wasn't done.

“Oh God Thurs, don’t…it’s not your…they said…they said they were going to ship you away, and they wanted papers and stuff and I didn’t have any, and they said I had to leave, and, oh God…” Thursday was crying just as hard as his brother, just listening, just watching him...and that connection between them was overloading his senses with emotions, and...just...

He wiped his eyes.

“And I just…I never realized, really, when that thing was beeping like they always show on Gray’s Anatomy, right before the patient dies and there’s all the sad music and the people crying, and I just...couldn’t stop…thinking…and like, how I’ve never really been lonely before, you know, like, two weeks ago, when that…you know, but after that I just felt so…so…”

"Alone." Thursday finished his sentence with a whisper, looking down.

He had thought that he was alone. He had thought that Tuesday wasn't interested in him anymore, that he was more interested in his new friends who were more interesting and more...whatever it was that Thursday hadn't been all this time. What had even started this? What had brought them here? How...how had they gotten to this stupid, antiseptic-stinking hotel room with its white walls with the stupid floral patterns up on the edges, whatever the hell you called that...and him in this stupid paper gown with these stupid white sheets and someone probably died in this bed at some point or another...

“And I…I just….I love you, Thursday.”

Thursday froze.

I love you, Thursday.

How much of this could have been avoided if he'd heard that earlier? There was a question for the ages.

"I..." He choked on his tears, wiping his eyes roughly. "I...I love you too, Tuesday...y-you're my...my brother, I just..." It was his turn to break down. "Ijustwanttobegoodenoughforyou." His breath came out in shaky little gasps, and he swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. "Ijust...I...I never wanted to be some sort of...b-blockade for you and I was just...I've felt so fucking useless...I didn't...I didn't know what else to do, I thought...m-maybe it'd be better for you if I was...gone..."

He bit his lip hard. "I just want you to be happy..."

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday couldn’t see straight. He couldn’t talk straight. He couldn’t think straight. He just needed to be alone. He needed to set himself straight, to make sense of this jumble of incoherent thoughts that was his pathetic excuse for a brain. He was trying to pull himself together on the fly, but the second he stitched up each seam another one burst. He just…he just…

God, he was such a mess. He’d been saying that all night, but like, objectively, honestly, he was. If his emotional injuries were manifested physically, he’d be like that guy in Star Wars III before they put the epic black cape thing on him: every bone in shards, his limbs strewn every which way, unrecognizable as a human being, bleeding gallons and screaming and screaming and screaming. And had he done all this shit to himself? In all likelihood, probably, in the same way that the Star Wars III dude had fucked himself over by doing…whatever he did to that girl, Tuesday hadn’t really paid attention during that movie anyway.

"It's not your fault," he managed weakly. Tuesday shook his head. “Don’t say that, bro,” he sobbed, hugging his knees even more tightly as if he were trying to fold into himself. “I’m the one who…who…pushed you away. I’m…I’m the one who told you all that…who thought I could…” He shook his head. “God, we thought we were…invincible, didn’t we…” He bit his quivering lip, looking back on the memories he’d been keeping bottled up inside him these past few weeks. The black bandanas, the darting through dark alleys, the giggles, the spray paint, the diving into the bushes, it all seemed so mundane now that his only brother, his other half, his best friend in the whole world, had almost fucking killed himself. Tuesday had thought he could handle anything. All those carefree days of pranking and running and repeating, sure that nothing and no one could ever come between them.

But this was a stupid world, wasn’t it? Not like, this Earth with the birds and the dirt and stuff. Tuesday knew about the whole “we are tiny compared to xyz star” shebang. But this world, this existence that every human on every continent grudgingly progressed through. This stupid world, full of billions of entities, which forced two of these entities to become so attached to each other that they literally fell to pieces if they tried to function independently. Tuesday thought for a minute. When was the longest that they had ever been apart? Tuesday had gone camping with a friend once for two nights, but had spent all of the second one texting his brother because he hadn’t been able to handle it. There was that time that…oh, God, those four days that Thursday had been in isolation with the mumps or whatever. Shit, that had sucked. So four days. Three nights. And they’d both subsided into hysterics by the end of that as well.

Ugh, he’d never realized how much they really revolved around each other. It was like he was addicted to cigarettes or something, except that Thursday wasn’t spewing poison into his kidney or whatever it was that those things did. Tuesday had always thought that they should like, fix that about cigarettes. Major design flaw. But anyways.

"Alone." Thursday finished his sentence, and Tuesday’s face stiffened into the weakest ghost of a smile. It was the closest he felt like he’d ever be able to come to actually smiling again. Thursday still finished his sentences. Well that, at least, hadn’t changed.

"I...I love you too, Tuesday...y-you're my...my brother, I just..." It was his turn to break down. "Ijustwanttobegoodenoughforyou." His breath came out in shaky little gasps, and he swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. "Ijust...I...I never wanted to be some sort of...b-blockade for you and I was just...I've felt so fucking useless...I didn't...I didn't know what else to do, I thought...m-maybe it'd be better for you if I was...gone..."

Oh God. Tuesday felt his heart swelling with…with what? Desire. The desire to cling to his brother and never le t anything separate them ever again. “You…you are good enough for me, Thurs. Y-you’re better than good enough. I just, I…” He shrugged, wiping his eyes on his sleeve again. “I always wondered, you know, how, like, only children did it, b-because, you know, you were always…and like, siblings who fought with each other all the time…I just could never…because you were always…and I thought…I could never, ever hate…you…” God, he was an idiot. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say.

He bit his lip hard. "I just want you to be happy..."

“Why did you do it, Thursday?” Tuesday whispered, tears spilling from his eyes again. God damnit. Each time he had himself almost completely dry, his mind flashed back to that damn bridge, that damn water streaming into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his ears, his being, screaming, screaming, screaming…”How could you leave me alone here?”

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

The last thing Thursday Davenport needed right now was to be alone.

He felt...hollow. Not in the same way that he had before, that listless, vacant feeling that had been slowly filling him for months. This hollowness was more...raw, like someone had ripped him open and carved out his insides. Like a Christmas turkey. Guilt was slowly starting to creep up on him, guilt that he had even considered leaving his brother...but...he hadn't thought...how was he supposed to know?! He wasn't supposed to know!

But you should have known better. You always should have known better.

He scoffed at that voice in his head.

Tell me something I don't know, asshole.

He wanted...he wanted it to be 2005 again, running down the streets clutching his brother's hand - his own hand - in his, pelting away from an angry shopkeeper or a mall rent-a-cop. He wanted late-night excursions to to backs of abandoned houses, spray-painting naughty and artistic things on the back walls, wearing all-black, bandanas pulled up over their faces.

Bandanas...

Thursday felt around his neck. His bandana was gone. Where was it? He needed that...he needed it...

“Don’t say that, bro,” he sobbed, hugging his knees even more tightly as if he were trying to fold into himself. “I’m the one who…who…pushed you away. I’m…I’m the one who told you all that…who thought I could…” He shook his head. “God, we thought we were…invincible, didn’t we…”

"I'll say it because it's true," he whispered. "It's not your fault...for thinking that...it's mine. I was...I am..." He choked. "Goddammit..." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I always thought...you were the invincible one, Tuesday..." He shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I tried to be strong for you, but I always thought...that you were the one who...you know...knew how to support himself..." He bit his lip so hard he thought he might draw blood. "Ijust...I should have seen this coming...I should've known I'd...l-lose my purpose or...whatever..."

He didn't want to exist if his brother was not in his life. Thursday had grown up with the constant presence of his brother at his side, supporting him, planning with him, running with him, rabble-rousing and mischief-making and night-thieving with him. Without him, what would he be?

Together, they were a dream-team of crime and pranks. Apart, Thursday was just a loser.

It was something he had considered once, when he was maybe 15; what would happen if he was ever permanently separated from his brother. The thought had filled him with such terror, such an agonizing, heart-stopping fear, that he hadn't let Tuesday out of his sight for three days. He hadn't even considered it before then, the idea that they would not always be together, grinning and stealing and tricking. And it wasn't because Thursday had some sort of obsession with his brother or anything. He wasn't a stalker. What had terrified him the most about being separated from Tuesday was the thought of what he, Thursday, would become.

It was selfish, really. Completely selfish. He didn't want to lose Tuesday because it would be like cutting off his own legs. He'd have no reason to go on walking because he simply wouldn't be able to. He would be...

Empty.

Alone.

Nobody in the world really understood Thursday.

Except Tuesday.

“You…you are good enough for me, Thurs. Y-you’re better than good enough. I just, I…” He shrugged, wiping his eyes on his sleeve again. “I always wondered, you know, how, like, only children did it, b-because, you know, you were always…and like, siblings who fought with each other all the time…I just could never…because you were always…and I thought…I could never, ever hate…you…”

He didn't completely understand what Tuesday was trying to say, but he felt the emotional undertones of it. His eyes welled up with tears again. "I-I know," he mumbled. "We've...like...n-never...fought or anything..." He sucked in a breath. "I could never hate you, either...never..."

“Why did you do it, Thursday?” Tuesday whispered, tears spilling from his eyes again. ”How could you leave me alone here?”

Thursday felt a knife sink into his chest again, cold and sharp and serrated. How could you leave me alone here?

"I-I didn't think..." It had never occurred to him that maybe Tuesday felt the same way, that maybe he wouldn't know how to live without Thursday, either... "I didn't think...I'm...I'm so..."

Sorry...

He nearly crumpled over the edge of the bed.

"C-c'mere."

He reached out his hands almost needily towards his brother.

"I fucking love you." There was that damn firetruck word again, but he was past caring now. "And I...dammit, Tuesday, I need you. You're the..." He stopped to collect himself, though the tears were still coming. "You're the only person on the face of the earth who understands me..."

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday looked at his brother, curled beneath the sheets with the purest agony etched across his face. Tuesday had heard of broken hearts, in Taylor Swift songs and-well, he totally didn't listen to Taylor Swift, so that was a bad example. But he'd heard. He'd heard the lyrics and the sappy romantic comedy lines when they whispered so that you had to either lean awkwardly into the TV or make up a really perverted line to imagine that they had said. He'd heard the stories people told, about breakups and makeups and all those dumb things about your heart shattering and stuff, and Tuesday had never, ever believed it. It was stupid, really. Like, c'mon. Your heart? All it did was like, pump stuff or something. So cliche.

And yet, he knew as he sat, a tiny microbe-y--thing hurtling through the vast abyss of the universe, he knew that his brother's pain was breaking his heart. His chest ached in that way that it did when you were full to bursting with food: a dull, but persistent throb. A single glance at the face that had been so familiar for so long, twisted and contorted beyond even Tuesday's recognition, was like the really tall Braveheart guy jabbing him with a long pole thing over and over and over...

Man, he was getting deep. God, where was the old Tuesday, the careless prankster kid who giggled about ketchup packets on fans and geckos wearing bandanas? God, geckoes. Stealing geckoes. That shit had been his world, at one point. How could he ever have existed in that universe, where nothing mattered but how to disable the next security camera? Shit had dropped so quickly that he'd barely had the time to notice how quickly he was changing. How quickly both of them had changed.

"I'll say it because it's true," he whispered. "It's not your fault...for thinking that...it's mine." Tuesday hung on every word of his brother's distressed reply. You were the invincible one. Obviously not, he thought wryly. He was a wreck. He deserved to be a wreck. He saw Thursday's eyes flutter to his neck, and felt a a jab of recognition. "It's okay, Thurs. I have it. They put all your clothes in some...dead-people-clothes-room...God, that sounds..." He couldn't. Silently, and still so goddamned tearfully, he dug his brother's bandana from his back pocket and tossed it over. Then he retrieved his own, fastening it in its usual position. Like either of them were in any sort of state to pull a prank right now. Or ever would be again.

"I didn't think...I'm...I'm so..."

"Sorry." Tuesday finished, biting his lip. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. F-for everything, really. God, I don't even...I can't...I don't deserve to be your twin, Thursday. I don't deserve to finish your sentences or...or feel your...stuff, or...God, it t-totally sounds like I'm breaking up with you or something, d-doesn't it?" He heard himself expel the barest hint of the most pathetic laugh in the world.

"C'mere."

Tuesday hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, then squeezed the shit out of his brother like he'd squeeze a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean. And that was what Thursday was, really. "Thurs, I...fuck." It was okay. His brother was okay. He was here. Maybe things would turn out the way they always did at the end of romantic comedies after all. Not that he ever watched them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I missed you so much." It was all he could say. He clung to his brother like a baby, wishing he could hold on to him foreve

"You're the only person on the face if this Earth who understands me."

He felt their connection growing stronger with every second. He felt his brother's pain, his distress, his relief, every thought and feeling that he'd ever had. They were twins again. Real twins. He had no idea how to put that into words, the fact that nobody could ever understand him better than Thursday could, and that no matter how cruel the world was, he would never sever that connection again. He asked instead.

"Thursday, will you promise me something?"

“Yeah, of course…what?"

"Promise you'll never, ever, ever, ever leave me again, okay?"

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Thursday had been needy before. He knew that, as a unit, he and Tuesday had been relatively independent of everyone else, caught in their own little world, but when they were apart…well. That was a different story for Thursday. Like the one time Tuesday went camping with one of his friends. Near the end, Thursday had been so restless that he had to be constantly moving to avoid freaking out. He’d prowled his room like a caged lion, snapping at anyone who stuck their hand through the bars. People were afraid of him when he was like that, but it was the only way he knew how to be needy. He didn’t know how to ask for things. He didn’t even know how to ask for his brother. He’d just always assumed Tuesday would be there, and when he discovered he wasn’t always going to be at his side…well, shit had gotten real way too fast.

Growing up sucked. He wanted to stop, he wanted to go backwards, like that guy in that one movie who was born an old wrinkly prune and became younger and younger as he aged. Yeah. Thursday would like that. Only, like, not so far back that he was in diapers, because depending on other people sucked. But just, like…maybe a few years…if he could just go back, just relive that over and over instead of facing all these new experiences and feelings…he would prefer that to anything else, especially growing up. Thursday had no interest in being an adult. Not only did it mean responsibility, it meant possible separation from Tuesday, and it was already clear he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

How, he wondered to himself, had he ever even considered leaving his amazing brother? His brother, his wonderful brother, his other half, his right arm, his partner in crime. It shouldn’t have mattered if Tuesday didn’t need him anymore. He should have been there anyway, because that was what a good brother did. He’d been horribly, horribly selfish.

And he didn’t know if he could forgive himself for that.

He felt around his neck, missing the bandana.

"It's okay, Thurs. I have it. They put all your clothes in some...dead-people-clothes-room...God, that sounds..."

“It sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it…” Thursday’s voice was almost dry, and so was the accompanying smile. “Thanks. I want it. Because I’m never fucking taking it off again.” He sounded completely serious. He was conscious of his use of the firetruck word, and he knew, he knew that he shouldn’t be using it, that he and Thursday were above that sort of language, but he couldn’t help it right now. He wanted to use it now.

He watched Tuesday fasten his own bandana and felt a lump form in his throat. The tears were returning. How many times had he watched his brother deftly tie that scrap of black fabric around his neck? How many more times would he ever see him do it? Would they ever pull any pranks again that would require it? Would they ever go thieving together with those bandanas pulled over their faces? Thursday’s heart felt like it was pumping ice water. No. No, no, no, this wouldn’t be the last time he saw his brother do this…couldn’t be…he wouldn’t…he couldn’t stand for it. He couldn’t let go.

He couldn’t let go. And he knew he was weak.

"Sorry." Thursday nodded as his brother finished his sentence. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. F-for everything, really. God, I don't even...I can't...I don't deserve to be your twin, Thursday. I don't deserve to finish your sentences or...or feel your...stuff, or...God, it t-totally sounds like I'm breaking up with you or something, d-doesn't it?"

“Don’t you dare say that.” As he wrapped his arms around Tuesday, as he felt Tuesday’s arms squeezing him back, he pulled his brother as close as he could, burying his face in his shoulder. He breathed in the smell of him – HIS smell – the familiar scent that had been by his side all this time. “Don’t you ever say that again. Ever. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” He was getting Tuesday’s shoulder a little wet now with budding tears, but he didn’t apologize yet. “I-I…I love you. I l-love that you’re MY twin and you..f-finish my sentences and feel my…stuff. O-okay?”

"Thurs, I...fuck." They’d both forsaken their usual boundaries on bad words. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I missed you so much."

He was conscious of the fact that he was clinging to his brother, too, both clinging to him and guarding him – he wasn’t sure which was stronger. No-one would ever hurt Tuesday again, especially not his own brother. Not ever again. He would make damn sure of that. “I missed you too, Tues,” he mumbled into his shoulder. “I-I missed you so fucking much…I couldn’t…stand it…”

Everything was okay. It was going to be okay. Tuesday was here. Tuesday was next to him like he should be, and Tuesday loved him, and Tuesday missed him, and everything was going to be fine. He had his brother, and that was the only thing he really needed.

The connection between them was renewing itself, like a snake shedding its skin, and Thursday felt it and smiled.

"Thursday, will you promise me something?"

He raised his head a little. “Yeah, of course…what?”

"Promise you'll never, ever, ever, ever leave me again, okay?"

Thursday was silent for a moment, staring, and then his expression melted into a smile. He brought their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “I promise,” he whispered. “As long as you never leave me.”

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

Tuesday had never felt like as much shit as he did right at this exact moment. All the pain, the confusion, the distress, and the longing he’d ever felt in his life smushed together could not even begin to add up to a trillionth of how crappy he currently felt, how confused he was about everything he’d thought he’d known about himself, how stupidly tired he was, and how much he just wanted to glue himself to his brother and never, ever let him go.

Tuesday just wanted to be part of a unit again. He’d never had parents who paid attention to him, or a mansion, or flatscreen TV, or a fancy car, or a really hot girlfriend, but he’d had Thursday. He’d always had Thursday. He’d always had a connection that none of those happy little rich kids would ever have, with their brothers, with their friends, with their nice parents or really hot girlfriends, or anyone. He had a brother, a best friend, who knew him better than anybody else in the world, whom he’d always known he could count on to stick by him, through anything and everything. His life would change, his friends would change, his dance dates would change, he’d move from school to school, city to city, dorm to house, and he’d get taller, his voice would get deeper, he’d listen to different music, and he’d move through the world as it changed around him, but he’d always known that Thursday would be there. No matter what. Thursday would always, always, always, always be there, right there, right next to him, even if there was a zombie apocalypse, like in Resident Evil, and he had to run away from giant walking bloody corpse things with like, teeth and stuff, Thursday would be there. And that would always be so, so, so much better than a nice car. Even one of those Ferraris with pretty Christmas-colored lights on the wheel. Although those kicked a large amount of ass.

“It sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it…” Thursday’s voice was almost dry, and so was the accompanying smile. “Thanks. I want it. Because I’m never fucking taking it off again.”

“Me neither. Never again.” He and his brother made eye contact, and Tuesday nodded, resolved. He felt his breathing, musty beneath the cloth, and almost smiled. That was his favorite scent. It had always been. It smelled like adventure, and excitement, and…non-mainstreamness, and stuff. It smelled like, well, himself. And Thursday. And absolutely nobody else. If he could only grab one thing from a burning building, he would grab this bandana. If he could only have one thing on a desert island, not counting like, an airplane, an ocean-draining machine, a teleporter, and stuff, it would be this bandana. If he could…well, yeah.

“Don’t you dare say that.” As he wrapped his arms around Tuesday, as he felt Tuesday’s arms squeezing him back, he pulled his brother as close as he could, burying his face in his shoulder. He breathed in the smell of him – HIS smell – the familiar scent that had been by his side all this time. “Don’t you ever say that again. Ever. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” He was getting Tuesday’s shoulder a little wet now with budding tears, but he didn’t apologize yet. “I-I…I love you. I l-love that you’re MY twin and you..f-finish my sentences and feel my…stuff. O-okay?”

Tuesday sat for a moment, feeling his rampaging emotions. And then, suddenly, he wiped his eyes. He felt his brain slowly pulling itself together. He felt the room straighten, he felt himself straighten; he felt everything within him straighten. As he heard his brother whimpering like a lost animal in a Disney movie, quivering against him, and pressing his face into Tuesday’s shoulder, retreating from everything around them, Tuesday knew. He knew that his brother needed him more than he needed anyone else. He’d been weak, in his brother’s time of weakness. But he needed to be strong now.

Gritting his teeth, Tuesday shook his head to clear it. The screaming and the bridge and the water were all in the past, and this was now, and here. Thursday had always held it together for him, and now he needed to hold it together, for Thursday, his twin, his best friend. Because they were brothers, and brothers looked out for each other. Always. Except the ones on Malcolm in the Middle. They were dicks.

“Hey. Hey. Th-Thursday.” He held his brother close to him. His voice was a soothing whisper, and although singular tears were still dribbling down his face, he knew that he was back under control. “Shhhh. It’s…it’s okay, al-alright? It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“I missed you too, Tues,” he mumbled into his shoulder. “I-I missed you so fucking much…I couldn’t…stand it…”

Thursday had no idea. Except that he did have an idea. After all, they felt each other’s feelings, something that Tuesday couldn’t believe he’d ever resented. It was such a beautiful, amazing thing, their connection at the most intimate level. He could feel Thursday’s distress and affection bombarding him simultaneously, and it was enough to make him want to break down into tears again. But he couldn’t. He’d been there. Thursday had been his ten minutes older and ten billion times smarter and better in every way companion for so long, and it was time for him to take the lead. He, Tuesday, had ripped this gaping wound in his brother’s heart, and it was up to him to mend it.

“Look, b-bro, I know it sucks.” Tuesday held his sobbing brother, gently massaging his hair. “I…I know it sucks. I know it’s hard. And honestly I…” He wiped his eyes again, cleared his throat, and continued. “B-being away from my brother, my best friend, my…other me, it’s…it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Thursday. And that’s counting the time last year I had to pick that tiny lock while that store owner guy was running towards us with a chainsaw.” Man, that had sucked. But it hadn’t prepared him for this. Nothing ever could have. “I would…I would walk past McDonalds, and I’d remember you ordering milkshakes there with November…and I’d walk past your locker and I’d see you spraypainting that amazing narwhal thing on it…and I hid my bandana in the bottom drawer of my dresser because if I even saw it I’d start crying. And I…”

He wasn’t sure how to say this without making it sound corny and dumb. “I just…you’re an amazing, amazing kid, Th-Thursday, alright? Y-you’re the best brother anyone could ever have. And I really, really…”

He didn’t know how to explain it. But he knew he didn’t have to. He and Thursday were above and beyond ever needing words to communicate. He knew that his brother knew exactly what he was feeling.

"Promise you'll never, ever, ever, ever leave me again, okay?"

Thursday was silent for a moment, staring, and then his expression melted into a smile. He brought their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “I promise,” he whispered. “As long as you never leave me.”

Thursday needed him. Thursday wanted Tuesday to be there. And Tuesday knew that Thursday had no idea how much he, Tuesday needed him. So much more than he’d ever let on before.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Thursday was reminded, for the thousandth, millionth, gazillionth freaking time, how much he wanted this to be over.

Well, he didn’t want this moment to be over. This moment was good. This moment, he was sitting here, holding his brother tightly in his arms, and they were connected, and everything was good. (Kind of.) But if this could just be…somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t a hospital, and some other time, like a time that wasn’t right after he had tried to kill himself. That was what Thursday wanted.

He wanted to be with his brother somewhere, just the two of them, away from all this growing up hormones fast food consumer culture school grades college workforce girlfriend American Dream bullshit. He wanted to be pulling his black bandana up over his nose and closing some colorful umbrella while his brother laughed at him for his weird umbrella-toting habits. He wanted to be clutching Thursday’s hand as he ran down the street, feeling his heart swelling in his chest and beating out of his ears, the thud-thud-thud of his converse on the pavement. He wanted silence, sneaking through the shadows and stifling giggles and swapping remarks on how crappy the security system was that they had gotten by so easily.

The old times seemed so far away now that it was getting hard to remember them, and Thursday hated that.

Would he never have that again? Would he never have Tuesday again like he’d had him when they were eleven, twelve, thirteen? He wanted that unity back, that was what he wanted. It wasn’t the pranks or the thefts or the running or the hugging that he wanted; what he wanted was unity. Two people who were one. A unit. The Davenport twins.

But no. How could he think that he wouldn’t have Tuesday the same way anymore? Tuesday would always fucking be there. It didn’t matter if Thursday had taken on a habit of being pessimistic lately. That didn’t goddamn matter. What mattered was Tuesday, and that no matter what, he had to believe that he was going to be there. He had to believe it, because he couldn’t believe anything else unless he believed that. Without Tuesday, without their connection, life was meaningless. It was the thread and glue that held Thursday’s life together so that he could do other things with it. His life wasn’t centered around Tuesday, but it was Tuesday who held Thursday together. Undoubtedly, irrefutably, and forever.

“Me neither. Never again.” Tuesday nodded at him, and Thursday nodded back, an uncontrollable grin splitting his face. It was a grin of relief, and of elation that everything was fixed. That damn grin expressed every happy emotion that was brewing in him right now and overwhelming all the bad shit he didn’t want to think about. The worst was over. They were closer together at this very moment than they’d ever been before, their connection stronger than it had ever been before. Thursday inhaled the scent of his brother, of the bandana, and he knew that everything was going to be fine.

Somehow, it would all be fine.

He watched his brother wipe his eyes, and he sensed some new resolve in him, something a little different, though he wasn’t sure what. The strength of their connection was tuning him in to every shift in Tuesday’s mood or thought now. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could feel him…like those twins on that episode of that one TV show where that girl knew her twin was safe because she could feel her. Or was it a movie? Anyway, whatever, it wasn’t creepy. It was awesome. He loved that feeling of being in tune with Tuesday, and he’d never let it go again.

“Hey. Hey. Th-Thursday.” Tuesday was holding him close, and Thursday suddenly realized how absolutely exhausted he was. It was like he’d been running on adrenaline and it had just shut off. He slumped against his brother, tired beyond words both mentally and physically. “Shhhh. It’s…it’s okay, al-alright? It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

The last of his tears were beginning to disappear and were replaced by ones of happiness. “Y-yeah,” he said softly, sounding just as wiped out as he felt. “Yeah…everything’s gonna be okay now…promise?”

They were eleven years old and planning an elaborate prank on their neighbor.

“So when I say run, you have to run, okay?” Eleven-year-old Thursday was pointing down at his crudely hand-drawn crayon-on-newsprint map.

He looked up at Tuesday. He didn’t seem as sure as his twin, and immediately, Thursday knew why. Running might put Thursday in danger, because Tuesday wouldn’t be there by his side. But Thursday believed it wasn’t his safety that was most important. It was Tuesday’s.

“Hey, hey,” he said, tipping his head to the side and grinning. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

He felt the tears coming back full force, and they were bitter and sweet at the same time, happy and sad and fucking everything. He didn’t even know what he was feeling anymore. He didn’t care to try and figure it out. It was overwhelming, and his brain was going to fucking explode if he considered it too deeply.

“Look, b-bro, I know it sucks.”

“It’s fucking terrible,” Thursday mumbled, but he kept quiet and listened to his brother, his pathetic sobs the only sound punctuating the silence.

“I…I know it sucks. I know it’s hard. And honestly I…” He wiped his eyes again, cleared his throat, and continued. “B-being away from my brother, my best friend, my…other me, it’s…it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Thursday. And that’s counting the time last year I had to pick that tiny lock while that store owner guy was running towards us with a chainsaw.”

Thursday laughed a little bit, though it sounded all strained and…not him. Not his laugh. “I remember that. You were amazing,” he said quietly.

“I would…I would walk past McDonalds, and I’d remember you ordering milkshakes there with November…and I’d walk past your locker and I’d see you spraypainting that amazing narwhal thing on it…and I hid my bandana in the bottom drawer of my dresser because if I even saw it I’d start crying. And I…” Thursday choked a little bit, nodding. That narwhal had been fucking awesome. “I just…you’re an amazing, amazing kid, Th-Thursday, alright? Y-you’re the best brother anyone could ever have. And I really, really…”

Thursday smiled through his tears and rested his head on Tuesday’s shoulder. “Love you,” he whispered, finishing his brother’s sentence once again. “T-Tuesday…you…I…you’re…goddammit, you’re amazing too, and I know…I know exactly…that f-feeling you mean, and…” He bit back a sob. He was pathetic enough already. “And I just…I never want to be…apart from you like that again, because I can’t…” He clutched his chest. “I can’t take it. I need you around. Without you, I’m just…Thursday. A kid with a weird name, and I’m stupid and antisocial and hella boring and nobody…”

He shook his head. He didn’t need to finish that sentence.

“I never want us to, like…not be brothers. Okay? Never.”

[TUESDAY DAVENPORT]

“So when I say run, you have to run, okay?” Eleven-year-old Thursday was pointing down at his crudely hand-drawn crayon-on-newsprint map.
But eleven-year-old Tuesday shook his head vehemently, eyes wide with concern. Thursday wanted him to run away. Run away and leave his brother, his only brother, to fend for himself. Billions upon billions of questions were pressing against his brain, but all he could manage to muster into a sentence was “But what about you, Thursday?”
“Hey, hey,” his brother said, tipping his head to the side and grinning. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Tuesday knew how hard it would be to run, to disappear like a scardey-cat and let his brother do the dirty work. He knew that with every step he took, the guilt and the pain of separation would shoot up his spine like an arrow. And he knew that he’d collapse against a tree as soon as he was out of firing range, hugging himself tightly until he knew that his brother was safe and sound. But more than anything else, he knew that he trusted Thursday. He trusted his twin brother, who was so more intelligent and motivated and dedicated than he could ever be. He trusted every word that his brother said, and Thursday said everything was going to be okay, then Tuesday believed him.
“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat and nodding, attempting a weak smile. “Cool. Let’s do it.”

That had been six years ago. But not once, in all of those six years, had Tuesday’s love and respect and reverence for his brother changed one bit. He loved Thursday, he loved everything about Thursday, and he couldn’t exist without Thursday. He couldn’t exist without the two of them, fighting it out through thick and thin, always at each other’s sides.

Us and them. That was what it had always been. There was the rest of the world, and then there were the Davenport twins, side by side, hand in hand, heart by heart, placing their complete and utter trust in each other, the entirety of their reliance and confidence resting on each other’s shoulders. They would never abandon each other. They would never let each other fall. And if they were both certain of nothing or nobody else in the world, they could both be certain of each other. They could both be absolutely certain that they had a brother that nothing and no one could take away from them.

Us against the world. Tuesday just wanted that back. He wanted them to be a unit again. He wanted to put his complete trust in someone he knew would never screw him over with it. He wanted to never have to keep a secret, or keep a feeling or thought bottled up inside him again.

He felt his brother’s weakness, his confusion, his utter exhaustion, and he felt another stab of guilt. “It’s fucking terrible,” Thursday whispered weakly, with a pain and a fatigue far beyond his seventeen years, and Tuesday massaged his brother’s quivering back, wondering if he’d ever be the same. He would get through this. They’d do it together. They’d always do it together. But Tuesday would never forgive himself. He knew that he’d never be able to forget these images: the bridge, the frigid water, the screeching ambulance, the blood, the screams, but most of all this poor broken kid crumpled against him, physically and mentally scared, physically and mentally worn out beyond anything Tuesday could comprehend. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, even though he’d been coughing out variations on that same phrase throughout this entire night. “I’m so so so sorry for everything I’ve done to you, for all this…” he looked around him, unsure how to quantify their situation in a way that wouldn’t like, totally trivialize it. “And I’m going to fix this, okay? I’m not leaving you alone again. Never ever ever ever. And you know…” He paused, hoping Thursday would understand what he was about to say. “You know I’d…you know I’d always pick you over…them…right?” Them. The kids he joked with at school, the guys he went to parties with and procrastinated with while Thursday slaved away at pointless schoolwork, the certain girl he couldn’t keep his mind off of sometimes. “I’d pick you over…well, anyone…you know that, right? They’re fun, but they’re not…they’re not you. They’re not us.” They’re not us. Fuck, he was rambling. He probably needed to shut the hell up before Thursday got weirded out or something. But there was so much he’d never said to his brother, so much that he’d never realized he’d needed to say. " I can't even...I can't imagine ever trusting anyone like I trust you."

“Y-yeah,” he said softly, sounding just as wiped out as he felt. “Yeah…everything’s gonna be okay now…promise?”

“I promise, bro,” Tuesday replied. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you again, alright? Because I need you and…” He felt himself choking, and took a moment to steady himself. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you, ever. I pinky swear cross my heart and hope to die and stick a needle in my eye promise.”

“Love you,” he whispered, finishing his brother’s sentence once again. “T-Tuesday…you…I…you’re…goddammit, you’re amazing too, and I know…I know exactly…that f-feeling you mean, and…” He bit back a sob. He was pathetic enough already. “And I just…I never want to be…apart from you like that again, because I can’t…” He clutched his chest. “I can’t take it. I need you around. Without you, I’m just…Thursday. A kid with a weird name, and I’m stupid and antisocial and hella boring and nobody…”

Tuesday didn’t know how to reply. The two brothers clung together in the middle of an unfriendly world that had never been kind to them, and Tuesday felt like they were in one of those water adventure movies, grasping each other tightly as the rapids swirled around them, attempting to tug them ruthlessly apart. And that was what their entire lives had been, really. The two of them, sticking it out through everything. And it had almost prevailed, wrenching them apart forever. But they’d manage. They would always manage. It was going to be okay. Somehow. He knew that now.

“I never want us to, like…not be brothers. Okay? Never.”

“Never…” he agreed, but his voice trailed off. That had reminded him of something.

“Yo. Hold on.” He rummaged through his deep back pockets, grasping two objects and yanking them out. “I was totally saving this for your birthday, well, our birthday, but I guess I can always like, swipe you a…plant…or something…” Plant. Wow, wasn’t he goddamn creative today. “November gave me these and I, uh…” He reached out, holding a long, silver necklace. On the end dangled the elongated square symbol for the Gemini, twinkling as it spun and reflected the light from the ceiling. “Uh, if you want it, obviously.” He handed it to Thursday, fastening the other around his own neck. "Corny, I dunno, but I thought they were...cool..."

Frick. He was so lame.

[THURSDAY DAVENPORT]

Thursday had felt detached these last few months. He’d felt lost, like he was floating, just...out there. Like in one of those space movies where the astronaut falls out of the space ship and is just floating forever until the pressure collapses his suit in on him or he runs out of air or whatever. Like...like the beginning of that game Mass Effect 2, when the space ship explodes and Commander Shepard is left spinning out there in space with a hole in his suit, thrashing and struggling in nothingness until he finally stills and goes tumbling down to the planet below.

He’d felt just like that. He’d felt like the life, the air, was slowly leaving him as he drifted farther and farther into nothing. His ship, his home, his brother, was gone. Everything good about his life had been evacuated and he’d been left behind, falling through space with a broken suit, slowly running out of air.

But now, this, all of this was like...when Shepard was reconstructed and brought back to life, and that criminal organization or whatever rebuilt the ship better and bigger than ever before. Right now, it was like Thursday was waking up from that long sleep into the world of the living again. All he’d needed was a hand up.

(Given, when Shepard woke up at the beginning of Mass Effect 2, he was immediately shooting bitches with a crappy pistol, but that wasn’t relevant to the awesome metaphor he’d just pulled off.)

Thursday breathed in, feeling like he was really breathing again, really existing, living. He’d had this...vice around him, it seemed, and he hadn’t even noticed it getting tighter and tighter until he could barely fill his lungs with air. But this, being here in his brother’s arms and hearing his brother’s voice telling him he loved him and that everything was going to be okay...it was like that vice just disintegrated. Thursday was free again, liberated from that constant weight that had been dragging him down, making that slump in his shoulders all the more prominent, bending him over with the sheer burden of knowing he and his brother were drifting apart.

But now they were back together. Everything was going to be okay now. Everything was going to be okay.

It was going to be just like before. Us and them. Tuesday and Thursday Davenport vs. the World. Thursday had always loved that, feeling like some sort of awesome crime-fighting team battling the shitty and disappointing society into which they’d been born, a society that condemned cool stuff like bringing ponies to school and spray painting murals on stupid, boring office buildings. The Davenport twins had been repressed, so they lashed out, and Thursday had always felt like even though they were committing countless crimes, they were somehow doing something right. Something wrong couldn’t be so much fun, it couldn’t make him feel so good.

But part of the reason it had always been fun, always made him feel good, was because he was doing it with Tuesday. He never would have done any of those things without his brother at his side.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard his brother whisper. “I’m so so so sorry for everything I’ve done to you, for all this…” Thursday shook his head. “And I’m going to fix this, okay? I’m not leaving you alone again. Never ever ever ever. And you know…” He looked up at Tuesday. “You know I’d…you know I’d always pick you over…them…right? I’d pick you over…well, anyone…you know that, right? They’re fun, but they’re not…they’re not you. They’re not us. I can't even...I can't imagine ever trusting anyone like I trust you."

“Y-you shouldn’t...blame yourself so much,” he whispered back, and he looked right into Tuesday’s eyes, more serious than he felt he’d ever been in his life. “We...we both fucked up...I was...I don’t even...I was such a little bitch, I should have just...” He bit his lip. Shit. He didn’t even know how to describe what he was, that thing that had existed before that wasn’t Thursday. “B-but...” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I...I don’t want to be alone again...” His eyelids fluttered and he looked back up at Tuesday, an almost infinite sadness reflecting in his eyes. “I would always, always, choose you. Over...anything. I...” He shook his head. “I’d trust you with anything, Tuesday...I love you more than, like...anything...ever. And, I...I-I know you have friends, and I can...I mean, I know I’m not good at...fuck.” A little sound of frustration escaped him. “I know I’m not good at...at making friends and stuff when you’re not around, but...but you shouldn’t be responsible for me all the time, so that’s my fault, I mean...I don’t want to be a burden or anything, you deserve to have people besides me, you’re so...” He sighed. “You’re so much cooler than me.”

That sounded so incredibly lame, and he’d totally just been rambling. He hoped to whatever higher power was out there, be it God, Zeus, Buddha, or Flying Spaghetti Monster, that his twin had understood what he was trying to say there.

“I promise, bro,” Tuesday replied. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you again, alright? Because I need you and…” He felt himself choking, and took a moment to steady himself. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you, ever. I pinky swear cross my heart and hope to die and stick a needle in my eye promise.”

Thursday’s eyes got blurry again, and he tried to remind himself that big boys didn’t cry. “I need you, too,” he whispered. “I won’t...let anything happen to you. Even if it’s me.” He smiled weakly, his eyes shining with the extra water from his fought-back tears in the light.

“Never.”

He smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, content. This was right. This was good. He wanted every moment of his life to be like this. Not with the crying and the antiseptic smell and the white sheets, but this agreement and connection and love between him and his brother. That was what he needed. That was what he always needed.

“Yo. Hold on.” He rummaged through his deep back pockets, grasping two objects and yanking them out. “I was totally saving this for your birthday, well, our birthday, but I guess I can always like, swipe you a…plant…or something…” Plant. Wow, wasn’t he goddamn creative today. “November gave me these and I, uh…” He reached out, holding a long, silver necklace. On the end dangled the elongated square symbol for the Gemini, twinkling as it spun and reflected the light from the ceiling. “Uh, if you want it, obviously.” He handed it to Thursday, fastening the other around his own neck. "Corny, I dunno, but I thought they were...cool..."

Thursday’s eyes widened as he spotted the glint of silver, and he reached forward, taking it in his hand. He turned the pendant over in his palm for a moment, and then his lips pulled into a smile, and then that smile turned into a grin.

“It’s...it’s awesome, bro,” he said honestly, looking up at him with a wide smile on his face that was distinctly Thursday – a smile that hadn’t been witnessed in a very long time. “I love it.” With his still-slightly-shaking hands, he pulled the necklace around his neck and clumsily fastened it. The cool feeling of the pendant as it pressed against his skin felt right, and to see that same pendant hanging around his brother’s neck felt righter still.

He touched it, his smile turning small and thoughtful and grateful.

“I’m never taking it off.”