(no subject)
Title: Slippery when wet
Genre: TH, twins gen
Rating: PG
Summary: Tom disinfects. Bill gets mad. Life on tour isn't always easy.
Warnings: Mentions of non-sexual bodily fluids.
A/N: Just a little ficlet, inspired by Bill's non-breathable tour outfits and those sweaty moments on the DVD that make you feel hot just by watching :) I feel so rusty writing this genre, it's ridiculous. I need practice, I think.
Tom would have been the first to admit - in the privacy of his own mind, at least - that he sometimes did stupid, impulsive things, things that he might have avoided upon reflection and, possibly, the calm advice of one of the handful of people he cared about.
But this time, Tom really hadn't done anything wrong, and he definitely hadn't meant anything by it, and Bill could just stop yelling, dammit, because he was being unfair and Tom wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, not after a perfect show, anyway, when the night had been a smashing success.
Perfect show or not, though, life on tour was stressful, and everyone's nerves had been frazzled since the Moscow fiasco. It was surprising, really, that no one had flipped his shit so far, so perhaps they were overdue for a fight. Still, with his bad arm cramping and achy and the post-show exhaustion slowly settling into his bones, Tom would've preferred to avoid it. Maybe he was getting old.
Right after the concert, backstage, he’d still been high on adrenaline and the fans’ screams ringing in his ears, and his mind had been running on autopilot as he had handed his guitar to the techs, dropped the sweaty damp down vest he was wearing and fallen on the nearest couch in the green room, exhausted but happy, too happy to think of anything so silly as annoying his brother.
He hadn’t thought of anything at all when Bill had brushed past him, knocking Tom’s feet off the coffee table by the couch, still clad in his pleather stage suit and dripping sweat too. Bill had been talking to Natalie, making excited, expressive gestures with his hands, and a few droplets of sweat had dripped down and sprinkled Tom’s face.
Absentmindedly, Tom had pulled out an antibacterial wipe from the bottomless pockets of his jeans and swept the tissue over his skin, enjoying the cool burn of the alcohol, inhaling the sharp, clean scent. And then he’d been thumped over the head with something hard and spiky - one of Bill’s costume leg braces? - and all hell had broken loose.
“I can’t believe you!” Bill flapped his arms like an enraged pigeon, and more sweat drops splashed down on the glass surface of the coffee table. With an angry noise, he kicked at it, as if the table, too, had betrayed him. “Okay, so your wipes are your security blanket, and god knows we need them with some of the people we have to hug--”
“That’s mean,” said Georg, who had always been the most kind-hearted of the four of them. “Those girls wait for days to see us. It’s not their fault they smell by the time we get to meet them.”
“Easy for you to say, none of them want to hug you…” Bill whirled around, and both Gs ducked as a new shower of droplets rained down on them from the airholes at Bill’s elbows. The staff has been smart enough to clear out when Bill had started yelling, but his band mates hadn’t been so lucky: Bill considered them family, which, by his definition, meant having to take each other’s shit without even getting paid for it. “Oh, stop it! I showered right before the show! I’m not dirty or anything! This is just…condensation.”
“Condensation? Because you’re so cool?” Gustav asked, and Georg snickered into his hand. “Cold as ice?”
“Relax,” Tom told his twin for what felt like the millionth time. “It was a reflex. I’m tired, okay?” He crumpled the wipe in his fist when Bill glared down at him with the supreme air of an angry god. Tom would’ve sworn the air around him crackled, or maybe that was just static from all the artificial fibers he was wearing.
“You disinfected yourself after I walked by!” Bill’s face crumpled. “I thought you loved me! All of me!”
Tom winced. “Do I have to love every last drop of your sweat?”
“Argh!” Bill stomped his legs in a weird approximation of interpretive dance that, in Bill-body-language, could express anything from utter delight to vengeful rage to a need to go to the bathroom, pronto.
Georg leaned over in his chair and poked Tom’s side. “Did you know babies pee while they’re still in their mother’s womb?” he asked. “So really, a little sweat is nothing if you consider that--”
“I’d rather not.” Tom made a gagging noise. “Ew.” At his twin’s huff, he quickly transformed the grimace into a winning smile. “Although I’m sure it was perfectly lovely in utero with you.”
“Go to hell,” was Bill’s suggestion before he turned on his heel and stormed off into the showers, leaving three bemused bandmates to look after him.
“This is why I wear shorts,” Gustav said.
“Bill!” Georg called good-naturedly. “I’m sure the girls front row felt honored to get drenched by your bodily fluids.”
“You’re disgusting, Georg!” came their singer’s angry voice from the adjoining bathroom. “I’m not doing it on purpose, god!”
“We know that,” Georg assured him. “Have you heard us complain?”
Bill’s head appeared around the doorframe. Damp, tousled hair hung into his face. He was halfway through removing his make-up, resembling a rabid, one-eyed raccoon. “That isn’t even the point,” he squawked. “And besides, Georg, you have no room to complain about anyone else being smelly.”
That was true; Tom had to admit he’d rather get sprinkled with Bill’s sweat than Georg’s, or anyone else’s, for that matter. They were twins; if there were bacteria in sweat, surely he had built up an immunity to Bill’s over the years. “Bill,” he smiled carefully, hopefully, “Come on. You’re being silly.”
“Hmph,” Bill made, and slammed the bathroom door.
“I didn’t mean…” Tom called, then broke off. Why was he even explaining? Bill was being silly.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Bill’s voice came muffled through the door. “Not until you apologize.”
He could wait until he was old and grey then, Tom thought, because he wasn’t going to apologize if he hadn’t even done anything. Still, the black cloud of Bill’s mood hung over them all as they packed up and moved out of the venue. Bill climbed into their tour bus, stony-faced and broody, and was greeted by a loud bark. He was probably saving his breath for when they were alone, and then a fight would break out, and the dogs would get all riled up and keep them up all night, and Tom just wanted to lie down in peace and relax.
One foot on the stairs that led into the bus, he turned to his friends, a forlorn look on his face. “Do you wanna play cards or something?”
“Hell no.” Gustav made a beeline for the bus he shared with Georg.
The bassist was a little more apologetic about his self-preservation instinct. “It’s just, Bill won’t cheer up until you two sort this out. And you can’t sort it out while we’re there. So get to it!”
“He’s being unreasonable!”
“Isn’t he always?” Georg clapped Tom’s shoulder. “Come on, go, do what you’re best at.”
Tom narrowed his eyes at his friend. “And what’s that?”
“Seeing reason where there is none.” Smiling, Georg took off, waving at Gustav, who was looking at them through the front window of the other bus, tapping his finger against the face of his watch. “Making sense of chaos!”
“Thanks for the help!” Tom muttered as Georg disappeared into his bus, the doors closing behind him with a hissing noise. Sighing, Tom climbed in too, looking around cautiously. The front aisle of the bus was abandoned. The door to the back lounge was closed. Upstairs, he could hear dogs’ paws scratching against the floor, and Bill cooing at the puppies.
“You love me, don’t you,” he was saying when Tom came jogging up the stairs to find his twin kneeling on the floor in the aisle, a dog tucked under each arm. “You don’t mind if I’m sweaty, do you.”
Scotty licked his face. Tom cleared his throat, and the Pointer wiggled out of Bill’s hold and skidded over the slippery floor to land at Tom’s feet, wagging his tail. Tom leaned down and patted his head. At least the dog was on his side.
Bill looked at Tom and the puppy darkly. “Traitors.”
Tom sighed. “Bill.”
Bill stood, his hands on his hips. “Tom?”
Tom blew a puff of air through his teeth, annoyed. “You’re being stupid.”
Without another word, Bill turned on his heel and walked away, the tails of his ridiculous, chunky long cardigan swishing indignantly behind him. He flung open the door to the sleeping quarters so it hit the wall with a loud thud that made the puppies jump.
“I just noticed,” he called over his shoulder, “You put antibacterial soap in the bathroom. And you’ve gone through two bottles of disinfectant since the tour started!”
Tom knew it would be unwise to follow him along the aisle - down that path, injuries and broken furniture awaited - but he’d never been able to resist Bill’s taunts. Even when they fought, they drew each other like magnets. “So? I like to feel clean.”
“There’s nothing un-clean on the bus,” Bill snapped. He sat down in his bunk, toed off his boots and kicked them in Tom’s direction, one after the other. “Unless you count me!”
Tom sidestepped the boots, bristling. “Excuse me! I have to walk the dogs and pick up their shit, I need it for them--“
"And me?" Bill made a noise that sent the dogs running off to the back of the bus, their tails tucked between their legs. “Are you comparing me to dog shit?”
Tom blinked. He felt a headache beginning to creep up from the back of his skull, his mind trying to follow the zig-zagging patterns of Bill’s logic that could give anyone whiplash. “I didn’t… That’s ridiculous, you know I’m not…” He trailed off. Bill’s eyes were wet now, and no matter how stupid he was being, Tom never wanted to be the reason he cried.
“And what about the gloves?” Bill asked in a small voice. “Do you wear them because of me, too?”
“No. Well, yes. But not like you think!” With a long groan, Tom brushed past his brother and threw himself face-first into his bunk. He’d brought his pillows from home, which was a good thing, because they were fluffy and thick and perfectly suited for hitting his silly brother over the head. Grumbling, Tom reached out a hand across the narrow aisle of the bus and caught some of the long fringe on Bill’s cardigan. He pulled and felt the mattress dip beside him as Bill sat down heavily. Tom rolled over and looked up at his twin’s sulky face. “I wear gloves when I have to sign or shake hands, so I can take them off and leave all the dirt and germs outside and not make you sick.”
Bill had opened his mouth to say something harsh and angry, but now he closed it again, looking surprised. “Huh?”
Tom smacked him roughly. “We’re on European tour. Remember what happened the last time we were on European tour?” He shuddered. “It’s not going to happen again. I’ll take precautions this time.”
Bill’s brow furrowed. “The cyst? But Tom, that wasn’t you, that wasn’t bacteria or anything, just… My own damn fault.” He sighed. “My problem.”
“No, it wasn’t.” If Bill hurt, Tom hurt, and if something was Bill’s problem, it was Tom’s problem, too. They were the same. They were one. “And it never hurts to be careful. It’s winter. You get sick easily. I’m not going to bring some fan’s common cold into our tour bus.”
Bill had been staring at him, wide-eyed. Now, his gaze softened. “So you don’t think I’m gross?”
“I don’t think you’re gross, stupid.” Tom grabbed him and hauled him into the bunk with him. He didn’t know why Bill had these ridiculous ideas, but they could stop now. "You know that. If you want to fight, find a better reason."
Bill hesitated. "I don't want to fight." Tom gave him a look. "Okay, so maybe I did. I don't know, I'm stressed. Everything was going so well, but then there were the Russian gigs, and things started to go bad, and I feel... I don't know, I guess I wanted to blow off some steam. And then you brought out your wipes, and it was just... I thought..." He stopped rambling and peered across the pillows at Tom. “Are you embarrassed? To be on stage with me?”
“What? No!” Tom furrowed his brow. “Just because you get sweaty? You stuck by me when everyone at school said I was stinking up the classrooms.”
“You slept in dilapidated houses with all the squatters and grew cannabis in mom’s flower beds.” A slow smile tugged at Bill’s lips. “You had the smell of teenage rebellion. I was proud of you!”
They snickered companionably at the memories. At the time, when they’d been thirteen, fourteen years old, they hadn’t found each other so funny; they’d tortured each other every chance they got, craving the distance that came so naturally to others, but not to identical twins. They had each needed their space, and they had fought for it recklessly. To this day, Tom wore the scars from their brotherly warfare, and he liked them. They were a reminder that no matter how bad things got, their wounds would heal again and things would be okay.
It was weird now to think that there had been a time when they hadn’t shared everything. They’d been strangers living in the same house, hostile little boys with loud mouths and a savage need for freedom. They’d set boundaries, established differences between them so thoroughly that no one would ever mistake them for each other again. When they’d finally found themselves, they’d also found the other, with all his quirks and flaws and imperfections, so different, and yet so wonderfully familiar.
Tom looked fondly at his twin. Bill’s mouth was half open and his tongue moved behind his teeth, clicking his tongue piercing the way he would when he was deep in thought. Knowing their track record, they were probably thinking of the same memories. Tom quirked a smile. “You weren’t proud of me back then. You hated me.”
“I never hated you,” Bill said instantly. “And I… Okay, I wasn’t proud of you then. But I’m proud of you now, looking back. You were brave. Fearless.”
“I was brave?” Tom shook his head. He’d shared his joints with the upperclassmen at school for a semblance of acceptance while Bill had carved out a spot for himself between the bullies and the arrogant preppy kids, unapologetically different as he strutted around the school wearing eyeliner and their mom’s 80s sequin blazers. “No.”
“Yes, you were.” Bill smiled softly. “You could’ve fit in if you’d wanted to. But you came to hang out with me every day for lunch. Even when we didn’t really like each other. Even though you knew we’d both get beaten up.”
“I couldn’t just let the others slap you around. That’s my job.”
Bill laughed softly. “Yes, you could’ve. You chose not to.”
Tom tried to imagine the scene back in the school cafeteria, had it played out that way: Bill, sitting alone while the others threw trash at his head, helpless against a sneering crowd no matter how viciously he tried to fight back when the punches came. Tom shuddered. If the idea had occurred to him then, he had never seriously considered it. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t have.”
Bill reached out and patted Tom’s head. “I know. I should remember that.”
“You should,” Tom said dryly.
Bill nodded. "I will." He drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
Tom grinned. He hadn't expected that when he'd followed Bill into the tour bus for a shouting match and some furniture-throwing. Maybe Bill was getting old, too. Neither of them really knew how to fight anymore; neither of them wanted to. "I'm proud of you too," he said quietly. "Never embarrassed. Don't even think it."
"Okay." Happily, Bill threw an arm around Tom’s waist, drawing close and snuggling up to Tom like an affectionate kitten.
Tom cleared his throat. "But you're still the sweatiest person I know."
“That’s because I work so hard.” Bill’s voice was muffled in the soft fabric of Tom’s sweatshirt. He sounded sleepy now, like he’d only been waiting to find the perfect, cozy place to fall asleep.
The closeness was always sweeter when they'd fought, pushed at each other only to find their way back together for reconciliation. Tom felt how tired he was in the sudden, peaceful quiet which followed the hot rush of anger that was finally ebbing off.
“I know. You do.” He tugged the duvet over them both. Even in the new and improved tour buses, their bunks weren’t really big enough to share, but for a while, it’d be okay. They had shared smaller spaces than this. He twisted his long body so they fit together the way they always had, the way Tom could never fit with anyone else no matter how many times he tried; perfectly. Bill pressed his face into Tom’s shoulder, and Tom laid a hand over his twin’s on his chest, where his heart thumped a calm, steady rhythm.
“So you’re not mad anymore?” he asked of the black pouf of hair that was tickling his face.
“‘Bout what?” Bill murmured, and then he was breathing deeply, evenly, in sleep.
In the dim light of the bunk, Tom patted his hand. “Nothing,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”
Genre: TH, twins gen
Rating: PG
Summary: Tom disinfects. Bill gets mad. Life on tour isn't always easy.
Warnings: Mentions of non-sexual bodily fluids.
A/N: Just a little ficlet, inspired by Bill's non-breathable tour outfits and those sweaty moments on the DVD that make you feel hot just by watching :) I feel so rusty writing this genre, it's ridiculous. I need practice, I think.
Tom would have been the first to admit - in the privacy of his own mind, at least - that he sometimes did stupid, impulsive things, things that he might have avoided upon reflection and, possibly, the calm advice of one of the handful of people he cared about.
But this time, Tom really hadn't done anything wrong, and he definitely hadn't meant anything by it, and Bill could just stop yelling, dammit, because he was being unfair and Tom wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, not after a perfect show, anyway, when the night had been a smashing success.
Perfect show or not, though, life on tour was stressful, and everyone's nerves had been frazzled since the Moscow fiasco. It was surprising, really, that no one had flipped his shit so far, so perhaps they were overdue for a fight. Still, with his bad arm cramping and achy and the post-show exhaustion slowly settling into his bones, Tom would've preferred to avoid it. Maybe he was getting old.
Right after the concert, backstage, he’d still been high on adrenaline and the fans’ screams ringing in his ears, and his mind had been running on autopilot as he had handed his guitar to the techs, dropped the sweaty damp down vest he was wearing and fallen on the nearest couch in the green room, exhausted but happy, too happy to think of anything so silly as annoying his brother.
He hadn’t thought of anything at all when Bill had brushed past him, knocking Tom’s feet off the coffee table by the couch, still clad in his pleather stage suit and dripping sweat too. Bill had been talking to Natalie, making excited, expressive gestures with his hands, and a few droplets of sweat had dripped down and sprinkled Tom’s face.
Absentmindedly, Tom had pulled out an antibacterial wipe from the bottomless pockets of his jeans and swept the tissue over his skin, enjoying the cool burn of the alcohol, inhaling the sharp, clean scent. And then he’d been thumped over the head with something hard and spiky - one of Bill’s costume leg braces? - and all hell had broken loose.
“I can’t believe you!” Bill flapped his arms like an enraged pigeon, and more sweat drops splashed down on the glass surface of the coffee table. With an angry noise, he kicked at it, as if the table, too, had betrayed him. “Okay, so your wipes are your security blanket, and god knows we need them with some of the people we have to hug--”
“That’s mean,” said Georg, who had always been the most kind-hearted of the four of them. “Those girls wait for days to see us. It’s not their fault they smell by the time we get to meet them.”
“Easy for you to say, none of them want to hug you…” Bill whirled around, and both Gs ducked as a new shower of droplets rained down on them from the airholes at Bill’s elbows. The staff has been smart enough to clear out when Bill had started yelling, but his band mates hadn’t been so lucky: Bill considered them family, which, by his definition, meant having to take each other’s shit without even getting paid for it. “Oh, stop it! I showered right before the show! I’m not dirty or anything! This is just…condensation.”
“Condensation? Because you’re so cool?” Gustav asked, and Georg snickered into his hand. “Cold as ice?”
“Relax,” Tom told his twin for what felt like the millionth time. “It was a reflex. I’m tired, okay?” He crumpled the wipe in his fist when Bill glared down at him with the supreme air of an angry god. Tom would’ve sworn the air around him crackled, or maybe that was just static from all the artificial fibers he was wearing.
“You disinfected yourself after I walked by!” Bill’s face crumpled. “I thought you loved me! All of me!”
Tom winced. “Do I have to love every last drop of your sweat?”
“Argh!” Bill stomped his legs in a weird approximation of interpretive dance that, in Bill-body-language, could express anything from utter delight to vengeful rage to a need to go to the bathroom, pronto.
Georg leaned over in his chair and poked Tom’s side. “Did you know babies pee while they’re still in their mother’s womb?” he asked. “So really, a little sweat is nothing if you consider that--”
“I’d rather not.” Tom made a gagging noise. “Ew.” At his twin’s huff, he quickly transformed the grimace into a winning smile. “Although I’m sure it was perfectly lovely in utero with you.”
“Go to hell,” was Bill’s suggestion before he turned on his heel and stormed off into the showers, leaving three bemused bandmates to look after him.
“This is why I wear shorts,” Gustav said.
“Bill!” Georg called good-naturedly. “I’m sure the girls front row felt honored to get drenched by your bodily fluids.”
“You’re disgusting, Georg!” came their singer’s angry voice from the adjoining bathroom. “I’m not doing it on purpose, god!”
“We know that,” Georg assured him. “Have you heard us complain?”
Bill’s head appeared around the doorframe. Damp, tousled hair hung into his face. He was halfway through removing his make-up, resembling a rabid, one-eyed raccoon. “That isn’t even the point,” he squawked. “And besides, Georg, you have no room to complain about anyone else being smelly.”
That was true; Tom had to admit he’d rather get sprinkled with Bill’s sweat than Georg’s, or anyone else’s, for that matter. They were twins; if there were bacteria in sweat, surely he had built up an immunity to Bill’s over the years. “Bill,” he smiled carefully, hopefully, “Come on. You’re being silly.”
“Hmph,” Bill made, and slammed the bathroom door.
“I didn’t mean…” Tom called, then broke off. Why was he even explaining? Bill was being silly.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Bill’s voice came muffled through the door. “Not until you apologize.”
He could wait until he was old and grey then, Tom thought, because he wasn’t going to apologize if he hadn’t even done anything. Still, the black cloud of Bill’s mood hung over them all as they packed up and moved out of the venue. Bill climbed into their tour bus, stony-faced and broody, and was greeted by a loud bark. He was probably saving his breath for when they were alone, and then a fight would break out, and the dogs would get all riled up and keep them up all night, and Tom just wanted to lie down in peace and relax.
One foot on the stairs that led into the bus, he turned to his friends, a forlorn look on his face. “Do you wanna play cards or something?”
“Hell no.” Gustav made a beeline for the bus he shared with Georg.
The bassist was a little more apologetic about his self-preservation instinct. “It’s just, Bill won’t cheer up until you two sort this out. And you can’t sort it out while we’re there. So get to it!”
“He’s being unreasonable!”
“Isn’t he always?” Georg clapped Tom’s shoulder. “Come on, go, do what you’re best at.”
Tom narrowed his eyes at his friend. “And what’s that?”
“Seeing reason where there is none.” Smiling, Georg took off, waving at Gustav, who was looking at them through the front window of the other bus, tapping his finger against the face of his watch. “Making sense of chaos!”
“Thanks for the help!” Tom muttered as Georg disappeared into his bus, the doors closing behind him with a hissing noise. Sighing, Tom climbed in too, looking around cautiously. The front aisle of the bus was abandoned. The door to the back lounge was closed. Upstairs, he could hear dogs’ paws scratching against the floor, and Bill cooing at the puppies.
“You love me, don’t you,” he was saying when Tom came jogging up the stairs to find his twin kneeling on the floor in the aisle, a dog tucked under each arm. “You don’t mind if I’m sweaty, do you.”
Scotty licked his face. Tom cleared his throat, and the Pointer wiggled out of Bill’s hold and skidded over the slippery floor to land at Tom’s feet, wagging his tail. Tom leaned down and patted his head. At least the dog was on his side.
Bill looked at Tom and the puppy darkly. “Traitors.”
Tom sighed. “Bill.”
Bill stood, his hands on his hips. “Tom?”
Tom blew a puff of air through his teeth, annoyed. “You’re being stupid.”
Without another word, Bill turned on his heel and walked away, the tails of his ridiculous, chunky long cardigan swishing indignantly behind him. He flung open the door to the sleeping quarters so it hit the wall with a loud thud that made the puppies jump.
“I just noticed,” he called over his shoulder, “You put antibacterial soap in the bathroom. And you’ve gone through two bottles of disinfectant since the tour started!”
Tom knew it would be unwise to follow him along the aisle - down that path, injuries and broken furniture awaited - but he’d never been able to resist Bill’s taunts. Even when they fought, they drew each other like magnets. “So? I like to feel clean.”
“There’s nothing un-clean on the bus,” Bill snapped. He sat down in his bunk, toed off his boots and kicked them in Tom’s direction, one after the other. “Unless you count me!”
Tom sidestepped the boots, bristling. “Excuse me! I have to walk the dogs and pick up their shit, I need it for them--“
"And me?" Bill made a noise that sent the dogs running off to the back of the bus, their tails tucked between their legs. “Are you comparing me to dog shit?”
Tom blinked. He felt a headache beginning to creep up from the back of his skull, his mind trying to follow the zig-zagging patterns of Bill’s logic that could give anyone whiplash. “I didn’t… That’s ridiculous, you know I’m not…” He trailed off. Bill’s eyes were wet now, and no matter how stupid he was being, Tom never wanted to be the reason he cried.
“And what about the gloves?” Bill asked in a small voice. “Do you wear them because of me, too?”
“No. Well, yes. But not like you think!” With a long groan, Tom brushed past his brother and threw himself face-first into his bunk. He’d brought his pillows from home, which was a good thing, because they were fluffy and thick and perfectly suited for hitting his silly brother over the head. Grumbling, Tom reached out a hand across the narrow aisle of the bus and caught some of the long fringe on Bill’s cardigan. He pulled and felt the mattress dip beside him as Bill sat down heavily. Tom rolled over and looked up at his twin’s sulky face. “I wear gloves when I have to sign or shake hands, so I can take them off and leave all the dirt and germs outside and not make you sick.”
Bill had opened his mouth to say something harsh and angry, but now he closed it again, looking surprised. “Huh?”
Tom smacked him roughly. “We’re on European tour. Remember what happened the last time we were on European tour?” He shuddered. “It’s not going to happen again. I’ll take precautions this time.”
Bill’s brow furrowed. “The cyst? But Tom, that wasn’t you, that wasn’t bacteria or anything, just… My own damn fault.” He sighed. “My problem.”
“No, it wasn’t.” If Bill hurt, Tom hurt, and if something was Bill’s problem, it was Tom’s problem, too. They were the same. They were one. “And it never hurts to be careful. It’s winter. You get sick easily. I’m not going to bring some fan’s common cold into our tour bus.”
Bill had been staring at him, wide-eyed. Now, his gaze softened. “So you don’t think I’m gross?”
“I don’t think you’re gross, stupid.” Tom grabbed him and hauled him into the bunk with him. He didn’t know why Bill had these ridiculous ideas, but they could stop now. "You know that. If you want to fight, find a better reason."
Bill hesitated. "I don't want to fight." Tom gave him a look. "Okay, so maybe I did. I don't know, I'm stressed. Everything was going so well, but then there were the Russian gigs, and things started to go bad, and I feel... I don't know, I guess I wanted to blow off some steam. And then you brought out your wipes, and it was just... I thought..." He stopped rambling and peered across the pillows at Tom. “Are you embarrassed? To be on stage with me?”
“What? No!” Tom furrowed his brow. “Just because you get sweaty? You stuck by me when everyone at school said I was stinking up the classrooms.”
“You slept in dilapidated houses with all the squatters and grew cannabis in mom’s flower beds.” A slow smile tugged at Bill’s lips. “You had the smell of teenage rebellion. I was proud of you!”
They snickered companionably at the memories. At the time, when they’d been thirteen, fourteen years old, they hadn’t found each other so funny; they’d tortured each other every chance they got, craving the distance that came so naturally to others, but not to identical twins. They had each needed their space, and they had fought for it recklessly. To this day, Tom wore the scars from their brotherly warfare, and he liked them. They were a reminder that no matter how bad things got, their wounds would heal again and things would be okay.
It was weird now to think that there had been a time when they hadn’t shared everything. They’d been strangers living in the same house, hostile little boys with loud mouths and a savage need for freedom. They’d set boundaries, established differences between them so thoroughly that no one would ever mistake them for each other again. When they’d finally found themselves, they’d also found the other, with all his quirks and flaws and imperfections, so different, and yet so wonderfully familiar.
Tom looked fondly at his twin. Bill’s mouth was half open and his tongue moved behind his teeth, clicking his tongue piercing the way he would when he was deep in thought. Knowing their track record, they were probably thinking of the same memories. Tom quirked a smile. “You weren’t proud of me back then. You hated me.”
“I never hated you,” Bill said instantly. “And I… Okay, I wasn’t proud of you then. But I’m proud of you now, looking back. You were brave. Fearless.”
“I was brave?” Tom shook his head. He’d shared his joints with the upperclassmen at school for a semblance of acceptance while Bill had carved out a spot for himself between the bullies and the arrogant preppy kids, unapologetically different as he strutted around the school wearing eyeliner and their mom’s 80s sequin blazers. “No.”
“Yes, you were.” Bill smiled softly. “You could’ve fit in if you’d wanted to. But you came to hang out with me every day for lunch. Even when we didn’t really like each other. Even though you knew we’d both get beaten up.”
“I couldn’t just let the others slap you around. That’s my job.”
Bill laughed softly. “Yes, you could’ve. You chose not to.”
Tom tried to imagine the scene back in the school cafeteria, had it played out that way: Bill, sitting alone while the others threw trash at his head, helpless against a sneering crowd no matter how viciously he tried to fight back when the punches came. Tom shuddered. If the idea had occurred to him then, he had never seriously considered it. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t have.”
Bill reached out and patted Tom’s head. “I know. I should remember that.”
“You should,” Tom said dryly.
Bill nodded. "I will." He drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
Tom grinned. He hadn't expected that when he'd followed Bill into the tour bus for a shouting match and some furniture-throwing. Maybe Bill was getting old, too. Neither of them really knew how to fight anymore; neither of them wanted to. "I'm proud of you too," he said quietly. "Never embarrassed. Don't even think it."
"Okay." Happily, Bill threw an arm around Tom’s waist, drawing close and snuggling up to Tom like an affectionate kitten.
Tom cleared his throat. "But you're still the sweatiest person I know."
“That’s because I work so hard.” Bill’s voice was muffled in the soft fabric of Tom’s sweatshirt. He sounded sleepy now, like he’d only been waiting to find the perfect, cozy place to fall asleep.
The closeness was always sweeter when they'd fought, pushed at each other only to find their way back together for reconciliation. Tom felt how tired he was in the sudden, peaceful quiet which followed the hot rush of anger that was finally ebbing off.
“I know. You do.” He tugged the duvet over them both. Even in the new and improved tour buses, their bunks weren’t really big enough to share, but for a while, it’d be okay. They had shared smaller spaces than this. He twisted his long body so they fit together the way they always had, the way Tom could never fit with anyone else no matter how many times he tried; perfectly. Bill pressed his face into Tom’s shoulder, and Tom laid a hand over his twin’s on his chest, where his heart thumped a calm, steady rhythm.
“So you’re not mad anymore?” he asked of the black pouf of hair that was tickling his face.
“‘Bout what?” Bill murmured, and then he was breathing deeply, evenly, in sleep.
In the dim light of the bunk, Tom patted his hand. “Nothing,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”