Page 2 of For Your Heart
I’m not. Declan is.
Moving to the bed, I sit next to him and bring my forehead to rest against his. His hand immediately curls around my arm. We’ve become just as touch starved as Simon was as a kid. His hand on me is enough that I take the first almost settling breath all day.
“Eat something. You’re making me hungry.”
Declan’s quiet huff of a laugh hurts. I can feel it all over. “Come on,” I say quietly and pull him up. He moves without argument and I get him to his feet. For a minute, we just wrap each other up and let the mutual grief overtake us.
There aren’t any tears, but I can feel his sorrow as it eats away at everything inside him in the same way I’m sure he can feel the rage that burns everything inside me. For a minute, I let his hollow feeling sweep through me and douse the flames. Holding my brother with his arms around me, I pretend it’s just us again. Like it was when we were toddlers and in first grade. Before Simon.
When all we needed was each other. This would have been enough then. Enough to heal any little hurt or sliver of sadness.
Now it only compounds on each other’s pain because we share the same grief.
We don’t speak. I pull him from the room and lay three slices of cold pizza in front of him. Sighing, he sits and picks at the food I give him. After a minute, the absence of touch makes me feel like I’m free-falling, so I shift closer and wrap my arm through his. Declan links our hands together and then lays his head on my shoulder while he slowly gets through his food.
I make him go to the shower after. We’d chosen this particular condo because of the enormous rain shower head that would allow enough room for the three of us to shower at once. That was our routine. Morning, shower. Before bed, shower. I’d take one before I leave work, too, so I don’t come home smelling like the gym.
We don’t wash. We just stand under the water, our shoulders pressed together as we stare at nothing. Simon should be between us. I can almost feel him there from muscle memory. Does he shower with Stommer now? Is he the one washing Simon like we did? Does he make Simon give sexual favors under the spray of water, despite knowing that he doesn't like sex?
Hatred ignites through me again, so violently my fists curl, then Declan chokes and grips my wrist.
“Fuck, Damon,” he says, shivering.
“Don’t look,” I say, trying to keep him away from the thoughts I just imagined. “Just don’t.”
He nods but eyes me warily.
Over the years, we’ve read a lot of studies about twins and their weird bonds. It wasn’t until we were about eight that we realized that not everyone can feel what their sibling feels andhearwhat their siblings think. What they feel and need. There aren’t any words; that’s not what we hear. That doesn’t mean I don’t know the exact words with which he’d say something if he were communicating it verbally to me.
I know Declan better than I know myself. I’m sure he’s the same way. We spend so much time with each other mentally that it’s like exploring all their dark recesses. Even the ones they can’t reach. I feel the bright and the sad. The horny and the angry.
Speaking of horny, that’s a damn trip. When his arousal echoes loudly in my head, I can’t stop the heat that rushes through me most of the time. That’s probably why we always hook up together. Gather our partners for the night and meet in the same corner. It’s kind of a pain in the ass when we’re not on the same page. Besides, who doesn’t want to feel super intense and blissful orgasms coming from everywhere inside you?
Not that it’s mattered in quite a while. This is probably the longest dry spell we’ve ever had. There’s very little interest, never mind arousal, within either of us. Our sole emotional bandwidth is concerning Simon and the gaping hole he’s left in our lives.
We leave the shower and pull on underwear before crawling into bed. No Simon between us makes sleep almost impossible. It always has.
It also makes our bed feel stupidly big. Of course, it’s not. We’ve slept on a full size since we were kids. All three of us. Wrapped around each other.
Declan and I tangle together, face to face, and for a while, we just stare into each other’s eyes. It’s like a book open between us that we’re reading together. I can feel everything he’s been through today, though he doesn’t strictly recall any part of his day in detail. Just floated through. Did his thing.
His breath catches frequently as he reads my day, though. How I have to keep tamping down the anger so it doesn’t turn as destructive as a wildfire. A single source of water wouldn’t even touch it. Not even a little.
“What are we going to do?” he asks.
We’ve stopped texting and calling Simon. The chat between the three of us is dead. There hasn’t been anything in three weeks.
We’re almost in July now. His contract with the predatory asshole is almost over. Will he come home then?
No. I don’t need to ask to know this.
The thought makes me struggle to breathe. Declan’s grip on me tightens, our faces squished painfully together. His lips hover over mine as if he’s trying to lend me his breath.
Finally, I manage a sharp inhale and blink rapidly. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
“I don’t know,” I whisper because I don’t have the strength to actually use my voice. “I don’t know what to do, or how to get him to talk to us.”
“It hurts,” he whispers. He doesn’t cry. Not outwardly. But I swear I can feel his wracking sobs echo in my chest. It almost forces the tears that have been threatening to come up. “It hurts so much. I can’t live without him.”
