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another dream where he wakes up screaming.
well, not quite. in the dream, he'd been screaming like his limbs were being torn off one by one; the force of his own agony tearing itself from his lungs strong enough to make his ribcage shake. but when he woke, the deafening sound from the dream was nothing but ragged breaths, noisy when they whistled through his crooked teeth, but otherwise silent.
the dorm room, just like his bedroom back home, silent.
only now, andrew's bed isn't opposite his own. when aaron looks over, he sees only matt, sleeping soundly, entirely unaware that the world has ended and reappeared in the span of one night. aaron scrubs a hand over his face and tries to breathe. the lingering screams in his ears– usually his own, but tonight they're his brother's– haven't dissipated yet the way they normally do. logic tells aaron that the room is still as silent as it had been, and yet, they echo.
nights like these make aaron wonder how he can even stomach sleeping in a bed. how he can look at a pile of unmade sheets and not throw up, how he can catch sight of a bruise on his brother's skin and not break down, how he can hold a racquet in his hands like an extension of himself and not wish the ground would swallow him whole.
the truth is he can't, most of the time.
the truth is he's very good at lying.
the truth is, aaron needs to get up and walk around or this bed is going to suck the life out of him. and he has an organic chemistry test tomorrow and a date with katelyn, so that would put a damper on things. he selects a long-sleeved t-shirt from the back of his desk chair and tugs it over his head, pushing his hair out of the way just enough to see through it, and he stands. he stumbles a little. he shakes his head. stands again. rebalances. goes back for his glasses and shoves them on.
he heads for the kitchen, closing the bedroom door shut behind him so matt can sleep. living with just one other person took him a while to adjust to, at first, considering the last time had been living with his mother. aaron had personally thought he had had zero issues with it, until katelyn pointed out that he had already committed matt's exact schedule to memory as well as a running knowledge of anything that might change it, exam days, date nights, etcetera. aaron had been using it to stay out of the dorm when matt was home, and hadn't even realised.
he hated when katelyn was right.
a glass of water seems like a logical option to shock himself awake, so aaron drinks one and a half in sequence, tosses a bit more onto his face and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms a couple times. once the fuzziness disappears from his vision, he's awake.
he's awake, and at something-past-three in the morning, the rest of the world is not.
it's november. that means something, but with his mind still coming back to him, aaron can't place what. vaguely, he wonders if he should take advantage of the extra morning time and study, but even that passing thought sends a bolt of exhaustion through his veins, and he remembers how he'd barely even made it into bed last night.
his grades can take the hit. aaron needs to get out of here.
he usually wears sweatpants to bed, which come with the added bonus of usually being wearable outside, so aaron just grabs a hoodie from the couch and pulls it on, leaving the front unzipped and slipping his keys into one pocket as he heads for the door. as long as he's back before sunrise, matt shouldn't notice. ideally, nobody will.
this plan remains in place for all the time it takes aaron to walk to the door, open it, and step out into the hallway.
he pulls the door shut behind him and hears the sound twice over.
andrew is standing on the other end of the hallway, hand on his own door handle where he's just closed it behind him. he's wearing all black, as he usually is, but his hair is messy in the same rolled-out-of-bed way aaron knows that his own is, too. for a strange, eerie second, it feels like staring at a mirror instead of a person.
neither of them have moved for a couple moments now. it's like they're frozen in place, trapped inside each other's eyeline, and aaron briefly wonders where andrew was going.
"you're awake," andrew says, though possibly not because he cares, but because the silence between them has gotten far too heavy to support its own weight, and it would've crushed them both if it hadn't been broken.
"so are you," aaron replies, and that seems to be what sets it all in motion. the second aaron speaks, andrew can move again; he walks simply past the elevators and past aaron to the stairs on the far end. aaron doesn't know if it's important that andrew deliberately isn't taking the elevator, but it could be, so he tries to remember it.
"are you leaving," andrew says, not asks, simply says the words like he'll get an answer whether aaron gives one or not. aaron suddenly realises that he's been watching his brother this whole time, and hasn't even taken his hand off of the door yet. he stuffs it into his pocket.
"i think so," he replies, and andrew props the door open a second longer as he passes through, for aaron to catch it and follow.
the quiet of the staircase, then the lobby, then finally the sidewalk outside is enough to make aaron realise that the screaming in his head has stopped. it's not andrew's or his own anymore, it's just stopped. another side effect of andrew, it seems. occasional paralysing fear and also sudden onset of the ability to breathe. aaron takes advantage and inhales as much of the night air as he can. it's cold enough to bite at his face and make him shiver, tucking his hands further into his hoodie, but it's grounding, too. like something has caught him with both hands and held him still long enough to make him start breathing again.
andrew hasn't smoked in two months and he seems to be living with it now. he'd stopped walking at the same time aaron had, arms folded across his chest, and the first thing aaron notices is that he's not wearing his armbands.
the second thing he notices is that they both have a small birthmark on the crook of their left elbow.
"where are you going?" aaron asks, pulling his eyes away from the tiny patch of skin that doesn't mean anything, really, and finds andrew watching him carefully.
"nowhere," andrew replies, and aaron almost wants to smile because of course andrew is simply going nowhere in the middle of the night. aaron tries to patch together some way of saying 'take me with you' that doesn't come across as desperate, but falls short every time until andrew gives an impressive eye roll and starts walking toward the car.
he stops on the driver's side and looks back.
"am i wasting my heating on you or not?" he says bluntly, and that's enough of an invitation for aaron to get himself moving again, headed for the passenger seat. when he slides in beside his brother, andrew has already turned the music on, readjusting his mirrors from when neil drove the car earlier. aaron reaches for his seatbelt and suddenly feels the familiar warmth of the seat heater from under him. he looks at andrew, and andrew says nothing.
'nowhere' turns out to be a 24/7 waffle house, one aaron knew they'd been to with nicky a few times in the past. andrew parks the car in view of the front windows, and aaron can tell at a glance the place is deserted, aside from one lone waitress scrolling her phone on the graveyard shift. andrew gets out of the car and locks it once aaron's door is shut, shivering a little in the cool night breeze that blows through the parking lot. aaron can see goosebumps on his arms, and so he tugs his hoodie off and tosses it to andrew, passing him on the way to the restaurant.
they take one of the booths by the windows, one where andrew can see the maserati from his seat, and aaron sits opposite him. the waitress asks if they need menus, but aaron knows they both have it committed to memory by now. andrew orders a milkshake and gets aaron a waffle, without aaron needing to say a word. the waitress seems to appreciate the fact that they don't chat, and disappears into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
"why are you awake?" andrew asks– and this time he does ask it, staring down at the faux marble of the tabletop like he can memorize the pattern if he wants to. he's wearing aaron's hoodie now, the gray contrasting against the rest of his clothes. his fingers pick absently at the frays in the sleeves aaron has already tugged loose.
aaron makes himself look at his brother's face and swallows his first answer: a simple yet complicated "you."
his second answer is sarcastic, a reflex, and he bites that back too.
instead, what comes out is: "my circadian rhythm is fucked," which is honest, but not entirely, "and i had a nightmare," which is more than he meant to say.
andrew doesn't seem surprised by the fact, but aaron doesn't think he was expecting an honest answer. aaron thinks back, for some reason, to one of their sessions with betsy. she'd gone on a lot about false assumptions, like assuming we know what's best (andrew), or assuming we know what others are thinking (aaron). assuming we hate each other. assuming we don't. assuming everything is done out of twisted cruelty. that one they were both guilty of.
but betsy said they need to be honest. or at least try. because if the first thing you did in this world was reach for somebody else, then shouldn't that person at least know you? aaron had thought that one all on his own, and spent the rest of the day spiraling about the fact that he did have andrew, twenty-one years ago, when they were born, and he'd spent thirteen years not knowing. they might not have even had their eyes open when they got separated.
aaron had spent his entire childhood feeling like something was missing, like he wasn't quite whole. the last thing he'd asked andrew in that session was whether he ever felt the same.
back in waffle house, they've been quiet for a long time. the waitress has yet to re-emerge, so the diner is entirely theirs. andrew doesn't look up when he replies to aaron's bit of honestly with his own.
"so did i."
a truth like that, given up entirely freely, outside of bee's office, should feel like hitting a home fucking run. aaron can finally point at something and say 'look. we did it. we made fucking progress, so fuck you bee and fuck you neil and fuck you everyone who said my brother is nothing like me.'
so they're talking now, so that's something, but the admittance in andrew's words sours the experience.
they both had nightmares at the exact same time. aaron wonders if andrew went through all the same motions he did this morning, waking up, breathing, changing, splashing water on his face to wake up properly, keys in his pocket, out into the hallway, click the door shut.
look up, and a mirror is staring back at you.
the waitress returns with their orders before aaron can say anything more, and if she notices a shift in the air at their table, she doesn't react. aaron's waffle is warm on the plate and he's suddenly ravenous, tearing it to pieces. andrew's milkshake came with a spoon for the mountain of whipped cream atop it, and for a while they eat in silence. it feels different but aaron can't place why.
what hits him halfway through his waffle is so unbelievably obvious it's almost laughable. it's november.
"it's our birthday," aaron says quietly, because it's only just coming back to him now. andrew watches silently, and abandons his spoon to drink his milkshake through the straw.
"remind me how old we are again," andrew says, as if he's bored with the occasion already, and aaron actually smiles this time.
"twenty-two, i think."
twenty-two means that aaron has known andrew's name for nine years, that their mother has been dead for seven, aaron has been clean for six and andrew for two.
twenty-two years is a long time.
they don't say anything else until andrew pays their check– logically, aaron thinks, he'll be making athlete salary in a couple years while aaron is going to be drowning in student debt until he's buried, so he can let his brother cover this one. then, they leave together, andrew leading the way to the car. aaron stops a couple feet away.
"can i ask you something?" he gets out before he can second guess himself.
andrew looks at him over the hood of the car, keys in hand, and points out "you just did."
aaron stifles an eye roll and shrugs. andrew lets out a long breath before he says "shoot."
blunted fingernails hurt a surprising amount when dug into the palm of his hand.
"what happens to you in your nightmares?" he asks.
andrew goes still, and stays there for all of two seconds before he turns and gets into the car, shutting the door simply behind him. aaron supposes he didn't ask if andrew would answer the question, just if he could ask it. he wills himself to move all the way around the car and into the passenger seat. once again, the heater is on when he reaches for his seatbelt.
andrew drives them back in silence, not even turning the radio on to drown it out. aaron is left to stew in his own thoughts, cursing himself for ruining what was perfectly good time with his brother. andrew doesn't take his eyes off of the road for a second, so aaron focuses his own gaze out of the window and says nothing.
they park in front of fox tower, and andrew doesn't get out of the car. aaron has his hand on the door handle, ready to spend the rest of the night of the night berating himself, when andrew finally speaks.
"i'm not in them," he says, quietly. it takes aaron a second to realise what he's saying, and he turns to look at his brother. andrew pulls his gaze away from the windscreen to meet his eyes. then, like the force of speaking is pulling teeth, he continues.
"it's you."
aaron's heart stops.
it's you.
aaron never would've been brave enough to admit it out loud. he wasn't in his own nightmares either. he was in andrew's, and andrew was in his. like some cruel little joke played on them by the universe, doomed to be separated for more than half their lives, and to haunt every sleeping moment.
"thanksgiving?" he asks slowly, and the single word feels like walking on thin, thin ice.
andrew's jaw tightens, then untightens, before he says, "all of it."
aaron understands. he doesn't know how, but he does, because when he dreams of his mother at night, of that bed and it's bloody sheets, of the twisted metal of a car in the undergrowth, it's andrew. it's always andrew.
"her?" andrew asks, and it feels again like an actual question this time. aaron nods.
"all of it."
and something settles. something is borne out into the night, laid bare between them both like a wound finally unwrapped and allowed to breathe. it's easier to make himself move out of the car, to follow andrew to the sidewalk, to slip into step beside him as they make their way up the stairs again. the hallway is as silent as it had been before. nothing material in the world has changed, except for everything. it feels like a key has finally turned into place.
they walk to aaron's door together, and before they can part, aaron catches andrew's sleeve, tugging him back just a little.
"i'm not gonna go back to sleep," he admits. andrew just looks at him.
"we could watch a movie," he says, because it's easier to get that out than 'don't leave me'. andrew seems to hear it anyway, and he nods, gently untangling himself from aaron's grip and following him into the room.
matt's still asleep, but they don't need to have the TV on loud. aaron couldn't name the movie andrew ends up picking, but they sprawl together on the couch, andrew with one leg over the side and one arm halfway toward aaron; aaron with his knees tucked up to his chest, almost entirely on his side.
and if matt wakes later in the morning to find them there, andrew still wrapped in aaron's hoodie and his fingers brushing the spot where his brother's hair is splayed out across the cushion, then. that's nobody's business but theirs.