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Shamrock Figarland never imagined that one day he would be separated from Shanks.
For as long as he could remember, they had always been together. Same womb, same cradle, same room, same class. For sixteen years, they shared the same birthday, the same face, the same breakfast. Shanks slept on his left, Shanks walked on his right, Shanks's voice was always in his ears.
That voice was the mumble of the first ray of sunlight streaming into the room-"Shammy, five more minutes." It was the tuneless humming while washing up, the satisfied sigh of "this egg is so good" at breakfast, the chatter on the way to school-"I wonder if there's a basketball game today," "what do you think is for lunch." That voice filled every single day, like air, like breathing, like a heartbeat. He had never imagined what his world would be like without it.
Then high school came.
Two different high schools.
Shanks went to City General High School, close to home, lots of activities, plenty of clubs. Shamrock went to Private Elite Academy, rigorous curriculum, strict management, a forty-minute commute from home.
It wasn't their choice; it was fate's arrangement. The acceptance letters arrived on the same day. Shanks waved his excitedly, saying, "I heard City General's basketball team is amazing!" As he spoke, his eyes sparkled like two little suns, his whole face glowing.
Shamrock looked down at his own letter, stamped with the gold-embossed school crest and the words "full scholarship."
He didn't speak.
He just looked at Shanks, at those red eyes, identical to his own, brimming with anticipation. There was no reluctance, no hesitation in them-only pure, bright excitement.
"Then go," he said, forcing calmness into his voice.
Shanks flung his arms around him, shouting "Shammy is the best!" in his ear.
Shamrock lifted his hand and gently circled his back.
The warmth of that body seeped through the thin fabric, just like every hug for the past sixteen years. But this time, something inside him sank a little.
It's only three years apart, he thought.
They had their whole lives.
But he didn't know that on the very first day apart, he would regret it.
On the first day of school, Shamrock woke up at six.
It was a habit he'd had for years. He'd wake up ten minutes before Shanks, check his bag for him, prepare his breakfast, tie his tie for him. Then he'd lean against the doorframe and watch Shanks crawl out of bed, hair a complete bird's nest, stumbling groggily toward the bathroom. He'd watched that scene for sixteen years and never thought anything special of it.
Today, he also woke up at six.
But when he walked out of his room, the door across the hall was closed.
Empty.
He stood in the corridor, staring at that door, for a long time.
At this hour, Shanks would usually come bursting out, crashing into him, saying "Morning, Shammy." His hair would tickle Shamrock's chin. He'd rub his eyes while walking toward the kitchen, muttering, "So sleepy..."
Today, nothing.
He walked over and pushed the door open.
The room was tidy, much neater than when Shanks was there. The bed was perfectly made, the desk cleared, the curtains open, sunlight streaming in, falling on that empty bed.
Shamrock stood at the door, looking at that bed.
He suddenly remembered that last night, while Shanks was packing, he kept hovering around him, asking, "Should I bring this?" "What about that?" "Do you think two pairs of basketball shoes are enough?" He'd found him annoying and pushed him away.
Now, he missed that annoyance.
Breakfast was eaten alone.
He toasted two slices of bread, fried one egg, poured one glass of milk. Shanks's seat was empty. No noise at the table, no "Shammy, where's my tie?", no "Shammy, this egg is so good, give me another."
He finished his milk and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
Then he left and caught the bus to school.
For the entire forty-minute ride, he kept looking at his phone.
Shanks's class started at eight. At 7:40, he sent a message: "I'm leaving!"
He replied with "Okay."
At 7:55, another: "Arrived at school! It's so big!"
He replied with another "Good."
At 8:10: "My deskmate is a super cute girl! She gave me cookies her mom made!"
He stared at that message, his fingers frozen over the screen.
"Super cute."
"Girl."
"Cookies her mom made."
The words flickered before his eyes, then sank into his heart, like tiny pebbles, stirring ripples he didn't want to acknowledge.
He put his phone in his pocket and didn't reply.
Private Elite Academy's curriculum was indeed rigorous.
The first day started with placement tests, the difficulty far exceeding his expectations. But Shamrock handled them effortlessly. He even finished half an hour early and walked out of the exam hall, earning a changed look from the proctor.
He didn't care.
He sat on a bench outside the teaching building and took out his phone.
Twenty-three messages from Shanks.
"Class started! First period is math, the teacher is so strict!"
"Break is so short! The new friend I just made asked me to play basketball!"
"The basketball court is huge! I made a three-pointer!"
"Second period is English, this teacher is so pretty!"
"Played basketball again during break, met so many people!"
"What's for lunch? The cafeteria is so crowded!"
"Found a seat! Sitting with my deskmate, her name is Emily, the cookies her mom made are really, really good!"
"PE this afternoon! Can't wait!"
"Played basketball in PE, scored three in a row! They all said I'm amazing!"
"The cafeteria burgers are terrible. Miss your sandwiches."
"Bored during lunch break. Are you out of class yet?"
"Still not out?"
"Shammy?"
"Why aren't you replying?"
"Are you mad?"
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Shammy?"
Shamrock read them one by one.
He could see Shanks's excitement-the exclamation points, the "huge," "so pretty," "can't wait." He could see Shanks's desire to share-wanting to tell him everything, leaving out no detail. He could also see Shanks's anticipation-the "are you out of class yet," the "why aren't you replying" held a hint of careful, suppressed hurt.
"With my deskmate."
"Her name is Emily."
"Cookies her mom made."
He stared at these lines for a long, long time.
Her.
That single word was like a tiny needle, pricking somewhere in his heart he didn't even know existed.
He typed one word: "Busy."
Sent.
Then he put his phone away and stared at the grey sky in the distance.
He wasn't busy.
He just didn't want to reply.
Didn't want to see those "made new friends," didn't want to see those "deskmate is cute," didn't want to see proof that Shanks could get along just fine without him.
He missed him.
Missed him terribly.
But Shanks didn't seem to miss him.
At least, not the way he missed Shanks.
At seven in the evening, Shamrock got home.
He opened the door. The light in the entryway was off. He flicked the switch, and a warm yellow glow illuminated the empty corridor. Shanks's shoes weren't by the door. His backpack wasn't on the sofa. His voice wasn't in the rooms.
Shamrock stood in the entryway, suddenly not knowing what to do.
At this time, Shanks would usually pounce on him, hang off him, chatter nonstop about his day. He'd listen while peeling Shanks off him, then go to make dinner. Shanks would follow him, still talking, about school, about friends, about people Shamrock didn't even know.
He used to find him noisy.
Now, he missed that noise.
He walked into the living room and sat on the sofa. The light cast his shadow long across the floor, falling on the opposite wall, all alone.
He took out his phone and looked at Shanks's last message.
"Shammy?"
Behind those two words was a question mark.
He stared at that question mark for a long time.
It was Shanks, asking him.
Waiting for him.
At 7:30, the sound of the lock turning.
Shamrock sat up straighter.
He held a book in his hand, eyes fixed on the page, but his ears were pricked. His heartbeat was slightly faster than usual, and he didn't know why.
"Shammy!"
Shanks burst in, threw his backpack in the entryway, and launched himself at the sofa.
Shamrock didn't move. Shanks crashed into him, his warm body pressing against him, the familiar scent enveloping him.
It was Shanks's scent. Sunlight, sweat, and a faint sweetness he couldn't place.
"I'm back!"
Shanks buried his face in the crook of Shamrock's neck and rubbed vigorously.
Shamrock lifted his hand.
He wanted to hug him. Wanted to pull him into his arms, wanted to tighten his grip, wanted to press him into himself.
But he didn't.
He just patted Shanks's back and said, "Get off."
Shanks pouted, peeled himself off, and sat beside him.
His hair was a little messy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes sparkling. He looked at Shamrock, and in that look was anticipation, excitement, and a touch of careful unease.
"Why didn't you reply to my messages?"
"Busy."
"Busy all day?"
"Yes."
Shanks looked at him for three seconds.
In those three seconds, his eyes shifted from anticipation to confusion, then to a glimmer of understanding. It seemed like he saw something, or maybe he saw nothing at all.
Then he broke into a smile again and began chattering excitedly about his day.
About the strict math teacher, the pretty English teacher, the huge basketball court, the many, many new friends. About his deskmate Emily, the cookies her mom made, the two dimples when she smiled.
As he talked, his eyes sparkled, his hands gestured in the air, his whole face glowed.
Shamrock listened, eyes fixed on the book, not reading a single word.
He saw the curl of Shanks's lips when he mentioned Emily.
He saw the light dancing in Shanks's eyes when he talked about so many people.
He saw how Shanks's whole face lit up when he said he was so happy.
In this world without him, Shanks could still be perfectly fine.
This realization was like a thorn, lodged deep in his heart.
Digging in deeper and deeper.
The next day, Shanks sent over thirty messages.
The day after, over forty.
The day after that, over fifty.
Shamrock replied less and less.
He didn't know how to reply.
Say "OK"-Shanks would complain, "Why are you so cold?"
Say "Got it"-Shanks would say, "Are you ignoring me?"
Say "Nice"-Shanks would ask, "Then why aren't you here?"
Say more-it would seem like he cared about those new friends of his.
So he just read them, one by one, over and over again.
Reading how Shanks won the basketball game again.
Reading how Emily shared her lunchbox with me.
Reading how the club fair tomorrow is so exciting.
Reading how Shanks was having such a brilliant time without him.
Every time he saw the name Emily, he would stop and look again.
Behind those two words was Shanks's smile.
A smile meant for her.
Not for him.
On Friday afternoon, Shamrock's classes ended early.
He didn't tell Shanks.
He took the forty-minute bus ride and got off at the gates of City General High School.
It was dismissal time, the school gate bustling. Students trickled out in twos and threes, some cycling, some walking, some picked up by parents. Shamrock stood under the shade of a tree across the street, scanning the crowd.
He was looking for that head of red hair.
That color was distinctive, easy to spot in a crowd. Ever since they were little, he could always find Shanks at first glance in a crowd. Not because they looked alike, but because he was always looking.
He found him.
Shanks was in his uniform, backpack on, standing at the school gate talking to someone.
Someone he didn't know.
A boy, tall and lean, wearing glasses, laughing and talking with Shanks. Shanks was laughing too, eyes crinkling. The sunlight fell on his red hair, gilding him in a layer of gold.
They stood very close.
The boy's hand was on Shanks's shoulder.
Shamrock stood still, staring at that hand.
That hand was very annoying.
That hand shouldn't be there.
That hand-
His feet moved.
He didn't realize he was walking. He crossed the road, weaved through the crowd, step by step, until he stood before Shanks.
When Shanks saw him, his eyes lit up."Shammy? What are you doing here?"
Shamrock didn't speak.
He grabbed Shanks by the wrist and turned to leave.
"Hey? Shammy?" Shanks stumbled, pulled along. "What's wrong?"
Behind them came the boy's bewildered voice: "Shanks? Who's this?"
Shanks turned to say something.
But Shamrock's grip tightened.
He didn't let him turn back.
They walked the entire way in silence.
On the bus, Shamrock sat by the window, Shanks beside him.Ten centimeters of space between them felt like a whole galaxy.
Shanks looked down at his reddened wrist. Clear fingerprints marked the skin, left by Shamrock.
He moved his lips and whispered, "Shammy, you're hurting me."
Shamrock's fingers loosened slightly.But he didn't look at Shanks.He just stared out the window, at the scenery whizzing by, silent.
His profile was cold, his jaw clenched tight. Those red eyes, identical to Shanks's, seemed frozen over.
Shanks fell silent too.
He just sat beside him, head down, occasionally stealing glances.
Those glances held confusion, hurt, and a touch of helplessness.
Shamrock saw them.
It made him feel even worse.
He knew he shouldn't be like this. Knew Shanks hadn't done anything wrong. Knew he had no reason to be angry.But all those reasons evaporated the moment he saw that hand on Shanks's shoulder.
Only one thought remained-
His.
Shanks was his.
Could only be his.
Back home, Shanks changed his shoes and went to sit on the living room sofa.
Shamrock followed, stood before him, and looked down.
The living room light was off, only the twilight filtering in from the window, shrouding them in a dim yellow glow.
Shanks looked up.
Those red eyes reflected his face.
"Shammy?" Shanks's voice was soft, carrying a hint of cautious probing. "What's wrong? Why are you angry?"
Shamrock didn't speak.
He just looked at him.
Looked at his slightly furrowed brow, his pressed lips, the flicker of hurt in his eyes.
This person didn't know why he was angry.
This person didn't know how much he was hurting.
This person didn't know, in the places he couldn't see, how many people were looking at him, getting close to him, putting their hands on his shoulder.
"Who was that?"His voice was cold, so cold it even sounded strange to himself.
Shanks blinked. "Who?"
"The one at the school gate."
"Oh!" Shanks's face lit up with realization. "That's Jack, a senior from the basketball club. He said I played well and wanted me to join."
"He touched you."
"Touched me?" Shanks blinked again. "You mean putting his hand on my shoulder? That's just-"
"Just what?"
Shamrock's voice suddenly rose.
Shanks froze.
He looked at Shamrock, at his tightly wound face, at the expression in his eyes he had never seen before.
It was so complex-anger, hurt, a raw ache, and a possessiveness bordering on loss of control.
Shanks's breath caught.
Suddenly, he understood something.
"Shammy..."
But Shamrock didn't give him a chance to speak.
He bent down, placing his hands on the sofa back on either side of Shanks, trapping him in his arms.
They were very close, close enough to see their own reflections in each other's pupils. Shanks's eyes held surprise, confusion, and a tiny, barely-hidden spark of-expectation?
Shamrock looked at him.
Looked at his trembling lashes, his lips pressed together from nervousness, the small mole at the corner of his eye-the mole he had seen since they were kids, never thinking anything of it.
Now, that tiny mole seemed incredibly distinct.
He wanted to kiss it.
He wanted to kiss him.
The thought appeared and spread like wildfire, impossible to suppress.
He lowered his head and kissed him.
The kiss was hard, fierce, as if all the pent-up emotions had finally found an outlet. His lips pressed against Shanks's, forcefully, deeply, as if trying to consume him entirely.
Shanks froze.
His eyes flew wide open, staring at the face inches away. A face he had seen for sixteen years, familiar beyond measure. But the expression on that face now was one he had never witnessed.
Those closed eyes, lashes trembling slightly. The tight furrow of the brow, as if holding back for so long it finally couldn't. The pressure of his lips, carrying a desperate, almost despairing possessiveness.
Shanks's mind went blank.
Then Shamrock released him, lifting his head slightly, looking at him.
Those red eyes held anger, hurt, a raw ache, and that unfamiliar, near loss of control possessiveness. The gaze was so intense it made Shanks's heart skip a beat.
"No." His voice was low, hoarse, like a command, or maybe a plea. "No more talking to others like that, so happily."
Shanks looked at him.
Looked at his slightly reddened eyes, his quickened breathing from the kiss just passed, the uncontainable emotions spilling from his gaze-emotions hidden for sixteen years, finally bursting forth.
Suddenly, he smiled.
The smile started at the corners of his mouth, slowly spread across his whole face, and finally reached his eyes. He smiled so happily, so radiantly, brighter than ever before.
Shamrock froze."What are you laughing at?"
Shanks didn't answer.
He reached out, wrapped his arms around Shamrock's neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.
That kiss was different from Shamrock's.
Soft, gentle, slow.
Like a comfort, like a reply, like saying-
I understand. I understand everything.
Shamrock stiffened.
He felt Shanks's lips against his own, soft and warm. He felt his gentle suction, like a kitten drinking water, tentative and careful. He felt his hand threading through his hair, fingertips gently massaging his scalp, ticklish, numbing.
The feeling was so foreign.
So foreign he didn't know what to do.
He only knew his heart was about to leap out of his chest.
Then Shanks let go, looking at him, eyes sparkling, brimming with tenderness and laughter.
"Shammy." His voice was very soft.
"What."
"I'm different from everyone else."
Shamrock looked at him."I know."
"I love you."
Those three words hit him like a hammer, striking his heart directly.
Shamrock was completely frozen.
He looked at Shanks, at his glittering eyes, at the confident smile on his face, at the natural certainty radiating from his whole being.
Something inside him came crashing down.
The wall he had built for sixteen years.
The unsaid things he had hidden for sixteen years.
The words he thought he would never speak-
"Me too." His voice was hoarse. "I love you too."
Shanks's eyes instantly lit up.
Bright as two ignited stars.
He pulled Shamrock down with force, and they tumbled onto the sofa together.
They squeezed onto that small sofa, hands entwined, legs tangled, breaths mingling. Shanks buried his face in the hollow of Shamrock's neck and rubbed vigorously, letting out a satisfied sigh.
"Shammy."
"Yes."
"The way you were jealous just now was so cute."
Shamrock's body stiffened."Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
Shanks lifted his head, looking at him, eyes sparkling."Then I'll just think it secretly."
Shamrock looked at him, at his smug face, and suddenly didn't know what to say.
This person always had a way of rendering him speechless.
He sighed and pressed Shanks back into his arms.
"Whatever."
Shanks laughed in his arms, his whole body shaking with it.
Shamrock didn't move.
He held him, feeling his warmth, listening to his laughter, smelling his familiar scent.
All the emotions pent up all day, the things clogging his heart, the unspeakable possessiveness and jealousy-all of it dissolved.
Only the person in his arms remained.
His.
That night, they didn't part.
Shanks curled up in his arms, chattering about school. About the senior from the basketball club, about Emily's cookies, about people Shamrock didn't know.
But this time, Shamrock didn't feel bad.
Because he knew, Shanks talked about these things just because he wanted to talk to him.
Because he knew, in Shanks's eyes, the most important person was him.
Because he knew, Shanks's words were true-
"I'm different from everyone else."
"Shammy." Shanks suddenly spoke.
"What?"
"You know, I actually knew a long time ago."
"Knew what?"
Shanks lifted his head, looking at him. In the twilight, his eyes shone like stars."Knew that you love me."
Shamrock's heart skipped another beat."When?"
"A long time ago." Shanks thought for a moment. "Maybe middle school? Or maybe even earlier. I just... one day suddenly realized that my heart raced when I saw you, I missed you when you weren't around, and I felt upset when you talked to others."
He smiled, a little shyly.
"I didn't know what to call it back then. Later, I figured it out."
Shamrock looked at him, at his slightly flushed face, at the shyness and openness mingled in his eyes.
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
Shanks blinked."Waiting for you to tell me."
Shamrock froze.
"You're so good at hiding things. If I'd said it first, you'd definitely have hidden it even deeper." Shanks stated matter-of-factly. "So I waited. Waited for you to finally break and say it yourself."
Shamrock fell silent.
He thought back over the past sixteen years. The discomfort whenever he saw Shanks talking to others, the irritation whenever he heard him mention new friends, the way he would reach out and then pull back.
He'd always thought those were his secrets.
Turns out Shanks had known all along.
"Fool," he whispered.
Shanks smiled, eyes crinkling."Your fool."
Shamrock looked at him, at his face looking especially gentle in the twilight.
He suddenly lowered his head and placed another kiss on his lips.
Very light, very brief, but very sincere.
Shanks blinked, then smiled.
He burrowed deeper into Shamrock's arms, found a more comfortable spot, and closed his eyes.
"Shammy."
"What."
"From now on, you have to pick me up every day."
"Okay."
"Don't let anyone else touch me."
"Okay."
"Don't sulk alone anymore."
"...Okay."
Shanks smiled contentedly, sleep slowly creeping in.
"Also..."
"Also what?"
"Also, I love you."
Shamrock lowered his head and kissed his forehead."I love you too."
Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on the twins' faces.
One awake, one asleep.
One gazing at the other.
Eyes full of nothing but tenderness.