It started at age 12: sharing the same threadbare mattress as his twin, staring up at the water-damaged ceiling, pulling two fingers in and out of himself as he matched his breathing to the speed of his thrusts. If he breathed too loudly, if he moaned for just a hair too long, the body beside his would stir to life and turn, finding him with his shorts around his ankles and his middle fingers pressed deep within him. He throbbed and ached at the idea that Will might catch him, and it only made his hushed orgasms that much sweeter.
—
At age 13, he took another step: late one night, cool light pouring in over both boys, Adam turned to his brother and watched him sleep. His pale portrait gleamed, striking against the shadowed wall, and Adam wondered which was worse: to be attracted to a mirror image of yourself, or to be attracted to your twin. After an hour spent deep in thought, he couldn’t come to a conclusion either way, and he kissed the side of Will’s cheek before he drifted off.
—
At age 14, it had progressed: Adam was flirting with anyone who’d give him the time of day. Girls, boys, twenty-somethings at the mall, his English teacher who ruefully told him he’d make an excellent journalist someday; everyone was a target, and Adam was riding a high he never wanted to come down from. Daddy came home late, reeking of booze and looking tired and miserable from a long day out on the boat, and Adam felt a tug deep within him–a dare. He sat next to his drunken father on the couch, sinking in the middle and so stained that only fire could truly cleanse it, and he put his hand on his wide, suntanned wrist. First, he guided his father’s hand to his bare thigh, stroking the soft, vellus hair-dappled skin with rough fingers. It didn’t feel good, darting his gaze between the hand on his thigh and the person it was connected to, but it felt good to let curiosity get the better of him. Will came into the room just as Adam slid their dad’s hand in between his narrow thighs, cupping his massive palm against the mound of his vagina. His first thought was to jump back in shock and claim nothing had happened, but instead he held eye contact with his brother, only older by three minutes, as he made their father’s hand stroke him through his shorts. He never interrupted Adam—he only stood and watched until he came, and the moans of his climax were like church bells that sent Will running. When they both fell into bed later that night, neither twin felt the urge to say a word to each other, and Adam realized in that moment that he could get away with just about anything.
—
At age 15, it got worse: Adam was meeting up with a married man in bathroom stalls, getting the shit fucked out of him every Friday afternoon just before he headed back home to his father and brother. The man was remorseful, the man cried when he shot his load inside Adam’s ass and begged a teenager for forgiveness like he was on his knees in a confession booth. Adam should have told him to say fifteen Hail Marys when the man forced him onto his knees and used his mouth like a fleshlight. The bruises never seemed to go away, even when the man was out of town on business for two weeks—his knees were still sickly green and yellowish when they met again for an extended session in the back of his Mercedes. From that day on, they only met in the back of his car parked along the side of Lafitte Parkway, staring past him and into Jefferson Parish. With a businessman whose name he intentionally refused to remember balls deep inside of him, Adam thought of Will.
—
At age 15, Adam got drunk for the first time: he stumbled home after his businessman boyfriend dropped him off down the road, tripping on his feet and bashing his knees on the ground until he was at the front door. He wasn’t careful opening the door, letting it slam shut behind him, and he giggled loudly when he fell against the back of the couch trying to check if their dad was awake. Adam wasn’t sure if he’d lost time or his brother was just obscenely fast, but in an instant Will was dragging Adsm to their room and forcing him to sit down on the mattress. He asked him why he was being so loud and who the hell he was out with so late, and Adam couldn’t even attempt a serious expression. He teased Will, asked if he was just jealous that older guys wanted to buy him drinks and fuck him in the backseat of their luxury cars, and all Adam got in response was a fist balled up in the front of his shirt. Adam stared up at him with glassy eyes and reached his hand down in between Will’s thighs, cupping a surprisingly hard bulge in the front of his pants. He didn’t even have enough time to properly react before Will was pulling his pants down around his knees, opening the fly of his boxers, and forcing Adam’s hand back onto his bare cock. Will brought his own hand to rest in between Adam’s legs, cupping his cunt and slipping his finger in between his lips until he found the spot that made Adam moan. His free hand found purchase on Will’s shoulders before sliding up, his fingers knotting into the curls at the nape of Will’s neck. Adam repeated his name over and over, grinning wide as he squeezed his thighs together and attempted to trap Will’s hand. They were tangled together for what felt like an hour, Will’s fingers grinding and attempting to slot themselves into his pussy while Adam twisted his hand around Will’s cock and massaged his slit with his thumb. Precome gathered at Will’s head, his face was sweaty, and Adam had already come once by the time Will shot his load onto his twin’s stomach.
Adam woke up the next morning, dressed, dry, and lying in his usual spot on the bed. He assumed that everything that had happened once he came through the door was just a dream, especially when Will didn’t acknowledge him any differently over breakfast. Adam only wished that his vivid dreams could be a reality.
—
At age 16, the affair ended: the businessman, Paul, according to the obits, killed himself after his wife found out about the confused teenage girl he was pumping all his baby batter into, who only went to his house after a reluctantly-taken pregnancy test told him he was in need of money for an abortion. The day after he took that money and rode with Will to get his back alley procedure, the paper came and announced that Adam’s first long-term boyfriend was no more, and he finished his cereal and swallowed down the painkillers Will forced into his palm. The way that he looked at Adam was the only reminder he needed that people like Paul didn’t really matter, not when Will was there for him, always there.
—
At age 17, he’d fucked half the kids in their school: sex didn’t matter anymore when everything felt the same. Freshman to senior, every boy was inexperienced and trying to punch through his cervix thinking it was his hymen, and every girl was keen to try scissoring no matter how rarely the right angle was found. Adam had swallowed the entire football team’s come and eaten out every one of the cheerleaders, dabbled with most of the marching band, and had their minuscule theater department run a train on him after opening night of Oklahoma! His interest was waning even with daily propositions to meet in the janitor’s closet or in the locker room, and Adam found no excitement within when three of the boys on the wrestling team offered to fuck him in the ass simultaneously. It was comfortable to go home, write barely-disguised accounts of every single hookup across the rattly kitchen table from Will and his homework, and get into bed with him without any expectation of penetration of some variety. But, he realized one night while they were watching a Jeopardy! rerun that his face got hot when he thought of Will and penetration. He got hot, and most decidedly he got jealous at the idea of Will having sex. His older brother was too much of a dweeb to get laid, no way he’d fucked anyone in their school when they barely had to try to get into Adam’s pants. He was intrigued at the idea of someone like him still being a virgin at 17—if it weren’t for Adam, Will would have been deflowered by now and he knew it. He was too pretty not to be.
—
At age 18, Adam ran away to New York: an artist found him on Bourbon Street with twenty strings of beads around his neck and vomit in the corner of his mouth and called him beautiful for the first time in his life. For three months he was a loft bunny, locked up on the Upper East Side with no human interaction for 16 hours of the day until Peter came home, normally with takeout, wine, and friends that Adam was expected to share the love with. Sometimes he was rewarded with shopping trips, outings to restaurants, and visits to dungeons where Adam was exposed to the scintillating world of BDSM. Ropes, whips, restraints, ball gags, he tried all of it eagerly and found the spark that had been missing since high school. But the New York chapter of his life was closed just as suddenly as it had opened when a lord from London came to Peter’s gallery opening and couldn’t take his eyes off of Adam. Three days later, Adam was promised a life of luxury and ivory towers, and as he rode first class in a plane hurtling over the Atlantic, he toyed with the name Adam Towers.
—
At age 19, Adam was set: Reginald got him a shiny new job at a tabloid and an extensive social network to wring gossip and scandalous headlines out of. It started at first with publicly smearing Reginald’s political opponents for attending the same parties and dungeons as Adam, outing his fellow Conservatives as homosexuals if they took the bait that was a pretty boy 30 years their junior, and destroying their social lives and careers in the process. Reginald even threw Adam a bone and pushed him up to the top of the waitlist for hormone replacement therapy, deciding it would be good for his career if he could more easily hide the “mistake” that was his biological sex. He sprouted hair and cherished the thick happy trail leading from the bottom of his belly button to his slit, finding himself excited to show his body off at the dungeons and the dimly-lit sex parties. The thrill was well and truly back, even if Reginald was a boring fuck at the best of times.
—
At age 20, it all came crashing down: Reginald caught Adam in bed with his son and daughter, and when he didn’t throw himself to his knees and beg for forgiveness, he was tossed out with the rubbish. He lost his job, he lost his townhouse in Chelsea, and he only found temporary reprieve by crashing on the couch of one of the men whose life he’d ruined. For the low, low price of his bodily autonomy, Adam shared a flat in the city with a large, foul man who called him a girl and forced his hands under his shirt and into his pants whenever he was in reach. Adam woke up in the middle of the night, his head pounding from only two drinks and his face pressed into the pillow. His hips were raised, his legs parted, and a solid mass was ramming against his ass repeatedly. When he attempted to turn, moaning and quietly asking what time it was in his muddled American-English accent, he felt a sharp pain in between his legs. All at once it leaked into him, and all at once Adam realized that his landlord with benefits was deep inside him and ramming into him with all the force he could muster—surprisingly, it was a lot. Adam lazily scrambled and attempted to pull himself up the bed, pull his uninvited visitor out of him, but large, fleshy hands held him in place and slammed his small body back onto something it wasn’t built to take. His cock was massive and just half of it was enough to comfortably fill Adam’s cunt, but he could tell the entirety of it had been shoved inside of him, the cock’s owner trying his hardest to batter Adam’s cervix like it owed him money. In a way, that wasn’t exactly wrong, but Adam wouldn’t appreciate the slight amount of humor in that thought until much, much later. He couldn’t scream, he was wasting his limited energy fighting, and his eyelids were falling shut the longer he stayed awake. By the time it was over, Adam leaking semen and blood onto the fitted sheet, his breathing had slowed and his body had gone totally limp. He was a corpse that wasn’t even worth defiling, rohypnol still working its way through his system.
—
At age 21, Adam wanted to be anywhere else: he had picked up a new job in London, trashier than his first, and he spent his nights stalking subjects for his articles and his days sleeping off hangovers and ill-advised hookups. He stuck to girls now, deciding that they were less likely to drug him and take advantage of him overall. He had a few non-serious girlfriends scattered across the city and sought them out whenever he was in the area—he had to thank the directionless heiresses and dissatisfied barrister’s wives for his fantastic jawline after months of giving cunnilingus in the backs of taxi cabs and dark, unused rooms in second flats. There was no thrill in being with just one person, and no thrill in being with someone whose life wouldn’t be ruined if they were caught with Adam. His name was spoken in hushed whispers, everything from his background to his body speculated on as he strutted past, faking confidence that he hadn’t had since the first year he spent in this sad, gray country.
—
At age 22, Adam called home: Dad didn’t answer, and the mailbox was full. He wrote letters, asked how work was, if he was still interested in Shawna from the bar, and practiced some restraint in asking if he had Will’s address or phone number. When an article about a former girlfriend falling off the deep end and OD’ing in public sold more copies than any other issue to date, he once again made an attempt to contact Will. When a hookup threatened to sue him for libel at a mutual friend’s launch party, Adam was using the few leads he’d been able to buy and calling disconnected numbers until the sunrise. When the day was slow and the nights even slower, he couldn’t think of anything but Will. In the wee hours on New Year’s Eve, his blood already adulterated with a bottle of Moet, he lay in his cold, empty bed and slid his hand into his briefs. As his fingers found his clitoris, his mind, once again, found Will.
—
At age 23, Adam tried to call it quits: he called up his ex, traded head for pills, and chased a bottle of oxycodone with wine. It was nothing like all the glamorous scenes in movies he’d watched while curled up in Peter’s loft: he couldn’t finish the bottle of wine and vomited twenty undigested pills onto the floor, scrambling through his sick as he attempted to fish them out and swallow them again. Eventually he caved and called 999 when he couldn’t force the pills back down his throat, the smell alone making his stomach twist into knots. He wasn’t visited in hospital, and when he checked himself out he took a cab straight to the airport.
—
At age 24, Adam was on a plane back to America: squeezed into economy, he realized he had never flown anything but first class up to that point in his life and before he turned 18 he never anticipated he’d fly in his entire life. He spent his birthday recovering from a failed suicide attempt and all that he wanted anymore was his brother. He used his scant cash to get a cab to Lafitte, and nearly broke down crying at the sight of his father, grayer than he remembered, at the door. “Will?” He asked, and it shattered something inside Adam that his own father didn’t recognize him, but he still hugged him anyway and breathed in the horrid smells that made Rene Graham: the beer, the sweat, the swamp. Any hope of recognition went out the window when Adam started speaking, his tongue so tainted by England that he could see each one of his words passing through his glass-eyed father. When he asked for Will, he only got a mild shrug in response. He’d gone, and Adam wondered if his leaving was in any way tied to the vanishing of his brother. When he went to bed, his father still watching him like he was a stranger in his house, he was comforted by the sight of their bare mattress. Adam slept on his side of the bed, leaving space on the off chance that Will might come back and fill it while he was asleep. In the hope that he might wrap his arms around his younger-by-three-minutes brother and hold him through the night, never even thinking to make an advance on him. He was furious that, despite being a twin, he never got any of those superpowers that would allow him to use their psychic bond to find Will. Maybe he didn’t want to be found. That idea haunted him as he left home, left his passed-out father on the couch, and walked towards New Orleans. It wasn’t until he was wandering the French Quarter that he even remembered that 10 years ago he used his father’s hand to masturbate, and he drank himself blind over the course of four hours.
—
At age 25, Adam was back in London: while there was no true home there for him, there was nothing left for him in Lafitte, not with Will gone. He left his phone number, his address, his new name, everything he could think of just in case Will went to visit their father and was wondering about the state of his twin. The lesser, the younger, the one that felt like he had been stuck in the end credits of his life for half a decade now. The curtain had fallen, yet Adam was still here, and he didn’t know why. He put on a smile and promenaded around town, flitted about the upper echelons of society just long enough to extract enough blood for an article, and got around like that was his true calling in life—even establishing his own magazine to soothe the ache of being booted from his previous post. After his suicide attempt, he didn’t bother restricting himself to just one pool of potential partners—Adam Towers was a free-for-all and he no longer cared enough to feel ashamed about that fact. Not like he had any right to in the first place; it had been the same when he was Adam Graham. He floated by, did the bare minimum, and held onto his newly-purchased mobile phone like a lifeline, waiting desperately for the call: “Adam, it’s Will.”
—
At age 26, the call hadn’t come: Adam crawled out of a Soho dungeon and immediately checked his phone as he emerged on the surface. It was dinner time on the East Coast, at least he thought it was, and it would be the perfect time for a long, tear-filled phone reunion with the brother he hadn’t seen in almost a decade. He wondered what Will looked like now: if his angles had hardened, if he looked like one of the marble muses Adam had mostly disregarded on his and Reginald’s minibreak to Rome. All he could hope anymore was that Will was still alive and out there somewhere, even if he was impossible to track down without the assistance of an intelligence agency. He tucked his notebook full of quickly-jotted notes about a psychiatric scandal into his coat pocket and tightened his scarf around his neck, hoping to hide bruises both old and new.
—
At age 27, Adam felt himself slowing down: tri-weekly club visits dropped to once a week, then every other week, then once every couple months if he remembered. He couldn’t keep down more than a few sips of alcohol anymore, fear of mortality scaring him out of the binges he used to pretend were therapy. Fear of mortality kept him away from choking, too, and he only found himself masturbating when his thoughts were preoccupied with Will. He stripped his mattress of its sheets and comforters and dragged it off of its frame, lying it on the floor and curling up onto it like it was the sagging heap of stuffing and thread back at home in Louisiana. He slept more often than not now, barely ate, and denied every call that didn’t begin with a +1. Early in the morning he received a call from his assistant, his name flashing across the blue analog screen, but rejected it just the same and was made completely unaware of his resignation until a week later.
—
At age 28, he was ready to give up again: he nicked his face shaving and got a brilliant idea from the bead of blood on his cheek. He bought a box of razor blades, wanting for something more robust than the small, thin blades that he could have broken out of his plastic razors, and let them sit on the edge of the sink for half of the day before he made his decision. Adam sat down in the shower, his body folded like something small and vulnerable, and turned the blade around in his hand. There was still time to not do it, there was still time to pretend his life was worth living, but Adam didn’t want more time. The only person who might not look at him with pure disdain or utter apathy was unreachable and Adam had burned too many bridges to even make an attempt to rebuild what his life had been at 19. He was past his best by date, and the most humane option was euthanasia. Adam blinked, and when his eyes opened again his forearms were littered with large, weeping cuts. He couldn’t even remember the feeling of the blade against his skin, all he felt now was the sting, the faucet which had been turned on at some point pouring ice cold water down onto his skin and only causing a worse burn. He pulled himself out of the shower and collapsed on the floor, not wanting to be found waterlogged or worse when they came to collect his body. He dragged himself onto his bare mattress, curled up on the right side, and waited to bleed out.
—
At age 29, Adam was a reluctant in-patient: he’d spent the better part of a year in a mental institution after he was found bleeding out in his flat, and now he wasn’t allowed anything sharp or otherwise dangerous. He shared a room with another man who overdosed and the two were as friendly as two people with no interest in living another year could be. Adam didn’t get too close: he was sparing everyone the pain of even having to temporarily mourn him if he managed to get his way and die. Even in the dead of summer he wore long sleeves now, ashamed of another failed attempt written all across his arms, doubly ashamed to know that photos of his sliced arms were circulated through magazines even trashier than his own, his reputation utterly ruined over one bad day. He only said as much as he needed to in therapy, group and solo, and filled the never-ending days with walks around the ward and out in the quad, only when he was being supervised. There was no point hoping Will would call anymore: every call got his hopes up, only to crush them when he found out it was Poppy, or Mannix, or even Reginald checking in to see what his generous gift of all-expenses-paid in-patient therapy was doing for Adam. He didn’t know what he’d done in the past eight years to deserve a gift as kind as that, but he wasn’t going to ask Reginald what his motives were if only to spare himself the foresight of knowing what he’d owe once he was out of there. If he ever got out of there.
—
At age 29, Adam still didn’t know who found him and called the ambulance.
—
At age 29, Adam remembered something in therapy: one-on-one, but in no way intimate. He leaned back in his chair and watched his therapist watch him, his pen tapping away on his clipboard.
“I take it you would like me to begin our session today, Adam.”
He grinned: the drugs made him feel younger, took some of the weight of the past decade off of his shoulders and brought back to life the careless, stupid Adam that most people seemed to like. He was pretty sure he liked this Adam better than the one he had become, too.
“If you’d like,” he said coyly, looping his finger through a torn seam in his shirt’s cuff.
The doctor did not respond. Instead, he flipped through Adam’s papers and scanned the pages until he found something to dissect.
“You mentioned a brother in one of our previous sessions. What is his name?”
Adam’s cool, coquettish facade suddenly shifted. He sat up and furrowed his brow, unable to remember when he had ever mentioned Will.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Don’t you think that it paints a better picture of your circumstances if I am aware of your background? Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to speak about your brother, but I will remind you that this is the proper space to process any past experiences or feelings you may have.”
Adam was still for a moment: he couldn’t think of any reason against telling his therapist the bare minimum about his twin, but something about the prospect made him shrink. He folded his hands in his lap and tried to expel his nervous energy by picking at his cuticles.
“His name is Will. We’re fraternal twins, but I think we pass as identical. I might be slightly better-looking than him, though, if we’re factoring in sex lives.”
His therapist nodded and wrote something down, which Adam would have given anything to read. He would have reverted to his 17-year-old self, lowering himself onto his knees and toying with his therapist’s zipper until he gave in to Adam.
Instead, he sat still and waited for him to speak again.
“Do you speak with your brother often?”
Adam recalled every night waiting by the phone, every desperate check of his mobile, hoping Will got his message and left him a voicemail, all for nothing. He felt his eyes sting, but he was able to blink the feeling away.
“Well, I ran away from home at 18 and didn’t want anybody to come and bring me back, so I didn’t leave Will any way to reach me. It defeats the point of breaking all contact if you still have some way to maintain contact, doesn’t it?”
His therapist scribbled something down again, and Adam’s urge to know was killing him.
“But I take it that you might regret breaking contact with Will, given that you still seem to be fond of him.”
Adam inhaled sharply, unsure if that was a subtle read into his psyche or if it was an innocuous comment. He smiled bitterly and glanced out the window, rain beating down hard on the glass and rolling down in thick rivulets. His heart was quick to match those hard, quick beats of water against glass.
He turned back towards the doctor and attempted to loosen his posture; he crossed his legs and leaned back once again, picking at the torn seam.
“He’s a good person who loved me, but maybe I don’t regret relieving him of my presence. For all I know, he’s happier without me in his life. I know that he wouldn’t be happy to have a tabloid journalist in his life.”
He bit his lip and felt like he was regaining control over their conversation—he desperately wanted to call it an interview.
His psychiatrist put his clipboard down in his lap and stared directly into Adam’s eyes: “Do you really believe that he would stop loving you for being a journalist?”
Adam shrugged.
“He has a superiority complex and he’s always hated the gossip rags. I don’t think he could overlook my career choices if he knew of them.”
“I’ll ask you again: do you really believe that he would stop loving you for being a journalist?”
Adam didn’t know the answer to that question. He wanted to believe in unconditional love, but all he’d learned in his 29 years was that love was deeply, deeply conditional, and he was the last person who deserved it.
“I believe he would stop loving me if he knew me now.”
Now, he would not lie in bed with Adam during long nights when he’d started his period and his cramps were at their worst—the bleeding delayed but the contractions more powerful than Adam ever would be, his face red and soaked with tears as he struggled to cope without any medication. Now, he would not loop his fingers through his brother’s matching curls and offer him that one point of contact, a comfort he never refused night after night.
Now, Will would not recognize Adam, looking into the same face with none of the character left behind it.
—
At age 29, Adam had not heard his brother’s voice in over 11 years.
—
At age 30, Adam graduated: something he’d never done before, and something he wasn’t sure he’d ever do again. He got his certificate, his scant belongings that had come with him to the facility, and he got in the cab with Reginald, unsure he could look him in the face anymore. After twenty silent minutes, he looked up and suddenly felt like he’d gone back 10 years.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Reginald said, reaching across the bench to take Adam’s hand. “I made a terrible mistake throwing you to the wolves like that, Adam.”
He felt like he hadn’t spoken in a year, his throat dry as he attempted to verbally process the words “shouldn’t have brought me here.”
“I’m glad you agree, darling.” The pet name stung, and Adam was taken back to long nights memorizing every sordid detail of every sordid affair to jot down later and publish like it was something that mattered. Like the past decade of his life had mattered.
“I’ve set you up in my townhouse—it’s been updated since you were last there, but I trust you can figure it out—until Friday, I thought it would only be fair for you to have a few days left in London before I sent you back.”
Adam stared ahead at the black glass divider, finding his reflection in it and wondering how long he’d looked like this: pale, gaunt, tired beyond his years. He was being returned, and in worse condition than any retailer should have accepted. But, maybe there’d be something back in America, even if the only home he wanted was a ghost he would never be able to reach.
—
At age 30, Adam was alone: sitting in an apartment provided for him by an ex who only asked for one last shag before he hopped across the pond, in a city he’d never been before, unsure if any of this effort was worth it. What was Adam going to do in Baltimore? He hadn’t written in years, but at this point he wasn’t sure he’d ever written a real thing at all. The only reason he’d survived this long was off the charity of people he’d entertained carnally; Adam didn’t have anything to his name besides a never-ending back catalog of controversy. He was battered, he was bruised, he was nothing that anyone would look at twice anymore and he knew he had no value beyond what he could provide for others. There was no intrinsic value to someone like Adam Towers, or Adam Graham, or just Adam, who didn’t deserve either name anymore. He was the type who was made to burn bright and crash out before he turned 25, and he was too long past his expiration date now. Adam sat alone in that apartment for a month, and he reveled in all of the thoughts that were left unspoken in therapy: Reginald’s money put to good use.
—
At age 31, Adam was going outside again: he forced himself to walk down to the cafe and order coffee if only to say that he got his human interaction for the day. He stewed over his cup, he made himself confront one horrible thing from his past every day until he accepted that he’d done something so awful, and struggled to come up with proper apologies for everything, and everyone, he’d fucked up. And while he took a step forward with his cafe routine, he took about five steps back when he started cutting himself again—but he was proud that was the only relapse he’d had since London. He called his father one night and poured out all of his remorse over what he’d forced his hand to do, and after the line clicked without a single word of acknowledgment towards his confession, Adam blacked out and came to as he was wrapping his new wounds. At least he didn’t let them fester anymore.
—
At age 32, Adam was writing: he took a class at a local community college and started publishing short stories on erotica sites, making about twenty cents per sale but actually feeling accomplished for the first time in his life. He thought Reginald was somehow involved when he got an email announcing that one of his shorts had been nominated for an award, and while he didn’t win, that only confirmed to him that it was something he’d actually earned on his own. There was no way in hell Reginald wouldn’t have bought him the entire awards show if he could, and Adam the runner up was on cloud nine.
—
At age 33, Adam had someone: he met a man at a bar in Baltimore, went home with him as was routine, and simply never left. Derrick was nice, Derrick thought he was beautiful, and Derrick didn’t give him those awful looks of pity when he saw the damage Adam left on himself. He’d smile when he kissed Adam, he’d look at him like he was the center of his universe, and he never got tired of Adam’s accent. He was from Kentucky, and his drawl brought out those small Cajun vestiges that Adam barely remembered ever being a part of his register. While Adam didn’t want to get his hopes up ever again, it was starting to feel like his life was actually going somewhere—that he wasn’t the superfluous twin who was only meant for spare parts.
—
At age 34, Derrick asked a question over dinner: “Are you gonna let me meet your family?”
Adam didn’t know what to say. That his dad would never speak to him again because he managed to molest both himself and his father? That he had a twin brother who he still thought about to get himself off and was missing presumed dead? That his mother was spared the pain of really knowing him by dying when he and Will were two?
“I’m an orphan,” Adam lied as he pushed food around his plate.
“I thought you mentioned your dad before. That he lives down in Louisiana?” Derrick smiled warmly from across the table, his dark eyes brightening. “You’re not gonna deny me home-cooked Cajun food, are you, baby?”
Adam hid his panicked breathing, turning his face down to his plate and attempting to balance himself again. He was teetering wildly, his heart racing and every self-destructive response bubbling up to the surface. Adam was stupid to think his past wouldn’t come back and haunt him now that he had something of his own, even stupider to think that Derrick wouldn’t get curious and ask.
He exhaled shakily and met his eyes, struggling to hold back the wave of emotion coursing up and down his body.
“We’re estranged. I don’t speak to my father anymore and I haven’t been able to find my brother in over a decade. I hope that he’s alive but what do I know? I left for the UK without telling him anything and now I’m surprised that he doesn’t want me to find him.”
Adam got up before Derrick could respond, clearing his plate and cleaning it in the sink before dragging himself up to bed. A truth without all the stickiest details at least wasn’t a lie.
—
At age 35, Adam was standing by the sink: he’d waited over four minutes now and the pregnancy test hadn’t given him any answer. He didn’t want to believe that after everything, his body still decided to give him one last massive middle finger and continue his reproductive cycle even after years on testosterone. Adam felt like he was entitled to unprotected sex after the nightmare that was his twenties, and was unsure where to air his grievances about possibly being gifted his second pregnancy. He hoped so desperately that it would be negative, that he wouldn’t have to weigh if he wanted to suffer for nine months—then at least another eighteen years on top of that—so he and Derrick could have a family of their own or if he wanted to get rid of something he’d made with someone he loved. If he did, he couldn’t tell Derrick, he would just pretend it never happened at all if the stick gave him a positive. He paced in the bathroom, ran his fingers through his hair, tried to preoccupy himself for another minute if he had to. Adam just couldn’t think about the look of heartbreak on Derrick’s face ten years down the line—if they made it that long—when he told him they could have had a baby. He was sweet, sweeter than Adam deserved, but he also would never forgive Adam for not going to him and discussing it until he caved and decided to endure pregnancy for Derrick. But, he was granted the slightest ounce of relief—negative, and when he went to the doctor just to be certain he was clean, he was gravely informed that pregnancy wasn’t possible for him anymore and he struggled to train his face into a frown. It was the best news Adam had received in months.
—
At age 36, the relationship was on the rocks: Adam wasn’t settling down fast enough, Adam was keeping too much of his life a secret, Derrick wasn’t happy that Adam hid the state of his uterus from him for an entire year, and it was becoming clear that the domestic bliss wouldn’t last much longer. Adam went to an erotica writers convention down in Virginia over a long weekend to give Derrick space, and within 12 hours of being in a different state the old Adam had decided to come out and play. He was splayed out in a stranger’s hotel room, letting three of his fellow authors test scenes and positions on him while he let Derrick fade into the back of his mind. It almost made him feel like he was in high school again: being used as an experiment but not really minding it because he was getting off and he felt like he was being admired despite his body not being what it once was 20 years ago. They cooed over his accent and made notes that they needed to write more British twinks into their stories, and Adam turned over onto his hands and knees to test the logistics of a solo doggy-style vaginal fisting scene. He went to dinner with a remote activated vibrator inside of him and impressed his friends with how long he could last before his walls came crashing down. But, even when he tried to shame himself about it in the bathroom on the last night of the convention, he didn’t consider this cheating. It was Saturday night when Adam first fucked up, following a couple back to their hotel room and letting them take turns on him until they couldn’t stand anymore. Adam stroked the woman, Lisa’s, strap-on and watched the man, Linus, tie off his condom and toss it in the trash.
“Why did you say ‘Will’ when you came? Is that your boyfriend?” Lisa giggled, lacing her fingers through his curls and immediately making Adam come back to his body. That was the second fuckup of the weekend.
He got dressed and thanked them for working him over, but he really wanted more. Adam came, he came a few times, but that sense of dissatisfaction was hitting him over and over like blows to his chest. He knew there was something else he really wanted, that he really needed, but that was impossible.
Adam wandered away from the convention center towards the nearest grocery store, looking for liquor, food, whatever would take his mind off of those parts of himself he thought he left back in London. But Adam was still the same person he was in London—he was a whore, he was an instigator, a button-pusher, a person who had no boundaries and pushed past other’s whenever he could.
Adam hadn’t really changed, no matter how much he hoped that some of his therapy sank in and fixed him. He grabbed a basket and walked up and down every aisle, working his way back to the liquor aisles and tasting Moet on the back of his tongue; over a decade’s worth of pondering on the same memory coming back to him like a waking nightmare.
And then, the waking nightmare became reality.
He caught a glimpse of what looked like the back of his own head, and Adam stopped in his tracks. The floor was tilting and turning underneath him like rolling waves, his empty stomach tossed just the same, and he watched the mirror image of his back disappear behind a shelf. Adam kept his distance but followed close behind until he was standing at the end of the dog food aisle, his eyes locked on a side profile he could never forget.
Adam’s heart raced in his chest as he traced the delicate slope of his nose, the dark furrow of his brow, bright eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses that would have thrown Adam off if he wasn’t a scholar of his brother’s face: it’s Will.
It’s Will, it’s Will, he’s right in front of me, he looks just as pretty as he was in high school, it’s Will .
Adam turned swiftly and left the aisle, taking his empty basket and returning it to the pile beside the front door before he made a mad dash back to his hotel room. He hadn’t even thought to say a word to his twin, to reenact all those lonely, dark nights where he dreamed he’d see Will on the streets of London and have a big dramatic reunion with him, tears nonnegotiable. And he did feel his eyes water when his brain recognized that it was Will, it was really, actually Will standing six feet away from him, seemingly unaware that he was right there, staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost.
How long had he been in Virginia? Where did he live? What did he do? Why had he never called or made any other attempt to get in touch? Adam opened his laptop once he was back in his room, searching “Will Graham” and “Virginia” while he nervously bit his thumb nail. He wished he’d thought to get something to nibble on before he bolted out of the grocery store, but he didn’t have even an ounce of forethought inside him when he was shocked to see Will at all. Derrick wanted to take him out to dinner once he got back in the afternoon anyway, he could survive until then.
His hunger was forgotten entirely when the page finally loaded: the listing for a home in Wolf Trap, Virginia, sold in 2009 to William Graham. Everything was forgotten, completely blurry in the back of his mind as he realized that Will wasn’t far away at all.
—
At age 36, Adam finally knew his brother’s address: he scribbled the information down like the webpage would self-destruct in T-minus five seconds, and now that folded piece of paper lived in his wallet. He was going to visit him, that wasn’t a question in his mind, instead the question was how he’d tell Derrick. He might have wanted to go and support his boyfriend, to finally connect with his eventual in-laws—though Adam still hadn’t given him any answer on if he’d want to get married someday—and watch Adam reunite with his closest relative. Adam either saw the reunion being quiet and painfully awkward, or something that nobody but the Graham twins could ever know occurred; an event that they would take to their graves. He almost told Derrick twice, but chickened out at the last second and made up another announcement instead. He wanted that first reunion to be private, just between himself and Will with no audience to perform for. Adam locked himself in the bathroom after Derrick left for work one morning and decided that he needed to go alone, that day, with no confirmation that Will would even be home to greet him. He could stand outside and wait in the cold for hours if need be, so long as Will came home and saw his little brother on the porch, offering a long-awaited apology for his prolonged absence. Adam had never wanted to be apart from Will for so long; in truth, he wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted to be apart from him at all. He drove him to his abortion, he took care of him afterward, he stroked Adam’s hair when his cramps were so bad he was sobbing, and he never told Dad about all of the boyfriends and girlfriends he had in school. Every bad moment brought him back to Will, and the proceeding comfort swaddled him out of his bad mood.
Adam had no belongings left in the house that he would want to bring with him. He carried his laptop and a change of clothes in his bag, his wallet burning a hole in his trousers, and he piled into his car, his mind set on Wolf Trap.
—
At age 36, Adam was standing outside his brother’s door, waiting: snow was falling down when he drove into Wolf Trap, and he tucked himself deep into his coat, checking the address too many times before he felt confident in saying this was Will’s house. There were dogs inside, milling around the door and sniffing, some barking, one in particular finding its way up to the window where it stood and stared at Adam: almost his owner, but not quite. He knocked, sent the dogs into a barking fit, and there was no answer. So, he waited.
—
At age 36, Adam was sitting cross-legged on an unfamiliar front porch: he was bundled deep into his coat and wished he’d at least brought a hat. Doubt was starting to settle in as the sun set and his phone was buzzing in his pocket, every few minutes like clockwork. Adam eventually turned it off between frantic calls from Derrick, not needing to compound the guilt he should have felt over leaving his boyfriend in the dark with the shame of coming to see Will unannounced after running from him two weeks earlier. His tail was tucked between his legs and all he wanted was to make amends with the only person in the world he should have been guaranteed love from.
But really, Adam wasn’t sure if he was capable of love—he had only been shown it genuinely two times in his life, and both times he ran in search of something else. He really squandered his time in therapy, the more he thought about it. What he wouldn’t give for a second opinion right now.
He was jolted out of whatever half-awake half-delirious state he was in by the sound of a car pulling up the drive, and his eyes widened at the sight of Will stepping out of his SUV and into the winter chill. Adam ducked down behind a bush growing wild on the left side of the porch, a smile creeping across his face as he imagined they were kids again, hiding around their tiny house in Lafitte and trying to scare each other while Dad was out on the boat. He leaned over and saw Will walking up to the front door, stopping and reaching around in his pocket for something before starting up again.
Adam stood when Will stepped onto the porch, not intending to startle him but almost sending him tumbling back down the steps with his unexpected presence. Though, at that point, Adam was sure that Will hadn’t actually seen him, just a figure on his porch, watching him. He was just lucky that Will didn’t have a gun, at least not on his person.
Will leaned against the balustrade and breathed quickly, shallowly, as he focused his eyes on Adam. He furrowed his brow and stepped closer.
“Adam?” Will asked, and he felt his heart skip a beat hearing that same familiar, slightly crackly voice.
He couldn’t stop himself—he bolted towards Will and crashed into him, wrapping his arms tightly around his twin and burying his face into his shoulder. He smelled like the remnants of cheap aftershave and wet dog, and Adam buried his face deeper until his cold nose was pressed to warm skin. Each breath came out in harsh, shuddering puffs and he couldn’t even manage to put together the syllables necessary to greet his estranged brother.
They both stood in silence, Will pressed against the balustrade and Adam gripping onto him for dear life, neither willing to even attempt to move or pull apart. At some point, Will’s hand wrapped around his middle, hesitant but nonetheless there. Tears attempted to break free from Adam’s eyes, but he held them back just long enough to untuck his face from Will’s neck and actually look at him—up close, almost twenty years on.
Adam knew in that moment that he was completely and utterly screwed: Will was still beautiful all these years later, maybe even better looking as he grew into himself. The bags under his eyes and the closely-cropped facial hair were the only signs that Will had aged at all, but now rather than being pretty, Adam could confidently say that his brother was handsome; dashing, even. Beautiful in ways that Adam wasn’t, some little, internalized bit of proof that Adam’s attraction wasn’t an ego problem, at least not entirely. While he should have steered his train of thought away from how gorgeous Will looked—how the moonlight bounced off the snow and reflected off his skin with an otherworldly glow—he wouldn’t deny himself the pleasure of looking at Will for a little while longer.
“It’s really you,” he said softly, his eyes darting across Adam’s face. “I thought you were dead.”
“I did, too.”
Will narrowed his eyes, glancing down at his mouth for a moment before it bounced back up. “Your voice.”
Adam smiled bashfully, finally granting his brother a little space and allowing him to stand upright.
“I was living in the UK for a while—I took on the accent like a hobby.”
He saw a flash of irritation in Will’s eyes, but it wasn’t the same kind of irritation that his lovers threw his way when he was being too Adam. His expression softened when he started taking in the changes in Adam’s face—the beginnings of crow’s feet, his dull skin, the permanent dark circles that only made him feel ugly. Will had dark circles, his eyes were starting to crease with age, his skin was in want of moisture, but he wore it better than Adam; it suited his demeanor, and it only made Will look more sophisticated, while Adam saw a washed-up has-been when he looked in the mirror.
Will walked towards the door, looking over his shoulder at his twin, and unlocked the door only to unleash his pack of dogs. Some ran straight out into the snowy yard, while others stopped to greet Will or sniff Adam up close. He had only interacted with purse dogs and cats in the past fifteen years and almost recoiled backward when one of the large, slobbering dogs shoved its nose against his hand. The cold sent a shock through him and he grimaced, looking to Will for help.
“They’ll lose interest soon enough. Come inside, your nose is turning purple.”
—
At age 36, Adam thought he was hallucinating: after he’d stripped out of his coat and heavy winter boots, Will cornered him against the door.
There was little to no sensation in his fingers as he reached up and touched his brother’s face—nearly twenty years older but still just as familiar to him as the day he packed his bag and took off for New York. No more words stood in between them, no “where did you go,” no “why did you leave,” no “I thought you didn’t love me.” Not even space stood in between them as Adam crushed his mouth against Will’s, kissing him just as hard as he’d always dreamed of when he needed a little something extra to get himself off.
Will’s hands hovered at his sides for a moment until they found purchase on Adam’s back; he grabbed his twin close and knotted his fingers into his jumper.
They kissed like they wanted to tear each other apart, 157,000 hours of uncertainty about the other even being alive turning them both into feral animals. Will bit Adam’s bottom lip, Adam reached his hand down in between Will’s legs and grabbed at his half-hard cock, and both their deep breathing and the sound of their mouths moving against each other echoed in the room. Adam palmed at Will’s cock and attempted to coerce him away from the door and onto his bed.
Will grabbed his hip and pressed him hard against the door, nudging his thigh in between Adam’s until he was grinding against his clit. He tossed his head back and knocked his skull against the door, cursing and laughing as Will’s mouth moved down to his throat. His teeth and his tongue were caressing the delicate skin, on the verge of biting Adam but never quite giving in. Adam grabbed Will’s shoulder with his free hand and tightened his grip, digging his nails into his slack, overworn flannel shirt.
“Put me on the bed,” Adam begged against the side of Will’s face, laughing as he was lifted and slammed down into the firm mattress.
Will didn’t immediately join him, though—he returned to the door and called the dogs in, leaving Adam in slick suspense as they each barrelled in from the snow and made a b-line towards the kitchen. Adam wondered if everything else had been a hallucination, and the only real thing that had happened was Will putting his unconscious brother on the bed before bringing in and feeding his dogs. His head swirled, Will wouldn’t even look at him, focusing all of his attention on the smelly beasts before he turned and walked back to the bed.
He grabbed Adam’s shoulders and shoved him down, staring at him with a dark, penetrating gaze. “Where were we?”
Will’s mouth was on Adam, his hands were on Adam, and Adam wasn’t disassociating as Will started to undo his trousers. It struck him as truly odd that he actually existed in that very moment, staring up at his twin brother and watching him struggle to get Adam out of his pants quickly enough to appease his engorged cock. Adam was 36 years old, and he was finally getting what he wanted most in this world.
Soon enough, Adam was undressed from the waist down and Will had opened his fly. He pulled out his cock and lined it up with Adam’s cunt, the head grazing his slit as they both attempted to keep him steady while his hips hovered in mid-air. Adam’s back was aching, in want of a pillow, but once Will was inside him he could balance himself on his brother’s thighs.
Adam exhaled shakily as Will pushed himself in—no resistance, a copious amount of slick making his entrance that much easier. He took in a sharp breath as Will’s cockhead grazed against his walls, hitting his g-spot sooner than he was ready for.
The first few thrusts were gentle, like Will was testing if Adam could take it, before he was leaning over him, slotted in between Adam’s spread legs, fucking him like a wild animal. Adam’s hand found the back of Will’s head and held on tight as he made the bedsprings underneath them squeal. He hadn’t been fucked like this in ages, not since he was a journalist; the only thing missing was his partner spitting in his mouth and calling him any number of derogatory phrases. Adam could only wish that Will would call him a putrid little worm as he painted his guts white.
“I can’t stay,” he said as Will pumped his cock deep into his cunt. “My boyfriend’s already worried sick about me.”
Will’s face flashed cold, and Adam felt a rush seeing his jealousy plain on his face.
“Right now, you’re mine.”
He bit down hard on Adam’s neck and made him squeal. He wrapped his legs around Will’s middle and exhaled hard with each rock of his hips, every thrust soaking his nerves in white-hot heat until they were trembling. Adam knotted his fingers into Will’s hair and pulled until he heard him grunt in satisfaction.
Adam should have been deterred by their audience, but he’d been watched enough times to no longer care if there were eyes on him while he was doing anything—he hated remembering that London flat he lived in post-Reginald, but if there was one skill he gained during his stay it was being able to piss while looking someone in the eye. In short, Adam had no shame.
But that could have been assumed if he was getting rawdogged by his brother without any hesitation. That could have been assumed if he was getting rawdogged by his brother without any hesitation or protection, and he hoped against hope that somehow he might get pregnant with his brother’s two-headed baby.
He came at the idea of visiting Will, eight or nine months pregnant, barely able to function around his distended stomach but still gladly getting dicked down by Will. He could tell Derrick he was shopping for baby clothes instead of riding his twin brother reverse-cowgirl. His muscles tightened around Will and he saw stars behind his squeezed-shut eyes, grabbing onto him so tight he could have drawn blood.
“Keep going,” Adam panted, wrapping his legs tighter around Will’s middle.
And, like the perfect big brother—by three minutes—that he was, he did exactly as Adam asked. He fucked him hard for what must have only been another five minutes, but Adam was choosing to savor each moment and was able to make it feel like 20. Adam came again, his heart pounding so hard he thought he was going to have a heart attack, but he accepted his potential fate; at least he was going to die completely sated.
His body was exhausted after 10 minutes of rough pounding from a cock that was a good deal longer and thicker than he anticipated it being, but he felt relief wash over him when Will pulled out. Adam’s cunt was numb, but he could still feel a dribbling sensation as he gaped open, nothing coming to fill the hole where Will was supposed to be.
Adam reached in between his legs and scooped it up, fingering it back into himself just in case this was only a one-time thing—he didn’t want to lose the only concrete proof he had that Will wanted him.
Will sat back as he stared down at Adam, looking proud of what he’d done to him. He should be, Adam thought as he got a better look at Will’s softening cock. He looked a bit ridiculous wearing just his flannel and his undershirt, but Adam was intent on getting him out of those soon enough.
—
At age 36, Adam felt like he’d accomplished all of his life goals: he was lying in a puddle of his own sweat, his breathing was just beginning to settle, and his gaze drifted over to his twin.
“Do you remember that night I came home totally sloshed?” Adam asked as he attempted to sit upright, his cunt hot and aching from overuse.
“In sophomore year? A little.”
Adam’s eyes burned bright behind his lashes as he looked at Will—still dewy and blushing, his hair going limp at his sweat-soaked roots. He wondered how many people had seen Will like this, how many had known his body the way that Adam now did. But that thought immediately made him jealous and desperate to prove to the world that nobody could fuck his brother better than him, so he swallowed it down and let his leg fall open as he attempted to get comfortable on the bed.
“Did we shag?”
Will’s facial expression was unchanging.
“You were drunk.”
“And? I’ve had plenty of shags while I was drunk or rolling off of something. At least, I’m pretty sure I have.” He smirked, and Will frowned slightly.
“I wouldn’t take advantage of you.”
“I wouldn’t care if you did! For the majority of our childhood I wanted you to have your way with me, and that night might be the only time that my wish ever came true! I just want to know, Will.”
Will’s frown curled into a half-smile, bitter and yet so encouraging to Adam. “I just had my way with you ten minutes ago.”
“But when we were young—when we were 15—did we give each other handjobs? Do you remember fingering me while I was stroking you off?” Adam raked his hair out of his face and watched Will’s expression close. Was he really so ashamed of giving Adam everything he could have wanted at age 15?
He walked into the kitchen, a few of his dogs following him, and left Adam to wonder if he’d finally said the wrong thing to his brother. Adam sat, the incongruous feeling of anger attempting to mingle with both loneliness and rejection. He wouldn’t be able to bear Will rejecting him, not when he ran away from Derrick to be here.
God, what would Derrick think if he knew Adam had been fucked raw by his twin brother? That he’d had his first real orgasms, plural, in months while being creampied by his brother? That Derrick had never been as sexually appealing to him as his own twin had? That Adam was perfectly happy to ruin what was supposed to be a picturesque life by fucking the wrong person? But really, deep down, that was who Adam always had been and Derrick should have anticipated it. Maybe it could have worked if he was willing to watch Adam get railed into next century by his twin brother; but that was a big ask, and Will was possessive.
Will came back with a glass of water, taking a sip before he handed it over to Adam. He took a long swig and smiled at Will: even now, he still took better care of Adam than he did himself.
“It came up in therapy, actually. My psychiatrist was attempting to create a profile on me and became fixated on us. I told him it was a dream I had, but he saw the truth in my lie—he smelled it.”
Adam’s heart skipped a beat. He locked eyes with Will, disbelief taking his words away from him. Will looked guilty like a kicked dog, but Adam discarded the glass on the window sill and scooted across the bed. He grabbed Will’s face and kissed him hard, his swollen, sore lips begging for a break that he wouldn’t be giving them.
“You have no idea how happy you make me.”
Will had him on his back only a few moments later, and Adam was happy to accept another round or two before he had to go home and put an end to Derrick’s worrying. At least, he had to go home to tell him it was over—he was still Adam, he was still a scourge on society, but he wasn’t so cruel that he would deny Derrick closure on their relationship. Would it hurt more or less if he knew that he never truly had Adam’s heart, that nobody ever had; that Adam Towers’s heart had, and would continue, to belong entirely to one Will Graham?
—
At age 37, Adam was standing on a covered porch in Wolf Trap, Virginia: his hands were wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and he watched a pack of dogs that he was just beginning to like race around a snowy yard. But he wasn’t truly focused on the dogs—he was watching a man standing in the middle of the yard, bundled up to play catch in the early morning like his life depended on it. The previous night he’d worshipped Adam with his tongue, and seeing Will now, knowing where that tongue had been, made Adam blush.
Derrick hadn’t truly understood when Adam showed up on their doorstep just before sunrise and told him it was over. He was confused at first, thinking it might be a joke, before he was oscillating between tears and furious demands to know who it was, how long Adam had been straying. And Adam knew he was cruel, watching Derrick break down and sob while he could only wonder if Will was still waiting in bed for him.
“You’ll find someone else,” Adam assured him, biting his tongue to keep himself from confessing to his crimes. Maybe one day he’d tell Derrick the truth, when they were older and too tired to do anything about it. Maybe he’d still hold out hope and visit Adam on his deathbed, but Adam was certain this was the bridge-burning moment and his circle was now closed to just one person in the world.
But, hadn’t his world only been one person all along?
Will trudged up to the porch, white clouds trailing behind him with every exhausted puff of breath, and he cupped Adam’s face in his hand. He kissed him gently, lovingly, a wordless confirmation that Will felt the same; as was every touch, every taste, every lingering glance. For once, Adam felt like he hadn’t made a mistake—he knew now that his whole life was leading him to this moment, standing on the porch, greeting his twin, his light, his love with a kiss before they had to actually start the day.
It would have been nice if his life hadn’t completely combusted multiple times before Will came back into it, it would have been nice if he hadn’t left Will behind and they’d ran away together at 18, but nearly 20 years of agony confirmed a deep truth to him: his life wasn’t worth living without Will.
The dogs bounded into the house as their owners stood on the porch, staring at each other with twin gazes, before they followed suit, bumping shoulders before they shut the door behind them.