abri-chan fic journal | multifandom

I’ve come to believe everyone starts off as twins. But most of us murder our double while still in the womb. That's why we are born as incomplete halves.

---

“So you’re sure a doctor won’t help?”

Worick didn’t expect his morning to turn out like this. The plan was for him to sleep in, while Nic got groceries. Yet here he was, on the sofa, giving life advice to Yang.

“I told you. I wouldn’t know how to explain it.” The voice from the adjacent sofa came out exasperated, his coffee still untouched.

“You can try with me.”

Yang fell silent. In the pause that followed, Worick carefully regarded the younger man. Yang didn’t seem sick. But Diego was right that something felt off. Recalling the panicked call that woke him up, he knew Diego’s bet was on Worick’s way with words. Or people.

“Same dreams?”

Yang shook his head. Even as he asked, Worick knew dreams weren’t the problem. Everyone had bad dreams around there. The city was a sanctuary for throwouts and lunatics; everyone came with baggage. But he needed to get Yang talking. The tiniest crack, and he could slip right in.

“They come and go,” the dark-haired man continued. “It’s routine by now. Something I can live with.”

"Then why was Diego worried?"

Worick was pleased to see the other man fidget. His assumption had been right. Diego couldn’t have convinced someone as obstinate as Yang. Which meant, Yang came to see him on his own volition. He must have hoped Worick could make him talk, the blonde reasoned. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. Sometimes you desperately want to talk, but too much trouble follows, and you choose silence. But if one keeps poking...

“You know, I don’t care if you tell me or not,” Worick said, lounging on the sofa. “But I need something to report to Diego, or the man won’t get off my ass. You know how persistent he can be!” His voice thinned, his standard hysterics on the verge of flaring up. “He calls at 6 am. I’m in dreamland, and Nic won’t answer the phone. I’m exhausted from Friday work. There are no cigarettes. Diego is alarmed as if the residence was being attacked.” He slowed his pace, making sure to emit an audible sigh. “I swear, the only thing I can tolerate in the mornings is a woman’s voice.”

Yang decided he had had enough of the man’s theatrical blabbering. “One day I woke up, certain that I had murdered myself.”

Worick propped himself up. He hoped to God, if any fiber of faith remained in his being, that the coffee was weak, and it hadn't kicked in yet. The perplexed look made Yang repeat himself.

"I woke up one day, and—"

"I heard you. It's just," his bad eye had started to ache from the lack of sleep, and he couldn’t help but wince as he pressed his hand against it. “I have to ask. Are you a danger to yourself? Are you planning to hurt yourself in any way?”

“No—what?” Yang sounded hurt, almost indignant. Didn’t Worick know about his duties to the Monroe family? And what would Delico do if he lost another person?

“But you said you’d kill—”

“Not me! Well—me. Like another me.”

“A different you? Like a brother?” he motioned for the other man to continue. “Like Abel and Cain?”

Yang nodded. “But they’re both me,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Worick had become convinced that if Yang hadn’t lost his mind, he himself did. He knew Nic was deliberately taking longer, so the two men could talk, but he needed a cigarette badly. Part of him was getting irritated with Yang. Yet another part resented the first one, for feeling anger towards a man speaking with an open heart. After all, it must have taken courage to say such nonsense.

“And why would you murder this other Yang?” Worick asked, leaning forward.

“Survival, I suppose,” Yang said, staring into empty space, as if peering into past events. “If we were both born, we’d go for the same things. And if he were smarter or stronger than me, he’d take everything. So I had to off him, before he did the same to me.”

“Before you were born?”

Yang rubbed his neck, before facing the other man with a weary smile. “I find it incredible as well. But it’s an irrational belief I can’t seem to drop.” The first act of life was murder; he was convinced of it.

Worick was taken aback. He had known Delico and Yang since children. Of the two, Yang wasn’t the one to think deeply. He couldn’t afford to, for Delico’s sake and his own. It was Yang’s optimism that kept the duo afloat. Worick leaned back against the sofa, hands behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. He regretted being about to entertain Yang’s fantasies.

“Phagocytosis,—a way a cell can eat another cell,” he began, squinting as if physically browsing through the archives of his memory. “While unicellular organisms, like amoebas, do it mostly for food, it also happens in the human body. Most of the cells in your immune system can do it as a response to infection, or anything deemed an attack or waste. It is even theorized the engulfment of another cell gave rise to cells with distinct nuclei, like the ones that make complex life. Nutrition or threat, perhaps metamorphosis fuel, it seems survival may be running at the level of DNA.”

After a moment’s pause, he shifted his gaze to Yang, who was nodding for the other to continue.

“If this type of survival mechanism is ingrained into DNA, other human cells could do it too, in theory. There is some plausibility to the idea of a zygote consuming another. Unfortunately, we know enough about human embryology to know that doesn’t happen.—Biologically speaking, your scientific revelation is unlikely. Psychologically speaking, however—”

“Yes?” Yang broke in, disheartened that Worick’s conceptual curiosities had led to a dead end.

“Psychologically speaking,” the blonde’s lips curled into an impudent grin. “I think you need a good fuck—”

“Worick!”

“I can always suggest some books. You and Freud would get along fine.”

“I don't have time for your books!”

He knew of Worick’s quirks; the man could be helpful, but always on his own terms. Yet, Yang couldn’t help the flush on his face. He listened as the older man dumped information on him, in hopes of some clarity. Only to be told the intrusive thoughts taking hold of him were a byproduct of sexual frustration.

Although Worick was half-joking, he felt content the agitated behavior brought Yang closer to his usual lively self. He stood up to make another cup of coffee, asking if Yang wanted a fresh cup as well. Yang shook his head, grabbing the cold cup in front of him, and following the other man to the kitchen area downstairs. He didn’t like to sip on cold coffee, but it felt like a waste of hospitality to just throw the liquid away.

“All teasing aside,” Worick spoke, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I think the past is affecting you more than you want to admit. So you fantasize a stronger Yang could have changed the outcome. But believe me, there was nothing a kid could do.—I was there that day; I was the one to find you. Whoever did it was able to slip past the four fathers. To think that a mere child could have saved the day, when the most powerful adults couldn’t, is arrogant, don’t you think?”

Yang shrugged. He supposed Worick could be right, since he himself didn’t know what to make of his recent thoughts. “I’m not a hero, Worick. I only wished we could have saved Erica.”

“Delico is still around, isn’t he?”

Yang lowered his gaze. He knew there was no point in thinking about the past. But as long as nothing was known of Erica’s fate, he couldn’t give up hope.

“Is one not enough?”

It was more of a rhetorical comment; Worick already knew the answer. The two siblings had been like family to Yang. He suspected, at some point, the young man’s feelings for Delico had deepened into something more. But Delico didn’t seem to notice, and Yang never made a move. Perhaps, if Erica was around, Yang would extend that same kind of affection to her.

Yang finished the rest of his coffee in silence. Before Worick made a second attempt at their conversation, the upstairs door creaked open. Soon after, Nic appeared on the stairs, holding a paper grocery bag.

“Doesn’t he have perfect timing? Just as I was about to make more coffee,” Worick commented to Yang, moving away from the counter.

“Hi, Nic,” Yang greeted, getting a brisk nod in return.

Nic moved his eyes from one man to the other, trying to read the room. After placing the bag on the counter, he took out a carton of cigarettes, and handed it to Worick.

“I think I should head back to the residence,” Yang said, placing his empty cup in the sink.

He was about to turn on the faucet, when Nic stopped his hand, signing a quick “no”. It was the shorter man’s way of saying he’d take care of it later. In contrast to Worick, Nic wasn’t the talkative type; his words and signs always telegraphic. Precision was his talent, not only in fights. If Worick could generate as many words as needed to get his way, Nic, in contraposition, could compress all that needed to be said to its essence.

Worick tore the carton of cigarettes open. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Later, Nic,” Yang said with a smile.

Before the two men disappeared from his view, Nic gave Worick a questioning look. Worick dismissed it with a hand wave.

---

“You didn’t have to see me at the door,” Yang protested, as they left the apartment.

“I worry about you, Yang.” It wasn’t a lie; they were like brothers once. “Besides, Nic doesn’t let me smoke inside.”

“Well, if Diego asks—”

“I’ll make up something. Say hi to Delico for me.”

Yang nodded.

“I also wish we could have saved Erica,” Worick continued, lighting up a cigarette. “But you can’t chase ghosts, at the risk of losing real people. Delico needs you.”

Yang nodded a second time. Except that to him, Erica wasn’t a ghost. He had lost track of the number of times he would see Delico, and try to picture what Erica grew up to look like. Apparitions weren’t supposed to be of flesh and blood.

“Come see us sometime. Not just for deliveries. Nic too.”

Worick took a brief drag on his cigarette. “I’ll try, if things don’t get too hectic around here.”

Waving goodbye, Yang wondered what to do with his time. Diego had been too generous in giving him the entire day off.

---

Worick was sitting on the entrance stairs, smoking, as Nic walked past him. Yet the dark-haired man only acknowledged Worick’s presence after walking down the last step.

“You look like shit”, he signed, leaning against the wall.

Worick’s eyes narrowed. “Get off my ass, Nic. You know I didn’t sleep much.”

“Is he okay?”

To many, Nic came across as dispassionate. Those accustomed to him, however, knew of the kindness resurfacing from time to time. That too was scattered, never unnecessary. He had reasoned his presence would add nothing to the conversation Worick was to have with Yang. It could have even provided a diversion; someone Yang could turn to, if Worick pried too much. But now, he had no idea what the two men talked about, and only Worick to ask.

“Yang? Probably. How come you never ask how I’m doing?”

Nic crossed his arms. He wasn’t in the mood for teasing.

“I’m doing better, thanks to the cigarettes you got me.”

“NoT MinE.”

He had come across Delico at Granny Joel’s shop. The young man had been wandering around the area, before being pulled into what became a mixture of conversation and gossip. Nic had been his ticket out of the situation, but not before offering to pay for Worick’s cigarettes. Nic thought it was strange, but he wasn’t going to poke any further in front of the old woman. She had enough worries of her own.

When him and Nic were alone, Delico admitted it was a gesture of appreciation towards Worick, for frequently watching over the duo.

“It was Delico who asked Diego to call. No other way to help Yang.”

According to Delico, talking to Yang directly would only make Yang become better at hiding his anxieties. But Yang would have to at least consider Diego’s words. As words from a superior. An older family member.

“That boy,” Worick thought. “He tiptoes around the issue, and causes more trouble for everyone in the end.”

At this point, he didn't know whom to worry about. If something happened to Delico, it would decimate any peace of mind left in Yang. And if something happened to Yang—he was the glue that held Delico's sanity together.

“Where is he now?”

Nic shrugged. “Probably still wandering. Didn’t seem like he was busy.”

“Sightseeing? I didn’t know Ergastulum was a tourist attraction. But, maybe one day, it’ll have some historical significance—”

He dropped his musings, noticing Nic’s annoyed face.

“I told you he’ll be fine.”

“What did he tell you?”

Worick grinned in amusement. “Grumpy old Nic has a heart after all! I might get jealous.”

The words made Nic cringe. It's not that it mattered if a guy flirted with him. But he knew Worick's ways; he flirted to divert attention. Nic wasn't going to get any answers.

“I'll head to Theo's then,” he signed, dropping the conversation.

Worick nodded in acknowledgement.

“Asshole.”

“Just go, Nic. I need to think.”

Nic's gaze shifted from the man's lips to his eyes, his expression flat. For a moment their looks interlocked in silence.

Nic’s eyes were rarely still; having one less sensory door to the world forced the other senses to compensate. But now, motionless black irises were fixed upon blue ones, making Worick want to shrink from the memories they induced. He had come to know those same eyes in his childhood, wondering what the hell went on in the head of his dark-haired companion. Only he had been wrong to believe there was anything unscrutinizable about that look. It was instead, transparent, as if everything passed through it. Nothing could imprint upon it, and it reflected nothing back.

The philosopher’s nightmare was that of an abyss gazing back into you. But, as he learned from a young age, it is far more terrifying if nothing gazes back.

He supposed that’s what Delico meant when he said twilights were different from normals. To survive, they had to let the world pass through them. One entanglement and there’s less uncertainty about your behavior, location, or whole identity. In an antagonistic world, being perceived can be lethal.

For a moment Worick had forgotten he was no longer a child. And if adults aren’t immune to fear, they can always mask it. His amiable composure returned, a pungent remark on his tongue, but Nic had already turned his back. Worick watched the shorter man walk away, his stature getting smaller as he approached the corner of the street. Twenty-two years, and he still didn’t know what went on in Nic’s head. The man would be fine, then suddenly disappear into a different frequency. What set him off this time?

Nic handled people by tossing them into two categories: people he could tolerate, and those he couldn’t. He could tolerate Worick for the most part. But, at times, the man’s behavior would leave an aftertaste of disgust; its precipitate, cold and bitter, settling at the pit of his stomach; a feeling Nic could neither digest nor vomit. He would look at Worick and see the brat he met twenty-two years ago, who thought he knew better than everyone else. And because he knew best, it was imperative he had to save the day.

Feared and revered for his photographic memory, few people recognized Worick had a severe blindspot. The realization had caused Nic to detest the saying “put yourself in someone else’s shoes”. You can have a fish in water, or throw a man into water; but you cannot make a man into a fish, or a fish into a man. When Worick borrowed another person's shoes, all he could think about was how he—Worick would react under the circumstances. As if the problem was some pure mathematical abstraction, detangled from the mess and mud that's someone's identity.

He was looking to solve, not understand.

It was the curse of a gifted child; surrounded by dumb adults, you realize the world is backwards, and frustrating, and it needs to be fixed. In short, Worick developed a hero complex. He had to save the day. Even when there was no day to be saved. To his misapprehension, when most people talk, they are not looking for someone to solve their problems. The other is rather a mirror, a differently formed reflection to better understand oneself.

It disgusted Nic to no end. Did Worick really believe no one else could think? That it was his burden alone, as if every adult, past and present, were incompetent?

Nic didn't want to infringe upon Yang's privacy. Neither was it in his character to get actively involved. But Worick’s dismissal, as if there was nothing he could do, infuriated him. It stemmed from kindness, Nic knew. But martyrdom-reeking kindness could only end in cruelty for all parties involved. Martyrs must have had no focal point but God, Nic thought. Otherwise, it would be rather unkind, to have mortal ties suffer the price of something as vague as an ideal. While Worick may think there was no point in attachments, he ought to have realized the consequences of people gravitating towards him. He didn’t, and that was a contradiction Nic couldn’t make sense of.

He was annoyed to the point of developing a headache. At least he'd get to see Nina soon. Painkillers should be safe with his usual medication. Not that he cared, to Nina's discontent. Perhaps there were three categories, Nic thought. Nina was one of the people he liked.

---

The cigarette's body burned out, as Worick contemplated Nic's behavior. He threw its crumbling form away.

“What a waste,” he thought.

He struggled with the thought of smoking another one. His brain was trained to run on cigarettes and cheap coffee. But running through a whole pack, this early in the day, was a habit not worth gaining. He bit his thumb in frustration. Maybe he could catch on some sleep. Nic wasn't going to be back until late afternoon. And there wasn't anything to do.

Worick didn’t bother to change, as he threw himself down onto the bed. The window stood wide open, with the blinds closed, to keep the room dark. It was a warm afternoon, and a meek air current swept through the crowded alley, rocking the blinds into a gentle rhythm, occasionally coated by the sound of scraping against the wall. Worick rolled on his back. The sunlight leaked through the window in thin bands, casting glowing strips of white across the walls and the floor. It was one of those scenes that trick the mind into fabricating a déjà vu of good times. A nostalgia of having experienced comforting warmth, as if all was right in the world.

It could lull one to sleep, Worick thought. He felt tired, but his brain wouldn't stop ruminating.

He could almost picture what would happen when Yang met Delico, later that day. It came down to overwork, he’d say. Maybe jokingly jab at Delico for being reckless, and complain that put a burden on him. Yang was only half-lying, Worick knew. Delico did put a burden on him, inadvertently. While Delico was looking at Erica, Yang was looking at both. From the moment the trio’s paradise was raided, even after all searches were called off, the two boys, now men, persisted in their will to find Erica. And after hope was gone, they lived on the expectation of something to happen—anything.

Love wasn’t quite the right word, Worick thought. Yang wouldn’t allow himself to love one, because he could only love both. Whatever happiness there could be stood suspended between them, a trivial distance neither dared to cross. It must be hard, Worick thought, to have the person you care about the most at your side, and not be able to reach. Their youth spent in a bubble of expectation, mutually repelling each other to keep it from collapsing into itself.

Perhaps he had misunderstood Yang. Instead of fantasizing of a stronger self, he may have hoped there was one person that day, instead of two. If Erica and Delico blended into one from the start, and that one was spared or disappeared, would it have been easier for Yang to move on? Would the absolute lack of hope, the certainty of it, be more comforting than a concern split in two? That way, Yang wouldn't be caught with a foot in his past, as he experienced his present.

The blinds rattled against the window. Was he starting to think like Yang? A split self, the turmoil that comes with it, what was the point of that metaphysical nonsense? It was a headache even to philosophers, and Yang was bound to grow out of it.

Worick turned on his side. If Nic was still at the clinic, he could call Theo for some sleeping pills. Maybe even walk there himself, if sleep didn't come soon.

---

NOTES

Disclaimer: I'm not a biologist. These are simply musings of a math and CS person on biology. DNA is code, so in theory you can program a cell to do anything. Even eat itself or others. So take it for what could be, instead of what is.

Coming chapters are more novel-like.