so i haven’t seen anyone write about this, and who else shall i turn to than you – what would happen if the twins’ father suddenly showed up?

badacts:

They’re at the Columbia house late in the afternoon when there’s a knock at the door. It barely cuts through the riot of noise from the television where Aaron and Nicky are playing some kind of video game – it’s white noise to Neil, who is trying to finish an assignment due on Monday.

Andrew stalks past from the kitchen, throwing them all a quick glance as though assuring himself that they’re all in their appropriate places, and then disappears down the hall. 

There’s the sound of the front door opening, and then muffled voices. Neil can’t recall ever having someone come to the front door while they’ve been here – if it’s a salesperson of a Mormon, they’re probably already sorry to have made that mistake. Especially when the conversion goes on longer than Andrew’s customary five seconds.

Nicky reaches for the remote with a frown on his face, clearly intending to drop the volume so he can listen in. It goes flying instead when he jerks, startled, at the crash of the door slamming closed.

A moment later, Andrew appears briefly in the doorway on his way back to the kitchen. He looks unfazed, but that isn’t exactly unusual. Nicky, who is clutching his chest in typical dramatic fashion, flicks Neil a wild glance. 

“Who was that?” Neil calls, as Aaron pauses the game and plunges them into quiet.

It means Andrew’s voice is perfectly clear when he replies at normal volume, “Our father, apparently.”

It’s such a disconnected concept that, for a moment, they stare at each other. Then, Neil goes for Andrew – Aaron, pushing Nicky back down onto the couch with a fierce stay that definitely won’t stick, goes for the door.

Neil pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, where he has a clear view down the hall to the front door past Aaron’s body and Nicky in the living room doorway. He can barely see the man on the front stoop – thanks to press photos, Neil knows the twins favour Tilda. There’s nothing of this man in them from what he can make out, but he knows that doesn’t mean much. Neil, after all, looks not a thing like his mother.

“Who the fuck are you?” Aaron demands, twice as abrasive as his brother. He has an arm slung across the door frame, protective like he thinks the man outside might try to get in if he doesn’t.

Neil casts Andrew a glance, finds him slicing vegetables for their dinner as though nothing is happening. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no indication that he’s thrown by this development. It doesn’t surprise Neil particularly.

Neil turns back to the other twin, the one with the stiff spine and the voice halfway to a snarl. 

“I’m Peter,” the man says. He’s trying for a smile, but it looks like it’s falling off. That’s a mistake, anyway – there’s nothing Andrew likes better than removing someone’s smile, and Aaron’s equally good at doing so even without the same intent.

“You think you’re our father,” Aaron asserts. The our sounds strange from him, probably because he only ever uses it in moments where it’s monsters-versus-everyone else. That said, this situation probably counts.

“I saw you on the television,” Peter says. He presumably means Andrew, because he’s the more news-worthy twin, and never in a good way. Aaron seems to grasp that – the tension in his braced arm winds tighter. 

“Your mom and I were, um, together. Around the same time,” Peter rushes on, like he senses his time is running out, and then, “The timeframe works out, let’s put it that way.”

“A lot of people fucked my mother,” Aaron drawls. “Were you wanting a prize for that?”

Behind Neil, the sound of chopping ceases.

“Let me guess,” Aaron goes on, before the stranger can. “You want something, right?”

Peter opens his mouth. Aaron cuts him off. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”

Then, for the second time, the door is slammed closed. The wood groans a complaint, and for a moment Neil fears for the hinges. It’s one thing to send the man packing, but it’s another entirely to crush him.

Aaron spins back, stomping down to the living room door and only avoiding barging into Nicky because Nicky moves first. Nicky throws Neil another please-do-crowd-control glance before he follows Aaron back inside. After a second, the television comes back to life with a blare.

Neil throws Andrew another glance. He’s still unbothered, returned now to his task. Neil wonders how long that peace would last if Peter were to come back. If he were to knock at the door again now. Wonders if Aaron, whose face was barely-contained fury just now, would be the one to break it.

The twins need to stay away from legal trouble. So does Neil, of course, but that’s different. Neil Josten has a clean slate, technically.

It might come in handy if someone ends up calling the cops.

*

Peter’s halfway into his car when the door of the house opens for the third time. Someone slips out, closing the door gently behind them before trotting down the front steps.

The kid is slight, messy hair held back from his face with a bright orange bandana that clashes terribly with his complexion. His face is horrifically scarred across one cheek, warped like melted plastic under his eye.

“Hey,” he says, the most friendly-sounding thing Peter has heard all afternoon. He swears he should recognise him – he’s done plenty of research on the Minyard twins lately. He just knows that this isn’t the cousin: that one is supposedly taller.

“Hi,” he replies, trying to remember how to look friendly again himself. He thinks that expression fell off sometime through his conversation with the second twin, whichever one that was. He pastes on a decent approximation as the kid gets closer.

Neither of the twins got anywhere near within reach, so it’s a surprise when this one gets closer than that. And then closer, so fast that Peter merely flinches before he’s sent crashing back into his own car.

“Shit!” he yelps, and then a hand grasps his throat and stops him from going on with a firm and threatening grip.

“Shh,” the kid warns, which is when Peter finally recognises him. This kid, too, has been in the news. “Don’t disturb the neighbours.”

A squeak crawls out of his throat unbidden. The fingers press down harder for a moment, a reprimand. Someone this short shouldn’t be so strong, never mind so threatening.

The kid’s eyes are an unusual colour – icy, just about. That’s an apt comparison from Peter’s stunned brain as he looks right into them. His name escapes Peter, but he looks just how he would imagine a mobster’s son.

“You’re going to get in your car now. And you’re not going to come back, or come near either of them either again,” he says, almost gently. “Because you won’t like it if you do.”

The threat is implicit, but so real Peter can almost taste the blood in his throat. His heart is pounding in his ears, echoing against the kid’s palm. He can’t feel a heartbeat in the hand in turn, but he suspects it would be as steady as a sleeping man’s if he could. There’s no trace of anxiety in his scarred face – just brutal honesty, and a dash of humour.

He drops his hand and steps back. Peter’s knees nearly go out from under him, forcing him to catch himself against the car. He scrabbles for the door handle, unable to comprehend just what it is that has him panicking, and crashes into the driver’s seat with his legs still shaking.

His tires screech as he peels out. He doesn’t even look at the house in the rearview mirror as he speeds off – he thinks those eyes might be following him.