Page 42 of The Twins

I didn’t even mean it like that. I could because calling him Daddy is all I think about for some strange reason, but, at that moment, I felt lectured, and for me, it was a joke.

“Do you ever watch any?” he asks, and the question is honest, not amusing at all.

I shake my head, rubbing myself all over his crotch. I know I shouldn’t. It’s bad for our balance, but I do it anyway because it feels good, and I bet that he needs this, too. As much as he wants to deny it.

“My brother watches enough porn for the both of us. I’m still traumatized by that one time I stormed into his room, and he was beating off to Sasha Grey. She’s hot, and all, but I find the videos disgusting, and they don’t turn me on at all,” I confess, unashamed of my preferences.

Mr. David chuckles.

“Hey, don’t make fun of me.” I poke at his thigh with my fingers. He doesn’t even flinch.

“You sound like such an inexperienced virgin, Remo. It’s hilarious and adorable at the same time,” he says, incapable of holding back that throaty laughter I always miss hearing up close when I’m in Fort Mote.

Hurt by his cheerfulness, I slide off his lap, distancing myself from him. I turn my back on him.

“Come back here,” Mr. David says, the amusement fading away. I don’t know why, but I let out a quiet sob that he obviously hears. In Mr. David’s presence, I can be myself without restrictions. “I’m not going to ask again.”

I swim back to him, and he helps me back into my earlier uncomfortable position. My comfort doesn’t matter when I have him close by.

“Am I broken?” I sincerely ask him.

“No, you’re not.” He cups my face with his hand. It’s a soft hand, polished almost. He is an athletic man, and he runs his errands on his own, but he isn’t one of the rough types of men. He’s in his own lane, defining his identity however it feels comfortable to him. “You’re a pure good boy with a heart of gold. Not a lot of people deserve you in their lives. Whoever earns you must dig deep for that gold. They must work hard, don’t you agree?”

“Because I’m so strange?” I sniff.

“Because you’re worth fighting for.”

I don’t have anything to say about that.

* * *

It’sone of those days.

I spent all day at work, dreading coming home to my tiny studio. At the office, my desk is located by tall windows, and I can see the sun. I hate the sun, but on bad days, I torture myself with sunlight to heal.

My studio is dark and suffocating. Perfect for my usual tendencies.

Not when I’m down, though.

I take the final bus home because I know that everything is monitored. I never leave the base. They know my every move. They might even know what goes on in my tiny studio. If they do, they don’t address it with me.

It’s not a nine-to-five job. The clearances in this office are hard to get by, and if you’re not one of the higher-ups, you’re forbidden from opening your mouth and stating your thoughts. I’m not big enough yet to demand adjustments to set rules.

They don’t care about my well-being.

I have a job to do, and if I start failing, that’s when the rain will pour down on me.

In the shower in my studio, I wash away the day. The light in the tiny bathroom flickers, alerting me that it’s time to switch light bulbs, but I let it be. It’s a chore to keep up appearances. I would prefer to stay inside all day and wither away, but I can’t do that now, can I?

My dad wouldn’t have wanted me to lose sight of my goals.

He’s gone. He died in the hospital a year ago to this day after having suffered a stroke.

I’m good. I pretend to be. I’ve gone back home once this past year, and I only stayed there for a week. Just enough time to see my brother and my mother. Both were devastated by our loss at the time.

They still are.

I guess?

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