Chapter Text
After the separation it took a long time for things to adjust. At first, Tom wouldn’t leave Barry’s side. Keeping an eye on him, watching him for minutes at a time if he coughed, sighed or stuttered, or if he made any odd movements.
Both brothers had been informed of the possibilities of one of their deaths after the operation, and they both knew who it would be, but Barry rose no real objections. It had grown more and more obvious that they couldn’t continue on this way… But Barry still wondered if things would be different if there was no Laura around to complicate things. Or if they’d never come to Humbleden at all.
Those nerve-wracking weeks had passed however and crisis had been avoided. Barry hadn’t shown any signs of weakening and they were past the midway point. If there were going to be any side effects of the surgery, they would have shown themselves by now… At least physically.
At first it was like there had been no separation at all. They stayed together like they always had, some days refusing to leave their room; Barry cradled against Tom’s side, his face buried in his brother’s neck. Only the two of them knew how Barry’s breathing would speed up and then break; never letting Tom see his tears even when Tom fell with him, into these momentary down-spirals.
Eventually though, Tom was up and around. Tom was out taking short walks with Laura, sitting at the breakfast table, quieter and more distant than usual, but never going far from Barry. Barry became almost catatonic. The band’s progress was put on hold. The cameras had been shut off since before the surgery… they didn’t come back out.
Paul would come down in the morning to find Barry sitting at the table alone, looking somehow, so much smaller than usual, staring straight ahead, down at the grain of the wooden table, or at his own cold, loosely fisted hands. He hardly ate at all unless Tom forced him to.
Nick had kept his distance from both of them, and Paul was grateful for that. Barry looked like he could be blown over by the slightest breath, much less a harsh voice or a raised fist.
“Morning.” Paul’s voice met his ears and Barry’s eyes cleared a little, and he met the bassist’s gaze for a brief moment. “Morning, Paul,” he said very softly.
Paul sat across from him and watched him for a moment, at a loss for words. He played with a spoon that someone had left on the table, turning it over and over in his hand. “Where’s Tom?” He finally asked.
“Dunno.” Barry said, and edge to his voice. “Out with Laura, probably.”
There was nothing to say.
‘You’ll get used to it,’
‘You’ll find someone,’
‘You shouldn’t have gone along with the operation. Tom wouldn’t have done it if you’d said no.’.
Paul sighed and stood up. He needed more fags. He was about to ask Barry if he needed any, but remembered just in time that he wasn’t allowed to smoke for six weeks after the operation.
As he stood, it was almost as though Barry curled into himself, pulling his legs up onto the chair and resting his chin on his knees. Paul watched him for a moment, then moved closer and kissed him briefly on top of the head. “You’re all right, Baz,” he said before grabbing his jacket and walking out.
Barry followed him with his eyes until he was out of sight. He buried his face in his knees. Paul’d said that before… he wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by it.
*
Paul unbuttoned his shirt, glancing at the clock in the corner that told him that it was very early in the morning. God, what an insomniac he’d become. He wasn’t even tired. He was only going to bed because he knew that by afternoon today he’d wish that he had at least gotten some sleep. It’s the drugs, he thought vaguely.
He threw the silk shirt into the corner and kicked off his boots before sitting down on the edge of his bed, lying back sideways across it with a sigh. Fuck he missed his flat. It had been small and cold and little moldy, but he could have blokes over without anyone questioning it. He stared at the ceiling where he could see the shadows of moths at the light outside flitting about strangely.
Tom and Barry still slept in the same room. He wondered if Barry would ever get used to the separation and his insides twinged with worry and a familiar frustration. He wasn’t sure if he was frustrated with Barry or his brother for going along with it. Tom knew better than anyone that Barry didn’t want a separation but Barry hadn’t said anything; not a word. In the last few weeks before the operation Barry would absently it seemed, reach for his brother’s hand, stroke his hair. Clutch at his sweater a little harder than usual when they slipped their arms around each other.
Well. It wasn’t his fucking business anyway.
He pulled the covers down and slipped under them, clad now, only in his dark jeans, turning over onto his stomach he closed his eyes, and hoped that he wouldn’t have to suffer through this for hours before he finally did fall asleep, or just gave up and toughed the day out anyway.
Tom and Barry were standing in the recording room, the red lights on, with their backs to him. They were hunched over slightly, arms around each other as always, muttering back and forth, Barry’s voice occasionally rising. They sounded oddly distorted… almost like in their recordings… Doola and Dawla-esque.
As Paul approached, Barry looked back at him. “Who is it?” Tom asked.
“Paul.” Barry and Paul answered at the same time.
They turned and Paul stumbled back, feeling the air leaving him all at once. Blood was dripping –No, it was flowing… gushing- to the floor from the join that connected them (wait… that was gone now…) and a knife had been embedded into the join of flesh there.
Barry reached out to him, his hand covered in blood. Dried at his wrist – tissue clotted in red over his knuckles…
Paul started awake with a short cry, realizing that he was in the darkness of his own room at Humbleden. The boys had been separated. There was no way that that could actually be happening. He attempted a deep breath and realized how fast his heart was pounding.
"Paul."
There was a shadow in his doorway, backlit by the garish lighting in the hallway. Part of his dream had been real.
“Barry…?” Paul managed, feeling his hand twitch involuntarily on the covers. “What is it?”
Barry didn’t say anything for a moment. Paul watched his right hip jut out as he changed his weight from one foot to the other. It was only when Paul moved to get up that Barry spoke quickly, as though to stop him. “Tom’s with Laura... so... I don’t have to stay… now… if they’re fucking.”
Paul’s eyes passed over Barry’s lithe frame, noticing suddenly how his arms were crossed just below his chest, pressing, as though to bring back the familiar weight there.
“Oh.” Paul said, stupidly, his voice teetering on laughter that was half genuine and half a defense -- wondering for a moment why Barry had decided to come here, rather than just stay on one of the couches in the recording room or anywhere else in this huge place.
“Can I stay here for a bit?” He sounded incredibly vulnerable, and Paul had been about to resist but now found that he couldn’t. He smiled, a little forced, and moved over, still sitting up. “Yeah. Of course.” No. he thought. Paul… Barry, what are you doing?
Barry hesitated for a moment before he closed the door again, plunging them both into darkness until their eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the window. Paul felt the bed dip slightly as Barry slid under the covers that he held up for him.
The younger boy lay almost stretched out on the bed Tense, Paul could tell without even touching him. “They’re doing this at… four in the morning?” He asked, half jokingly.
“Hmm,” Barry said, and Paul caught his eyes in the darkness, half his face shadowed in black from the light outside the window. The shadows enhanced Barry’s too-hollow cheeks and the curve of his bottom lip against his chin and Paul glanced away for a moment.
Fuck, it had been almost a year since he’d had someone in his bed… or someone at all. He’d satisfied himself with thoughts, at first, of his last partner, wanker that he had been, he’d still been bloody fucking gorgeous… but lately, he found his tongue wrapping around the words. “Oh, fuck, Barry,” despite knowing since he’d met him and his brother that it could never happen… until several weeks ago.
No…
No, Barry wasn’t like him. That was clear. Barry just wanted someone. He knew that. He wasn’t about to take advantage of it, and not only that, but it would just raise complications if he voiced it at all, so he kept it to himself… except for that one kiss at the party… but they’d both been high. The observers, it seemed, had thought it was a joke, a party story that was forgotten the next morning. Except for Laura. She hadn’t forgotten. He remembered the anger that had boiled up in his gut that morning when she’d caught him alone outside – asked him, straight out whether he had feelings for Barry – like it was any of her fucking business. He told her what he told himself back then. That he was high… and that, well, sometimes there was that sometimes-overwhelming urge to protect him, but hell… it was Barry. Barry needed that, and besides Tom, sometimes there wasn’t anyone there to do it.
“I do,” Laura told him, and Paul ‘accepted it,’ just like Laura smiled and ‘accepted’ his feelings for Tom’s brother. But he knew she didn’t really. Just like she knew he wasn’t telling her the extent of his feelings. And Paul saw how she and Tom would ignore Barry even before the twins were separated. Laura protected Barry when it worked for her. She didn’t want anyone messing with her fucking relationships.
Her relationships. That was all that mattered. Laura, Laura, Laura… Laura who had taken Chris away from him… Laura who batted her eyelashes and promised a shag and got everything she wanted… Barry needed his protection. Paul’s. And besides Tom, no matter what Laura said, sometimes there was no one there to do it. It wasn’t as though he was overbearing. He’d done some stupid things lately. He knew that. Casual touches and things but that was just… that was nothing really…
He reached out and pushed Barry’s hair back from his forehead, and that was what seemed to break through the surface of Barry’s composure at that moment. Barry let out a sort of agonized breath and before Paul knew what had happened, before he could really move at all, Barry was pressed against him, getting a hold of his arm and crossing his own over it so that Paul was holding him from behind.
Nothing about this was sexual. Not even for Paul who desperately wanted a good shag at the moment, (and had for months), because Barry had buried his face against Paul’s chest, and he could feel the younger boy’s fist jammed uncomfortably between them, pressing against both their torsos, just under the ribcage.
Paul relaxed, not even realizing he’d been tense until that moment. He stroked the younger boy’s shoulder blade through his thin t-shirt and Barry turned his head slightly against his bare skin.
And Paul found himself once again with his free hand in Barry’s hair, playing with the unruly curls, twisting them around his fingers, pulling at them, straightening them out, then letting go. It was surprising how Barry seemed to meld against him, or, well, perhaps not, considering the boy had inevitably been this close to his brother all his life, and finding whatever ways he could to make it comfortable. Paul tried not to think of all the stupid, cliché poems and songs that talked about lovers who fit together like puzzle pieces – whose hearts beat simultaneously… After a while, the pressure of Barry’s fist between them lessened as he relaxed.
“How are you?” Paul murmured into the darkness, against Barry’s hair.
“Hnn?”
“Does it still hurt?” There was no point in pretending that the surgery never happened. That wouldn't make the situation better.
Barry was silent for a long time, and Paul’s stomach turned over slightly. “‘Bit.” Barry answered vaguely.
Carefully Paul pulled back a bit, and felt Barry stiffen against him until he realized the bassist wasn’t pulling away completely. He slid his hand down, gripping the bottom of Barry’s shirt, not touching his skin, and pushed it up; ignoring the way Barry's soft, quick intake of breath shot through his stomach and between his thighs. He tilted his head down, his forehead almost against Barry’s. When he finally did touch his stomach, not at the join but a little lower, he felt Barry’s muscles spasm a little. He flinched away from the touch but Paul could see that he was watching his hand as it carefully, brushed its way up to the scar. Barry swallowed, closing his eyes as Paul ran his fingers over the raised half-circle of it– the part that would have killed him had it gone wrong – treacherous -, then the less-raised part where it had been easier to separate. He could feel the stitches, wire under his fingertips, and all of the skin there strangely warm.
Barry curled into himself a little more and Paul drew his hand away, reaching back up to his hair, pushing it back in that old, familiar gesture. Paul wasn’t sure which one of them fell asleep first.
In the morning they were still entwined together like lovers. As soon as Barry began to stir, Paul felt his heart jump and he disconnected himself from the singer and dressed quickly.
“Where’s Barry?” Tom asked, Laura at his side. They were eating eggs in a glass, but Tom had hardly touched his.
“He stayed in my room.” Paul said non-chalant. He went out for breakfast, determined not to notice how the couple watched him until he had left the room altogether.
They didn’t have to take it like that. He thought.