“I bet I’ll get Rusty Johnson in my pants by the end of summer,” Atlas challenges me, throwing the basketball for my shot. My twin brother, with his lavender eyes and asshole persona, smirks at me. We glare at each other, the heated energy always confusing my feelings. These were the repugns that hurt me more than they made me happy. Seeing him with guys just to thwart me always nauseated me for some reason. Throwing it toward the basket, it hits the rim and he jumps at the rebound, catching my ball and storming to the opposite hoop.
“I bet he’ll get in mine instead.” It’s almost a promise. It causes him to misstep, traveling the ball. He knows the rules. His eyes meet mine, and he’s fucking tortured. I can see it, the anger, hatred, and maybe some envy too. He tosses the ball to me as we face off once again.
My brother and I have money, power… anything we could possibly want. Which means people generally bow down to having us, begging for attention, love, a quick blowjob in the parking lot. We’ve both had our fair share of that. It gets harder every time we talk about these moments though. They’re an unspoken rule: don’t discuss getting your dick off.
It’s not usual for two twins to be gay, but here we are. Two and the same, yet two very different men. He’s evil incarnate and wants to teach me the way. I’m a sucker for his charm, a puppet to his strings, a pet to my owner.
“End of summer,” he confirms, curling his lip in an emotion I don’t understand. He shoots, it circles the rim for a second, then falls in, like it’s teasing us both, promising this next bet will be one to destroy us both.
“What’s the wager?” I ask, not really wanting to know what it’ll cost me. We change positions, making my back sweat, blocking his pushiness for the shot.
“You sucking my dick,” he jokes, his voice near my ear, giving me pause. Or at least, I think it’s a joke. He’s my brother. There’s no way… Maybe he’s trying to throw me off from blocking. His chest heaves, his body hitting mine as the silence drones on.
“Fine,” I agree, shaking my head on a laugh. He can’t be serious though, right? Atlas uses my momentary acceptance and shock to ram his elbow into my cheek and lip, twisting around, making another basket. Fuck. I spit, rubbing my jaw. Blood sweats my skin like my perspiration; the taste seeps through my pores and touches my tongue. It’s always bloodshed between us. Fistfights, chicken (instead of cars, it’s knives), and edging. Never said we were normal twins or siblings for that matter.
“And yours?” His arm grips our ball as he stares intently at my face. His eyes roam me meticulously, a smile breaking free at the crimson paint job he did. Hucking the ball toward the blood, I barely block it before it hits me.
“You get a tattoo on your body of my name,” I taunt, acting like his asshole tendencies don’t bother me in every way. My stakes are evil. Imagine him fucking his future boyfriend with my name on his body. His chest, even. Right where the fucker has to see as Atlas takes his ass. Tell me that wouldn’t turn you off at all? I chuckle at the darkness in his expression, watching as he chews his gum as if it offended him. He takes the basketball from me and shoots a hoop, turning with a sadistic grin.
“Deal. But it’ll be your mouth on my dick come the end of summer, KJ. Just you watch.”
Then I guess he can’t win.
By the end of summer, Rusty picked me. We fucked and my brother walked in on it. Changing us forever.
A month later, Atlas comes to me with words that are more surprising than his last bet.
“Double down?” he questions, his face haunted. Since me and Rusty were caught together, he’s had this dark expression. His face is paler, the bags under his eyes darker, and his anger seems to be more constant. His bet comes out of nowhere—we don’t do bets that are big unless it’s our birthday. This is out of character for Atlas. He’s never off course; he’s true north, guiding the way. But right now, he’s gnawing on his lip and moving from foot to foot, almost frantic. He’s lost like a compass out of balance, veering off course.
“Sure, as long as I get something good out of it,” I toss out there, hoping he’s not about to throw something absolutely nuts at me. He doesn’t chuckle though; he grips my shoulders and heaves a large sigh. When they drop from me, it’s as if something flickers in him. It should scare me. But it doesn’t.
“The bet is to kill Rusty Johnson with this knife,” he explains, pulling out the engraved stiletto blade I got him for our sixteenth. It’s in a wooden casing with Grim encircled by vines etched into it, one of my favorite things I’ve gifted to him. A way for him to know he’s my best friend ‘til the end of time. His words may have been precise and thrown out there with insensitivity, but this contest seems different. Something in my brother’s expression betrays his true intentions.
Anger.
Resentment.
Jealousy.
It’s callously mirrored in his eyes, those lavender ones that match mine like a snap dragon field in Silvercrest. We are deadly. And like the good little twin I am, I accept his bet.
“Wager?” I request, not scared of his bets anymore. They don’t faze me, surprise me, or even make me stop to think. It is what it is, and my
