One Heart

A drizzle is the perfect kind of rain.

There was this calm aura surrounding Tom; he couldn't tell what it was coming from, but he was pretty sure it was the smells and the sounds enveloping him from the open window. Rain pitter patter pitter pattered on the ground below, consistent and soft, like a smooth pianissimo lullaby. He was perched comfortably on the windowsill like a little bird, sitting on the frame with his legs dangling outside, just watching the drops fall.

It was like nothing really mattered.

But to Bill, crouched on his bed, it was like nothing but the music mattered. Nothing but the words he couldn't string along, the melody that didn't make sense in language rolling off his tongue and out of the pen in his hand. He tapped it against the notebook restlessly, eyes running over all the coiled scribbles covering words he didn't like. It was a matter of work now, and music shouldn't be work. He shook his head faintly to himself, picking up and scribbling out another verse with irritated, jagged lines.

The window was open but it didn't give him any sense of calm; the rain smelled like serendipity but it wasn't leading him to any offhand answers. He screwed up his face in defeat, shoving the pen in the book's spirals and throwing the book onto the bedspread. It's not working. It's not working.

Trusting himself and this mellow mood, Tom leaned backwards from his place on the window and fell down to his mattress, eyes closed. He was a bit of a minimalist in real life for all the grandeur and attitude he had in the public eye. The only things in his room at all were a guitar, a rug, that plain mattress and a closet.

Bill had this tendency to save a special place in Tom's stomach for knotting up nicely with his nonsensical worries. Tom felt all of Bill's feelings and right now, the frustration was starting to drown him, far more than the rain outside ever could. Tom opened his eyes and glanced over at the closet; he knew just the thing to keep the serenity wrapped around him for a while longer and shed the chains of Bill's agony. He rolled off the bed and languidly crawled to the special stash he kept with him just for moments like this.

He was no addict, but something in the process of rolling up a joint made him feel just as good as smoking it did. Perhaps the patience it took to grind up the nuggets, or lick the paper...whatever it was, by the time he whipped out his lighter, he could barely remember why he was stressed in the first place. He held the blunt between his lips as he flipped the lighter's top open and the flame flickered gently in front of his face.

Just breathe it in, and it’s all okay.

Bill inhaled, but the air in his room tasted chill and humid. He looked back and forth at the walls, the pale Alice blue that made him feel antique and fragile. The photos stuck on the walls, the mementos from shows he'd decided to keep, posters that normally made him feel at home but were now leaving him with a twitch in his joints. He wasn't his own favored musicians, didn't ooze the talent they did. Didn't own the crowd, didn't have impeccable presence. It was all a battle and it was all impression.

He shut his eyes, standing in front of the window with his palms pressed onto the painted-over ledge. He knew he was alone on this front, now; Tom wasn't stressed. Tom wasn't flinching against his bones and struggling to make lyrics happen. Tom was calm, Tom was at ease, and Tom was exactly what Bill wanted and wanted to be.

He slammed the window shut and picked up his notebook as he left the room vacant.

"Tom?" He knocked on the door with two knuckles before opening it, not waiting for an answer. "Tom..." He blinked, a degenerative feeling draping itself over him as he watched Tom exhale a pungent ring over his head. "Oh."

Tom sat with the grace and wisdom of an Indian chief, legs crossed. "Billa," he said while holding the next hit in his lungs, "you know I feel everything." A deep breath sent another large herbal cloud into the atmosphere. "When you worry it just knocks me out." Tom cocked his head, trying to decipher which Bill was real while his eyes adjusted to the haze. He patted the mattress in front of him, offering his brother a seat in his pow-wow. "Come on. Tell big brother what’s wrong."

Bill studied Tom's relaxed face for a moment, before stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind him. Listened momentarily to the rain hitting the wall outside.

"I can't write anything."

He hesitated, watching Tom's lethargic eyes. But they beckoned, and he found himself walking towards the mattress and plopping down where Tom had gestured, mirroring his Indian posture. Tom smelled yellow and Bill haphazardly inhaled the scent secondhand. It was sweet and sick and reminded him of warm, sleepy nights. And it smelled like Tom, smelled like home, like everything that made him feel safe.

"The words won't come. It's all garbage. I think I'm broken."

The notebook hung from his hands' noose between his thighs while his skin ingested Tom's body heat. The rain was mellow and Tom's room wasn't cool blue like his; it distinctly made him feel less tense although the walls were barren.

"And if I can't write, then what?"

Tom put the Mary Jane between his lips, reaching out to press his hand's warmth onto Bill's cheek, trying to bring peace to eyes that threatened tears. He pulled Bill's head close to his chest, hoping that his own steady heartbeat would calm his brother's.

"Shhh...shh, Billa," Tom said, taking the joint out and lacing the fingers of his free hand with Bill's. "Listen. You can't be broken, because I'm you and you're me and as long as I'm okay you'll be okay. And if you ever get broken," he squeezed his brother's hand and angled his head to look into Bill's frightened doe eyes, "I'll always be there to fix you."

Bill pulled his bottom lip in and bit down, only to have it slide away from his teeth a moment later. Tom's eyes were magnetic, even hazed and blazed, and they settled his aching chest. He pressed his temple more firmly against Tom's sternum, feeling the slight ba-dum of his heart. Their heart. And he squeezed his hand, running his thumb over Tom's.

"I don't feel okay, though." He gazed at the hairs on Tom's arm with low eyes. "I feel stupid and like I can't make the music work. I'm not good enough for a band." His heart wouldn't match up to Tom's, and he felt the shadow of a split. He didn't like it.

He wanted to be in a better place, wherever Tom was.

"I mean..." Tom wasn't sure what to feel. His brain was telling him too many different messages, conflicted because he was so tranquil and Bill was so tense. He couldn't think straight at all; the hazy clouds of smoke all around the two of them felt like they could crawl right in his ear and infiltrate his sanity before he could blink. Looking down at broken Bill, Tom yearned for a way to fix him.

Well, he didn't have a monkey wrench, but he had a roach, and that was going to have to do. "Bill." They winced at the feeling of letting go of hands. "Sit up. Look at me." Tom pressed a finger to his own lips as their eyes met. "Don't ask, just do. You need to relax, little man. Here," he said quietly, turning the bud around so that he could put it to Bill's pursed lips. "Take a hit."

Bill's lips parted only barely in surprise, his eyes crossing as he looked at the joint and then up at Tom. "I," he looked to the side, to the open window, "I don't really..."

His words trickled off, his unhappiness weighing down on his ribs like preying mantises jumping between them like newborns. The rain was coming in, beading on the ledge. And then he felt a tingle along his cheek, and reached up the now-lonely hand to touch at it. It came away damp and he stared at his fingers. He hadn't even noticed he'd been that close to tears. Or maybe it was the smoke in his face, rubbing them bloodshot.

He turned his head back to Tom, to the boagie still suspended, and pressed his lips around it, barely kissing at Tom's fingertips. He sucked in deeply.

"Whoa, tiger. Slow down there." Tom laughed a little, despite the fact that he knew Bill hadn't done this since that one time when they were about thirteen. He pulled the joint out of Bill's mouth before he could inhale any more smoke. He wanted to take care of his brother, not lose him in a coughing fit. "Hold it in as long as you can, but don't get discouraged."

Bill stifled a cough, nodding slightly. He still felt completely ridiculous, like he'd made an ass of himself in front of Tom. He held his breath for a moment before expelling it in a cloud, sucking in fresh air needily. The calming feeling was coming too slowly for his liking, and he wiped at his eyes again although there wasn't anything there this time. It was just paranoia; he didn't want to look like china in front of Tom. He leaned against his shoulder, craving his warmth.

"Bill. Bill, hey. Hey, Bill. I have an idea."

Bill met Tom's eyes with a question lurking inside them, sitting up once again. Tom looked at Bill and smirked, a familiar action that often made women swoon, but was meant to merely bring comfort to his brother, like a security blanket.

"It's called a shotgun. All you need to do is get really close to my face once I take my hit. I'll do the rest." Tom's eyelashes fluttered, just like the happy butterflies in his stomach. He could remember the feeling from when they were young; when Bill was high it made Tom feel like he could climb into the clouds and roll around in their cumulus fluff.

He pulled the bud mechanically to his lips, taking in a very deep breath and feeling the smoke swirl around in his lungs and tickling his throat. Using his index finger, he gestured for Bill to lean in closer, closer, closer. Their lips just barely touched, both mouths ever so slightly open, and Tom, deliberate but sweet like peppermint, blew his smoke into Bill's mouth.

And Bill swallowed Tom's air automatically, his eyes flickering beneath lit eyelids and opening blearily as he pulled a little ways away, Tom's finger still under his chin. His head felt light and airy, and he exhaled gently back against Tom's face. There was a slow-spreading feeling of comfort starting in his lungs and fanning outward through him. Hooked into his red blood cells and hitching a ride with the oxygen.

"Oh." He looked quietly at Tom. "Mm," he murmured, comfortably feeling more sedate.

He reached a hand up to lay over Tom's, the feeling so warm to his fingertips. He blinked slowly, shifting his fingers to lock in between Tom's, holding onto the back of his hand gently as he pulled it away from his face and kissed each of the spaced knuckles.

The world was happening at one thousand frames per second; Tom's eyelashes sliced through the air as he blinked, a smile sliding sluggishly onto his face. The iron curtain of Bill's concerns had lifted from Tom's eyes and stomach.

"Feel any better?"

A lazy curve graced Bill's face, softening everything as he nuzzled Tom's hand.

"Much."

He could feel Tom's pulse press against his own, feel how fluttering this spider's thread of connection between them was shimmering and floating, heated up by the burning butt of the cigarette.

"Help me, Tom, write. Help me write. The song." He stumbled over his words dully, mildly flustered by how stupid he realized he sounded.

"Bill," Tom said softly, shying away. "I don't...I can't...I just play...you know? I couldn't..." Tom pulled his hand away from the embrace of their fingers, looking down at his lap and rolling the bud between his index finger and thumb.

"No, no, Tom...Tom listen to me, shhhh. You need to, to feel the music, you know? It's, you don't just play it, you...you breathe it."

"Ja, sure, Bill, you go ahead and be one with the music," Tom choked out amidst bouts of hysterical giggling.

"Tooom," Bill whined back. "You're not taking me seriously! You're, shut up, no, I'm serious. It's, it's like inside of you and it's a part of you." He pressed his hands against his chest, as if trying to demonstrate where, exactly, the music was inside of him.

"You're not very...take-seriously-able, Billa." Tom smirked, taking a huge hit and breathing deeply. He held his breath, keeping the smoke locked in his lungs for what felt like infinity, and then blew it out in rings that floated across the open air between them. "There, Bill. I just wrote you a symphony."

"You're such a pain. You don't believe in me," Bill complained, reaching out for the roach. "Gimme."

Tom, in the most tender way he could, handed the dully burning joint to his brother. He waited for Bill to bring it to his eager lips and took Bill's free hand, pressing it to his heart. Closing his eyes, he spoke in a less than lucid voice. "Write me a song right now. Breathe it into me. Make me feel it."

"Mm," Bill hummed as he inhaled, his fingers twitching in the soft cotton of Tom's shirt, the foil lettering painted onto it. Eyes fallen gently shut, he pulled the joint away from his mouth and held the smoke inside of him like dancing music notes. When he opened them, Tom felt warm under his fingertips and he leaned inward towards him, nuzzling his nose against Tom's briefly before breathing a tickling stream against it. Smiling, leaning away again to take another hit.

The smoke came out in the key of Bill major, and it sounded beautiful, like nothing Tom had heard before. He felt like he knew the song Bill was giving him as their noses touched in the most innocent of Eskimo kisses that brought him back to their childhood. It felt like soft piano notes drawing a melody on his flesh, the tempo of his heart setting the beat. A hazy smile found its way to his face as he opened earth brown eyes. Tom, strange as it seemed, understood what Bill meant now.

Bill smiled small and secretive back to him, his eyes only mildly bleary. He could have argued that they were clouded over with thought, glazed with music. This eerie calm floating over him, them, in a warm daydream. He licked his bottom lip slowly, dragging his top teeth over it as he did. Took another sweet breath in a baritone before turning his hand around to press the blunt against his brother's lips, joints of his fingers pressing gently against his chin. He exhaled another long breath almost as a whistle, his mouth a narrow spout.

It felt, for once, like Tom was the baby brother, who needed taking care of, and Bill's simple gesture almost brought tears to his eyes. He took a drag, sucking their secret song back, and back, and back, and when he took the joint away from his brother's slender fingers and pulled it from his mouth, he sucked in some more air, adding some complex harmonies and mellow acoustic guitar sounds. When he blew it out, he could hear siren singing filling the smoky air around them. "Bill, you...I know you, um, I mean...oh shit, what was I saying?" Tom’s eyes met Bill’s briefly. "You already know everything...I don’t even have to open my mouth with you."

Bill's smile broadened as he smelled the heavy air around them. Tom's voice sounded like a melody he vaguely recalled from a past life, a childhood half-forgotten and out-lived. "Shh, shh." He shakes his head only slightly. "Too loud. You're breaking the sound." He hummed to himself for a moment, flexing his fingers against Tom's chest. "Or maybe...maybe you're adding to it. Your voice is...it's like...it's, like, symphonic." Their folded knees touched, their legs could have tangled if they wanted. "No, yeah. I like when you open your mouth. It's the sound I remember."

Tom hummed a random assortment of notes, stringing them together with the silky smoke strands. The music was the moment, and he was enveloped in the taste of the sounds as they vibrated in his throat.

"Lemme see it...lemme, um, your book."

"Oh, um."

Bill looked around him, patting the bed for the book, before looking down to see it between his folded legs. He scooped it up and scooted forward, pushing Tom's bent knee out of the way so he could sit right next to him. Tucked himself close into Tom's ribcage, piano keys that made cacophonic sounds as he adjusted himself. Silently whining for Tom to press back against him, hold onto him, he opened the notebook against his knees and flipped through the heavy-handed writing. The broad, looping letters and hard slant, the curlicue and zigzag scribbles over words he didn't like, the little doodles in margins that accompanied his thought process. He found the page and looked it over, angling it for Tom to read.

"Fix it. Make it better." He leaned his head onto Tom's collarbone. "This song isn't inside of me. It's inside of you."

Tom's eyes flew over the words on the page, a hawk circling over phrases and verses and choruses. Words made him dizzy, dizzier than the high, and that was difficult, because he had to be very fucking high right now and how did he even remember how to read. The memory of an innocent child looking up into his big brother's eyes burned into his mind and he saw it when he closed his eyes and he needed to read and read and make it better because that was his job. To make everything better.

"Bill...I, we need to do this together. I can't do anything without you. I...you're everything I am. Without you I don’t even exist. I'm just a shadow."

"Shut up. Shut up, don't talk like that." He looked at Tom despairingly, then back to the page. "It's...this part. This part, it, I...it bothers me. I don't know." He prodded the line with a manicured nail. "Just help me, okay? Egal wohin mehr ist links, egal wie wir rief..." He sings the words in such a low, such a sacred kind of tone, one that no one besides Tom has the pleasure of hearing: a tone that he sings only to himself when the door is locked and Tom's ear is pressed to the cracks. "It's...something with it isn't right. It sounds odd. Help me."

Tom smelled the air when Bill sang, and it smelled like home. Nothing could ever compare to Bill, and the way the two of them knew everything, could feel everything, could sense everything. He let the dulcet tones of Bill's song flow gently through his synapses. "Egal wohin…wir fahren..." Tom chewed idly on his lip, trying to help but feeling the pressure so heavy on his shoulders. "Egal wohin wir fahren…egal wie tief?"

Bill let the melody that Tom scarcely knew he possessed reverberate through his own lips, and then plucked the pen from where it lay at the spine and scribbled out his own words, rewriting the lines with Tom's. Repeating them.

"Okay, okay you're a genius. That's perfect." He had an urge to kiss Tom on the cheek but rejected the mild notion. "Just, okay...what about this?" And he pointed out a few other words out of line, not flowing quite as smoothly as he wanted them to.

"No, um...all you have to do right there is, um..." Tom said, begging creative momentum to force him through this song, to prove to Bill and to himself that he could do more than just play a few chords. "Just change stehlen to holen, there." Tom's finger touched the page, trying to heal the words' wounds. "Die Schatten wollen mich holen." Tom smiled, because they worked together like little bees, both instinctively knowing what to do.

"Yeah, yeah, alright..." Bill went about murdering words and recreating the phrases with his pen, fixing a couple along the way of his own accord. "That's..." His eyes flickered tiredly a moment. "I think that's it." He looked upward, quiet elation, to mirror Tom's smile. "Get your guitar. Please?" He gave Tom pretty, squinty eyes at the end, fixating his gaze on the acoustic in the corner.

Tom rubbed fatigue from his eyes; peeling away from Bill felt awful, like ripping off dead skin from sunburn. He shuffled over on his knees and grabbed his acoustic by her neck, caressing her curves as he held her close for the first time in what felt like eternity. "Feels like you never left..." he mumbled to his guitar tenderly as he tuned her strings.

Tom strummed mindlessly, trying to get the feel for the masterpiece that he and Bill were painting with music. "Just sing. I'll follow."

Bill's eyes simmered as he leaned back to look at Tom and his hands creating actual sound. He ducked his head down to look back at the book, humming the tune at first, soft and crystalline and actually shy. At the very last minute, he scribbled out an entire line - twice for how often it appeared - and filled it in with new words. And then his voice picked up momentarily, Bill's eyelashes fanning out prettily across the peaks of his cheekbones as he looked far down onto the paper on his lap. "In mir...wird es langsam kalt, wie lang...könn' wir beide hier noch sein..."

Tom strummed until he found the perfect progression, finally feeling like it fell into place with Bill's vocals. He absentmindedly sang along under his breath when he noticed repetition, but otherwise humbly played his chords. Only at the end did he chime in, melting their voices together. "Du bist...alles was ich bin, und alles was durch meine adern fließt..." Tom looked up proudly and wistfully into Bill's eyes, a mirror of his own, a place where he could always find comfort. He just smiled, that smile that only Bill really knew perfectly, that smile that he rarely ever used when they were on camera. "Did you feel that? It...it sort of, I don't know. I felt like that song crawled right out of my heart. Does that make any sense?"

Bill's eyes lingered on Tom, boring right into Tom's eyes - sclera, iris, pupil, right through to his nerves and he could feel this tingling behind his own eyes. Where they connected. Where they were exactly the same. He stayed silent for a long moment, this feeling of pure affinity overpowering his ability to speak. He wasn't sure if he was still high or not.

"It makes perfect sense. It's perfect. You're perfect. We're perfect."

"It's perfectly us. The song is, I mean. It's just...it's us. For sure." Tom smiled wider, cocking his head to look at the one Bill he saw, feeling a buzz that was half drugs and half feeling on top of the world like nothing could bring him and Bill down.

"Bill?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we just...can we never leave each other? No matter what?"

Bill let Tom's words sink into him, but he didn't need to think about them to answer. "Yeah. Yes, just...us. Forever, you and me." He put the book down and crawled a tiny bit closer to Tom. "We'll never part, alright?"

Tom held Bill close, the two of them snuggling like Christmas Eve when they were kids. Bill's head fell to his shoulder, and he rested his head on Bill's. Everything just felt so natural. Like they just breathed for each other. He twisted his head to press a fleeting kiss to Bill's hair, and then turned it right again. Wordlessly, Tom reached up a hand with pinky out, asking for Bill's in return. They linked together and held on tightly, the pulse flowing through their little fingers like a lifeline.

"Never."

And it sounded like music.