It’s selfish to want them both, Percy tells himself, in the thin hours of morning when he can’t sleep and sits at his work-table, taking his gun apart over and over as if he’s looking for secrets in its metal guts. It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, and they’re twins – tall and identical and perfect, all dark elegance and long, silky hair and a razor’s-edge of something feral and hungry and angry just beneath the surface.
He’s always liked sharp things, hungry things, things with teeth – and the twins are sharp all over, lined with teeth, in their own unique ways. He wants to stick his hand into the steel trap of their souls, just to see what it would feel like when they slammed shut around his wrist, what it would be like to be caught there. Trapped. A wild animal wounded by the bladed edges and honed points of their love, bleeding out in their arms.
The smoke curls around the soft insides of his chest, an over-affectionate cat, crawls up his throat until it chokes him, and he digs a thumbnail into the soft meat of his palm until it bleeds. Another mark to add to his collection. It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, and he knows that him and his guns and his smoke are bad news of the worst kind. They don’t need that in their lives, don’t want that in their lives – don’t deserve that in their lives. Don’t deserve him.
But, by god, does he want them both.