A/N: All righty, so I watched Brothers of the Head last week and oh my spirits it was EXCELLENT. It was just one of those movies that I fell in love with immediately [completely not owing to the fact that the Treadaway twins are lovely, lovely people]. I downloaded the soundtrack and whatnot (on iTunes - don't look at me like that). And then the muse decided to strike. To be fair, this is my first story for this fandom, so you'll have to forgive me for anything awry. Anyhow, enjoy!

(Incoherent mumbling.)

"Tom, what do you see?"

(More mumbling.)

"Tom?"

"... W-where's B..."

"Who, Tom?"

"Where's Barry?"

"Shh, shh, it's okay..."

"Where's Barry? Where's..." (mumbling)

"It's okay, Tom..."

.*...*...*.

"It was a very difficult medical procedure, especially given the technology at the time. The separation of both the nervous and circulatory systems would have had to have been done with the utmost precision. In addition, because the boys shared a liver, the organ had to be divided. Now, it is not unheard of for a person to donate a portion of their liver to another, thus living with a partial liver themselves, but there is still always a risk. The entire surgery was a risk. But they had understood the potential consequences, and they had wanted the separation to happen all the same. Whether it was for convenience or for personal reasons... Well, in my honest opinion, I think that they wanted their own lives. Perhaps they did not realize at the time what an emotional separation might entail, however..."

Dr. Allardyce Stevens, 2006.

.*...*...*.

Another fucking headache. Lovely. All he wanted was a single night's sleep that didn't involve hours of insomnia before he could slip into glorious oblivion. But of course his body couldn't let it be that easy for him.

Throwing the covers off of his too-frail body, Tom heaved himself out of the cot and staggered into the kitchen of his three-room flat. After rifling through a few cupboards, he finally found a half-empty bottle of vodka. Unscrewing the top, he took a swig directly from the bottle and plunked down into a chair by the Formica table. Wrapping his lips around the glass neck again, he relished the bitter sting of the vodka as it travelled down his throat, burning away all thoughts of the pounding in his temples. It was probably just the withdrawal. He had been off the coke and all that other shit since the surgery. It hadn't been easy, but when you just didn't give a fuck about anything anymore, it was somehow simpler to forget about the drugs too.

Not the alcohol, though. A few more swigs and he was beginning to feel the vague beginnings of a buzz. Maybe if he got sufficiently sloshed, sleep would come. It worked sometimes.

There was a knock at the door then—something insistent while still gentle enough to indicate that whoever it was, it was female. Tom glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering who the hell would be bothering him at that hour. It turned out to be 9:30pm. Cursing, he wondered why his internal clock was so muddled up. He threw back another mouthful of vodka and stomped over to the door, thoroughly not caring that he was in nothing but a pair of pants.

And who should be behind that shitty little door covered in the peeling paint but Laura fucking Ashworth. She met his glare with an even gaze that almost—but not quite—masked her nervousness at seeing him. And no wonder, considering how pissed he had been with her after they got the letter from the surgeon. That had been the last time they had spoken... even if the subject of the letter had turned into reality. In truth, there wasn't much in the way of love lost between him and Laura, not anymore. What she was doing at his flat now was beyond him.

He didn't say a word, only continued to shoot her with his best withering stare. If she was here, then she obviously had a reason, and he could wait all fucking night for her to spit it out.

She stood in the hall for an awkward minute before she finally said something. "Hi, Tom," was the greeting she managed.

Tom's glare mutated into an ugly scowl. "What d'you want?" he spat. The vodka was making him even more irritable than usual, and Laura's presence was doing nothing to help. Funny that he had always been seen as the more mild-mannered brother. Times changed. People changed. Everything changed.

"I just... wanted to see how you're doing," she mumbled. She turned her eyes away and peered at the carpet. Her strands of deep brown hair hung about her face limply, a far cry from her once-rich locks. Something had been taking a toll on her in the past while, and Tom hoped venomously that it was the thought of him. Of Barry.

She ought to feel guilt for what she had done—for going behind their backs. It didn't matter that she was firm in stating that she hadn't been the one to send the letter, but really, who else would it have been? Paul? He wouldn't have bothered, unless he had wanted Barry all to himself. Nick? The band was his job; he wouldn't have torn it apart. Barry? Impossible. Tom would have known. And that left Laura Ashworth.

"Fucking fantastic, as you can see," he snarled at her. "Don't I look so much better off?"

Her eyes flicked to the scar on his abdomen, then up to him. "How are you, Tom?" Her voice had turned maddeningly calm, unafraid of him. Despite everything, he wouldn't lay a hand on her, and she knew it. Laura had breached the topic that no one had ever had the guts to really bring out into the open. She had gotten the ball rolling on the beginning of the end of The Bang Bang. The Bang Bang had been their ticket to fame, but it had also been their ride to ruin. Being away from the stage and the drugs and the invasive scrutiny of the cameras had improved his health by a million percent. Technically, he was better off, as much as he hated to admit it. Thinking it felt like a slap in Barry's face—as if he were spitting on his brother's shoes.

"Fine," Tom muttered, and took another drink. The headache was fading, but the burn of the vodka wasn't enough to drown out the pain at seeing her on his doorstep. Maybe he had loved her—or thought he did, anyway—once, but nothing was the same anymore. She had betrayed him. She had fucking betrayed both of them.

Laura was staring at his abdomen again. Tom hated when people did that, but he had asked for it by answering the door half-naked. The flesh, still taut and pink, was twisted with thick, lacing scars. The wound had been repaired with a combination of skin grafts and stitches, and with the exception of a brief infection, everything had healed up well. It no longer hurt him, and so long as he was wearing a top, no one would know that one used to be two.

"Oh, yeah, funny story about that," he said scathingly. "Used to be a person there. Think you might've known him, actually. Went by the name Barry Howe. Ring a bell?" The vodka rushed through his system, fuelling his rage. "Oh, that's right. You were the one who wanted us to split, eh?"

Her calm broke; tears were forming in her eyes. "Tom, please..."

"Yeah, it's all coming back to me now!" Tom gazed ponderously at the ceiling, which was spinning pleasantly thanks to the alcohol. "You were the one who decided to meddle in what was clearly none of your fucking business! Brilliant, thanks for reminding me."

Her lips, just as dull as her hair, formed his name, but no sound escaped. Instead, she looked again to his abdomen. She reached out a hand, her fingers tracing along the delicate skin of the scar before he could stop her.

"Don't touch it," he hissed, stepping back. He stumbled a bit and nearly dropped the bottle. It was becoming harder to focus on the woman in front of him.

Her fingers drew back slightly, but they continued to hover just in front of him. "I miss him too, Tom," she breathed.

"You don't know." He finished the vodka and chucked the bottle back toward the sofa. It bounced off and thudded to the ground. "You don't fucking know, so don't you say one fucking word about him, because you're not fit to kiss his shoes."

"I cared about him! I cared about both of you!" She was openly crying now. "Please, Tom, I'm just—"

"Just what?" he roared, leaning so close that his spittle flecked onto her face. "Just what, exactly? You didn't fucking care about either of us, or else you wouldn't have sent off that stupid letter!"

"I didn't send it!" she yelled back. Her eyes regained a steely glint as her hands balled into fists. "And besides, even if I had, it didn't mean you had to get the surgery! That was all you, Tom. That was all Barry. It was both of you. And you know why I think you're so angry with me, Tom? Because you know it was the best decision. You know it, you're just too afraid to admit it!"

Tom's responding laugh was cruel and humourless. "Yeah, everything's just fucking lovely now, innit. Everything's better now." And christ, for all he had had to sacrifice—the money, the fame, a half-decent place to live—everything was better, everything was loads better without the parasitic tagalongs that came with the rock star lifestyle: the addictions, the never-ending stream of attention, and all the rest of it. He was nobody now, but it was all so much easier. But he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. Especially considering the casualties.

"I don't understand!" Laura cried. "Why can't you just—"

"Forgive you? That what you're wondering? Because I'm fucking done with you, Laura." His voice was a growl. "You cared about The Bang Bang. You cared about your stupid little paper on taking advantage of people with physical disabilities—ironic, innit, since that's what you did. But don't you stand here and fucking lie to me about how you cared about me or Barry. So fuck off."

Laura squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her cheeks. She placed her fingers to her lips to stifle cries. With the other hand, she reached out for his arm.

He staggered back. "Don't touch me. I don't want to see your ugly face again. Fuck off."

She opened her mouth as if she was going to say goodbye, but, seeming to think better of it, turned on her heel and left down the corridor. Tom watched her bottom as she walked away, but he no longer felt the desire she had once instilled in him. There was only that dead sensation that followed him day by day. He slammed the door shut and returned to his bedroom, flopping down on the bed.

He closed his eyes and let his mind spin out of control, his thoughts tumbling along incoherently with the buzz of vodka. Thanks to that little intrusion, the headache was back, creating a fiery pressure drumming in his skull. The lumpy mattress pressed into his bony back, but he had long since accustomed himself to the discomfort. Since he wasn't making money anymore, it would have to do. A shithole flat was a small price to pay to avoid the public eye. Except for Laura, of course. She had found him somehow, and she had successfully managed to reopen the wounds that never seemed to heal.

He pushed Laura from his mind—pushed everything from his mind, and he tried again to find sleep. It took another hour or two... or maybe it was three... but finally, finally, he drifted into a fitful slumber.

.*...*...*.

It was the stage, the first one they had ever performed on. Except now, the little bar was empty. The chairs were scattered about the tables as if people actually were seated in them, and the tables themselves were covered with dishes that held no food and tumblers that held no drinks. Not a single soul was visible or could be heard.

Tom could see the whole bar from his vantage point on the stage. He wasn't sure why he was there. He didn't recall having walked there, and what's more, he noted that he was still in nothing but his pants. He was suddenly self-conscious even though no one was there.

But... someone was there. Sitting on the edge of the stage by his side was a figure unmistakeable in his beautiful fragility. And at the sight of the young man at Tom's feet, Tom felt a horrible cry of anguish building in his throat. He stuffed his fist against his mouth to prevent the scream from escaping.

"Still a pussy, eh," said Barry, looking up at him with a crooked grin. And he was beautiful. His hair was light, tousled, and unshaven, like in the days before the band. His smooth skin was unmarked by the tiny wounds he had picked unconsciously on account of the drugs. His brilliant blue eyes were clear and focused, no longer hazed with red or lined with black makeup. The shape of his face was somewhat gaunt, but he still looked healthy. And it was the most wondrous thing Tom could have imagined seeing. The cry died in his throat.

The next moment, Tom was sitting next to his brother... on Barry's right side, as always. He couldn't help but reach out and touch Barry's arm, to confirm if he was really there. His fingers pressed against Barry's skin, a feeling so tangible it was almost impossible to deny, but of course it couldn't be true. There was no way—

"Oi, don't think about that," Barry interrupted, somehow having known his thoughts. "Don't be such a downer, mate." He slung an arm around Tom's shoulders—another throwback from the old days that made Tom grit his teeth with nostalgia.

"What're you doing here?" Tom asked. After he said it, he realized it sounded like an accusation, like he was demanding to know how Barry had the gall to just show up there.

Barry shrugged. "Why don't you tell me?" He raised a cigarette—Tom couldn't remember if it had been there a moment ago—to his lips with the other hand and took a long drag. The smoke poured from his mouth as his eyes drifted shut. "This is your world, innit?"

Tom looked back around the room, and it hit him. "This is a dream," he murmured. The crushing disappointment at what he had already suspected was like being pulled away from Barry all over again. No matter how real this all looked, none of it was true. It was nothing but a cruel fucking illusion.

"Finally caught on, did you?" Barry reopened his eyes and winked at him. "So, what's new with you, Tommy? How goes The Bang Bang?"

Tom laughed humourlessly. "There is no Bang Bang anymore. Not without you." Since when had they been wanted for their musical talent? Anyone could learn to play guitar, write pseudo-meaningful lyrics, and sing with a half-decent voice. It had been the thick cord of flesh binding them together that gave them any recognition. The Bang Bang had survived on two halves of a whole, and without one crucial half, they were nothing. The band had sunk right after the operation. The decision had been unspoken but known by everyone. They all knew what had kept the band together... literally.

"S'too bad," Barry replied, speaking around the cigarette held in his lips. "We were pretty fuckin' amazing."

"You were amazing," Tom said softly. And it was true. Tom had done his fair share of writing, and he had been the guitarist, but it was Barry who performed. It was Barry with the sweat-slicked tangles of hair raked back from his face as he belted out the songs, his lips nearly making love to the microphone. It was Barry who would capture the audience as his blue eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, seeing nobody and everybody in the crowd. It was Barry who had first flashed the people in that very bar, showing them what they all really wanted to see. They had been the two halves of one whole, yeah, but Barry had been the feral, sexual lifeblood to the band, no matter how out of control he had gotten in the end.

Barry smiled wryly. Stubbing out the cigarette on the stage, he leaned over and nestled his head in the crook of Tom's shoulder. Tom again had to bite back a sob. He did feel like a pussy, but it was too fucking much to have Barry right there, physically there but not, his arm around him and his cheek against him as if they had never been separated.

"You oughta move on, you know," Barry stated matter-of-factly. "You got to sometime, mate. Life wasn't all about The Bang Bang."

It had to be a dream. Barry sounded far too reasonable. Still, Tom shook his head. Life was all about the band, though. Or at least, it had been. Look at where he was now, for god's sake. Living in a miserable old flat where he spent most of his days drowning his sorrows in sweet lady ethanol, that mind-numbing mistress. He was nothing without the band... nothing without Barry. Who the hell was he without the other-way Romeo? Without the Dawla to his fucking Doola? And really, who had the song My Friend been about? If it had been for Laura, then she sure as shit didn't deserve it now. Hell, fuck The Bang Bang. Life had been all about Barry.

"Shit, Baz." The words choked in his throat, coming out as a dying gasp as Tom pressed his forehead to Barry's. Tears carved streaks down his face as he shut his eyes, blocking out the too-real image of the young man sitting right in front of him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Barry should be right there, solid enough to touch and yet it was all just a fucking dream. "Shit..."

Barry cupped one hand to the back of Tom's neck and pressed his mouth to Tom's. And it wasn't one of those stupid, showy kisses that Barry had initiated just to fuck with the photographer, nor was it some sort of taboo shit. It was just Barry—his brother, his twin, the person he loved more than life itself. It was as natural as breathing, as reforming the connection they had lost. For one shining moment, Tom was back again with his twin. It only made the tears pour harder, but he just didn't care anymore.

As soon as it started, it ended. The warm sensation of Barry's lips on his own disappeared, and Tom opened his eyes to see that Barry too had vanished. In a panic, Tom looked about, but the bar was as empty as it had been when he first arrived.

"Barry?" he called out, hoping and praying that he was there, somewhere, just hiding, just messing with him, even though a part of him knew that it wasn't the case at all. It was all a dream, and it was over.

He stood on the edge of the stage, vision scrambling frantically over every corner of the small bar. "Where's Barry?" His voice cracked as he slumped to his knees on the stage. "Where's Barry?" The wound was torn for the second time that night, and he could actually feel the blood rush. He looked to his abdomen to see the scar gaping open, as if Barry had just been ripped from his side. Blood oozed to the wooden boards beneath him as he pressed his hands to the wound, knowing that it couldn't be staunched. Sweat and tears dripped from his face and mingled with the red liquid as he wrapped his arms around his gut, learning forward and gasping against the rip-roaring agony.

"Where's Barry? Where's..."

.*...*...*.

Tom awoke in a cold sweat, the bed sheets beneath him soaked. He was almost worried to look, to see if they were stained red. Pressing one tentative hand to his middle, he felt the smooth, closed surface of the scar, and he let his head roll back on the pillow, knowing full well that he had been stupid. It had just been so goddamn real...

The light coming in through his window was dim and artificial—the streetlamps were still on, meaning that dawn was still a ways off yet. Tom flung one arm out over the bed, almost expecting for it to land across another body... but there wasn't one there. There would never again be another one there. The scar was there to prove it.

Curling into the foetal position, Tom hugged the thin coverlet to his chest and closed his eyes. With any luck, he might be able to fall asleep again. With any luck, it would be dreamless. Already the details of the last dream were slipping away. Tom found that he didn't mind so much. There was only the lingering, ghosting sensation of a too-familiar touch... and the phantom twinge of a tug from another body no longer there.

.*...*...*.

"See, Tom was reasonably healthy. Doctors thought that he ought to have a good chance of surviving the operation, dangerous as it was. Barry, on the other hand... Well, he had the heart defect first off, and then there was the mystery of the growth inside his skull. Whether it was a tumour or another twin, we'll never know, but all in all, it boded very poorly for the young man. They had been told as much before the operation, but... they had still wanted to go for it. Perhaps their desire to be separated was greater and more long-standing than everyone had believed. In any case, Tom made it out alive. But Barry... Barry never really stood a chance."

Dr. Janice Marsden, 2006

.*...*...*.

Can you not see me?

Can you not see my eyes on you?

Can you not feel it?

Can you not feel my soul calling out?

I'm calling out to you, my friend,

'Cause this is a message of love to you,

My friend...

A/N: All up and breakin' hearts all over the place. Also, the lyrics from the end are not my own - they are from the acoustic version of My Friend, by The Bang Bang. Again, I apologize for any out of character behaviour or other things that might be wrong. I've only watched the movie once... so far. Go watch it! Now! And... reviews are love~