―s―t―a―r―t―f―i―c―t―i―o―n―
A young, strong hand grasped a pale, wrinkled one tightly, not so much in an attempt to tether its owner to this world rather than comfort him in his final hour...as much as was possible, anyway.
The room was silent, save for the raspy breathing of the bed's occupant. The covers were drawn up to his neck, where his arms rest outside of them next to his torso. The other person present sat in a chair right next to said bed, eyes trained on his brother's pained yet somehow relaxed face with an intensity rivaled by little else.
It was rather funny, in an objective kind of way, how exactly all this had come about. Lucas had been in pretty good condition for a eighty-three year old man. Before Claus had left for New Pork on business, the now-grey-haired man had talked of a fever; the twins had passed it off as a mere sign of incoming PSI skill, though it had been many years since Lucas' last new technique. Two days later, Claus had received an urgent call from his hometown's hospital informing him of his brother's serious condition.
Upon his return, Claus had learned that Lucas would have few options. His sickness was strange in that it was undetectable; multiple scans and tests had all come up negative despite the man's obvious symptoms. The doctor had given Lucas a mere two weeks until his body could no longer hold up against it subsequently and offered that he be put out of his pain. Claus, dumbfounded, had deferred such a decision to Lucas, whom had insisted that he live his life out to its fullest.
Back at his home, Claus had attempted to use his own PSI, a PK Healing Omega, only to have the energy flung back at him. Subsequently, Lucas found he was unable to use even the most basic of spells; the two concluded that his condition was indeed somehow related to his PSI. Claus had wanted to ask someone, anyone about it, to see if something could be done, but the Magypsies had long since disappeared and Kumatora passed on a few years prior.
So here they sat, in Lucas' bedroom, having waited out the last week and a half more or less together. Lucas' wife, Nana, had died four years ago. Their sole daughter, Alana, was well into her fifties now, and had come by to be with her father during his last few days. She was currently downstairs, making dinner, and had left Claus with the task of overseeing his brother's state.
Lucas coughed hoarsely, chest heaving unevenly. Claus instinctively went to grab the glass of water that sat on his bedside table to assist him in the act of drinking it, but as his hand went to leave the warm connection they'd formed, Lucas squeezed as tightly as he was able in a feeble plea to stop. Claus got the feeling that the man felt it was futile anyway.
As he continued to splutter, Claus' eyebrows came together and he fought back a growl. In his eyes, it wasn't fair. Here was his younger brother, slowly withering away—dying right in front of him, and Claus still retained a round face and youthful features. Though they had both lived for eighty-three long years, the redhead didn't look a day over thirteen or so.
It had baffled everyone, when Lucas and Claus had turned twenty and the older twin still managed to stand at a measly five foot four. Though he had always been wary of doctors because of his metallic cannon arm (which anyone besides Andonuts had an absolute field day with), he had been harassed quite persistently in regards to his seemingly eternal youth as well; he was such a unique specimen, could they please study his body a bit, it would be completely safe and just think of all the scientific purposes he could serve! It made him nauseous, being fawned over like an expensive piece of equipment. He had also begun to get a pretty good idea of why dear Doctor Andonuts had retired and refused to share his chimera-related research with anyone else.
Having denied the doctors access to his body, Claus could only assume that his constant youth was a result of Andonuts' work. To anyone else the condition may have seemed like a blessing. Eternal life? Yes please!, they'd say. But the redhead considered it an annoyance, especially when dealing with anyone he didn't know well ("So you're Tazmily's Head of Defense?" Laughs. "You're too cute, sweetie! I'm sure you'll make a great one when you grow up."). And as the years went by, it became even more of a burden, watching as those close to him aged and died as he himself stood still in the flow of time.
The twins had each shed their fair share of tears and sorrow when Grandpa Alec, Boney, and later on their father had passed away.
He and Lucas had turned twenty-one, but Claus couldn't drink; his body was still young, and no one was sure if it was safe for him to take in that much alcohol. He'd eventually disregarded this worry by age twenty-five.
Claus had attended Lucas' wedding when they were both twenty-nine, and was struck with the realization that he'd never be able to share something that special with anyone. Not that he particularly loved anyone besides Lucas and Flint.
The redhead had had an odd sense of wonder when he held a hand out to the baby Lucas and Nana introduced him to, and one of his fingers had been grabbed curiously.
The town of Tazmily had grown exponentially since their youth, and Claus vividly remembered all of the stages in between.
He had acquired all of the knowledge and wisdom of his time on Earth—all the perks, you could say—but gotten none of the age or status that came with it. It was by no means a gift; more like a banishment from both heaven and hell, an eternal sentence to life. He was cursed to spend his days watching the world build itself up and tear itself down, doomed to living alone forever.
Well, not quite alone yet. But very soon.
With his perfect, permanently adolescent body, Claus watched on as Lucas' muscles relaxed completely and the intervals between his inhales and exhales lengthened considerably. With his unintentionally bright, piercing green irises, he met Lucas' resolute gaze as the grey-haired twin's eyes cracked open. With his young, strong hand, he grasped the pale, wrinkled one as tightly as he dared, knowing that this was it. No words were needed. All had either already been said or conveyed by their respective demeanors. Lucas was ready, and Claus would support him until the end. There would be no tears from him; Lucas' life had been long and prosperous. There was nothing to cry about.
And as Lucas' final breath left him, Claus closed his eyes, wondering what he was feeling; wondering what death was like. Wondering if he'd ever experience it. Hoping that Lucas, wherever his soul wound up, reunited with Mom and Dad and Grandpa Alec and Nana and everyone else they'd lost. Hoping that they'd watch over him together.
Claus heard the footsteps, gasp and clatter of dishes colliding with the floor that signaled Alana's presence, but he didn't open his eyes. He held on to Lucas' now lifeless hand, hunching over to lay his head on the man's chest. As she approached, he met her gaze apathetically.
When she began to sob, Claus cursed his everlasting existence.
―e―n―d―f―i―c―t―i―o―n ―
A/N: Do you know the book that the title pays homage to? Bonus points for you if so.