AN: Ooh, crap attempt at third person omniscient, here I come!
I attempted funny. I think I pretty much failed.
The two boys sat across from each other at the table at Starbucks. The boy on the left side was dressed in all black and seemed to fit the ever-growing emo trend remarkably well, with his overlong dark hair and awkwardly tight skinny jeans. One had to wonder how he ever walked around in those at all, considering that they had to squeeze him in all the wrong places. The other looked quite identical to him, except he was dressed in drastically different clothing. His bright t-shirt was adorned with rainbows and he had a happy smile on his face, juxtaposition to his companion's brooding looks and sour expression.
A small girl about eight or nine years old approached them. While the happier-looking boy smiled brightly at her, the darker one remained silent. "Hi, little girl, who are you?" the boy asked. He held out his hand to her, as if he expected her to shake it. She eyed him warily, holding out a pen and a sheet of paper.
"Is one of you Fang?" she asked the two. "My sister said she wanted an autograph from someone named Fang." The little girl pointed to a table on the left, where a dark-haired teenager had her head stuck in a book. Her eyes, which kept glancing to check her sister's progress, gave her away. When she caught the two boys looking at her, she blushed madly and went back to her book.
"So are you Fang? My sister's embarrassed. She said she wouldn't leave without me getting an autograph from you," the girl said loudly, obviously hoping that her sister would overhear. Seeing as her sister clenched the book more tightly in her hands after that little comment, it seemed she had succeeded.
Before the flamboyantly dressed boy could answer, the dark one had already replied with a resolute, "No." He turned back to reading the news on his laptop. He seemed to be part of the rapidly decreasing number teenagers who were actually interested in current events.
The "no" had been a blatant lie.
The dark boy was in fact the Fang the little girl was asking for, but he was not in the mood to speak to anyone, much less annoyed errand girls who were sent to get autographs for their sisters. His friend, if you could call him that, was none other than his clone, Fang II. In Fang's mind, he had already nicknamed him "The Gayer Version of Myself", or "the idiot" for short. It was a wonder how anyone could be any gayer than Fang himself, but it sure wasn't for lack of trying.
Of course, Fang II considered being called "Fang II" to be degrading to his character and implied that he was no better than the original Fang. He preferred the name Fitzwilliam because it made him sound like an old, respected British gentleman. Emphasis on the old.
"Oh, stop lying to the little girl," Fitzwilliam said irritably, waving his hand in the air. "Honey, you can get our autograph anytime." He took the pen out of the little girl's hand and was about to scribble out his name on the sheet of paper when Fang slapped it out of his hand.
"Are you insane?" he hissed, his breath tickling the other boy's ear. His clone had to suppress a shiver. He could not decide whether that shiver was from disgust or pleasure. "I'm trying to stay anonymous."
"But you could be nice instead of being all like emo and shit," Fitzwilliam whispered back hotly. When he realized that he had cursed, he paused. "Pardon my French," he said, giggling.
"You know I can hear everything you're saying, right?" the girl said, placing her hand on her hip. She waved the paper in front of their faces impatiently. "Since you seem to be twins or whatever, one of you just autograph this thing already."
Neither Fang could remember the last eight or nine year old they had met being this nasty. Fang finally grabbed the paper out of the girl's hand and signed it. Then he turned her around and gave her a nudge in the direction of her sister, willing her to go away.
Fitzwilliam gave him a skeptical look. "I thought you wanted to stay anonymous? Now that girl's going to brag to all her friends. You could've just let me sign it," he pouted.
"Wouldn't have made a difference." Fang's curt answer only seemed to urge Fitzwilliam to try to incense him even more.
"But I have better handwriting than you!"
"Don't care."
"I know you use a teddy bear as a sex toy."
"Believe whatever you want."
"I'm going to fuck your teddy bear."
"Go ahead."
"You really need to get a haircut."
"No."
"My hair is silkier than yours."
"Whatever."
"Your hair looks like a rat pooped in it."
"Sure."
"Then it made babies in it after pooping."
"Wouldn't that be difficult?"
"Why won't you freaking react?" Fitzwilliam was certainly not succeeding in inciting a reaction from Fang. Arguing about whose hair was more lustrous was certainly not on Fang's list of things he wanted to be doing that day.
"Go away," Fang replied, still on the news. Fitzwilliam wanted to choke the damn emotionless rock already, even though it was pretty damn hard to choke an inanimate object, especially a rock.
"Your hair's so emo," Fang II taunted.
Not the damn emo thing, Fang thought. Not again.
Ever since Fang had been asked where he got his razors by a passing businessman, Fang had been sensitive to the emo topic.
"Shut up," Fang groaned. He flipped through the headlines, but after seeing that there was no mention of the flock—his old family members—he set it back down on the kitchen counter. Fang rolled his shoulders back, trying to ease the soreness. He needed to stretch his wings soon, before they became a pile of unusable bones and meat. He glared at his doppelganger, who had a smug look on his face because he had managed to get more of a reaction from Fang than ever before.
"My hair is not emo. It's just long," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, as if that would make it magically grow shorter by some unheard-of miracle.
"Nuh-uh! You're emo," Fitzwilliam insisted.
"You're my clone, so I would stop talking about the emo thing," Fang said irritably. He thought that clones were supposed to behave like their originals. This one most certainly did not.
When Fang wore black, Fitzwilliam wore bright colors. When Fang stayed silent, Fitzwilliam talked incessantly. When Fang fixed others with a glare to make them shut up, Fitzwilliam kept talking so that there wouldn't be silence in the room. When Fang hugged his teddy bear for comfort, Fitzwilliam had a pink bunny to hug.
Because teddy bears are so much manlier than pink bunnies. Dur.
"As your clone, I am very disappointed in your behavior, mister. You make a bad name for both of us." Fitzwilliam tsk-ed and promptly proceeded to accidentally fall out of his chair. There was nothing around him that could have knocked him over, except the small breeze that blew in every time someone opened the door. Fang frowned and looked around to see if anyone else had seen the embarrassing display. They may have thought that—and he didn't want to think about it—he was actually here with this clone by choice.
There was a coughing sound from the ground. Fang looked and saw that his clone was still on the linoleum floor, pouting. He sighed, wishing that he could get a boatload of ice cream and a knife to kill both Max and Dylan with. "Get up," he told his clone exasperatedly.
"Girls like clumsy guys," the double said, nodding sagely. "See that one over there? She's looking at me." Fitzwilliam flipped his hair in an attempt to be flirtatious, but when Fang fixed him with a "WTF?" look, he rethought his actions. "I heard it was a great way to pick up girls."
The girl in question, a blonde in a pink skirt and black top did not look "picked up". In fact, she looked the farthest thing from it, from the way her eye was twitching slightly.
Fang smirked. "Sorry to say, but it seems she was looking at me."
Fitzwilliam looked shocked. "You? But why? I'm the hot one out of the two of us!" Fang kept quiet. Fitzwilliam took his silence as acquiescence pointed a triumphant finger at Fang. "Even you agree that my rugged good looks are better than your extreme ugliness."
"You—"
"See? Even that guy is looking at me right now!" Fitzwilliam pointed at the young man working behind the counter at Starbucks, who looked like he was about to ask them to leave.
Fang decided that enough was enough.
Before Fitzwilliam could utter another word, Fang kissed him, stopping his mouth halfway. Fitzwilliam's mouth went slack, as if he had no idea what was going on. "There, will you please shut up?" Fang demanded. Looking at the idiot was like looking into a mirror that took everything but appearance and mixed it so that it was the opposite of the original. It was either completely charming or totally disgusting.
Kissing yourself wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be.
"I'll shut up only if you do that again." The double wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I don't know how long it would take to take off those tight jeans, but I'm willing to wait."
Fang went back to reading the news.
AN: Well, that didn't come out exactly the way I expected it. O-O I've got one more weird pairing oneshot coming up, then I'll go back to updating my stories. XD
Review?