Once upon a time there were two.
One was large and spread out and abused and dismantled and disfigured and stabbed and broken in two by the world around him. No matter how he tried to hide himself and push himself into a cubicle and put himself together and benormal he could not hide it and eventually he confessed his lies and was recognized as the universal laughingstock and given the hate he so-well knew until he turned into hate.
One was small and compressed and unnoticeable and isolated, ignored, unable to reveal his true self to anyone no matter how much he longed to. He sometimes tried to hint at the truth and yet not reveal it so that he could be known as something, if not himself, but his from-birth training was too deeply engrained for him to ignore and he had to immediately put into place any puzzle piece that he let slip.
They lived independently with their problems, disconnected from each other, two extremes begging to meet but living on different sides of a war of good and evil. Their only similarity was their solitude, and even then the types of solitude they faced were polar opposites.
One of them had a family that loved him, but didn't know him. He did everything he could to protect them from afar, longing for even the smallest moments of interaction. His happiest moment was being in the arms of a normally-quiet little boy who was pouring his heart out and telling all of his most secret insecurities. He knew that the boy saw him as little more than a security blanket, and yet the deep breath that the boy took and the smile he managed meant that he had been helpful, which was enough for him. Soon enough his other owner, their sister, and even their parents came to him with similar venting or fear, and he drank in the help and friendship that the simplicity of his place in the family offered.
One had a family that knew him, but didn't love him. A family that glared and hit and looked down and was "do not move" and "too close" and "are you a man" and he couldn't take it, couldn't take the words, the endless words, the cruel words, he longed for quiet, loved quiet, locked himself in the basement to draw his inspiration and sing words to fill up the noise's void and give himself some kind words so that at least he could be his friend. And yet he knew he was a fool because everyone told him he was and everyone couldn't be wrong so with each self-assuring note he burst into tears and tried to see himself as anything but a waste of space until he settled for seeing everyone else as a waste of space so he could be at least the best.
And they both lived in their fantasies of love or fantasies of hate and they gave up but kept trying or kept trying but gave up on the world and everything around them until nothing mattered.
They were meant to be enemies, meant to hate each other, and they did.
It was hard not to hate somebody with the life you had always dreamed of having.