I'm going to stop making disclaimers past this point. I think you have a pretty good idea after 24 chapters worth of them.
Myles remembered a time when he hated being part of a duo, a time when he would scowl in distaste whenever someone said, "Myles and Beckett Fowl" even when he was the only one present.
He never wanted to be a twin.
He never wanted to be thought of as an unfinished half.
When he had brought this up with his parents, they had amiably agreed to stop talking about Beckett as soon as his name was mentioned, but he could practically see them thinking it.
It didn't help that Beckett held such stark contrast to him as well.
Oh, Myles scored highest in the country this year- Beckett won seven gold medals at the below eighteen nationals.
Ah, Myles, you've grown so lanky these past few years, and look at that shock of black hair! Beckett here has a nice tone to his hair, a pleasant sandy blond. He's quite stocky too. Not very muscular, but well-built enough.
Beckett's captain of the lacrosse team this year, I see. Myles, you've gained presidency of the chess club? Ah, Artemis always refused to participate in any club activities, he was quite the unsociable child-
And back then even Artemis' looming reputation was in play.
Myles didn't want to think about Artemis right then. It hurt his head. His older brother was still locked up in his room somewhere, burrowing a deeper and deeper hole to bury himself in with guilt.
Survivor's guilt, the therapist his mother had called in said, before Artemis had irritably sent the balding man away, claiming he could psychoanalyse himself perfectly fine, thank you very much.
Myles had 'coincidentally wandered away from the manor' when he had heard the therapist was visiting. Artemis didn't have the luck of eavesdropping on all of their mother's telephone conversations.
He could psychoanalyse himself too.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Black bags, bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair, bad posture, emotionless expression- he wasn't sleeping, and he wasn't taking care of his health or his hygiene or his appearance and who even cared about all those things when Beckett wasn't there to tell him off.
He could almost hear his twin's words.
Working on another late-night project last night, eh, bro?
Probably would've been accompanied by one of those shoves in the shoulder as well.
Myles rubbed his shoulder with a sad smile. It still ached from the last time his brother had pushed him.
No. Don't call me bro. It's uncivilised slang.
Aww, why not? Aren't we bros?
An arm slung around his shoulder, probably.
Beckett had a thing for shoulders.
Myles groaned and looked up at the ceiling, counting the white tiles. Beckett had sat here on his bed three weeks ago. Intruded upon Myles' intense studying as usual and just draped himself on the bed.
Rude.
Look. There's a cracked tile. Five pounds Mum sees it before Friday.
You're on.
Myles thought he could see a crack forming on the tile in the corner, hidden from view.
He took five pounds from his wallet and tucked it under a stack of books on his desk, just in case.
He had been wrong.
It had never felt more perverse than that one moment after the funeral when he had been loitering in the hallways during class and a teacher had called, "Myles an-" and stopped suddenly, as though jolted into reality.
He had stared.
"Get to class," she had finished lamely.
"Yes," he had said, looking away and swallowing, hard. "I shall."
Well, maybe earlier than early June. Here's a nice dosage of angst like always, because this is what I write when I get back from a break. Angst.