A/N: Holy Yoshiki eating gay Cheerios! I haven't been here in a while but...uh...TADA! I'm back, and delivering you twincest...sort of. But be warned, its incoherent, its vague, and slightly crackified. Yay?

Disclaimer: No, I don't own the Hitachin brothers althoughI would like a videotape of them going at it, so if you want you can try to sue me for beingslightly pervy, but nothing else. And come to think of it, I don't own Robert Miles- One & One (song), or the fanvid that inspired me. Pity.

Living inside his memory
And you ask me why I lie
But if I'm living a lie, I exist like the real thing

Fake?- Just Like Billy

The sky isn't always blue

The sun doesn't always shine

It's alright to fall apart sometimes

Simultaneous. That's the way it always was, a flickering hand movement, a murmur of breath, a rush of words, at unerringly the same moment. There is no dividing line. Perhaps, he wanted one—an infinitesimal line that divided the reflection from unblinking reality—because who was he, small, insignificant him without the other? Maybe the other was better; then again, he was the other. He turns his head and there he is staring back at himself, just one hour older, one hour earlier, one easy little hour. And this futuristic version of him, Kaoru, slips a delicate hand into his; it fits so well. Perfection never knew a better match, but what did he expect, nothing. Oh, how uncomplicated it seemed when he said it, he expected nothing at all and it was that same nothing which bound them together—some primitive irrefutable bond because they could sense it just as well as he could—and made them so different. That's right, different. In some forgotten secondary dimension, where things weren't as tangible, as face-value-truth as the one where everyone else existed, they were different. That, was quite possibly their greatest problem, because even symmetry was unequivocal.

I am not always you

And you are not always mine

It's all right to fall apart sometimes

There's that gaze again, the one that feels like condemnation and acceptance all at once. It's more than that flimsy, haphazard thing called electricity, anyone can feel electricity after all, from simple (forbidden) butterfly kisses—and he should know—to that burn insurmountable tension that crawls up from between his toes. Attempting to pick him apart—as if he, would find anything different than misshapen fragments of himself—accompanied by that voice vaguely out of tune with his own, except when they were simultaneous, asks, what's wrong? As if he didn't know, as if he couldn't feel it, that tiny elapsed moment of static when what the other's action is-was-was going to be couldn't be predicted by the other. There was this lack—not a void, there was never a void, even when they were supposed to be separated—someone had crept up, crept in without his knowledge, without the other half's consent.

The heart isn't always true

And I am not always fine

We all have an angry heart sometimes

Symmetry. According to him, the other half (or maybe the first half, either way he was the beginning) was the greatest gift given to them. He agreed. But more than that, it severed them, the only obstacle they possessed to something they had to hide. Then, there she goes, enlightenment supreme, overstepping pushing apart, reattaching, forgotten umbilical cord ready to force them back into the womb of everyone. And they loved her. How could they not she slipped in unnoticed, and so very beautiful, the ordinary type of beauty that captivated and lured, and there he—they—were staring at the edge. She was asking them to fall into the world. The real one. The one where he was Kaoru, and he was Hikaru, the world where they were different, separate, distinct, entities. It terrified him. So even as he stares at the mirror above him—dizzying friction, bed sheet whispers, their so glad that walls don't talk only watch, mindless murmurs, and that oppressive heat (too much to be mere electricity)—it's the gentle mutter of goodnight, lips trembling against the opposite, symmetrical version of itself. Afterglow, that isn't fully completed by that twirling finger on the corner of his hip, isn't completed by that necessary contact. And you can call him selfish, but he'll make sure that he cares, make sure that he notices because it's more than polite its more than just him…or was it them?

One moon

One star

I love the one we are

One thread

One line

That runs through our lives

Part of the breakdown, that's all it was. Tiny flicks of matter, splattered against the looking glass, half of a distorted image because the other was too busy supping with Mad Hatter. Celebrating not-quite-un-birthdays, and asking about what the wonderland looks like from the other side. He doesn't desire, or want, doesn't need the bits and pieces of carnality, simply wants that small calculating beep to stop, it's not measuring the whole thing after all. Don't forget about him. Please, please, please, please, don't forget about him. One half isn't as good as the whole; he's never been good imitating something he's not. Whispers sacred pleas, at the air, at the mask, at the clear, sustaining, tubes that never have a reason to intrude on the only thing he's ever allowed himself—the only thing he's ever wanted, no, needed—to touch. He never wanted those un-birthdays, with forsaken, partial, birthday cakes, and pretended jubilation. Worldly abortion that Easter coloured pills could never be rid of. And, as if you never knew, he needs him. Bitterly white complexion, complexion-less, two steps away from ethereal, and he would never be anything but that pure kind of corruption, festering beautiful kind of corruption, that every last bit of him could never leave alone. That was him lying so listlessly after all.

And he wonders, how he never noticed.

After all is said and done

One and one still is one

When we cry when we laugh

I am half you are half

That's the attraction of pandemonium; he uproar of everything unseen, because it reminds him of the vertigo of almost loss. It's sweeter than anything else he's ever felt, because there's laughter, there's the stream of tears and that perfect replica's—and if you wanted to know, they were both the replicas, both pitiful copycats, and he was happier to be nothing else—hand, facsimile's mouth eating the remnants of yesterdays maybe. It was all the same you know, simultaneous, two (or was it four?) delicate eyes fluttering, after weaving through the others conscious, tugging on that fragile secondary fiber that wrapped them in themselves, which no one else saw, but knew, felt, was there. The horrible, sterile, white didn't suit him anyways. Neither did the fitful shivering, unless it was induced by him, nor the bitter cold sweat. All of it, it wasn't Hikaru, because it felt so lifeless, so barren. It disgusted him, and every last bit of his being begged—hand, knees, feet, heart—for that motionless body to be filled with every last shred of his energy. Pandemonium; the reckless, noisy, beating of the other, the only other that completely, utterly filled him.

One could never be the whole without the half. There was no other.

Symmetry never exists with separation, even if the world wiggles its way in and beauty asks to join.

In the end one and one never equaled two.

So he bends down, meshes with his reflection. And the world explodes.

Hope you enjoyed it!