No wonder they had been the source of each other's sleep deprivation for two decades. His, their, heart rate accelerating, Terri curled his fingers at the fabric of the blanket, while Terry buried himself in Mastering Illusions. Terry wondered if their distinct personality could be attributed to their biology. It had been just one proposal in theories, disputed or affirmed by conjoined-twins geneticists on each side. A most common hypothesis: diverse brain mechanics in each twin makes for a balanced heart.
Terri itched for movement. But this was Terry's night of peace. No dancing tonight.
"Quit it, Terri." Terry remained fixated on Mastering Shadows, a lent copy from Mike.
Good thing their rommie was with Squishy. If Art heard them shifting about, he would probably ramble out unneeded advice or some Hippie-bull about separation, illusions, negative-positive energy, yadda-yadda...
"What did I do?" His, their, heart leaped up at this outburst.
"Calm down, take a breather," Terry mumbled. "Want to rip up our chest?" He was no mind reader, but a joint bodily function like the furious pulsings of their heart or the bloated swelling of their lungs could give away each of their emotion to the other. Their organs were still alien to them. Like a mobile foreign object in their chest. It reminded them how delicate they were.
"Oh, sorry." Why couldn't he just have his own heart to race in peace? Why did Terry had to feel his nervousness? Why couldn't they possess their own separate hearts? Though again, if they did, it would probably double the beatings within their chest.
Terry took a momentary roll of an eye and reverted back to reading. Shadows. Shadows were once theorized to contain the souls of the mons, a projection of their inner Scariness. While the myth has been rejected, they certainly can be used to convey shapes and allow the illusion...
Terri stared at the wooden ceiling of the vacant bunk above them, gazing straight at the wooden plane of boredom. He just had to twitch. He needed morning training regimen. He needed to burn energy. When will morning come? What if he made a misstep tomorrow? A misstep was an inch away from failure, from Don losing his employment prospects, to Squishy's tears, to Art's droopiness, to Terry's unspoken frustration and sullen glares. Terri thought, what if I fall? What if I trip? Terry will fall with him, and so would the entire team.
Terry was thinking, gosh I need sleep, but maybe the more I read about shadows, the better I'll, we'll, do tomorrow. I halfa burn this into my brain. The sharper the shape of the shadows, the more effective the scare.
Good thing Mike coached their nocturnal vision for the Hide-and-Sneak level. Now he could read Mastering Shadows in the dark. Hiding. Squeezing the frame of your shape behind a small object. Estimating angles, calculating spatial distance, and anticipating child's point of view from the distance.
Gosh Terri, stop fidgeting.
Terri was sure that Terry was getting annoyed with him know for some reason.
What was that relaxation thing Art tried teaching them once? "Mmmmmmm."
"Jeez, Terri, calm down,"
"That's..." He shifted himself to a harsh whisper to prove that he wasn't agitated. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do."
"You're trying too hard. Read a book. Bore yourself to relaxation."
Terri would. He'd happily absorb a copy of Mastering Shadows. But his brain bounced off words. He didn't have Terry's brain. He had little patience for vocabs and paragraphs. Terry got all that. He needed someone to watch and follow. Like their dancing instructors. Dancing classes got no textbooks required, no big words to decipher in the english literature pages. Terri was what Terry classified as a "hardcore kinetic learner."
Terry could read and memorize all the concepts like Mike, perfect his Scare knowledge, but Terri could still fail him. By extension, Terry would a bad scarer because of him.
Yet, Terry, at least, had been good dancer for Terri.
Terry still had that skeptical feeling since the day he noticed Terri writing down "Dance" major on the academic paperwork. Terry didn't argue against that, though he did complain about sharing every dancing sweat with Terri. The worse thing about (Terri's) dance class was that coordinated or not, there was pain all around. He'll calculate his steps correctly in class and keep up with the tune. He would fall again and pull down Terri. Not to mention the credit hours piled upon them. Sometimes he was panting over English exams and even timed essays. He had to jazz dance while contemplating those constant writing critiques from his professors. But he couldn't jeopardize Terri's grade. It wasn't just to spare himself from the dancing teacher's wrath, but also so Terri wouldn't be humiliated. Besides, he would remind himself of the benefits. Dancing made them get their exercise over with, challenged their heart to keep up with them. It wasn't Terri's fault that he was stuck to him, but sometimes he thought it was unfair that they were stuck. He was probably the heavier head to Terri.
A piercing scream from the walls.
Terri sprung up, nearly scrapping his head and horn on the empty bunk above him. This jolted Terry so that caused him to drop his book to the floor.
Another roar.
Oh geez, are Mike and Sulley bickering again? was Terri's first thought.
Why this night of all night? He hated to remind himself that these two had been in frequent conflict since they moved in. Even the Oozmas had learned to respect their space, though Squishy would try to bridge it with his well-intended innocent, "It's all right. Just get along." Terry never stated it outward to them, empathizing, and disliking, how others would remind him and Terri to get along. Made it more frustrating to solve their own issues.
Mike bellowed. Sulley hollered orders. Now the walls have voices.
Oh, they were just practicing. Sulley was ordering Mike on certain roars. Generic, unspecific orders to dig deep. No fighting. Maybe it was because he was used to Mike doing the coaching and Sulley doing the roaring. Or maybe he was just stressed and nasty from the effect of bashing his head on the bunk. Sulley was playing the role of a passionate choreographer flinging directions at his performer. Sulley and Mike were so diligent at working together. But of course it was easier for them. They weren't linked. And they choose it. Their bodies moved with their own mobility. Simply two separate guys who met by chance, not stuck together since the womb.
Terri thought, everyone around me is so productive. Mike and Sulley rehearsing, Terry studying shadows, Don getting a good-night sleep, Art and Squishy meditating calmly elsewhere.
What was that breathing technique Art tried? "Ummmmmmmmmmmmm." Deep breath. "Ommmmmmmmmm..."
"Quit it."
Terri's hands reached toward the clip-on lamp at the side of their bed. He flicked it on, producing an oval beam of light on the wall. Terry groaned as Terri proceeded to hover his hands in front of the light.
If he couldn't be productive like Terry, he'd have to be productive in his own way.
"Terri, turn that off."
"But you're up and reading."
"I'm exercising my nocturnal vision and reading myself to sleep." His nocturnal vision was sharp enough to read words in dark, but he could barely sleep in light. "And what are you doing?"
"Exercising hand coordination," he explained. Right now, this was his only option of productiveness.
Eying the blank wall, Terri wondered what illusion could he do. His rubbery fingers pinched. Squenched his first and fingers. Bam. A shape of a lump. A head sticking out. He thought of the pigeons on campus, pecking on the pavement. Move that finger there to make a beak. Wall-a! Just . A pigeon oughta amuse Terry. This could amuse Squishy too.
Terry edged his book to the side to peek at the pigeon.
Terri put two fingers together and lifted them to expand its yawning beak and waggled his knuckles so that pigeon would ruffle its wings.
Sulley shouted again. Mike roared.
"Great humans!" His, well, their heart thumped. "They're ruining my focus!"
"Focus, Terri. Don't let them ruin anything for you. Don't let a big crowd of a hundred ruin your focus. Don't let ROR's jeers ruin you."
Maintaining his pigeon and trying to repress the memory of paint slapping upon him, Terri swallowed three deep controlled breaths, something that would earn Art's nod in approval. In his head, he counted. One. Two. Three. Four, ugh, he had to move, five, six, seven eight nin-
The walls continue to shout.
Terri's pigeon bounced around. It bowed it head down, not to peck, but to mope.
Terry interpreted that as a signal that the pigeon wanted a companion. So Terry lifted his set of hands rose and produced another shadow that fused into Terri's pigeon. Out popped another pigeon head.
A two-headed pigeon.
Terri's brow rose with elation.
Then Ms. Squibbles's sing-songy voice scolded Mike and Sulley.
Though a tad startled, they even made the pigeon shudder at the jump of her voice. Squishy's mom sounded like their mom. They loved Mom but were glad that Ms. Squibbles wasn't the sort to scold them in fear that they would rip themselves apart if they squirmed too much. She understood they needed space.
The pigeon shadow pecked at the air.
"Gee, Terry, move it around a little. You're acting as if the pigeon's carrying a load." Now Terry's hands were sweating, quivering. "You got plenty of space, right?"
Terry did have space. But it wasn't the issue of space as much as it was the problem of weight and timing. With Terry hovering the second head, they had to be more careful not to rip their hands away or ruin the image. They had to keep up with each other. Pace themselves. Anticipate each other.
Terri allowed his pigeon ruffle his wing. Terry followed suite with his side.
Improvisation was their shakiest move. Not that they were bad at it. Just tense. Like Terry, Terri preferred calculating their movements beforehand rather than performing something random on the spot. But they would have to adjust to whatever child-files they would receive at the Games. A disagreement about what trick to use would be time-consuming and unprofessional. Mike's coaching rang loud and clear, "immediate versatility, boys! Reaction has to be precise and immediate!" Pedantic, but he had a point.
"Say Terry, what if our tricks don't work on the child stimulation tomorrow?" Terri's pigeon began snapping at the air to catch some imaginary fly.
"Worth a shot, Terri, worth a shot," Terry muttered, wishing he had the energy to give a clear answer. They did the typical tricks. Terry made a tongue come out of his pigeon's beak as he made it yawn. Terri had his peck the air...,
But the pigeon couldn't bounce around. Terri remained static, afraid of breaking the illusion. Or worse, tear the pigeon apart.
They shared a fondness for magic and illusions. Terri, because there was something so fluidly choreographed in magic. Terry, because magic was such a controlled, graceful art with the right amount of showiness to it. They had to be professional.
And their hands flapped, bring the double-headed pigeon into flight, an image that they practiced for five years to perfect. After hovering the pigeon for over a minute, exhaustion wore down their arms.
His hand was tired, but Terri figured he could challenge Terry for while. He waited for Terry to give up. Yank his hands, to signal that the pigeon wanted to break away. Ready for his pigeon to take flight.
Terry kept carefully edging around and to match Terri's movement. They sweated under the lamp light and pressure of hands sticking together.
Terry sensed that. As much as he abhorred the increasing stickiness of the sweat, he hated failing the illusion. I need to be like Don. What I need, is his patience. I need his pleasantness. His ability to smile even after failture. Maybe then, I can relax and not sweat the big stuff. Where does Don gets his patience? From those customers of his old company? Oh, stop thinking, focus Terry, focus Terry, Terri needs this. Terri needs this pigeon. If I break the pigeon, that means we're incapable of winning. Don needs this, Squishy needs this, Art, Michael, Sulley...
Terri's lips puckered as the heat of the lamp closing in. Sweat protruded down their foreheads. But they challenged themselves to keep it up, daring the other to drop their hands.
But their willpower was about to collapse in the tremors of their palms. To compensate, they pretended that the pigeons were simply shivering in the cold.
But Terry's hands succumbed to exhaustion, making him surprised and disappointed with himself for not keeping up with Terri. He found himself slightly shifting his hands to the side to signal his resignation. Terri saw that and he moved his hands in the opposite direction. The twin pigeons were tearing themselves apart.
They dispersed into two individual pigeons as their hand shadows parted, flying their separate ways, retaining clear shape.
So in the end effect: the two-headed pigeon flew their separate ways. First time they ever did a variation of that trick.
Perfect finale, Terry thought. Their struggles did not ruin the illusion. It merely forced them to work along with a potential error. It didn't deter the original intent, but it improved it. Elevated it.
They couldn't wait for the Games to be done with. They couldn't wait to show off their trick. Terri could see Squishy's awe-filled eyes now. Terry could see Mike's rare grin of approval.
Terry laid there with the bubbling elation, like he had just finished reading a poem that moved him in unexplained ways that was worth five essay pages, while Terri calmed down as if he had busted a perfect dance move and bowed at thunderous applauses.
Terri's last thought was the refreshing feeling of feeling his, their, heart rate recede. Feeling for the first time in a long time, they drifted asleep at the same moment.
Teaser for final chapter: "With the warmth of Sheri's hands upon his own palm, Don found his nerves tightening. A confession nudged at him. The cocoa must be running to his head. His three hearts chugged in his chest so firmly that he was sure she could feel his blood churning through his palm."