That Telling MomentChapter 3

“Hi Daddy,” Lysander said, leaning in to press a kiss against his father’s cheek. Colin’s skin was smooth beneath his lips, smelling of cheap soap and antiseptic.

The flat was always exactly as he remembered it. Lysander stepped inside, his designer boots silent against the worn linoleum. Italian leather, obscenely expensive, worth more than the ancient television set propped on milk crates in the corner. The space was suffocating in its smallness, a two-bedroom that wasn’t really a two-bedroom at all. More like a main bedroom and what estate agents might generously call a “study nook.” The glorified cupboard where he and Stephen had spent their teenage years crammed together, separated from the rest of the flat by a set of battered folding screens that did fuck-all to block sound.

He’d hated it here. The walls that seemed to shrink inward during his heats. The thin partition that meant he spent them lying awake, listening to Stephen’s every breath, every shift, every barely-contained sigh when Lysander would whimper and leak slick onto his sheets.

Knightsbridge felt like another universe. His and Dane’s flat, all high ceilings and obscene square footage, with that rainfall shower big enough for both of them, seemed like a fever dream when he was standing here.

Stephen stood at the kitchen counter, chopping something with surgical precision, his back a rigid line of hostility. His movements reminded Lysander of those nature documentaries where predators dismember their prey with one efficient swipe of a sharp tipped paw. If that onion had personally wronged Stephen, it couldn’t be receiving a more methodical execution.

“Stephen,” Lysander said. His twin’s shoulders tightened further. No response. Not even a glance. The knife came down with renewed vigour. That poor, innocent onion.

Dad had warned him on the phone. Stephen was in a mood. People at work were being difficult, which Lysander could translate easily enough: his twin was being tormented because of him. Because of what Lysander chose to do with his body, his life, his considerable talents for handling alpha knots.

It wasn’t fair, not to Stephen, not to anyone, but then again, what fucking was?

Lysander moved behind his brother and pressed his lips to Stephen’s temple. Stephen jerked away as if scalded. The knife came down with unnecessary force on the already massacred vegetable.

“Still not speaking to me, then?” Lysander turned to their father. Colin was laying out plates on their tiny dining table, three settings arranged with military precision. “Need any help, Daddy?”

“Nearly done,” Colin said, not looking up, focused on folding paper napkins into perfect triangles that would have made the Royal Navy proud. “Just the pasta left to drain.”

Lysander took his usual seat and watched his father work. Colin moved with the economy of someone who knew exactly how much effort each task required. But there was a stiffness that hadn’t been there a month ago, a hesitation when he lifted the pot of pasta towards the sink.

“Are your hands still bothering you?” Lysander asked. His father’s knuckles were swollen, the skin reddened.

Colin shrugged. “It’s nothing serious. Mrs Picton’s bathroom sink needed sorting. Tight fittings, old pipes.”

“You should see someone about that. Physiotherapist, maybe?”

“NHS waiting list is six months,” Stephen said sharply, his first words of the evening. “Private costs three hundred quid a session.” The which you could easily afford hung unspoken between them.

Lysander bit back the obvious reply. He’d happily pay for the best hand specialist in London. He’d already offered to cover their bills, anything they needed, pay for this flat outright. But he knew exactly how that would go. Stephen would say something about not needing money his brother earned on his back, on his knees, with his arse in the air. Dad would smile that tight, careful smile and say “we’re doing fine, Sander.” Like being hugged and stabbed simultaneously.

He served himself a heaping portion of pasta instead. His father’s signature dish: spaghetti with a simple tomato sauce, garlic, whatever vegetables had been on special at the market. He pretended not to notice the way Stephen’s jaw tightened at the sight of his Rolex when he reached across the table.

“This is lovely, Daddy,” Lysander said, twirling pasta around his fork. “No one makes it like you do.”

Colin’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “It’s just pasta, Sander.”

“It’s perfect pasta,” Lysander insisted. “Dane tried to make it once, from your recipe. Absolute disaster. Stuck to the bottom of the pan like cement. We had to bin the whole thing, pan included.”

Stephen’s fork clattered against his plate. “Do we have to talk about him?”

“He’s my alpha,” Lysander said mildly. “My partner. Kind of difficult to discuss my life without mentioning him.”

“He’s your pimp,” Stephen hissed, colour rising in his cheeks.

“Stephen,” Colin interjected quietly. “Not at dinner.”

Stephen fell silent, shoving pasta around his plate without eating it. The rest of the meal passed in a strange choreography of avoidance. Lysander chattering about inconsequential things: the weather, the Tube delays, a documentary about capybaras. Colin responding with equally safe topics: Mrs Picton’s grandchildren, the new cafe on the corner, a funny thing the cashier at Tesco had said. Stephen contributing nothing but the occasional derisive snort.

When it was time to leave, Lysander kissed his twin on the cheek, risking proximity to those sharp teeth and even sharper tongue. Stephen didn’t pull away.

“Take care of yourself,” Lysander murmured against his brother’s skin, breathing in the scent that was so like his own and yet fundamentally different. Same biology, wildly divergent choices.

“You too,” Stephen replied, so quietly Lysander almost missed it.

Their father walked him to the door. Lysander folded him into a hug, feeling the solid warmth of him, the slight frame that had somehow carried the burden of two omega sons through a world designed to crush them.

“Love you, Daddy,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Colin’s forehead.

“Love you too,” Colin replied simply.

Lysander slipped his hand into the pocket of his father’s threadbare jacket, hanging on the hook by the door, and left behind a single crisp hundred-pound note. That was all Dad would ever accept from him. He’d tried handing over more. He’d offered to buy them a proper place with separate bedrooms and a lift and central heating that actually worked. Colin would smile that small, sad smile and say “we’re managing just fine.”

Outside Lysander zipped his leather jacket and walked towards the Tube station, away from the flat where half of his history lay preserved like a museum exhibit: The Huxley Boys, Before Divergence.

Behind him, the lights of his father’s windows glowed warm against the darkness, two small squares of illumination in Barking’s concrete landscape.