Less Than Three

by Jess Whitecroft

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t…”

  “No, you did,” I say, because I’ve been meaning to say this for a very long time now. “You told me to keep still. You did everything you could to keep me calm, because you knew exactly what might have been going on inside me at the time. And if you hadn’t been there, I might have moved the wrong muscle and be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.”

  “It was nothing,” he says. “Really.”

  “No, it wasn’t, Simon. It was something. Especially considering what I did to you…”

  He holds up a hand. “No. Please don’t get into that. You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t as if we were together when you started seeing Nathan.”

  “I know,” I say, feeling like I’ve rolled out of bed and into a minefield. And poor Simon looks shaken. He isn’t great at heavy stuff at the best of times, and he’s only just got up. I hear a door open – Nathan is up – so I keep on going. “I’m sorry that it didn’t work out between us.”

  Simon gives me an incredulous look.

  “Okay, I’m sorry and I’m not sorry,” I say. “Look, you’re a really great person, but we were never…you know…”

  “Compatible?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. Compatible.” There. This feels like the worst of it is done. “I hope we can be friends.”

  “I hope so, too,” he says, with a smile. “It would be a lot easier for everyone involved if we were.”

  “Good. Good. I’m glad about that.”

  Nathan wanders into the kitchen. He has a handful of post and he’s wearing that old striped dressing gown I used to beg him to throw out, because it makes him look like he’s cosplaying Arthur Dent.

  “I was about to bring you tea in bed,” I say.

  “Too slow, Chicken Marengo,” he says, kissing me on the temple. He eyes the Marmite jar and shudders as he distributes the letters. “You’d better not come back to bed tasting of Marmite.”

  Simon takes his post and groans. “Oh, fuck.”

  “What is it? Jury duty?”

  “Worse,” says Simon. “Another wedding invitation. They’re popping up like smallpox lately.”

  “Smallpox?”

  “No, okay – not smallpox.” Simon takes a butter knife to the envelope. “Herpes, then. At least we eradicated smallpox. If only we could do the same for weddings.”

  “What’s wrong with weddings?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” says Nathan, winding an arm around my waist. “But we’re at a difficult age.”

  “You’re not wrong,” says Simon. “Some people turn thirty and it’s like an alarm bell goes off in their head. They can’t help themselves. They have to start planning weddings.”

  “I just turned thirty,” I say.

  “I know,” says Nathan. “Don’t go getting any ideas, okay? I can’t get married and tour with the RSC.”

  “No, that’s fine. I promise not to propose to you.”

  He laughs. “Thank you. That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” He puts a hand on my hip and pulls me close. “So whose neck is on the block this time?”

  “Jane Lewis,” says Simon. “From UCL. She went into Paediatrics.”

  “That’s kids, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Lollipops and rainbows and watching small, innocent children die horribly at the hands of an irrational and angry God.”

  Nathan winces. “Jesus, Simon. You are such an Eeyore.”

  “I can’t help it,” he says. “Weddings bring out the worst in me. Not to mention the whole plus one nonsense. I said yes to a bunch of them last year because I thought I’d have someone to take with me…”

  “And then I ran off with your brother,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

  Simon groans. “Ugh. Don’t. That’s going to be a fun explanation as to why I’m single again. Looking forward to that.”

  “I could always…” The words are out of my mouth before I even realise what I’m saying.

  “Always what?” says Nathan, but this is between me and Simon. A debt, if you will.

  “How well do you know these people?” I ask.

  “Been a while,” says Simon. “Like I said, it was before we decided to specialise…”

  Nathan has already figured out what’s up. “Rob, what on earth are you suggesting? I’m sorry, but has anybody in this family learned anything about pretending to be people we’re not?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I’m just saying,” I say. “I’d be happy to do it. Hang on your arm for the night so you don’t have to deal with a bunch of pitying looks and people going ‘Oh, I know a gay guy. You can fuck him.’”

  Nathan frowns. “I’m sorry. What? Does that happen a lot?”

  “All the time,” says Simon, sipping his tea. “If you’re gay and single, everyone has a gay friend, and the two of you should get together, because apparently if you feel the same way about penises, you’ll have everything else in common, too.”

  “Never leave me,” Nathan says, making saucer eyes at me. “I don’t think I can handle being gay and single. It sounds terrible.”

  “It is.”

  “I think I’ll just say I can’t make it,” says Simon, and attaches the invitation to the fridge with a magnet Nathan bought at the British Museum. “Nobody’s going to surprised if a junior surgeon says he’s busy, after all.”

  He takes his toast into the living room. Nathan and I go back to bed.

  “Are you mental?” he says. “I turn my back on you for five minutes and you’re already pimping yourself out as a plus one for weddings.”

  “Don’t be angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry,” he says, slipping out of his dressing gown and under the duvet. “I’m just…confused, I suppose. Wouldn’t that be weird considering that you two used to…you know.”

  “You know?”

  “You know,” he says, cuddling closer. “And I know. And he knows. We all heard about it. Even the neighbours. You’re amazingly loud when someone’s on your prostate.”

  I laugh and push my fingers under his nose. There are teeth marks in my knuckles, testament to how last night I managed to keep the volume down for once. He kisses the dents in my skin, his eyes full of naughtiness.

  “I was just trying to think of something I could do,” I say. “For Simon. After everything he did for me…I’ve been wracking my brains to think of something I could buy him to say thank you, but nothing seems right.”

  “It won’t,” says Nathan. “Simon is one of the hardest people in the world to buy gifts for.”

  “Well, then. What if there’s something I can do? To make his life easier?”

  He sighs and plays with my hair. It’s grown again and there’s a curl that sticks out above my temple. He can’t seem to resist it. “Can I ask you something?” he says, twirling my hair around his fingertip.

  “Mmhm.”

  “It’s stupid and insecure, and I’m ashamed of myself for asking, but—”

  “—ask.”

  “Okay.” He swallows. “Do you ever…compare?”

  “No. Never.”

  And with that he relaxes. He knows me well enough to know I’m telling the truth. Because I don’t. It’s not like I haven’t looked at them and stared from one to the other, marvelling at how alike they are, but once the bedroom door closes the comparisons stop. They might be twins, but they’re very different people.

  “Listen to me,” I say, curling up against him. “You are the only one. When I’m with you, there’s no room for anyone else in my head or my heart. It’s all you, Nathan. All you.”

  He pushes his fingers deeper into my hair and pulls me in. We’re unshaven and our tongues are filmy with sleep and tannin, but we don’t care.

  “I love you so much,” he whispers.

  “I know. I love you, too. And you have nothing to worry about. Obviously Simon’s going to be in our lives, but we can be adults. We can be friends.”

  He kisses me agai
n. “It’s funny…” he said.

  “What is?”

  “This. All of it. Growing up, I remember people saying ‘Let’s hope they don’t have the same taste in women’, because for some reason the sight of a pair of twins sets a romantic comedy playing in some people’s heads. And then it turned out Simon was gay and it was like ‘Oh, okay. So much for that rom com.’”

  I laugh and lie back. “And then you met me.”

  “Yep. And then I fell in mad, gay love with a gorgeous bookseller. And look how that turned out.”

  I wrap my fingers around him. It’s very nearly time to stop talking. He’s so hard. “I think it turned out very well.”

  “So do I,” he says, his lips moving against mine. “You’re so level-headed about this.”

  “About what?”

  “About Simon. And me. That’s the trouble with twins like us. You might find yourself worrying if there are ever going to be less than three people in the relationship.”

  “Fewer than,” I say automatically. “It should be fewer than. Not less than.” And now he’s staring at me with a kind of amused disgust, which I might have earned, after all. Is it gauche to correct someone’s grammar when you have their penis in your hand? “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says, and shuts me up with a kiss. “Now come here.”

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