BROTHERS, BOUND BY MORE THAN BLOOD

Anakin was running. No, he wasn't just running—he was sprinting, pushing his body to its limit. He had no time for cabs, no patience for buses, no interest in anything that could slow him down. He had to fix this. He had to.

The cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn't care. The streets were nearly empty, the occasional flicker of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. His breath came out in heavy, ragged bursts, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

By the time he reached Damien's neighborhood, his lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Not now.

Damien's house loomed ahead—large, elegant, the kind of house that belonged to people who had money but not influence. Anakin had spent so much time here before, eating dinners with Damien's parents, sneaking in and out for late-night gaming sessions, studying for exams they both barely passed. His stomach twisted. How did they see him now? Did they hate him? Pity him? Or worse, did they just dismiss him as a mistake from their son's past?

He shook the thought away. None of that mattered now. What mattered was getting to Damien.

He knew he couldn't just ring the doorbell and waltz in. That would wake the entire house, and Damien would never let him inside. So, he did what any desperate young idiot would do—he climbed.

Grabbing the side of the house, he pulled himself up, using the familiar hooks and ledges he had scaled dozens of times before. It wasn't hard—Damien's room was on the first floor—but his arms ached from the sheer force he was using to haul himself up.

"When will this poor bastard learn to close his damn windows?" Anakin muttered under his breath as he reached Damien's window.

To his relief, it was unlocked. Just like old times. He grinned to himself, a brief flicker of nostalgia washing over him.

With careful precision, he pushed the window open, sliding his body through with as much grace as he could manage—

And slipped.

Hard.

His body hit the floor with a loud thud, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Shit.

A groggy Damien stirred in his bed, shifting slightly before bolting upright.

"The hell?" Damien's voice was thick with sleep, but his confusion was immediate.

Anakin lay there, face-first on the carpet, frozen like a deer in headlights. Maybe, just maybe, if he stayed still enough, Damien would think he was dreaming and go back to sleep.

No such luck.

"Anakin?" Damien's voice was sharper now, disbelief cutting through the sleepiness. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, widening in shock. "What the fuck—"

Anakin scrambled up, putting his hands in the air like he was surrendering to the police. "Calm down. Just—calm the fuck down."

Damien did the exact opposite. He reached for something on his bedside table—probably his phone, maybe a lamp to chuck at Anakin's head.

Anakin lunged forward. "Dude, stop! Just—just shut up for a second."

Damien jerked back, his breath uneven. "What the hell are you doing in my room at one in the morning?!"

Anakin exhaled sharply. "I—look, I have to talk to you."

"Yeah, and you couldn't do that during the day like a normal person?" Damien's voice dripped with sarcasm, but underneath it, there was something else. Wariness. Resentment.

Anakin swallowed. His throat was dry. If he said it, would Damien even listen? Would he even care?

More importantly, would this entire thing just sound cringe?

Anakin took a deep breath. His hands trembled slightly, a dull, sickening weight pressing on his chest. His heart wasn't just pounding—it was clawing at his ribs, desperate to break free. But he forced himself to stay still. This was his last chance to fix everything, and he couldn't afford to let it slip away.

"Can we talk?"

Damien's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. His body tensed, fists tightening on the sheets as if preparing for a fight he wasn't sure he wanted to have.

"About what? About how you—"

"I am sorry."

Anakin didn't let Damien finish. He didn't want to give him a chance to build more walls, to shut him out completely. Damien had only one role here—to listen, process, and, hopefully, forgive.

"I am sorry, Damien. I really am."

"I don't give a fuck!" Damien snapped, his voice rising in sheer disbelief.

"No—No—Just listen."

"Why should I?"

Silence.

The words sliced through Anakin like a knife. His lips parted, but no sound came. He had no response. No argument. Because Damien was right.

"You disgust me, Anakin."

It was the way Damien said it. Cold. Detached. Like Anakin wasn't even worth the anger. Like he was something foul that needed to be discarded.

Anakin flinched. He expected rage, insults, maybe even a punch—but not this. This quiet, seething hatred. This complete loss of faith. His fingers twitched, his throat tightening as shame and guilt wrapped around him like a vice.

"You are the most disgusting bastard I've ever known. Why are you here, Anakin? Why? To say sorry? Why now? After the damage is done! Why now after you completely destroyed my social life? You don't even get to talk—forget about talking, you don't even get to think that I would ever forgive you!"

Damien's voice cracked, raw with emotions Anakin could barely comprehend. Every word hit like a hammer to the skull, pounding him down, breaking him apart.

The pain in Damien's eyes was unbearable. And it was all Anakin's fault.

He had done this. He had torn apart something unbreakable. Something sacred.

His lips trembled. He needed to fix this. He had to. There wasn't any other option.

Anakin lifted his head, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Are you done?"

Damien's expression twisted in fury. His hands balled into fists. "I swear, Anakin, if you don't—"

"I'm going to die tomorrow."

Silence.

The words seemed to suck all the air from the room.

Damien's face contorted in confusion, in denial. "Don't fucking joke with me, Anakin!"

"I'm not."

Damien froze. His breath hitched, and for the first time since Anakin stepped into the room, there was something else in his eyes—fear. Not for himself, but for Anakin.

Anakin wasn't lying.

Damien knew that look. That quiet resignation, that dull acceptance. He had seen Anakin lie to teachers, to parents, to himself—but never to him. Never like this.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Which disease?"

A small, tired smile tugged at Anakin's lips. Damien sounded concerned. He sounded like the best friend Anakin had lost. He almost wanted to laugh.

"It's not about disease."

"Then what?"

Anakin exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Then, he told him everything.

After hearing everything, Damien stayed silent. He couldn't process what Anakin had just said. The words lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, demanding acknowledgment. Yet, Damien couldn't give them that. His mind refused to accept the weight of them.

Anakin. Dying.

It had to be a joke. A sick joke. A last-ditch attempt for sympathy. 

But no. That wasn't Anakin. For all the horrible things he had done, for all the betrayal, the humiliation, the destruction—he never lied. Not to Damien.

And that truth was unbearable.

Why should Damien care? Why should he, after everything? Anakin had done nothing but hurt him, twist the knife in ways no one else ever could. They hadn't spoken in over a year—no, even longer. There had been no apologies, no explanations, just silence. And now, Anakin wanted something from him? A moment of understanding, a sliver of companionship in his final hours?

Damien clenched his fists. The thought was eating him alive. Because no matter how much he wanted to say he didn't care, his body betrayed him. His heart betrayed him. 

A heavy silence stretched between them.

Anakin, ever the one to break the quiet, exhaled. "You're awfully silent."

Damien looked up, eyes burning. Before Anakin could react, Damien slapped him. Hard.

Anakin's head snapped to the side, the sting of it sharp against his cheek. He blinked, processing the pain—but before he could even think to respond, another slap landed. Then another. And another. Damien wasn't stopping. He hit him again and again, fists tightening, years of resentment, anger, and heartbreak pouring out through each strike.

Anakin barely moved. He barely reacted. He stood there, absorbing it all, as if welcoming it. No defense, no resistance—just complete acceptance. Because he deserved it. Every hit, every ounce of rage Damien released, Anakin knew he had earned it.

"Don't you dare think I'm letting you die without taking revenge first," Damien growled through clenched teeth, his breath ragged.

Anakin, despite the swelling in his cheek, despite the dull ache spreading across his jaw, chuckled. 

Damien saw it—the way Anakin just took it, the way he barely flinched. The way he accepted his own demise as though it were nothing. The way he regretted everything. The way he blamed himself. 

It made Damien angrier.

But he was also exhausted. And so was Anakin. 

Anakin collapsed onto the ground, staring up at the ceiling. Damien let out a heavy breath and sat beside him, rubbing his sore knuckles. 

"I still haven't forgiven you," Damien muttered.

Anakin gave him a sideways glance, lips curling into a sad smile. "Yeah. I figured."

Silence settled between them again, not as suffocating as before, but still thick with unspoken words.

Then, out of nowhere—

"Do you still have the Ronaldo Madrid jersey?"

Damien furrowed his brows, caught off guard for maybe the third time that night. 

"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "I do."

Anakin's smile widened slightly. "Where is it?"

Damien narrowed his eyes. "In my wardrobe. Why?"

"Bring it out."

"What?"

Anakin sat up. "I'm dying tomorrow and you can't even do one thing I ask?"

Damien scoffed. "Well, I would have, if it were anyone else."

Ouch. That one stung.

Anakin chuckled, shaking his head. "Just bring it."

Sighing, Damien got to his feet, went to the wardrobe, and pulled out the old jersey. It smelled faintly of nostalgia, of another life—one where betrayal hadn't driven them apart.

When he turned back, Anakin was already standing, shrugging off his shirt.

Damien's jaw clenched when he saw what was underneath. A worn, slightly faded Sergio Ramos jersey.

"You can't be real."

"I am real, Damien."

Damien sighed heavily. "Let's not do this."

Anakin ignored him, slipping the jersey over his head. "Come on."

"At this time? No. Not happening."

"What, afraid?"

"You're getting way too casual, Anakin. I haven't forgiven you," Damien warned.

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why the hell would I—"

"Because we rule the city."

Damien froze.

"What?"

"They were brothers, but bound by more than blood. They were twins as well, counterparts. Gangster princes of the city they meant to conquer," Anakin quoted.

Damien stared, lips parting slightly in shock. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. They had written that line years ago—an inside joke, something out of their cringiest phase. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing.

And yet, the memory of it—of them—made Damien laugh.

"You still remember that?"

"Well, someone's gotta remember our cringe."

"That wasn't cringe, Anakin."

"Yeah, whatever," Anakin grinned. "Let's go."

Damien exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. 

"I hate you."

Anakin just smiled. "You do already."

And for the first time in a long, long time—it almost felt like they were them again.