Chapter 1

When had it gotten so hard to do such a simple thing as opening his eyes? Carter had a mind to just bring his hands to his eyelids and push them up with his thumbs. That should have done the trick, if his hands hadn’t been just as stubborn to get up as his eyelids.

This is getting ridiculous, he thought to himself, and, just for the sake of running a minimal test, he tried to move his toes.

That’s better, the far right one seems to move a little, he mused. Yet, it looked like the little exertion had the power of making him feel very, very tired.

Drifting off the sleep, he had the weird impression that someone was calling for him.

“Mr. Ruskin,” a voice with a small annoying lilt to it seemed bent on preventing him from getting his well-deserved sleep. “Mr. Ruskin, you really need to wake up.”

Funny thing. His eyelids popped like a can of lager beer on a day in July. Not that it was that pleasant to have your eyelids suddenly listen more to a stranger, than to you. At least now he was awake and the annoying voice was going to stop pestering him.

His eyes landed on a round face with beady eyes full of life.

“Mr. Ruskin, you’re awake! I always say that patients need just a little effort to get out of it. Just let me get the doctor. But, first,” the woman, who seemed to wear some kind of white bonnet, matched with equally white attire, started to fret around, “let me show you something.”

At this point, Carter had to admit that curiosity was gnawing at him too badly to stop and think why on Earth he was called Mr. Ruskin. That name sounded familiar, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t his. What was his last name? His brain seemed to be all messed up.

The woman returned with a weird looking thing that appeared to have the role to show someone’s reflection. Or a mirror, for short. Ha, he could still remember simple things. But what was his last name again?

He examined the snake-shaped handle before raising his eyes to look at it. When he did, all he could manage was:

“Damn!”

That mirror had to be magical, because his reflection mouthing the word ‘damn’ like it was the least desirable word in the English language didn’t belong to him. It did belong to someone, of course, but not him. And why was this guy staring back at him with such consternation? If there was anyone entitled to feel bereft at the unlikely occurrence that his face was not his anymore, that was him.

“Come on, Mr. Ruskin, do not frown. All these little scratches will heal up nicely,” the woman stared at him from one side of the mirror, making Carter think that she somewhat looked like a leprechaun. Only that she didn’t wear green, but white overalls.

Wait, wait, wait! His mind screamed at him. He looked around. White walls, white window sills, white door...

All right. He was just going to faint.

“Mr. Ruskin!” the woman called for him from far away, seeming pretty much alarmed.

Well, let her sort this out, Carter thought gloomily, as he drifted away.

The second awakening was not that unpleasant. Carter smoothed down a few creases in the blanket. His hands were moving now, and listening to him, thank heavens, and he didn’t need the nurse – yes, he had gathered that much since he had waked up – to tell him to do this or that. The perspective of living like a lonely puppet on a string, having to obey the squealed orders of an energetic woman, clearly dedicated to her healthcare oriented profession, was just making him shudder in pure horror.

“Could you please show me the mirror again, miss... ?”

Was he supposed to know the nurse’s name? Had he been conscious for even a minute since he had been brought to the hospital? And what the hell could have happened to put him in the hospital, in the first place?

“Oh, you,” the nurse waved one hand, and blushed like she was flattered. “It’s Mrs. Jones, actually, but you can call me Marge. How young did you think I was, Mr. Ruskin?”

He hadn’t exactly thought anything. Marge didn’t seem taken away too much with his lack of response, and dutifully held the mirror.

He inhaled. And exhaled. Instead of his brown hair, the apparition in the mirror had an ash blonde mane styled in a quiff. Damn, he hated that kind of hairstyle. He still wore his brown hair a bit too long for someone in his early 30s, but he didn’t give a damn. Yes, he was pretty damn certain his hair and his eyes were both brown. No, he wasn’t insane. Oh, look, he did remember things. Like, for instance, how he looked. Wait, what if this was some kind of prank, and he was shown not a mirror, but some digital device showing another person’s face just to make fun of him?

He examined the face in the mirror with a critical eye. Well, two critical eyes that were green and mischievous, instead of his dull ordinary brown eyes. Not that there was something wrong with his eyes. His actual eyes. He didn’t even have to wear glasses most of the time. So, his eyes were pretty much in good working order. But this guy was a looker. The kind to appear on covers of magazines. Or maybe not. Maybe except for his perfect face, the rest was flabby and unattractive. He touched his belly, but, no, it didn’t look like the guy currently impersonating him was fat. If anything, he seemed lean to the point of being considered thin. And there went his prank theory. His body could not have been replaced, like his face in the mirror. Which didn’t mean he was fat. Just certainly with a little bit of meat on his bones than this guy who was trying to pass as him. Or who he was trying to pass as. Damn, things were complicated.

But why was this reflection in the mirror familiar? Where had he seen this guy before? His brain was still in auto mode and could not take basic requests.

“Mr. Ruskin, maybe I should ask the doctor, but he said that you seemed fine, if a little tired. All the tests we’ve run on you point out that you’re out of danger,” the nurse began an apologetic tirade, “and I take it upon myself to let your husband in to see you.”

“Husband?!”

Carter would have dropped the mirror, but he was not the one keeping it. So he just stood there, his mouth agape, staring at Marge in shock. When the hell had he gotten married? And to a guy?! If this was a nightmare, it was pretty damn fucked up.

“He is a wreck, dear,” Marge’s eyes filled with more than gentleness. They were on the point of swimming in tears. “He had been waiting for you to wake up for two days, now. I doubt he caught any sleep.”

“Wait, my husband? Who is my husband?” Carter squealed.

Great, even his voice was annoyingly pleasant. Even now, high pitched and in shock.

“Well, aren’t you a comedy act, dear?” Marge patted him on the arm, as she tried hard not to laugh. “The other Mr. Ruskin, of course. Aron Ruskin.”

Aron Ruskin? A flash of recognition shot up his addled brain, finally catching up with him. He hadn’t spoken to Aron in two whole frigging years.

“Alex!” Aron rushed to his side, pressing him into a careful hug.

He hadn’t seen Aron in two years, either, besides keeping up with the no talking policy. Always done the best to steer clear out of the places where they could have bumped heads.

“I was so worried, so, so worried,” Aron cradled him into his big arms.

Aron had always been a big guy. Not big in the sense of fat, but well built, with the constitution of an athlete. Many had thought that seeking a career in publishing had not been the smartest move for him. But Aron loved what he did. And he did take care of his body, with the same dedication he did everything else in life.

Right now, he seemed maybe a bit bigger, but maybe it was just because Carter felt so damn small in the guy’s huge arms. That he didn’t remember. He was not as tall or built like a brickhouse, how Aron was, but he hadn’t never felt so little and puny. Right now, he felt like a puppet turned into a favorite toy of a giant. He grunted a little, and Aron pulled himself back right away.

“Oh, so sorry, does it hurt badly, baby?” Aron looked him with concern written all over his handsome face.

“Well, I’m afraid Mr. Ruskin here is a little laggish, after the little bump,” Marge supplied right away information. “We will keep him on pain medication, until he recovers a bit more.”

“A little bump?” he asked, moving his startled eyes from Aron to Marge and back again.

“Well, it was more than a little bump,” Aron said while running his fingers through his short jet black hair. There were a few silvers in there that Carter did not remember. “You got hit by a fire truck.”

“Ouch. That must have been unpleasant,” Carter murmured.

Marge burst into laughter, something that was reminding him of a funny hedgehog he had once seen in a cartoon. Clearly, he was in a dream. Except for the whole hospital thing, and the fact that he was apparently married to his best friend, it wasn’t that much of a nightmare. So he was going to enjoy it, or whatever, just live through it.

“He is such a dear,” Marge commented, as soon as she could breathe again from her fit of laughter. “And has such a great sense of humor, doesn’t he?” she turned towards Aron.

The man just looked confused.

“Alex? A sense of humor? Sure,” he replied, but Carter could tell Aron was not convinced.

Aron’s dark eyes were inspecting him now, and Carter felt a bit fidgety under that gaze. It felt like Aron was looking at something holy and perfect. Like he was in love. What a stupid dream. All right. So he was Alex, Aron’s husband. Aron and Alex. They sounded like twins. Identical twins, even, although there could not be a more important difference between them, Aron being hard muscles and strong bones everywhere, and Alex almost as light as a feather.

Skinny asshole, Carter thought to himself. Aron’s face changed from slightly relieved to average worried.