perpetual_motion | I am *so* going to hell

Well, the Hammcest is finished [Or, as

julianlee christened it, 'gymcest']. And I still have my pitchfork. I shall see you all in hell.

There is no title. There is no summary. I've just written RPS twincest. I've just taken my fucking *time* writing RPS twincest. I'm not going to worry about the little details, okay?

Disclaimer: I don't know them. I adore them and wish to molest Morgan, but I really don't know them.

Silver. They've won silver. Morgan stares at his medal in the room that night and just wonders at the fact that he's here at the games again, let alone with a silver medal around his neck. He looks across the room at Paul and isn't surprised to find the same look on his face. "Silver." That's all he has to say. They're twins. They have that connection.

Paul looks up from his medal and grins at Morgan. "Yeah." He stands up from his chair and walks over to Morgan's bed. Their room has two beds, and so far they've been good Wisconsin boys and slept apart like they should, but this is a night to celebrate, and Paul intends to do just that. He stands at the end of Morgan's bed and just looks at his brother, his teammate, his twin, lying back with pillows behind his head and only worn-out cotton pajama bottoms on. Well, the pajama bottoms and the medal. Paul's grin drops to more of a soft smile, and he flops onto the bed next to Morgan rather than on top of him like he'd planned. "We rocked tonight."

Morgan knows that Paul's referring to the whole team. "We did." He turns his head so he and Paul are nose-to-nose like in so many pictures from their childhood. "You extra-rocked." He knows Paul is about to insist that he didn't, really. He's going to say that they all did a great job, and he didn't do any more or less than anyone else. Sometimes, Morgan wishes Paul weren't quite so modest. It's sweet, and it's honest, and it's really how Paul is, but he thinks sometimes that his brother really doesn't know at all just how good he is, how special his talent is. "You did. Really."

Paul looks down at his medal, and his smile shifts to something mischievous when he realizes that it's touching Morgan's medal. He reaches out and touches Morgan just above the elbow. He knows what Morgan's trying to do. They're twins; he knows everything Morgan tries to do, and he's determined to convince Morgan that he's just as good, as talented, as natural at this whole gymnastics thing as he is. He knows that Morgan is aware of his own talent, but much like himself, he doesn't really know how good sometimes. "So did you. Really."

And like that, with a few soft words and one touch above the elbow, the atmosphere changes like it does with them more times than not. They're not teammates anymore. They're not medal winners. They're Morgan and Paul, and they're on a queen-sized bed, and their medals have kissed before they have tonight. Paul kisses Morgan and gets their own game started.

*

Morgan whoops as Paul aces Pommel and kicks ass on the rings and puts the others to shame on floor exercise. He feels like pointing and shouting, "That's him! That's *my* twin kicking ass in all-around! That's *my* brother who's going to win gold!" He manages to hold the urge in and just whoops as Paul chalks up for vault. Paul and the vault are old friends. They like each other. They get along. They never quarrel. Paul can ace vault with a leg tied behind his back.

Morgan watches Paul step up and raise an arm at the judges, and just as he gets ready to give another cheer, he gets a hard, sinking feeling in his gut and stops the nearly-constant bouncing that he and Paul get teased for. It's an odd sight to see, Morgan Hamm completely still, but he's super-focused on the feeling in his gut as he watches Paul take a breath before starting his run. Morgan knows this is going to go horribly wrong. He also knows it shouldn't. The vault is about to kick Paul's ass. That's the feeling Morgan has in his gut. They're twins. Morgan and Paul. Paul and Morgan. They're twins. They have that connection. And sometimes it sucks. Because Morgan knows that the vault will end badly, and he can't do anything to stop it. No matter how hard he concentrates, he knows that Paul's too focused in to pick up his vibes and get his message.

~Careful, Paul. Be careful. For fuck's sake, be careful.~

And then Paul starts his run. For every stride, Morgan chants like it's going to help; "No. No. No. No. No. No." Paul vaults, Morgan cringes--his only move since he stopped bouncing--and he waits for it.

Paul lands.

He slides.

He falls.

It is impossible. Paul doesn't fall. Morgan remembers the two of them, very young and daring, jumping along the rafters of the barn. He never fell, but he wavered. Paul just never fell. Paul doesn't ever fall.

Paul has fallen.

The entire arena with the exception of Morgan gasps and starts to twitter. He manages to mutter just one quick "damnit", and it's all he has in him. The announcers are going wild. Morgan is still completely still. He can't feel anything but the same cold dread and shock that he knows Paul is feeling. He can't hear anything except the rushing of blood in his own ears. He knows it's the same sound Paul is hearing. When Paul sits down and deflates, Morgan does the same. He knows they look at the scoreboard at the same time.

9.137.

Morgan didn't even know Paul was capable of scoring that low on any event. Especially not vault. He tears his eyes from the scoreboard and the ugly 12 next to Paul's name and makes eye contact with Paul. He can't think of anything except, ~Paul.~ He doesn't bother trying to think more. All he can concentrate on is the look of defeat on his twin's face. It's not a look he's seen very often. He hates it. Just like Paul hates to see it on his face. Some part of Morgan's mind not centered on Paul's face knows that the bars are up next for Paul. Morgan finally moves, shakes his head, taps his toes, and looks at his sneakers before looking at Paul again. ~Finish this perfectly.~

Whether or not they can actually read each other's minds is something not even they know for sure, but they can read each other's faces, and Morgan knows that Paul sees the steely determination in his eyes and the extra definition in his jaw where he clenches his teeth. And Morgan feels his heart rate pick up when Paul's jaw sets, and his eyes flash. Paul will finish this with flair. He may not place, but he'll go down in a blaze of glory not soon to be forgotten.

Morgan sits up at attention and starts jiggling his knees as he watches the first man mount the parallel bars. All he can think about is how Paul is going to put this man to shame when he gets his chance. And how he's going to put the rest of them to shame, too.

And then, out of nowhere, it happens. The other men start slipping. Arms are being bent, toes are smacking the bar. Morgan's on his feet again, his eyes off Paul only to watch every last nuance from every other guy out there. He's ticking off tenths in his head, not at all surprised when he matches up to the judges. Paul's in fourth.

Paul is in fourth.

Morgan finds his eyes again. He knows he's grinning like an idiot. Paul's face stays the same, but there's a twinkle in his eyes when he looks back at Morgan.

When Paul mounts the bars, Morgan knows it will be all right. Paul will place. Paul will place and make a comeback in two events like no gymnast has ever made before. He will go down in Olympic history. Maybe not as gold medallist, but as a hell of a gymnast who made it back to medal after landing in 12th.

Paul executes a routine that leaves the crowd screaming, the announcers unable to nit-pick, and Morgan with a case of the twitches like he's never had before. He's bouncing again. He's got his arms crossed across his chest for fear of taking out an innocent bystander, and his eyes don't leave Paul as he waits for his turn on high bar. The God of gymnastics definitely wants Paul to finish up with a bang if high bar is his last event.

Paul hangs from the high bar and closes his eyes. Morgan watches him breathe out and starts bouncing higher. Someone behind him who doesn't realize who he is out of his spandex and paper number mutters what an ass he's being, blocking the view. Morgan doesn't have time to turn around and tell the guy to back off. He's to busy counting off every last bit of Paul's routine in his head.

Cross hands.

One hand.

Grasp.

Release.

Release.

Release.

Land.

~Stick it. Stick it. Stick. It.~ Morgan doesn't breathe until Paul is standing upright, hands in the air, head back, face up, total happiness on his face.

He stuck it.

Morgan loses his mind. He starts whooping. He doesn't know the score, didn't tabulate it in his head like he did the others, but he knows it's good enough to medal. His eyes stay on Paul as he walks off the mat and starts hugging people. He watches Paul as he starts shaking his head, his mouth forming the words, "No way"; he finally looks away to look at the scoreboard.

And he loses his mind again. He starts screaming again, puts his whole body into it, and pumps his fists in the air. He sees the absolute disbelief and sudden bliss on Paul's face, and Morgan calms down just enough to start making it down to the floor. He's shoving people out of the way and being a total ass, but he doesn't care. He's getting down there. He's hugging his brother, and he's going to cheer the whole way.

He does cheer the whole way and makes it to the floor just in time for the medal ceremony. He stands off to the side, away from the cameras, and just basks in the sight of Paul standing there with the gold around his neck and tears in his eyes.

That's his brother.

That's his twin.

That's his Paul.

*

Paul gets to the room late, and he's glad that there are no reporters waiting for a sound bite. He apparently talked to enough tonight to satiate them for a little while. He fumbles his key card twice and can't help but notice the irony. He has no problem swinging himself every which way on Pommel Horse, but give him a key card and he's a klutz. He really wishes Morgan were beside him. Morgan's always great with keycards and keys and change, and anything else that's small and semi-important and shouldn't be lost. Before he can fumble his card again, the door swings open, and a very familiar freckled arm grabs him by the wrist and pulls him inside. He laughs a little. "Hey."

"Hey." Morgan pulls them nose-to-nose and then yanks Paul just far enough in for a bear hug. "I'm so proud of you." He presses his face into Paul's neck and just rests there for a moment. "You're amazing."

Paul presses his cheek into Morgan's hair and gets a hand under Morgan's Ohio State T-shirt. "Thank you." It would be an inadequete response to anyone else, but Paul trusts that Morgan knows what those two words really mean. He decides to be extra-sure. "I felt you tonight. After I scraped myself off the judges table and looked at you, I knew exactly what you were thinking. I finished like I did because of you."

"You did it." Morgan's not going to let Paul think his gold came from the vibe they've always shared. Paul got it because he's that good. "You're that good. You did it. I just gave you a little extra support."

"It's what I needed." Paul finally gives up the hug so that he can look Morgan in the eye. "This is half yours."

"Keep it. I'll get my own." Morgan kisses Paul and cuts off any other deep conversations that might have been in the making. He pushes Paul against the door and slides a hand under his track jacket. His grin gets a little predatory. "You're still in your uniform."

Paul's grin gets a little predatory back. "Yeah." He dodges Morgan's next kiss. "Speaking of; you stripping to the waist on the floor does *not* help me concentrate."

Morgan yanks his T-shirt off his head and unzips Paul's jacket. He runs a hand over Paul's spandex-covered torso. "So, stop concentrating."

*

"They're contesting your medal?"

"Yeah."

"Fuckers."

"Morgan."

Morgan doesn't bother cringing. He knows Paul isn't fond of his occasional name-calling, but he can't help it. "They're trying to take away your gold."

"They have a right to contest it."

"Your sense of fair play really needs to get beaten up, you know that?" Morgan feels like he could spit nails. He's so mad he can't see straight. "I can't believe-"

"But they are-"

"I am not going to just *deal*-"

"You will-"

"Why?"

Paul groans and flops onto the bed. "Because if I have to, you have to."

"Sometimes, this twin thing sucks." Morgan pushes at Paul. "You're vibing all over the place."

"I can't help it." Paul looks near-pouting.

Morgan wants to shove Paul off the bed and go for a very long run around the complex. He glances over and all his anger vanishes. He *is* so mad that he can't see straight, but he's not so mad that he can't see his twin, and Paul is miserable. Morgan feels like an asshole. He rolls onto his side and tucks an arm behind his head. "Sorry."

"S'okay." Paul turns his back to Morgan, but it's not a dismissal. When Morgan slides an arm around him he relaxes for the first time since getting the call from the officials. "I'll share it if I have to."

"You shouldn't have to." Morgan rests his head between Paul's shoulderblades. "They've been doing tie breakers all week because they don't want double-medals. If they make this exception the whole system is shot, and they're going to have to award more and explain themselves. They won't give him a second gold."

"He worked just as hard as I did."

"And the judges decided that you were a little better. It was *their* call, not yours."

Paul sighs. "This sucks."

Morgan doesn't bother to disagree.

*

Paul cringes on the sidelines when he sees the scores change to show Morgan in fourth for the high bar. It doesn't seem fair to him that he's getting all the attention and interviews for the games. He and Morgan have always come as a set, and while it was a fun little distraction at the beginning of the games, now everyone seems to be watching just him. He's not used to it, and to be the full center of attention is freaking him out. It's making him edgy, and he feels like he's off his game. He came here to be the best, to show how hard he's worked, and to have his twin beside him, but now he just feels like an insect under a magnifying glass. He wonders how much longer he's going to have to wait until the sadistic kid aims the light from the sun on him and catches his ass on fire.

Morgan sits next to Paul and dismisses the score. He got up, he tried his best, and he lost by the barest of margins. It's not a bad way to end his games, and he's further up in the ranks than the last games. He knows he'll be back in 2008, and he knows that he'll get his medals then. Right now he just wants to get Paul through this last event. He rotates his shoulder and winces a little when it twinges. It always gives him trouble after high bar. Paul puts a hand on his shoulder and presses his thumb just so, and he feels better. He wishes there were some way he could return the favor before Paul gets up for bar.

When the crowd boos Paul, Morgan almost comes off his chair. He's ready to scream and claw and take out a few wandering fans. No one deserves to be booed. Not ever. And especially not Paul. He wants to point out that the *judges* made the call, not Paul. He wants to remind these people that bad sportsmanship can happen in the stands. He wants to remind these people that he's stronger than most of them and would be willing to beat the hell out of them if they keep this shit up. He feels a little better when Paul gives an almost flawless routine. Paul grins at him in relief when he gets off the podium, and he knows what he's thinking. No matter what happens, they're done with this set of games. They can go back to their room, they can have beer, and they can let all these bad feelings out the window.

*

"You know what?" Morgan's just a little bit drunk, and he giggles at the end of his question.

Paul's just a little bit more drunk than Morgan, and it takes him a minute to actually realize he's been asked a question. "What?"

"I'm glad I didn't medal. No shit." Morgan means it as in he hasn't had to deal with any shit. When Paul starts to giggle he realizes that the meaning got skewered thanks to their combined drunkenness. "I mean-"

"I know." Paul rolls down his bed until he falls onto the floor. He giggles into the carpet for a few seconds. "Shouldn't we be getting drunk with the guys?"

"Huh?" Morgan can only hear odd buzzings coming from the carpet. He wonders where Paul's gotten to. "Paul?"

"Floor."

Morgan executes the same roll Paul just perfected and lands on the floor at the end of his own bed. "There you are."

"Why are we drunk alone?"

"We're not drunk alone. We're drunk together."

"Oh, yeah." Paul gets enough coordination going to crawl over to Morgan and stare at him. They're nose-to-nose, but Paul's coming from the other direction, so his lips are by Morgan's eyes. "You know what?"

"What?"

Paul manages to land a kiss on Morgan's nose. "You don't look *anything* like me from this angle."

They giggle together into incoherencey.