Geno turned a page of Jav’s notebook and saw his own name.
Geronimo Caan.
Geronimo! The crowd yelled as he went up for one of his signature dunk shots.
Genghis Caan, the wrestling star of PS 194.
The bleachers were dotted with hand-lettered signs:
Genghis Caan!
Wrath of Caan!
Anything you can do, he Caan do better!
“Honey, I can’t,” the girl said, limp and spent.
“Honey, you Caan,” he said against her neck.
“Geronimo,” the girl cried in the dark, as she came for the third time.
The pages shook in Geno’s hands, a thousand emotions rippling through his chest as his head spun in both directions at once.
This is me.
He’s writing about me. I don’t play sports. Genghis Caan, what does that mean? Who’s this girl? Why’s he writing about me?
He read the lines over and over, his chest filling up with a warm, flattered curiosity.
He’s writing about me.
“Genghis Caan,” he said. Softly, then louder. It never occurred to him Caan sounded like Khan. It was a word you didn’t fuck with. King was light and noble but Khan was a hammer on an anvil.
Khan.
A strike on a gong. Name and title. Caan and Khan.
Beware the wrath of Caan.
“Damn,” he said, turning the page.
The sun is not one but two. Two in one. Two gods burning within.
Sun sons.
Sunsons?
What about twins?
Sacred twins.
Twins whose bond is magical. A rarity with a distinctive name.
Could make up something based on Gemini.
Géminis (Spanish)
Gemeloj (Esperanto)
The bond is the place where two become one.
Geno felt his eyes bulge and his last inhale wouldn’t release.
The place where two became one.
Holy fuck, he knows about Nos.
It’s a visible thing. Is it skin, actual flesh that joins them? Conjoined twins are magic?
Or more metaphysical, like an aura?
“Our power is in what joins us.”
“Our combined power is in the space between us.”
Is it an actual thing someone can take?
“He gained his power by stealing the bond from the Gemini.”
Geno’s fingers trembled as he turned a page.
It’s an ancient saying in these lands, my child:
“Break the bond, the Gemini cries.
Take the bond, and the Gemini…”
Lies?
Flies—does the bond anchor the twins to earth?
Dries—are they water creatures?
Prize—it has value, worth power?
Ties—the twins are bonded to you now? What’s the advantage of that?
Is this a genie-in-the-lamp thing? The twins do X favors or tasks and then they can be restored?
“Break the bond, the Gemini cries.
Take the bond, the Gemini…”
“Dies,” Geno said. “Take the bond and the Gemini dies.”
He stared across his little room. His throat now tightening up for some stupid fucking reason. His heart revving beneath his ribs, dissolving all the warmth that had just been there. The awful rolling sensation of impending anxiety, coming over the horizon like storm clouds. Like a herd of wild horses. Coming for him.
He stood up. Sat again.
Calm down, he thought. C’mon, let’s walk it out.
He stood up. His room wasn’t conducive to pacing. He had eight steps up and back, tops.
I’m being staved. I need to stave this off.
I need somebody.
The leather notebook was warm in his hands. Tactile like dough. Like skin.
He put his nose to the covers. His hands squeezed, trying to wring the presence out of the pages.
He wished Jav were here.
He wanted him.
The thought made his stomach twist in fresh panic.
Easy, easy, he told himself. I don’t want him. I just…want him.
He tried to pretend. He turned on his white noise machine to waves. Imagined a long stretch of sandy beach and the red house in the distance. Up higher on stilts now, to keep from flooding at high tide.
I’m going home. I’ll just go home and bring him back what was lost.
The lost bond.
His teeth chattered above his footsteps. Round and round in the carpet, believing he was walking a straight line in sand.
Hey, you dropped your notebook in the kitchen.
Want to go for a walk?
Jesus, that sounded gay. What the fuck was he doing?
He sank onto the bed, head in his hands.
My head, my head, what is happening in this fucking weird, fucked up head of mine?
I don’t want him.
I just want to be a normal guy.
Str8 dude seeks same.
“Stave this off,” he said. “Stave it off.”
His fingers shook as he fanned the pages of the notebook. The piece of graph paper with its fiery, loving sentiments slipped out and settled in his lap.
“Trust is heavy,” he whispered from memory. “Your trust is heavy in my hands.”
His secrets were safe with Stef. They were in Stef’s big, strong hands. Their weight couldn’t be forgotten. Geno’s palms turned up to the ceiling, needing to feel them. His fingers itched to sort through and measure them.
Trust is heavy.
It’s heavy…
Then he remembered the coffee can.