I originally started this oneshot in January 2018. I got the flu and it developed into pneumonia, so I sat this aside and didn't write for a while. When I came back, I planned to finish it, but I got caught up in other projects. The other night, I was going through my files when I came across it and decided to dust it off and finally put it out. Here, then, is the first Thicker Than Blood oneshot. I can't tell you when I'll write the next one; I do have an idea I want to eventually try, however.

Clyde McBride shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed his shoe along the ground. Next to him, Lincoln crossed his arms and leaned back against the cold metal frame of the swing set, his eyes rolling up to the sky in annoyance. It was a warm spring day, and they had been waiting for Linka for nearly an hour; Lincoln said she was spending 'girl time' with Lori, Leni, and Lola, and that it would probably be a while before she showed up. Neither one expected it to take this long, though.

Clyde drew a deep breath and glanced toward the street bordering the park just as a sedan pulled onto it from a side street. Truth be told, he was a little apprehensive about meeting Linka - new people always put him on edge. And truth be told again, as he watched the sedan slowly creep by, he felt something beneath that nervousness: Jealousy.

Lincoln was the best friend a guy could ask for - loyal, considerate, willing to give you the shirt off his back - but there were times Clyde envied the SOB so hard it hurt.

At first, it was because Lincoln had a loving biological family. Clyde loved his Dads, but there's something about blood that no one - not even two people as wonderful as Howard and Harold - could replace. And his sisters! Clyde desperately wanted a sibling, a little boy or girl to teach and play with and love, a little boy or girl who would keep him from being so lonely he wanted to cry. Lincoln didn't have that problem...he had ten sisters; younger ones to teach and look out for, and older ones to teach and look out for him. When he went to Lincoln's house, Clyde could feel the love they shared...he could also feel the energy and vitality of life. His own house was as quiet as a museum, and as perfectly poised as one too. At the Loud house, however, there was always noise...always activity...always clothes or toys on the floor...always signs that this was a real, honest to God home where people lived.

Then it came out that Lincoln was adopted.

Clyde never saw that coming, and it did change how he looked at Lincoln's family...temporarily. He still had ten great sisters each with their own endearing quirks...but more than that, he had a biological sister in Linka.

Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder why Lincoln was so lucky.

Presently, he glanced at his friend, his eyes studying the boy's fair, delicate features. Not only was Linka his biological sister...she was his twin. Twins, or so Clyde had read, share a special bond that transcends things like whether or not they grew up together, a deep ONENESS that Clyde himself could only fantasize about.

He would give almost anything for a twin.

"Here she comes," Lincoln said, rousing him from his thoughts. Linka was approaching across the grass between the playground and the street, wearing a skirt and an orange polo shirt similar to Lincoln's. "She likes it when we match," Lincoln explained, but Clyde did not hear him: His eyes were fixed on the girl's face, so much like Lincoln's but not identical. Her snowy white hair cascaded over her shoulders like silk, her cowlick rustling with the movement of her legs. Her soft brown eyes simmered with happy light, and her mouth turned up at the corners when she saw Lincoln. She waved excitedly, and Lincoln waved back.

No...she was not one hundred percent identical to her brother, but she was close enough.

And she was beautiful.

"Hi, Linc!" she said as she bounced up. She drew her fist back and punched him in the arm.

Clyde realized he was gaping and snapped his mouth closed.

"As if I don't get enough of that from Lynn and Ronnie Anne," Lincoln said and rubbed the spot she hit.

Linka shrugged. "I'm only here on the weekends, so I have to get in on the fun or miss out." She turned to Clyde, and when those sparkling eyes fell upon him, his heart stopped dead in his chest: If this were a cartoon, he'd probably start bleeding from the nose and malfunctioning like a robot. Instead, he swallowed hard. "You must be Clyde," she chirruped confidently.

Who? Me? "Uh...y-yeah," he forced, and then flashed a nervous grin. "And I guess you're Linka."

"That's me!"

Lincoln pulled a piece of gum out of his pants pocket and tossed it into his mouth. "You're kind of late," he said without any trace of accusation. He was simply stating a fact.

"Yeah," Linka said with a sheepish smile, "girl time ran over. Sorry. Lola really takes her facials seriously."

They were walking toward the footpath now, a narrow ribbon of smooth dirt twisting like a snake into a stand of pine trees, Linka in the middle. Clyde stared straight ahead, his breathing shallow and his entire body tingling with self consciousness. An angel, a literal angel, was beside him...

An angel who already had a boyfriend, because of course she did...how could a girl that beautiful not have one?

An angel...who looked (almost) just like his best friend.

That gave him pause. He stole a glance at her face from the corner of his eye: Not identical, but he could see Lincoln in her features as clear as day. Logically, if he kissed her...it would be like kissing his best friend.

But she was beautiful!

Yeah...and she's basically a carbon copy of Lincoln. Therefore you must think he's beautiful too.

He blinked.

Was he gay?

Or bi?

When Linka backhanded his arm, he jumped. "Lincoln says you're adopted too," she said.

Clyde nodded. "Uh...yeah, yeah I'm adopted." He didn't know what else to say, but he felt like he couldn't leave it at that. "I knew up front though, so it's kind of a different experience."

"When were you adopted?" she asked curiously. They were on the path now, Clyde stepping aside to allow a bicyclist past; his arm brushed Linka's, and he suffered a mini heart attack.

"Seven," he said, "I was seven. I lived in an orphanage before that."

"Oh," Linka said heavily, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Clyde said, his heart twisting at the sad note in her voice. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." He offered a stiff, disarming laugh, for her benefit. Don't worry your pretty little head about me, it said, I'm right as rain.

It would be a lie to say that the years he spent in the orphanage - lonely, bullied, unloved and merely tolerated by the staff - did not affect him, but that was in the past. He had two loving parents, a stable home, and more than he could ever have imagined, thus, to him, he was fortunate. One who has tasted the bitter sting of adversity is better equipped to appreciate the positives in life. He knew rejection - passed over time and again by the couples who came to adopt, like prospective car buyers in a showroom - and that made Harold and Howard's love and acceptance all the sweeter.

He said as much, and Linka nodded. On her other side, Lincoln moseyed along with his arms folded and his head ducked. Tall pines crowded the edges of the path, their boughs rustling quietly in the warm breeze. Sunlight filtered through their tops and dappled the path with swaying puddles of brilliant illumination. A strand of snow white hair blew in Linka's face, and she tucked it behind her ear with long, slender fingers. Her wrist was narrow and delicate, her nails a glossy shade of muted pink. Clyde's throat closed as he studied her profile; her pert, slightly upturned nose; her muddled brown eyes, glowing like lamps in the dark; her pouty pink lips; the smattering of freckles swirling across her creamy cheeks; her graceful throat. Her creamy flesh, like silk, yearned to be kissed and caressed, and her hands to be held and squeezed.

Clyde realized he was shaking, and forced his gaze away. The path curved to the left. A splintered wooden bridge shedding ancient red paint carried it over a dry creek bed strewn with moss coated rocks and branches knocked from their perches by summer storms. A pulsating ball of emotion formed in the center of Clyde's chest, and he swallowed around a lump blocking his throat. His stomach tingled unpleasantly, and a headache was beginning to form behind his left eye.

She has a boyfriend, he reminded himself. She's taken. Move along.

Only that didn't matter. Her relationship status might prevent him from making a move, but it wouldn't prevent him from noticing how lovely she was, or from thinking about her, speaking her name when he was alone, tormenting himself with visions and fantasies of her the way he once did with Lori. Last year, he became nearly obsessed with Lincoln's older sister, and before long, daydreaming of her went from something he enjoyed to something he dreaded, for there was no respite; she haunted his every waking thought until he was ready to tear out tufts of his hair and scream unto heaven.

A cold breath of horror puffed through him when he realized he might do the same thing with Linka. He didn't want to go through that again, didn't want to pine himself sick, to allow pressure to build and build in his heart only to never relieve it.

The wooden planks made clunking sounds under their feet. The decaying railings were crisscrossed with graffiti carved deep into weathered wood: Names, dates, cuss words, crude drawings. Off to their left, a few boys picked their way through the rocky trench while another made carefully climbed down the hill sloping to its bank. "What happened to your parents?" Linka asked, her voice finding Clyde's ears like the sweetest melody. "If you don't mind me asking," she hastened to add.

"They died," Clyde said. In actuality, they were (probably) still alive somewhere. Growing up in the orphanage, he knew nothing about them, knew nothing, in fact, about anything beyond those stone walls. To him, life was tile floors, dormitories, harried and overworked shift staff, and a deep sense of disquiet, as though he knew, on some spiritual level, that his lot was not natural. After Harold and Howard adopted him, he asked to look at his paperwork - all the forms, files, and dispositions that constituted his backstory. They reluctantly let him, and he discovered that his mother was a prostitute with a rap sheet longer than War and Peace and gave him up when he was one. He knew nothing of his father. Sometimes that bothered him, other times it didn't.

He was too ashamed to tell anyone the truth, so when they asked, even Lincoln, he told them his parents were killed in a car accident. It was easier that way.

"I'm sorry," Linka said. "We don't know very much about our parents either. Our mom was abusive and our dad went to jail for shooting someone."

Clyde nodded as though he were hearing this for the first time. He was not. Lincoln told him, and while he pitied Lincoln, he also envied him. At least he knew. To Clyde, the actions and emotions of his mother were a mystery. Did she abuse him? Did she love him? Did she hand him over to the state in the vague hopes that he would be well taken care of...or did she rid herself of him as though he were a pest? He would like to know where he stood with her if nothing else.

The trail left the woods and skirted the southern tip of a duck pond dotted with lily pads. A fat white goose with an orange bill waddled along the muddy apron and Linka cutely squinted her eyes to see it better. "Goose," she said.

"Let's catch it," Lincoln said.

"And do what with it?" Linka asked, a challenge in her voice.

"Eat it."

"Yuck!" she cried and shoved him. "We have to cook it first."

"That means starting a fire."

"Start one," she said.

"Fresh out of matches, sorry. We're gonna have Man Vs Wild it."

Linka's forehead crinked, and Clyde longed to run his thumb adoringly over the creases and ripples of her skin. "What does that mean?"

The pond was falling behind them, as the goose with it. To their right, the trees fell away, and a playground loomed out of the forest like ancient ruins. "You've never seen Man Vs. Wild?" Lincoln asked.

"Nope," Linka said, "is it violent?"

Lincoln hummed thoughtfully. "That depends."

"Do any living creatures get hurt?" Linka clarified.

"Sometimes, yes."

"Eh, not my thing."

Clyde traced the lines of her lithe arms to her tiny knuckles. He saw himself skimming each one with his lips, breathing the clean scent of her skin, and his heart staggered against his ribs. He took a deep, calming breath, but it did little to lessen the weight crushing his chest.

They walked and talked for a little while longer before Clyde found an opening to beg off. His cheeks felt flush and his voice sounded unsteady to his own ears, and as he walked away, he hoped he didn't make himself look like an ass in front of Linka. A thousand different thoughts and sensations roiled through him as he followed narrow side streets home, and when he walked through his front door fifteen minutes later, he felt sapped of energy.

In his room, he closed the door, kicked out of his shoes, and stretched out on the bed. Grayish afternoon light spilled through the window and bathed his haggard face, silvery on the lenses of his glasses. Deafening silence held sway, and in it, he imagined he could still hear Linka's musical voice, light and airy and joyous. A vision of her face floated up from the depths of his mind, taking shape slowly before his eyes like a reflection on water, only the features were not hers, they were Lincoln's. His hair was longer and his lips pinker, like his sister's, but it was undoubtedly him.

He had not known Linka long enough to imprint her face in his brain, had not dared look at her full on after their initial meeting. Therefore, he was trudging up the closest point of reference he had and trying fruitlessly to turn it into her.

A full, cumbersome weight filled his skull, like rocks, and he rubbed his fevered temples with the heels of his palms, as if to massage the thoughts away.

But they remained.

Later on, as the sun sank behind the rooftops and the evenly spaced lamps along the street zapped on one by one, he sat at the dining room table and stared sightlessly down into his dinner, the fork forgotten in his hand. He could barely breathe and his stomach twisted and tangled in a hopeless mess of nerves. Harold and Howard watched him with mild concern. Finally, Harold cleared his throat. "Is something the matter, Clyde?"

Clyde blinked and looked up, the world rushing in. "What?" he asked.

"Is something wrong?" Harold asked again. "You've barely touched your food."

"I'm just not hungry," he said. "Can I be excused?"

Harold and Howard exchanged a worried look, but let him go. He took his plate into the kitchen, cleared it into the trash, then went to his room. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, and the soft electric glow from the lamp cast seething shadows across his face. Linka had a boyfriend. She was also his best friend's sister. Liking her was pointless, futile. Why, then, was he doing it? Why, knowing all of this, did his traitorous brain insist on replaying her voice, her smile, and her shining eyes again and again? She was beyond his reach, but here he was regardless, trapped in a barren, blasted heath where he'd been more times than he could count. With Lori. And Carol Pingrey before her. And Becky before her. Each one of those girls had something in common: They were the highest fruit in the tree, always dangling just out of his grasp. Linka was no different.

Revelation, and remembrance, began to bubble up inside of him, but cut out when the door opened and Harold and Howard came in. They sat on either side of him, and he tensed slightly. They knew he was lying, knew that something was wrong, and they were here, in their endless love and mercy, to make him better, or to provide him comfort if they couldn't. He hated showing them his weakness, hating admitting to them that he was not as whole and healthy and he pretended to be. They took him in out of the kindness of their hearts, and already he'd put them through so much. The constant doctor bills alone were enough that Clyde wouldn't blame them for taking him back to the orphanage. They did not, though; they loved and accepted him despite his quirks...despite the nightmares and neverending visits to Dr. Lopez, despite his awkwardness and the occasional bed wetting. They did not yell, they did not strike him, and they did not lock him in a closet like they did at the orphanage. They loved him. Clyde didn't know why, but he was grateful for them, and on some level, worried that one day, he would do something to make them stop...that he would screw up the one good thing in his life like the bumbling oaf he was.

Harold laid one large hand on Clyde's shoulder, and Howard gave his knee an affectionate pat. "What's wrong, Clyde?" Harold asked.

"It's Linka," Clyde admitted. He told them everything, and they listened with a patience and forbearing that never failed to move Clyde. He didn't like talking about girls with his parents (God, what boy does?), but they never judged, never scolded, and once he began to speak, he always felt comfortable and at ease.

When he was finished, Harold sighed and Howard rubbed a tender circle in his knee. "You're doing it again, Clyde," Harold said.

Clyde didn't have to ask what it was, but Harold went on anyway. "You're going after Linka because she's safe."

One thing Clyde held back from Dr. Lopez was the infatuations - first with Becky, then Carol, then Lori. At the lowest point of his obsession with Lori, he broke down and told the psychiatrist. Hitherto, he was afraid she would think less of him, or perhaps even diagnose him as some kind of dangerous maniac. At rock bottom, however, he didn't care. He just wanted it over with.

You have a pattern, Clyde, the doctor said. You latch on - here she held her hands up and laced her fingers together - to girls with whom you haven't a single chance because they are unobtainable, and you know, subconsciously, that your feelings will never be reciprocated. That means that they cannot really reject you because you aren't making a serious attempt.

At first, Clyde dismissed the charge, but the more he meditated on it, the more certain he became that she was right. He was well aware that he never stood a chance with Lori or Carol, knew that no matter what he did they would not have him...because they were older, or had boyfriends, or any number of things he could use as excuses to explain why they rejected him.

They were pipe dreams, and pipe dreams can't hurt you.

Clyde nodded grimly to himself. "Why?" he asked more to himself than to his parents. "Why do I do this?"

Neither Howard nor Harold replied. Instead, they put their arms around their son's shoulders and held him close, doing the best they could to silently communicate their love.

Knowing the shape and character of his emotions did not lessen the effects, but, for Clyde, it did offer peace of mind. That night, he lay in bed, waiting to sleep, and repeated again and again I do not love Linka, I do not love Linka...

Eventually he slept, and in the morning, his emotions were less.

It would take time, but they would fade.

When Lincoln texted to ask if Clyde wanted to hang out with him and Linka, he lied and said he and his dads were going antiquing. One day, he thought, he would be able to be around Linka, but today just wasn't that day.

So he played video games instead.