A/N: Listen to Chopin's Berceuse in D flat major, Op. 57 as you read! It's the piece that inspired me to write this :D (Oi, oi, don't fall asleep! I know it's a lullaby, but...)

-:-:-:-:-

The Unheeded Line

.

Between Dream and Reality

-:-:-:-:-

The sun shines brightly, stubbornly, in the midst of looming clouds. This rare show hangs over the vast London sky, bringing about a cheer to the people beneath the way no rainy day can ever accomplish. It is now that my brother chooses to show off his sunglasses, the pair he has sworn never to wear unless a "damn sunny day"—his words, not mine—breaks through the endless downpour that holds a constant embrace on this city. I believe it's been a little over sixteen months since.

He drags me to the park where his newest girlfriend, where his beautiful sea nugget—to which I retort, "Pearl, Gene. Her name is Pearl"—mostly loiters around. I can never understand why he does this to himself, dooming himself to a life shackled by the whims of those shallow, unpredictable, bipolar beings of the opposite gender. He even goes looking for more of them in spite of the inevitable failure of his escapades. It is a recurring event on a weekly basis.

("But Noll," he says slowly as if speaking to a child, mirth dancing through his widened eyes. "Boobies.")

While my brother's eyes sweep through the sea of hats in search of his "lovely clam button", I travel a short distance and sit on the bench I have claimed as my own years before. I still remember the stupid look in his eyes as he etched my name into the brittle wooden seat, telling me it wasn't mine until I put my name on it.

I finish three chapters of the book I'm reading—the book I've been reading over and over and over like an info-monkey, my brother reminds me—before he gives up and slinks into the empty seat to my left, slouching in defeat. What in the world shall he do now, he asks me, moaning.

"Would it kill you to stay quiet?"

"Yes."

But he mutes himself anyway, although he keeps his restlessness; drumming his fingers to a certain beat, tapping his right foot along and soundlessly singing the words of his favourite song. I know it takes quite an effort for him not to hum. With his knowledge of my loathing for the songs he loves comes his unbearable need to torment me with them.

"Hey, Noll?"

Answering him with silence, I continue my visual trek along George Orwell's meticulously braided words. While others more or less bristle at my snub-nosed attitude, my brother continues instead, knowing I will always listen to him. Regardless of how idiotic his queries may be.

"Do you believe in Heaven?"

"This question again, Gene?" While I admit we talk of the metaphysical reality more often than other teenage boys, he usually goes out of his way to avoid this topic—the one of fictitious gods and insubstantial beliefs. I wonder why he's bringing it up now.

"Yeah. So, do you?"

"My answer stays the same. No, I don't," I tell him, glancing sideways to gauge his expression. His face shows a careful blank slate, devoid of the usual disproving frown that comes when hearing my credences. "Heaven, and Hell for that matter, are the fantasies of a man terrified of death. He shies away from the nothingness after life, imagining an illusory world beyond where he can continue enjoying his existence. I, on the other hand, regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail. There is no Heaven or afterlife for broken computers; that is a faerie story for people afraid of the dark."

Silence reigns once again as he ponders what he will say next. I leave him be, content with the hush between us, but impatient for what his contemplation may bear next.

"Although I knew you'd answer that way, I'm still kinda sad," he says at last. "You should abandon such pessimistic thoughts, Noll, or they might consume you once and for all.

"I, for one, believe in life after death," he continues, the certainty in his words unwavering. "I refuse to think nothingness comes after our journey here. We might not be the same, we might not even be human anymore, but there will be a place for us after our existence in this world."

His voice lowers in volume as he speaks, the decrescendo forewarning another bout of silence. It strikes me as odd, this sudden doubt invading him. He's usually so loud with his convictions of the afterlife, firm and stubborn.

"It's funny, isn't it?" he asks suddenly. "Our opinions are so polar even though we're twins."

"Just because we're twins doesn't mean we have to be the same in all aspects."

"But do you know what's funnier?" he asks once more, ignoring what I've just said. "You're contradicting yourself!" And here he bursts into wild, infectious laughter—unbridled and rampant, the sound of joy, wonder, delight.

"Your point?" My irritation is forced because of his contagious glee, and I'm tempted to pinch the back of his neck—the spot where he utterly hates to be pinched since he is tickled instead of pained—but then I decide against it. This particular argument doesn't appear very often and it is always an enjoyable venture to see him try and make me 'realize my hypocrisy'.

"Why do you dedicate yourself to parapsychology if you don't believe the study's subject matter even exists?"

"Ah, Gene," I sigh, the corner of my lips twitching as a rare smile nearly overpowers me. It doesn't help that he's still giggling so stupidly. "This question again?"

"Why?"

". . .Curiosity, that's why. Questioning everything I come across has always been in my nature, and otherworldly elements are what I doubt the most. I do not believe in afterlives, in heavens or hells, or that spirits or gods exist, but I welcome the possibility of being proved otherwise." I pause, a single finger coming to life on its own as it rhythmically taps the surface of the book upon which it rests. "You know how distrustful I am of others, so I have taken it upon myself to refute my own philosophy. This is why I choose to study the paranormal."

"But my dear younger brother," he starts, and I can almost hear the readied retorts swirling through his mind. "You are living proof against the non-existence of the supernatural. I am living proof as well. Do you think your psychokinesis is imaginary, then? Are your accurate psychometric readings merely hallucinations? Have I been talking to different versions of my own split personality all this time? How can you disprove our telepathy?"

But do we have concise evidence? I ask him through our mental link, ignoring how the very action strengthens his stand on the matter.

Your own experience isn't enough for you?

Various tests have been performed, but there is no scientific evidence proving this power is real.

Your love for documenting everything isn't cute, Noll.

As long as we cannot create physical proof and sound scientific justification, I will continue to stand by my disbelief.

"Where do you get that pigheadedness of yours?" he voiced his question this time, surrendering this argument's triumph to me.

"What do you mean?" I ask him, faux innocence embracing my words.

". . . Smartass," he mumbles. "I think you got it from Mum."

"What, my smart ass?"

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth as if thoroughly annoyed, though the hints of a coming grin say otherwise. "You." He buries a finger through my chest. "Stop that."

"As you wish," I concede, smirking. "I have one question, though."

"Shoot."

"Why Luella? I thought for sure you'd choose Martin when it comes to comparing me to them."

"Sure you got the science-y side from Dad, but you got the obstinacy from Mum, definitely," he snickers and gives me a clap on the back. "She'll be livid when she hears that you think he's more stubborn than her. I'll be sure to tell her you insulted her per-ti-naciousness."

". . . Where did you even learn that word?"

"From you." He sticks his tongue out. "Wanna learn something from me too?"

"No."

"Wha—? C'mon, Noll. I know a few good tricks."

"Don't bother lecturing me about 'The Forty-seven Ways of Smuggling Puppies into Theatres' again. You and Madoka have corrupted me enough."

"This is different, I swear," he says, grinning. The smile itself reeks of suspicious intent. "Wanna know how to get a girlfriend?"

"No thank you."

He looks at me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "Are you keeping a secret from me?"

Even without probing his mind, I knew what he was thinking. "Eugene, I am not gay."

"Not even for Lin?"

I roll my eyes, snorting wordlessly.

"Okay okay, sheesh." He laughs. "How 'bout I teach you how to make friends instead?"

"Haven't we already established that when we were in kindergarden?"

"Yeah, but you totally butchered your chances back then. Remember how you fixed a constant glare on the kids you wanted to be friends with?"

"I did not," I disagree, keeping a coming blush at bay.

"Yes you did. You're doing it now, even," he tells me, snickering. "Last year, too, when you first met that Japanese girl, you glared at her so hard I could almost see the psybeams coming out your eyes," he guffaws, slapping his thigh. "Get it? Psybeams!"

I ignore his pun and instead focus on defending my actions. "She broke a camera."

"But you had insurance."

"It doesn't change the fact that she broke a camera."

"So you made her work for you for compensation. Yes, that makes total sense." He clucks his tongue. "Except you had insurance."

"Gene, stop grinning, you'll split your face open."

"Oh! Ooooh, you changed the subject!"

". . .So?"

"You like her." It isn't a question.

"She is an employee of SPR and I am the current head."

Wow, you didn't even deny it, he says mentally, then vocally, "So what?"

"You know full well why, Gene."

"That rule about no personal relationships between co-workers is ancient, Noll. Are you still such an old-fashioned bloke to follow it?" he asks with raised eyebrows. "Why, even the monk and the priestess in your team are dating now."

"And you're suggesting I follow the example of two idiots?"

"No, Noll," he croons. "Just follow your—" he pokes my chest for the second time today, "heart!"

I say nothing, for I have nothing to say. He's acting tremendously stupid today.

". . . I should credit those words to the original, though."

"And who might that be?"

"The cunning young investigator from Ryokuryou High School, of course," he winks. "I especially like him."

If these two might meet someday, the world will experience havoc for the very last time before they destroy everything, I'm sure of it.

"Ah, but maybe I like the famous medium more . . ."

"You fancy her?"

He beams. "Can you deny our compatibility? We're both dreadfully alike in terms of abilities, and because of this, we share the same pain from the jabs of non-believers," he looks at me pointedly, jokingly, "and of course we're both very beautiful people."

"I cannot deny that indisputable fact," I say, a smirk tugging upon my lips. "You are beautiful, indeed."

"You're only saying that because we look exactly the same."

"But of course," I drawl. "However, I have to disagree about her being a beautiful person."

"What, still butthurt from getting blackmailed?" He chortles.

"Being controlled by a witch was never something I had thought to one day experience," I say with only a small hint of indignation. "Worst of all, she insisted that I pay for our 'dates'," I add, rolling my eyes.

"Who would have guessed you were such a penny-pincher?"

"She dragged me to the most expensive places in Tokyo."

"Such a gentleman," he says, sarcasm dripping like honey from his tone. "Maybe the priest would treat her better than you did."

"Gene. He is a priest."

"And that nullifies his being a man?"

"He took an irrevocable oath."

"That doesn't stop him from blushing every time he sees her," he says, smiling that infamous Cheshire grin. "Have you seen the way he looks at her? It's like the blue in his eyes smoulder whenever he sets them upon her."

"You're delusional."

"I don't deny that," he chuckles. "But anyway, if we were to meet, I wonder if we'd go right into a brawl, fighting for the heart of the fair maiden."

"Regardless of who wins, you'd both play into the palm of her hand." It takes quite an effort to have my acknowledgment, but the witch-medium has it fully. I acknowledge her wickedness.

"Yes, perhaps," he agrees. Then a peculiar serene calm washes over him. "Even so, we might fight about a lot of things, that priest and I."

"How so?"

"Like I said, about a lot of things. Largely about his god, I think."

"You believe life after death exists, but not gods?"

"It's hard to believe one such being alone created this world, everything in it and the universe that surrounds it. And as for polytheistic religions, it's hard to believe any such being has complete control over its supposed domain," he explains. "Besides, I'm. . . I've seen life after death, but I've never met a god. I'd be a fool to accept its existence entirely when I've not seen one with my own eyes."

He used to think the opposite, before when we were still living in an orphanage. It was a Catholic institute, therefore we were raised to worship God. He manifested his abilities early and was able to talk to the departed, but he did not know what they were at first. It wasn't long, however, when he realized that his 'imaginary friends' weren't imaginary at all. He began to question himself then, asking himself what was real and what was not. He began to question God. Being adopted by a dedicated parapsychologist only solidified his doubt.

"I agree with you on this," I nod. "Religion believes in miracles, but these aren't compatible with science."

"There you go again," he chuckles, a hint of wistfulness distorting the air around him. "Idiot scientist."

"You didn't answer the original question, Gene," I remind him. "Do you believe in Heaven?"

"I'm not sure," he says as he looks into the sky and gazes into an empty space far away. "I mean . . ."

He fiddles with his fingers, reaching up to his collar and taking the perched sunglasses, playing with them as well. The alien blankness invades his features once again, and I wonder to myself if I have been wearing the same mask all this time.

"I want to believe in Heaven, but I don't believe in God. How can I go to Heaven if I think the chap who owns the place isn't even real?"

"As the faerie story goes, be a good boy and you'll find a place in Heaven," I reassure, yet my voice brims of uncertainty.

"But I am not a good boy, Noll," he hisses. "I can't follow the Ten Commandments! Although I have not committed murder or adultery, did not steal or covet, I have uttered hundreds of lies, even if most are minor. I cannot, for the life of me, remember when the Sabbath day is, I use the expression 'Oh my god' incessantly, I have several idols, and how can I have other gods before God when I don't even believe in Him or any others at all?!"

Surprised and overwhelmed, my mind blanks and shuts down, unable to produce a proper response to his outburst. Instead, I stare like a fool as he folds into himself. He lowers his head into his knees, then he hugs his thighs. Still, stationary, unmoving, for an endless moment, he stays that way.

"Gene," I murmur as I clasp a hunched shoulder. And it is all I say; I do not know what I should say. It comes across my mind to console him—tell him Heaven is real, God is real, everything will be fine, but I stop myself, lips hanging open in indecision. Those words will only upset him more. He hates it when I lie to him, even if it's for his sake.

I won't be accepted into Heaven, Noll, he says, a strangled whisper through telepathy. I'm . . . I've never. . . Noll, I hate our parents—our birth parents. I cannot honor them. I cannot forgive them for abandoning us. I have failed to follow yet another rule, and this is my heaviest sin. I will not be accepted into Heaven.

"I'm sure you will, Gene. . . I'm sure you will. . ." It's hard to convince him like this, when I myself don't believe in what I am saying. "You'll—"

"All I see is darkness!" he exclaims as he lifts his head to face me, ignoring my weak consolation. There is a crazed urgency in his actions, in the unshed tears he refuses to release. "I-I'm scared. . . afraid. . . terrified because your theory is correct. There is nothing after death. Nothing. No others to talk to, no means to travel, no Light to follow. I know I've been saying 'Go to the Light' whenever I've cleansed spirits before, but I've never seen it then and I don't see it now and I don't know how find it, Noll. I. . ."

"Then don't find it," I insist, lifting both hands to cradle his face, searching for acquiesce in the stubborn frown on his lips, in the despair shrouding his eyes. "Don't go. Stay here with me."

"Noll. . ." And he breaks down. Torrents of unshed tears fall gracelessly, streaking his cheeks with lines of glistening pain. His whole body shakes as he cries soundless sobs, and it is more painful for me to watch him this way, forcing himself to stay quiet so as not to let me hear.

"Don't go," I repeat, folding him into my embrace. It was all I could do not to sob with him, not to tell him, 'Take me with you'. It would pain him more should I utter these words. But even as I stay mum, he hears my plea.

"I'm sorry, Noll. I'm so so sorry," he whispers. "I have to go. I can't stay. I can't take you with me."

"Will you visit me again?" My voice breaks, barely able to ask this question.

"I don't know if I can. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He strokes my head up and down, back and forth. Like he used to during our childhood to calm me whenever I was on the verge of having another destructive psychokinetic 'episode'. "Take care of Martin and Luella, okay? And everyone in SPR, too. You should get out of your office once in a while, eat your vegetables, cut back on the tea, sleep more, don't let yourself get sick. . ."

"I will, just don't go." I clutch him tighter, hugging him closer.

"Noll, I can't stay. I need to go now," he tells me again, and I notice his tears have already stopped flowing—a wordless message. Be strong, don't cry. "I-I'm not going to Heaven yet, I'm just going back to sleep, so wish me luck for the future."

Don't go, don't go. Please don't leave me.

Wake up now, Noll. I can't go back to sleep if you don't break the connection.

I won't, I can't, I don't want to.

Wake up, Noll.

Don't leave me alone, Aniki. Don't leave me. Don't go, please—

. . . Wake up.

—ake . . . p.

W—ke up —oll . . .

. . . Noll . . .

"Noll, honey, it's time to wake up. We're going to be late for the funeral."

-:-:-:-:-

A/N: Welp. Did the dam burst? Mine did, haha... when I was writing their debate about beliefs. It was extremely hard to pull off, dammit.

I know someone else who cried XD Super duper special thanks to archangelBBQ for everything. The monstrosities called loopy wordings, awkward sentences, drunken use of tense and blablabla could never have been vanquished if not for you~

Thank you so much for reading! Tell me your thoughts too!

*Credits to my homie Stephen Hawking for Noll's 'brain-computer' analogy.

Shameless plug: Actually, this is a sequel (or prequel? I'm not really sure...) to a Gene-centric oneshot I've been working on since November last year. But yeah. I can't finish it just yet. Isn't it ironic that I finished writing this in just a day and a half? Anyhoo, be sure to check that one out too when (if) I finish it!

Edited: 04.15.15

Word Count: 3,333 (not symbolic or anything, i'm just giddy about it 'cause it matches with Crooked Angles' word count ;D )