Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/304908.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      That_Guy_with_the_Glasses
  Relationship:
      Nostalgia_Critic/Ask_That_Guy
  Character:
      The_Nostalgia_Critic, Ask_That_Guy
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Twincest, Evil_Twins, Abusive_Parents, Revenge,
      Imagination, Junior_Prom, Secret_Santa_Christ_1, Explicit_Language
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-27 Words: 1745
****** It's All About You ******
by aspermoth
Summary
     Doug and Guy are forced to miss their junior prom. Guy doesn't mind,
     but Doug does, so Guy tries to make it up to him. Twins!verse AU.
  This work was inspired by
      TGWTG_Twins!Verse_AU by twetwe123
It was the night of Guy and Doug's junior prom, a hot, sticky evening with the
threat of rain in the air, and Doug was lying half-naked on the linoleum floor
of the bathroom, trying to get cool and sulking as hard as any seventeen-year-
old had ever sulked before. No, harder. Harder than any other teenager had ever
sulked before in the history of the world. If Doug sulked, then it had to be
the best damn sulk in the entire world. In the history of the world. In the
history of forever.
It was the night of their junior prom. A night when they could have some fun. A
night when they'd planned to spike the punch with the bottle of Dad's vodka
they'd sneaked just to see what happened, and maybe make-out in the bathroom
with a few people and each other. But you need tickets and a tux to go to prom,
and you can't get either if your dad has drunk all the money. Guy didn't care
all that much – he was convinced that they could have far more fun at home,
which was true – but it bothered Doug and he wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was because they'd had all those plans on how to make the evening
exciting. Maybe it was because it was a once in a lifetime experience, junior
prom. Or maybe it was because the lino had warmed up from his body heat and he
was now stuck to it with his own sweat. Whatever the reason, he was irritated,
and he didn't think that even Guy could make him feel better.
It wasn't like when they were kids, when all Guy had to do was bring him his
bear and everything was okay again. It was more complicated now. It was more
difficult. It was more... adult.
Doug sighed and slowly sat up, wincing as the damp skin of his back peeled
painfully away from the lino, like pulling off a band-aid. Maybe he'd feel
better if he got in the bath tub. That'd be cooler, right?
A loud banging. Somebody rapping hard on the door. Doug jumped, body tensing
against his will, but then he heard a voice and that voice was a mirror of his
own: Guy's.
"Are you still sulking about prom?"
Doug hesitated briefly, then grouchily responded, "No."
He heard Guy laugh softly, and imagined his disbelieving smile, the little
shake of his head, almost patronising. Usually, he didn't mind, or even liked
it: but today, it annoyed him.
"What do you want?" he snapped, then felt bad for snapping. It wasn't Guy's
fault, after all. It was Dad's. It always was, unless it was Mom's, of course.
"I've got a surprise waiting for you in the kitchen."
Despite himself, Doug perked up, attention well and truly caught and spirits
lifting ever so slightly. Whenever Guy had a surprise for him, it was always...
interesting.
"What kinda surprise?"
"Well if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?" Damn his common
sense. "Kitchen, Doug. Five minutes. Be there."
Doug listened to his twin's footsteps as they travelled down the hall – pad,
pad, pad, pad – then down the stairs – creak, creak, creak, creak – and off
into silence. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Part of him
didn't want to go, a small stupid-ass part of him that just wanted to kick and
scream and sulk like a five-year-old and never come out of the bathroom again,
but the rest of him was too busy metaphorically jumping that part in a back
alley of his brain and sticking broken glass under its fingernails for being
retarded. Surprises from Guy were rare and often totally fucking sweet. He'd be
a complete idiot not to go downstairs.
Yet still he wavered, undecided, until the stupid part of him finally flapped
and screeched its last in the metaphorical back alley and he decided to hell
with it, he was going downstairs. He sat there on the floor, legs crossed,
waiting impatiently until he was sure five months had passed, let alone five
minutes, then stood up and made for the door.
The house was silent. Dad was probably out again. Only God knew what had
happened to Mom, and only God really cared. He made his way down the hall,
making sure to tiptoe past Mom and Dad's bedroom. Maybe it was his imagination,
but he thought he could hear Mom crying. Curious, he paused. Definitely crying.
He reached out for the door handle, slowly twisted it and gave it a gentle
push. It opened maybe a quarter of an inch then came into contact with
something hard and stopped.
Standard procedure then. Mom and Dad fight, Dad goes out to get shit-faced, Mom
cries in the bedroom with the dresser pulled in front of the door, same old,
same old. Doug closed the door again. The crying never stopped, never changed
volume or pitch. She hadn't even noticed the door open. All the better for him,
really.
He moved on.
Down the hall – pad, pad, pad, pad – and down the stairs – creak, creak, creak,
creak. He started to speak as he turned the corner to the kitchen.
"I'm here, Guy, what's the sur–"
His words failed him mid-sentence and shock froze him in place, staring, mouth
agape.
The kitchen was covered in blood, redness everywhere. Wild splashes across the
cabinets, gory pools on the tiles, thick smears on the counters. And in the
middle of it all, stained and spattered and grinning like a lunatic, arms
spread wide like a benevolent messiah, stood his twin Guy.
For a wild moment, Doug was convinced that Dad had come home early and Guy had
killed him and hidden the body, and that idea sickened him to his very core.
When Dad died, he wanted to fucking see it. He opened his mouth to say
something, then closed it again. There was something wrong here.
He looked around. Sure looked like blood. But there was something missing. What
was it?
Wait.
The smell.
Doug gave a good, long sniff. Nothing. That much blood would stink to high
heaven, but he couldn't smell a single thing. There was no way this was real.
Dad must be still alive – well, for now. He almost sighed with relief, stepping
into the kitchen, bare feet soon reddened and tacky with the fake blood, and
reaching out to touch a wide, wild streak on the nearest counter. It was
sticky. Very sticky. Almost too sticky.
"What is this stuff?" he asked.
Guy's grin was nearly splitting his face in two.
"Oh, a little corn syrup, some cherry Kool-Aid powder, some chocolate syrup.
We're all out of real blood, so I had to... improvise."
"Looks real enough." He licked the redness off the end of his finger. It tasted
like cherry-chocolate with half a bag of sugar dumped in. "Tastes good too.
What's it for?"
"Prom!"
Doug frowned. "Prom?"
"Prom."
Guy finally lowered his spread arms and all but skipped over to the stereo,
switching it on with a flick of the wrist. Music started to play, some golden
oldie slow-dance song that Doug had never heard before.
"It's your dream prom, Doug. It's all about you. Come dance with me."
He reached out a hand. And without hesitation, Doug reached out, took it, let
Guy pull him in close and started to sway with him to the music, their sticky
red feet leaving sticky red prints on the white tiles. And Doug had to admit
that it was good, that it felt nice to have his twin's warm body pressed
against him despite the heat and humidity, but a dream prom? No.
But then Guy leant his head close to Doug's shoulder and began to talk, soft
whispered words into his ear, conjuring the imagined into reality.
"We did it, Doug. We killed them together, you and I. We killed Mom and Dad.
You distracted them and I snuck up behind them with a knife and slit their
throats. See their blood? We're dancing in it. They're dead and we're dancing
in their blood."
Doug shivered, breath catching in his throat, imagination taking Guy's words
and spinning them a reality. The sugary concoction through which they danced
took on a new life before his eyes and turned into the genuine article, hot and
fresh from their parents' throats. He could almost smell it, sourly sweet, iron
and copper and rust and salt.
"Then we chopped off their heads. Look, by the sink. We hung their heads on
hooks so we can see them and so they know we won."
Doug looked over Guy's shoulder and there, over the sink. Meathooks, and jammed
on the ends, their parents' disembodied heads, sightless eyes hanging open and
covered with a pearly sheen, Mom's expression one of desperate disappointment,
Dad's one of surly rage. Both stuck there, watching their sons desecrate the
ground where they died. He was shaking now, shaking with his want for this.
"And then we chopped up their bodies into little pieces. We tore them apart for
what they did to us and stuffed their flesh into the garbage gan."
And Doug could see it, plain as day. The garbage can was now bulging with
scraps of bloody meat and bone, the lid barely able to stay on, a single hand –
thin, feminine, boney fingers, red nail polish, Mom's – half-stuck out, as
though reaching towards them. Dead and gone. Their revenge taken. He leant
forwards and rested his head on Guy's shoulder with a small sigh and a
contented smile. This was better than any busy, loud, crowded, drink-spiked
junior prom, even one with bathroom make-outs. This was his dream prom.
Well. Almost.
Then he felt Guy's teeth rake gently across his earlobe and little electrical
jolts of sensation darted down his spine and swirled in the base of his
stomach. He let out a little desperate whine and pressed closer to Guy, so
happy he could hardly believe it. Who else would do something like this for
him? Who else could make living so utterly worthwhile? Only Guy.
So Doug pulled back, staring into the eyes of his twin, those smug, self-
satisfied eyes with their pupils blown wide and dark with lust, and he said the
three words that he knew Guy loved to hear more than any other in the world.
"Please fuck me."
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