I Hope You Write (i Hope We Both Write)

I have the biggest dick in 40 square miles

Memory - Sinclair Brothers

fic based off of this little idea i had <3 just the boys when they were younger!

WORD COUNT: 3050

WARNINGS: angst, general sadness underneath happy moments, abuse mention/slight description, emotional/physical/mental abuse, neglect, young!sinclairs, pre-movie, not a warning but vincent signs but idk if i make it super clear all the way through it, dead animal mention, animal cruelty? the animal is dead but just incase, underage drinking, things could be ooc but they’re kids so, twins are 13 about to turn 14 and lester is 8

Vincent sat at the edge of the forest, chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. His mask was off, placed gently beside him on his jacket to keep it off of the ground, and his hair had fallen into his face. It stunk of his house, of his mothers perfume, and he swore it was smothering him just like she was. “Vincent!” Lester’s voice calls out for him from within the forest and he looks up from his shoes (Bo’s old ones he had given to Vincent after he grew out of them) and couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

His younger brother, a whopping eight years old since yesterday, comes sauntering out of the forest covered head to toe in dirt, a big gap-toothed grin on his face. “Hey, Lester.” Vincent signs slowly, grinning wider at the intense look Lester has while watching his hands move. Lester was starting to get the hang of understanding Vincent’s signing so long as he kept it slow. Vincent can remember just a few years ago when Bo and Vincent would fight in sign at night as to not wake their parents and Lester would sit perched on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together in his lap and his mouth open in awe as he watched how quickly the boys hands’ moved.

“Hiya!” When he’s a few feet from Vincent, Lester takes one final large hop, landing just in front of his older brother. Gravel goes everywhere and Lester giggles, kicking at the rocks under his feet slightly. Vincent notices the hole beginning to form in the front of his shoes and makes a mental note to find a pair around the house for him. “Where’s Bo? Up at the garage?”

Both boys turn their heads to the right, looking over at the garage further down in town. They couldn’t see anyone but Vincent knew that’s where Bo was because that’s where he always was these days. Vincent couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous of the time Bo spent with Charlie, the mechanic. He had grown used to his brother being by his side, kicking and screaming and hollering every second, and his absence was noticed immediately. To some, like his parents, his being gone was good. But to Vincent, it wasn’t. He knew Bo, knew that he wanted out of this town and out of this life.

He wanted to get away from it all and that meant Vincent too.

Not that Vincent blamed him; quite the opposite, actually. He grew up in close quarters with Bo, saw the way he was strapped to his high chair for hours on end until his wrists bled only for it to happen the next day and then the next. He saw the bruises and cuts that littered his body when he’d get ready for bed. He heard the things his parents said about Bo to his face and he sure as hell heard what they said when he was gone. He wanted Bo to go, but not without him.

“Knew it!” Lester says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What’s up with ‘ya, Vin? Thought you was with momma today?” Vincent cringes at the reminder and Lester instantly stops moving, sensing it. The kid had a good read on people’s emotions, always ready to listen or help when someone, even his mom or dad, were feeling down. Vincent can’t remember the last time he did that for Lester. “Somethin’ happen?”

Vincent nods and Lester flops down in front of him, sitting criss-crossed. Lester waits for him to sign and, after shaking away the feeling of being silly, he does. “Momma got mad because I’m still not good at the sculptures. She’s getting weaker and she needs me to help her but I can’t. I’m bad at it.” His face scrunches up slightly, head tilting down further. He was embarrassed.

Here he was, 13 going on 14, telling his problems to his little brother, a kid who doesn’t need to know about how mom threw Vincent’s sculpture of her against the wall of the basement, shattering the wax into a million shards in tune with his already broken heart. He doesn’t need to know the details, he decides as his hands fall back into his lap. Lester had been spared from both their parents' rage (for the most part) thus far but only because they were too preoccupied directing that anger at him and Bo. Especially Bo.

“Well, that ain’t true, Vin! You’re awesome at all that stuff!” Lester says and Vincent knows Lester believes that, but he also knows it’s not true. He was alright at art, at sculpting things from his mind, things he had seen in movies or read about in books, but he wasn’t good at the realistic stuff, not like his mom. “Is it ‘cause of the… real stuff?”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah,” Lester is sheepish as he admits it, looking away from Vincent and down to the dirt ground underneath him. “Snuck down one night while momma and daddy were talkin’ to you and Bo about it. I ain’t telling anyone, don’t worry!”

“Lester,” Lester wonders for a brief second how Vincent was able to get his disappointment across as well as he did without speaking, but he simply thins his lips into an apologetic half-smile. “Don’t tell them you know.” There’s an unspoken sentence there that hangs in between them both. Or else they’ll hurt you. Lester holds his pinky out and Vincent’s lip curves upwards as he does the same, hooking his around his little brothers. “It was about that.” He signs when he lets go and Lester nods, eyebrows furrowing together.

Vincent can practically see the gears turning in Lesters little head and he can hear the ‘ding!’ of a lightbulb go off. “Oh, I know! Why don’t you practice!” Vincent waits for Lester to elaborate, not moving a muscle even when Lester jumps up in excitement. “C’mon! I gotta show ya’ somethin’!”

Lester holds his small hand out to his older brother and Vincent takes it, following behind him into the woods without a single question. Even if this was nothing, which Vincent was seven hundred percent sure it wasn’t, the distraction would be nice. He hadn’t been out here in a while.

The last time he had, it had been with Bo. It was a year or so ago, back when Bo and he were attached at the hip, as if the surgery hadn’t worked, and they had gotten grounded and sent to bed with no supper. Bo had suggested they sneak out and Vincent agreed; he’d follow Bo anywhere. That ‘anywhere’ ended up being the middle of the woods, just beside the creek. “I go here when I needa get the hell outta the house.” Bo had said to Vincent, his voice quiet.

The woods had been dark and it had seemed like every noise was amplified, making Vincent’s skin crawl. The flashlight he was holding wasn’t strong enough, just seemed to make the shadows jump out more, make them take the shape of the bullies at school and at home. “Bo, I’m scared.” Vincent had signed to him and Bo had just laughed, slowing his pace down to walk beside his brother.

“Ain't nothin’ to be scared of, Vince.” He said when they finally made it to the spot by the creek that Bo had set out for. “You and I are the scariest sons of bitches these woods have seen. I’ll protect ya, anyways. Just like I always do.” Bo then showed Vincent the bottle of whiskey he had stolen from their fathers a few weeks back and had grinned when Vincent took a sip without a fight. “See! You’re a man!”

It only took another small swig of the liquor to have Vincent feeling different and he stopped there, remembering how his dad got when he drank too much. Bo stopped too, tucking it back into his backpack and hiding it underneath his jacket. Then they sat there, staring off back into the town, the lights from houses flickering off as the minutes ticked by. Vincent had tapped Bo on the shoulder and when he looked at him, he started to sign.

“I’m sorry for not protecting you.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, Vince?”

“From mom and dad.” Bo’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t stop Vincent and he’s glad because he keeps going, whiskey running through his veins. “I should stand up to them for you. It ain’t fair the way you get treated, the way they make you out to be bad. You aren’t bad. You’re better than me, that’s for sure.”

“Now, stop that.” Bo says dryly. “You know I ain’t better than you. Everyone knows it.”

“You are,” Vincent emphasizes, almost like he’s desperate for Bo to really understand him. “You take care of people. You don’t have to defend me from the kids in school but you do. You don’t have to take the blame for me so mom and dad don’t hurt me. You don’t have to make sure Les and I are taken care of.”

“You’re my brother.”

“And you’re mine.”

Bo huffs but through the dimmed flashlight beam Vincent can see his words have struck him. He hopes its in a good way. “Guess I am pretty cool,” He deflects, grinning at his brother. Vincent smiles back; he’d take what he could get from Bo. Bo looked back over at the town, now completely dark. “Imma get us outta here, Vince. You, me, Lester; we ain’t getting stuck in this rotten place, not if I have anything to do about it.”

After that night, Bo seemed to change. He was quieter, more subdued. He stayed out at the garage, learning about cars and how to fix them, how to drive them. It was a part of the plan to get them all out of there but the longer it went on and the longer Bo would stay out, the less certain he was about his brother's intentions on taking them with him.

He knew who he was without his brother. He was a freak. He was the one to target, to pick on and make cry and make hurt. He was the thing to point and laugh at because there was no one around to defend him.

Without Bo, Vincent was nothing. It was selfish to want Bo back and he would end each prayer he made asking for Bo to stay with him with an apology. To whom exactly, he wasn’t sure. Maybe God for bothering him with such requests. Maybe Bo for asking for it knowing how it would hurt him. Maybe himself for not believing in his own abilities to survive.

Every prayer and apology went unanswered.

“Here we are, Vin!” Lester’s voice brings Vincent barreling back to reality. He was no longer in his bedroom, waiting for the creak of the floorboard to signify his brother's return, but instead deep in the forest, just by the creek. He recognizes the surroundings immediately. Swallowing hard he walks over to Lester who was standing a few feet away, shifting his weight foot to foot in excitement. “Lookit!”

Vincent finally reaches his younger brother and looks down at where he was pointing and tilts his head. There was a dead squirrel. “A… squirrel? You wanted to show me this?” He knew Lester was into dead animals and roadkill, knew he had a strange fascination with them, but he had never dragged him twenty minutes deep into the woods to show him one before.

“Yeah! Its not all mangled, not like the ones I find out on the road!” Lester waits for Vincent to understand and when he gets nothing but a shrug of the shoulders he deflates slightly. “I…I figured you could use it to practice. Y’know, momma surely didn’t start with people, I figured if you had something smaller to work on, you could get the tech… technique down, right?”

“You know what, Les?” Vincent bends down, grabbing a stick just next to him and using it to carefully lift the corpse of the squirrel up, surveying the damage. He swallows down the bile rising up his throat and the goosebumps raising on his flesh at the sight of it. Vincent looks up, dropping the stick and looking into Lester’s hopeful eyes. “I think that just might work.”

--------

It didn’t look right. His mother had gone to bed early and his father was surely drinking himself to death, so when Vincent and Lester got back to the house as the sun was setting, they had the basement all to themselves. “Can I watch you, Vin? Oh please, please, let me! I wanna see how you do it!” Lester had pleaded, hands clasped together and bottom lip jutted out. Vincent laughed at the sight of Lester fluttering his lashes at him and had agreed.

Hours later, well past both boys' bedtimes, Vincent had finally finished the last layer of wax, had smoothed it out carefully like he had done to his own figures hundreds of times before. It looked off, though. Too thin in some places, too thick in others, not enough detailing here and there and almost too much in other parts. Vincent grunts, arms folded tightly across his chest. Lester stood beside him, head tilting side to side like an art critic in one of the movies Vincent had seen before.

“It looks so cool!” Lester finally says, looking up at Vincent with a large grin. Vincent shakes his head, lifting his hands to begin to tell Lester everything that was wrong with it, when Lester shakes his head. “Can I keep it, Vin? It’s awesome! It looks just like a wax sculpture but you’d never know the real thing was underneath!”

“You really wanna keep this thing? I could try to make a better one…” Vincent questions and Lester nods quickly, eagerly, hand reaching out to drag along the tail of the squirrel lightly. “Well… if you’re sure you want it, then yeah, go ahead.”

Lester hugs Vincent tight, his little arms barely wrapping around the broadening frame of his brother and Vincent hugs him back, heart swirling with warmth. “Oh, thank you Vincent! You’re the best big brother ever!”

“What about me? Am I chopped liver or somethin’ Les?” Lester and Vincent turn, still hugging each other, and see Bo at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the walls with a fake frown on his face. He was wearing mechanic overalls a size too big but his name was embroidered right there on the front pocket. “I see how it is, kid.”

Lester giggles, letting go of Vincent and running over to Bo, grabbing his hand and pulling him over to the table where Vincent’s sculpture sat. “Lookit! There's a real squirrel under this, ain’t that cool Bo? Don’t touch!” Bo gasps in shock when Lester swats at his hand. “You’re all greasy! I don’t want this to get messed up! Vinny made it for me, he’s lettin’ me keep it, can you believe that?”

“Don’t hit, you little brat!” Bo says but there’s no venom behind his words. Vincent watches with bated breath as Bo leans down and tilts his head, much like Lester, as he looks it over. Vincent can see every damn flaw on the thing and he’s sure Bo can too. Bo looks over at him with a cocked eyebrow. “You made this with a real squirrel?”

“Yeah,” He signs sheepishly. “Lester thought it would help me get better if I practiced with this stuff.” Bo nods, eyes trailing off towards the corner where most of Vincent's current projects sat and he hones in on the shards covering the floor. His eyes darken when he looks back at Vincent. “It was momma. I messed up the sculpture.”

Bo sucks his teeth harshly, lips thinning into an angry line. “Sure as hell ain't true; your shit’s better than momma’s half the time and that squirrel ain’t an exception.” Lester gasps at the swear word and Bo stifles a laugh with a cough. “Sorry, Les, forgot you were here. Don’t go repeatin’ that now, alright? Not till you’re older. Now,” He picks Lester up and the young boy yawns, resting his head onto his shoulder and Bo nods his head for Vincent to grab ahold of the squirrel. “Let’s all get to bed before we get in trouble.”

After tucking Lester in his bed and placing the squirrel on his small bookshelf beside the small collection of animal bones he had begun to collect, Bo and Vincent silently settle into their own beds. “Vince? You up?” Bo asks in the darkness and Vincent lets out a soft grunt in acknowledgement. “I meant what I said about your shit being better than mommas.”

Vincent doesn’t know what to say, so he remains quiet. Bo sighs, turning over in bed so his back was no longer turned from his brother and he stares at him, waiting. “Thanks, Bo. She’s really good, though. I’m not good at the…stuff she wants us to do. No one else knows about it but us.”

“I know.” Bo hates it too, but he knows better than to disagree with his mom. He’s quiet for a minute and right when Vincent thinks he had fallen asleep, Bo starts to talk again. “I’m getting a car fixed up. Gonna be able to leave soon.”

“Really? All of us, or just you?”

“All of us.”

A million questions run through his head. Where would they go? What would they do? Where would they stay? What would happen to their mom and dad? Bo knows the questions he has but he doesn’t have any answers. Vincent grunts again and the two boys fall silent. They could leave. Really leave. He could make his own art, Bo could learn about music, Lester could do whatever he wanted. They could figure it out. They could get out from the iron rule of their parents and be who they wanted to be, do what they wanted. They could be free.

All three boys fall asleep with smiles on their faces. All three boys dream of a fire in the House of Wax.

Cursed Sinclair Brothers Headcanons No One Asked For:

Bo:

Wears black socks with sandals.

Knows all the moves to Footlose and 75 miles until Heaven from “Best little Whore House in Texas”

Has been seen singing into the hand of his tools/knives while in the middle of killing people.

He has a “Dance” playlist that he listens to time to time, and he dances to it while fixing cars and killing.

Actually, while he was in the basement with a victim, he started singing “I wanna Dance with Somebody”. And the victim came in with the backup.

Vincent:

Also knows the moves to “75 Miles until Heaven”.

Jump scares his brothers all the time! Like, he is known to hide and jump out of nowhere! Trees, bushes, the roof— nowhere is safe.

What he wears to bed: a pair of duck slippers that quack every time he walks, wears hair curlers, and a bright pink bathrobe. He also does those green face masks, too, with cucumber slices on his eyes.

His coffee mug says: “Too Pretty for this Shit”

Lester:

Can quote the whole Bee Movie.

Eats coffee grinds after being used to make coffee.

One time, he barked at Bo while arguing with him. It went like this:

Bo: *yelling at him*

Lester: bark bark bark bark!

Bo: …

Lester: …

Vincent: …

Bo: What the fuck!?

They never talk about it still to this day.

He wears these on Sundays to piss Bo off:

Security Blanket

This doesn't even almost do it justice, but this post by @skylarsblue and this piece by @minilev made me feel some type of way so I tried to spin up the scene in my head real fast.

900 words. Emotional hurt/comfort. Description of night terrors and panic attacks and thoughts of self-harm.

He wakes up in the kitchen this time.  Standing barefoot in the middle of the floor, soaked to the bone with sweat, chest heaving like he just outran the devil. 

His brain knows where he is but his body doesn’t and the dark room is spinning around him and he staggers to the sink like he’s drunk and about to throw up, and he might throw up, but he’s stone cold sober. 

He slumps against the edge of the countertop and waits for it to pass.  For it all to pass.  For his skin to stop crawling, the stinging in his eyes to go away.  For the echo of her screeching to fade back into memory. 

He listens intently to the silence of the house as the ringing in his ears diminishes.  If he was screaming, he’ll hear Vincent scrabbling up the stairs to make sure he hasn’t found a knife or something.  Something his subconscious knows how to use.  Minutes pass, or maybe seconds.  Vincent doesn’t appear. 

The tension won’t leave his body for hours, but he wishes it would.  He can’t unclench his jaw and his shoulders are hunched like he’s waiting for a blow.  The veins in his arms are bulging beneath the skin, knuckles white. 

His wrists fucking itch. 

When at last his mind clears enough to let him peel his fingers off the edge of the sink, lets him dig his nails into his skin instead, he turns to face the house.  He tries inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth even though that has never worked.  He tries reciting things he’s sure of in his head, but every time he gets to his name he hears it in her voice.  He starts to spiral. 

It’s a funny thing, to know your fear is unfounded and be trapped in the throes of it anyway.  He can’t catch his breath.  He’s lightheaded.  He feels watched.  One time he swears he saw her, standing just around the corner, peering at him with beady eyes like pinpricks in the darkness.  The memory triggers a visceral reaction and he doubles over like he’s been kicked; he can’t do that again, he can’t, it'll end him; he is sinking to the floor and burying his face in his arms. 

His wrists fucking itch. 

He’s panting, mind racing, muscles howling.  He’s scratching and he can’t stop.  If he looks up, she’ll be there, he knows it, he can sense it.  He can feel her staring at him.  He’s three years old, he’s five years old, he’s twelve, he’s seventeen, and he’s scared, and she’s so angry.  She’s everywhere, fucking everywhere, can’t stay dead, can’t stay away, and there’s just one thing she hates more than she hates him and he remembers and it takes everything he has to lick his dry lips and muster up a quavering whistle.  It barely carries in the choke of the darkness.

Moments later the sound of a thump on the stairs and nails skittering on wood pulls a strangled sob from the constriction of his throat.  There’s a cheerful jingle jingle and then the snuff of a damp nose on his forearm, and then a very warm, very wet tongue is lapping at the marks in his skin. 

His mother loathed dogs.  As a kid, a puppy was all he wanted.  As an adult, he couldn’t make sense of why you’d want another mouth to feed.  An endless supply of messes to clean up.  But he never could say no to Lester. 

And now on the floor in the dark, he grabs that mongrel like she’s the last living thing on earth besides him and pulls her to his chest, and she lets him because she’s a good dog.  She laps awkwardly at his face before she settles and sighs and he almost starts crying.  She allows him to squeeze her for many long minutes, her baleful eyes sweeping over the benign expanse of the kitchen, keeping watch for ghosts while he struggles to catch his breath. 

They sit on the floor for the better part of an hour. 

He lets go of her slowly when the paralysis starts to fade, and she stands up and shakes herself before turning back and nudging his hand so he knows she hasn’t left him.  It takes him a long time to stand up, and she watches him closely.  When he finally shuffles out of the kitchen, she is on his heels, waiting for her moment. 

The stairs are insurmountable.  He collapses on the couch.  The poor, mutilated thing barely has any stuffing left and he sinks into the familiar hole worn into the cushions, exhausted body and soul.  He lifts his hand to pat his lap and she’s already up, already stepping gingerly across his legs, shooting him apologetic glances as she turns around twice out of obligation and then sprawls across his middle. 

He exhales with finality.  His muscles are twitching with exertion.  The weight of her on his ribs grounds him in his body in this time, this place.  He is not three, or five, or twelve, or seventeen.  His mother is dead.  He has a dog. 

She’s warm under his hand, her fur coarse and dusty.  She stinks like roadkill and the reek of her breath clings to his hands and arms.  She huffs and lays her head on her paws and he gives her silky ear a flop.  His breathing is level.  He unclenches his jaw. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles as his eyes slip closed.  He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep, but he does, quickly, and his dreams are painless. 

The dog sleeps too.  

my little brother & i are having a scholarly debate about mornings

my bad for assuming everyone has critical thinking skills btw

idk what to caption anymore 

MY MOLECULES HAVE STARTED TURNING PINK

for april fools we’re deleting this entire site sayonara you weeaboo shits

the two rats hiding in the cupboards eating all the cheese and crackers