Work Text:
The story of Aaron Michael Minyard goes like this:
Aaron Michael Minyard was born to Tilda Minyard who was once married to a drug and alcohol addict. She became a widow after her husband decided to off himself one day. Unnamed (and unmentioned) father apparently didn't die without hooking Tilda with the same addiction. Sweet dearest Aaron grew up with Tilda leaving him mostly alone (since, unbelievable as it was, she had a part time job) in their cramped apartment with thin walls that let the noises of their unruly neighbors disturbed him from his naps. He wasn't a crybaby, he stopped being a crybaby ever since mommy told him not to ever cry because the sounds he made irritated mommy. So one day when their neighbors were at it again, sweet dearest Aaron woke up and couldn't help crying because it was already dark but mommy was nowhere to be seen; he was alone and the monsters were just on the other side.
Sweet dearest Aaron wished mommy didn’t leave him alone only with his teddy. Their neighbors didn’t sound like they were going to stop anytime soon so he clutched teddy tightly crying — wishing — he had a brother who’d make the loud scary monsters go away.
After an hour or so of sobs and snots, Tilda finally reached their humble abode, only to find sweet dearest Aaron crying along with the commotion that their neighbors were still making at an ungodly hour. She was drunk; she decided to have her well-deserved break by drinking with her co-workers, so when she saw sweet dearest Aaron making a ruckus of his own — Tilda saw red.
This is how our little Aaron grew up:
Sweet dearest Aaron was only three when his mommy threw the vase and any other stuff she could grab at his direction because he was making such a ruckus. He later woke up with mommy — who was beside him — holding him, he felt a bit heavy and fuzzy; when he reached for his head it was wrapped up with something white (what he would later learn the word for was gauze) and when he looked down he found the same material also wrapped around his feet.
Little Aaron just recently turned four when his mommy reached home late that night shouting the name 'Josef' over and over again. His mommy was stinky with that bad smell so Aaron knew his mommy wasn't really his mommy that time that’s why he decided to ask her who Josef was tomorrow morning when she came back.
The next day, late that afternoon, little Aaron was at the park an ice cream cone held by his tiny hands, new yellowish bruises adorned his arms and legs. He never found out who Josef was and never tried again.
Josef. Why? Andrew. I’m sorry.
Aaron was six when his mom started to laugh uncontrollably while she clutched a container of (unprescribed) pills. Aaron started school that year so he busied himself with the assignments his teacher gave them – he closed the door of his room and let her be.
Josef. Why?
Josef. Why?
Josef. Why?
Aaron was seven when he first met his Uncle Luther, Aunt Maria, and his cousin, Nicho— Nicky. Nicky was nice and fun. They played videos games and he gave Aaron sweets.
Andrew. I’m sorry.
Later that year he and Tilda moved near the Hemmicks. There was no Josef nor Andrew there at Columbia. But Aaron knew better than to ask Tilda who Josef or Andrew was. He already learned his lesson four years ago.
Andrew. I’m sorry.
Ten was the age that Aaron started to crunk with his mom.
Andrew. I’m sorry.
Aaron was eleven when Nicky left for that camp. Twelve, when he came back to resume his remaining years in high school only to leave again for an exchange program in Germany. Thirteen, for his high school graduation only to leave Aaron for Erik. No one was nice and fun anymore.
“I’m sorry, Andrew.”
Now, this is the part where little Aaron’s wish do came true:
“Andrew!”
Aaron was familiar with the name but he didn’t dare look who was calling ‘Andrew’ (the embarrassment from all the Andrews he met was enough to last him this lifetime) until someone grabbed his shoulder. He saw a police officer who was panting, clutching his shoulder with a death grip.
He said, “My name’s Aaron,” once the policeman caught his breath.
“Who’s Andrew?”
Tilda was screaming (and throwing things) but not at him this time. She locked herself inside her room but her raised voice was still heard all the way to his room. She was yelling, at his Uncle Luther who was forcing her to recount, to explain, to clarify, if she really did have twins why was he never informed, how could she have given both of them up after a day of being born, only giving them names — Aaron Michael and Andrew Joseph — and just to get one of the twins back the next morning leaving the other one behind.
“Goddamn it, Luther! I never forgot about Andrew!”
“I’m really sorry, Andrew.”
That night he wrote a letter to his brother — no his twin — only to receive a letter later on with a “fuck off” scribbled with a handwriting that was almost not as different as his own.
Andrew was sent to Juvie. Uncle Luther convinced Tilda. They were on their way to get Andrew.
It took more than a year for everything to work out.
Aaron was fifteen when he finally saw Andrew again.
They were fifteen.
He has a brother. He has a twin. Andrew. He found out who Andrew was. They were finally going to be a family — together.
He made a deal with Andrew.
Five months later Tilda died.
((And Aaron said he hated Andrew but he knew it was a lie because he could never hate Andrew. It wasn’t Andrew’s fault — it was his no one’s.))
They are twins — not alike — through and through.