Drib Drabs (boyxboy) (girlxgirl)

Jealousy

It was ten pm when I heard Shane's motorbike growling in the dark outside my bedroom window.

Sighing, I abandoned my tedious Geography homework, in favour of going downstairs to see my boyfriend.

Well. One of them anyway.

"Which one is it this time?" my Dad joked, dragging his eyes away from the latest headline long enough to watch as I jogged by the sitting-room.

"The bad-boy," I retorted, opening the front door.

"In that case, be home in an hour!" he called after me gruffly.

"Sure. Because I'm not nineteen." I raised my eyebrow, letting the sarcasm in my voice speak more for me, rather than actually saying "no".

"Fine. But you better call me to let me know you're alright," he warned, his tone becoming more serious.

"Okay. See you tomorrow!"

I almost didn't hear him grumble, "I hope so," under his breath, before I closed the door behind me. Choosing to ignore his little comment, I made my way over to Shane's welcoming arms.

"What's up, Nathan?"

"You. Since the moment you saw me," I flirted, simultaneously winking and smirking at him.

"True," he conceded. "Now hop on the back so we can do something about it."

I laughed, swinging my leg over the bike and settling my hips behind his. Hugging tightly onto his leather-clad midriff, I relaxed into watching the world fly by.

Once we reached his tiny apartment, I got off before him and strolled right on in. Shane lived in the "bad" part of town, which I guess went with his other-side-of-the-tracks image. Also, he couldn't hold onto a job for his life - or livelyhood, apparently - so, this was really all he could afford. As a result, his door was constantly broken down. Now he just left it, literally, always open.

As Shane came inside, he shrugged off his night coloured jacket, dropping it on the floor. He wore it to hide his painful past - and present. The one written up and down his arms in scars.

"Hey, baby," he said seductively, shutting the door behind him (okay, so maybe not always open), and moving closer, allowing me to hook my thumbs into the belt-loops of his ripped jeans and gaze up into his wonderfully brown eyes. "Want to have a good time?"

And I did.

*

I woke up happy, to see that I was in Freddie's bed, not Shane's. I could tell, because - instead of a boy - there was a note lying on the white pillow beside me.

Shane never would've left a note.

A tiny prick of guilt stabbed at me, sadness and regret seeping from the open wound, hurting my chest. I wish I wouldn't compare them constantly in my head like that. I couldn't help it, though. I was in love with both of them, not just one of them.

Don't get me wrong, here. It's not like I have a dozen guys on the go - it was just two. Two amazing, hot guys, with very different personalities. And they both knew exactly what - or, rather, who - I was doing, when I wasn't picking up the phone.

I couldn't see the writing through the sheet of paper next to my head. Definitely Freddie. Shane tended to lean on the pen more, practically ripping through the page. Picking up Freddie's note, I skimmed over his familiar writing.

Hey Nate,

I don't remember inviting you over last night, you creeper.

Breakfast's in the kitchen if you want any.

-F. X

Smiling to myself, I slowly got up, taking my time to drag myself out of the bed and down to the warm kitchen. It reminded me of honey in there, all the yellow, all the sweetness. All the sunlight.

After I'd settled myself onto a stool at the table, I asked Freddie's back what we were eating this fair morning.

He glanced back at me, straggles of his dirty-blonde hair hanging in his eyes, before answering. "Patience, young one."

"What about it?" I replied, narrowing my eyes at him half-seriously.

"It's a virtue."

"One I don't posses."

"Sadly for me," he sighed, sliding a plate full of awesome along the table towards me.

I was half-way through my full Irish breakfast (a stupidly big, ridiculously delicious fry-up) when he added, "And Shane."

Choking, I managed to splutter out something along the lines of, "I thought we weren't going to talk about him."

"No, you said you didn't want to talk about him. I never agreed," he corrected.

"Never said anything, actually," I said, pointing my finger at him accusingly. "And I took that as a silent agreement." Was it really so bad not to want to talk about one of my significant others with, well... the other one? I felt terrible enough as it was. I didn't need the extra guilt, and they had been the ones to go along with it.

Freddie had suggested it in the first place. So, really, it was his own fault.

"It's not like I wanted this," I muttered, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

"I know," he whispered sadly.

The happy mood in the kitchen dissipated suddenly, like the sun suddenly disappears behind the clouds.

Pushing himself away from the veiny marble counter-top he'd been leaning on, Freddie placed his arms around my shoulders, tangling his fingers in mine.

Closing my eyes, I ran my fingers along the scars on the inside of his forearm. The ones Shane had put there.

I pulled his small, wirey frame onto my lap. He smelt like morning, and fabric softner. I opened my eyes to peer into his familiar rusty, brown irises.

They were exactly the same as Shane's. That fact hurt more than anything.

It had been eight months since I'd walked in on Freddie in bed with someone else. Eight months since he'd camped outside my house, begging me to understand. Understand that it wasn't him. It was Shane.

Because Freddie has Dissociative Identity Disorder. Otherwise known as Multiple Personality Disorder.

When I found out, I'd decided that I'd rather date two people, than have him go out with goodness knows how many.

That if I was going to love him, I was going to love all of him - including Shane.

It was hard back then, what with both of them constantly getting jealous. Of themselves.

Time hadn't made things any easier.