The morphine drip had been lowered, leaving the room in a state of lucid, aching quiet. William Croft adjusted his bed, wincing as the incision on his side pulled tight. Across the small gap between their beds, Malcolm Fotheringham was staring at the ceiling.
“You snore,” Malcolm said, his voice raspy but lacking its usual venom.
“And you talk in your sleep,” William countered, smiling faintly. “You were muttering about stock options.”
Malcolm let out a huff that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt too much. He turned his head to look at his twin. The mirror image was jarring–they both looked pale, tired, and undeniably human.
“Why did you do it?” Malcolm asked, the question hanging heavy in the sterile air. “You could have let me die. You would have been the only King again.”
“I have enough ghosts, Malcolm,” William said simply. “I didn’t need another one. Besides, Leo needs an uncle who understands what it’s like to deal with the Croft expectations.”
Malcolm was silent for a long moment. He looked at the stitches on his side–the physical proof of his brother’s sacrifice.
“You gave me a kidney,” Malcolm finally muttered, a dry smirk touching his lips. “I can’t steal your company anymore. It’s bad PR.”
William chuckled, then groaned as his ribs protested. Malcolm started laughing too, a wheezing, painful sound. For the first time in thirty years, the Twin Kings weren’t plotting a war; they were just two brothers sharing a joke in the wreckage of their pride.