Jackson and Harry were not a couple.
They never had been.
They met at five years old, two kids on the same recreational soccer team, bonding over a shared love for the sport, video games, and cartoons. Through middle and high school, where childhood friendships often withered under the weight of adolescence, theirs only strengthened. They were inseparable—teammates, gaming rivals, study partners. "Bros for life," they used to say, a phrase that eventually became their catchphrase, always said with a grin and a fist bump.
Inevitably, people started to talk. Maybe it was because they sat together in every class they shared. Maybe it was because they didn’t bother chasing after the girls their teammates lusted over. Maybe it was just because people liked to make assumptions. The whispers started as jokes, but jokes turned into rumors, and rumors turned into something meaner.
“They’re totally dating.”
“I bet they sneak off together after practice.”
“Harry’s definitely the bottom.”
“They should just admit it already.”
“Those two are the gayest fags in the entire school.”
At first, Jackson and Harry laughed it off. What else could they do? They even played into it sometimes—throwing an arm over the other’s shoulder, making exaggerated winks, calling each other “babe” just to mess with people. When the rumors helped them win their student government campaigns—Jackson for treasurer, Harry for secretary—they figured it was all harmless fun.
But it didn’t stop.
By senior year, the weight of constant speculation settled on them like an invisible shackle. No matter what they said, what they did, the whispers wouldn’t die. Friends started treating them differently, teammates hesitated before passing them the ball, and some guys outright avoided them in the locker room. They weren’t just Jackson and Harry anymore. They were an idea, a story, something people felt entitled to comment on.
Then came the worst part: their parents heard the rumors. Not just in passing, but at one of their soccer games, where the stands were buzzing with talk of the two boys who were "obviously in love." That night, each of their families confronted them.
“It’s okay if you’re gay, but why wouldn’t you tell us?”
“This isn’t what we raised you for.”
“You need to start acting normal.”
It didn’t matter how much they protested. The damage was done.
Five days later, they met at their secret spot—the rooftop of the Ebert Motel. For over a decade, it had been their place. A place where they practiced soccer drills, traded Pokémon cards, finished homework, and confided in each other about everything.
They sat side by side, sharing chips and soda, their usual ritual. Neither wanted to admit what they both knew: this was goodbye. Maybe not forever, but at least until graduation. It was too exhausting trying to convince people of the truth, too frustrating to keep pretending it didn’t bother them.
Then the sky turned red.
Heat pressed down on them like a physical force. The air shimmered, thick with an unnatural energy. And in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
The Fusion Wave erased years of whispers, judgment, and speculation in an instant. People stopped caring who was probably gay when the world had bigger problems—like figuring out how to navigate life with extra limbs, missing body parts, or entirely new forms. Jackson and Harry were no exception.
They woke up tangled together, their heads side by side on the same shoulders. Below the neck, they shared one body.
Two heads. One torso. One set of broad, muscular arms. No legs.
And, inexplicably, two extra-long . . . dicks. 2 feet in length, each, more than long enough for the two to . . . relieve themselves.
Or each other. They only added to the intrigue of anyone who knew.
The world descended into chaos—riots, lockdowns, fear—but through it all, Jackson and Harry did what they’d always done: stuck together. They helped fellow survivors, protecting those too weak or disoriented to defend themselves. They rallied their friends, their families, their classmates, keeping everyone safe in their high school gymnasium and, later, in a nearby hotel. In the midst of disaster, their bond only grew stronger.
Five months later, things had settled into something resembling normalcy. A strange, new normal, but normal nonetheless. Jackson and Harry were college students now, adapting to life in a body neither of them had asked for.
Their shared torso has a peculiar trait—every two months, their features soften, their muscle tone shifts, and small breasts develop. It never lasts long, but it makes their already bizarre situation a little more interesting. "Are they lesbians now too?" many asked.
At least the Fusion Wave was "merciful." Each of the boys had control over an androgynous, mindless, headless clone of their former bodies, which they used to navigate life. The clones acted as their legs, their means of movement, their independence. They could drive, work, and even play soccer again. From a distance, they almost looked like siblings. Platonic friends. Almost.
Yet people still had questions.
“So... are you guys, like, brothers now?”
“Still just friends?”
“Friends with benefits?”
“An item?”
Jackson and Harry had perfected their response. They’d exchange smirks, play it up just like they used to.
“Definitely...” Jackson would start.
“NOT,” Harry would finish, grinning.
Because, as it turned out, they weren’t an item.
They were in love.
But not with each other.
They were both in love with the same person.
Me.
I’d known them since I was six years old. I’d been there through it all—the rumors, the fights, the fallout. And when the Fusion Wave hit, they were the ones who found my missing head during the chaos of the Lockdown. I owed them everything. And, over time, friendship became something more.
So, no.
Jackson and Harry are not a couple.
Just two best friends.
Who happen to be deeply, ridiculously, and undeniably in love-
With me.