He doesn't know when he'd started thinking about it, really.

The idea has sort of crept into his head after his fight with Fritz, so quietly and steadily that he hasn't even really understood where it has come from until it has already taken root. And, he wonders why he hasn't actually thought of it before.

Tolliver has always been the more rebellious twin, even if his ways are more subtle. Fritz is the charmer, all sleek and effortless and clean in his appearance, from his button-downs to his sweaters to his rimless glasses. Tolliver, on the other hand, has wanted to break away from being a mirror image since he was old enough to realize that being identical isn't always a good thing. In secondary school, he'd started shifting his wardrobe to things a little more messy, a little more layered; and he found it surprisingly comfortable. A few piercings in his ears (he had, for the briefest amount of time, considered getting either his tongue or his lip pierced as well, but chickened out at the last second), and dye in his hair has set him apart from years of being mistaken for his brother. He'd gotten his motorcycle, spent most of his time riding because he had loved the freedom it had given him, the sense of self.

But that is no longer an option. His precious bike is locked away in a storage unit in the basement of the apartment complex, and his warped and twisted leg is a constant reminder of all that he's lost, what he is no longer able to have for himself. The depression he'd sunk himself into following his accident has consumed him, hovering around every corner. For an entire year, Tolliver has been reduced to the life he has now, having to rely on others - or rather, Fritz - to take him anywhere, to provide for him, to do everything for him. And it is back to how it was when they were children, the two of them connected at the hip.

It isn't that he doesn't love Fritz, because he does. It's because he loves him as much as he does that it hurts so much now; his disapproval, his dismissal, his lack of support when it comes to the first thing that has made Tolliver happy in years. And Hitch is wonderfully caring, and has provided more for Tolliver than he can even say, both physically and mentally, as well as emotionally.

But he still feels that sense of loss acutely, wonders if he'll ever get it back.

He doesn't tell anyone that he's doing it; not Fritz, whom he hasn't even spoken to in days, and not Hitch, because it's something Tolliver needs to do for himself. Hitch will find out, of course, and he's a little anxious about showing him, but going into it, this is something Tolliver needs to do for himself.

It takes eight hours. Eight long, dragging, painful hours, during which Tolliver spends the entire time on his stomach on the chair, trying to block out the sting and jab of the needle into his skin. He brings headphones and several of the playlists that Hitch has made him, letting the music fill his ears and take over his thoughts. Sometimes a particularly hard spot makes him clench his teeth, white knuckled fingers clutching the chair as his breath leaves him in silent whimpers of agony - but Tolliver endures it, because nothing is more painful than what he's already been through.

The design is not complicated, nor complex, so he doesn't need more than one sitting. It costs a fortune, however, and it hurts, but at least Hitch is at work so Tolliver doesn't have to make excuses about where he is. He does text him sometimes, leaving him little messages of encouragement, because he knows his job isn't that glamorous and that Hitch doesn't really like it. His writing is how he speaks - quiet and simple, no emoticons or textspeak, everything in full sentences and complete thoughts.

Tolliver's back is throbbing by the time he leaves the tattoo parlor, and he's going to have a rough time sleeping for a while, the skin beneath the bandages raw and red, but he has no regrets. The delicate lines stretch from his left hip all the way up to his right shoulder; a diagonal trellis of loops and curls, music notes and tiny purple flowers nestled in. It's a testament to himself, something that's meaningful to Tolliver St. James, not Tolliver-and-Fritz, just himself.

And for the first time in a long time, he truly feels like an individual.