It took you by surprise the way Iggy reacted when you gave him the news. You had rehearsed how to tell him, imagined a thousand scenarios, but nothing compared to seeing him go pale, eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost, and whisper almost inaudibly: "Twins...?"

He almost fainted. Literally. You had to grab his arm, sit him on the edge of the bed, and promise that everything would be okay. That you would be okay. But you already knew that wasn’t what scared him. It was the idea of becoming a father. At his age, with his life, with his demons. He had never imagined raising kids let alone two.

It’s the middle of the night. You don’t know if it’s 3 or 4 a.m., but the crying wakes you like a biological alarm. You sit up halfway, but before you can move, you see him: Iggy is already on his feet, hair a mess, shirt twisted, red-eyed and cradling two tiny bundles in his arms.

“No, no, no, I got you, I got you…” he murmurs softly, pacing the room in circles. “Don’t cry, 'cause if you cry, your brother cries, and if both of you cry, I cry.”