I guess that after death there’s emptiness,
Both far more probable and worse than Hell.
- Joseph Brodsky
It is an ordinary thin fiberboard door that would shiver from the mildest impact – yet the owner of the apartment would never feel unsafe, for the neighborhood is decent and the security of the building is tight. The boring ornamentless and detailless door, except for a matte gray doorknob, a number – twenty seven dash seven – and a card panel to its right with a doorbell beneath it. A door like any other door on this inconspicuous floor with comfortable cold lighting, the marble tile and the walls, painted with an indeterminate color, either linen or champagne, covered with occasional pictures in the black frames that depict exactly the same amount they cost, and the exact amount of talent that was put into creating them, which is – very little and none at all.
Doors like this used to open for Aventurine every day, but that was – before. When his name, his existence, still meant something. Death does this to a man, now he knows, it strips him of regalia and titles. Although, perhaps, this particular door, back in the day, would similarly stay closed; he hasn’t tried – had no reason to.
It will, eventually. Open, that is. Maybe the owner of the apartment is not at home – is never at home, because the IPC offers a sh*tty work-life balance; like Aventurine himself never was, when he still had a home – though Aventurine could swear that he glimpsed the yellow glow in the window from the outside. He could as well be one of those men who don’t turn off light when they go away – or has a cat and leaves light for it; he seems like a cat person. But, then again, he would most likely treat a pet like he treats people – with scientific detachment, why would a feline need light if it can see in the dark.
But if he is at home – he can’t remain there forever.
Aventurine brings his finger to the already well-familiar smooth button of the doorbell. On the other side of the door, it responds with a shrilly buzz. He pockets his arm, titling his body forward, straining his ears to the sounds around him. Somewhere in the depths of the building, a dog bursts into barking; a woman's laughter, pleasant and melodic, echoes softly; the wires are monotonously humming inside the walls.
But the apartment in front of Aventurine – quiet.
He sighs, moving away, and, pressing his back to the wall opposite the door, slides down.
Humans are born to die – but in the short period between the moment of birth and the moment of death, there is so much time to waste. On waiting, primarily, standing in lines, taxi’s drivers, parked at the wrong addresses, orders in the restaurants, anxiously pacing a room, watching water dripping from a loose tap.
Aventurine has wasted it – on waiting, as well; for a better tomorrow to arrive. He waited and waited, and waited, and the better tomorrow never arrived, and he came to despise it – and then, he died. But death, just like life, chewed him up and spat him out - back into the waiting.
Precious – time is, all the money in the world can’t buy it. Before, he could feel its grains running through his fingers, but allowed himself to ignore the sensation, as per the privilege of youth. But death took the grains and made a mud clump out of them. Now, Aventurine is simply aware of the fact that it passes. Either flies or crawls – but past him.
And whether he has been sitting on the chilly floor for a minute or ten hours when the door finally opens, he can’t tell.
Ratio is looking down at Aventurine – not with the gaze he usually bestows upon him, a mix of irritation and subtle disgust, but – softer, which, in his face, takes a form of cold neutrality. And if encountering a ghost affects him, he doesn’t show it.
A barely filled trash bag with neatly tied handles is glistening in his hand.
“Want me to take it out for you?” Aventurine nods at the bag, standing up.
“The chute is at the left end of the hall.”
Ratio places the bag down – and closes the door.
The soles of Aventurine’s shoes creak against the spotless marble as he walks through an ostensibly endless corridor with identical doors and abstract paintings. Surreal; unfair, too – he ended, and this hall isn’t even planning on it.
It does, ultimately, end. Aventurine unlatches the chute door, puts the weightless bag inside – and, as the trash loudly bounces off the metal tube, shuts it. A tiny rectangle screen above the chute flashes with a thumbs-up, then – with a smiling face, then – with a consider recycling next time! accompanied by a robotic voice.
He glances into the direction he came from before heading towards the destination. The hall, glowing with inoffensive light, breathes in and out, walls pulsating. The numbers on his way back race as if uploaded into a scrolling LED display, the ceaseless litany, twenty seven dash ninety, twenty seven dash seventy, fifteen, thirteen, eleven, nine, like a final countdown, until he reaches seven.
The bell keeps buzzing in Aventurine’s ears even after Ratio emerges from behind the door again.
“I thought you were going to take the trash out.”
This feels normal. Unlike the room, unlike time, unlike everything. Neither the way Ratio talks to Aventurine nor the air around him – this longing to be anywhere but here – have changed since their last encounter.
“I need a place to lay low.”
“Why?” Ratio leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “No one is looking for you anymore.”
But they were – and it should have been a pleasant thought as common sense dictates that it is better to be needed than forgotten, but not in Aventurine’s case; it wasn’t he who was needed – but money they would lose without him.
If Aventurine knew that freedom was so easily achieved through dying, he would have tried it ages ago; maybe he even knew – but there is a difference between actively seeking death and simply following the flow, like there is such a thing as too much freedom. As in – the apartment, currently being auctioned alongside with the rest of his earthly possessions. As in – all documents, canceled.
“A place to catch my breath, then.”
“Rent a room. There are plenty of hotels around the area.”
A flattery and a friendly demeanor, when they are pulled out of deep pockets, will get one anywhere; and he might have spent it all just to get here. And this is – another as in.
“I’ll reimburse you for your troubles once I’m back on my feet.”
Aventurine has been through worse. Humans are born to die, but she was right; he doesn’t believe that. Or, rather, he used to believe that he wasn’t, that he was born – to prevail, to survive, where others were doomed to fail. And he has always been aware of who he is and what he was supposed to do, but, turns out, he wasn’t as good at it as he thought he was - or it was a sh*tty purpose to begin with.
“You don’t seriously think that I could possibly want your money, do you?”
To find a new one, that’s what he needs, to decide what to do with himself. Arguably, he could do it everywhere – but he would rather not stay on the streets when he is so… defenseless. There was a time when he wouldn’t even consider turning to Ratio even if he was at the very bottom of the pit of despair.
“Then what do you want?”
He might be just below it, now. And out of all the options Aventurine doesn’t have, Ratio seemed like the safest.
“Start with the reason that brought you here. The truth.”
“I told you, I need a…”
“Goodbye.” He moves away, starting to push the door closed.
“Wait.” The door stills. “I have nowhere else to go.” Sincerity, like Aventurine has always suspected, feels awfully humiliating. He wonders if it is going to leave the same aftertaste lying has.
The footsteps grow quieter as Ratio retires into the apartment; but he does leave the door open a crack.
Aventurine crosses the threshold, the lock clicking behind him, and looks over. Hardly lived-in, this space – Aventurine’s own was, too. Secrets or lack thereof are the best concealed by a furnished apartment. The card on a narrow table under the mirror Aventurine pointedly avoids gazing at, the neat row of the shoes and a couple of coats on the wall hooks are the only traces of I was there .
“Take off your shoes,” – distant, muffled. Aventurine complies, yanking them, one by one, by stepping on the backs. In the past, the old habit of caring about easily replaceable things solely because they once had not been wouldn’t have allowed him to treat his footwear with such disregard. He removes the jacket, too, hanging it on the hook next to Ratio’s.
Aventurine follows the voice, passing through the archway, stepping into the next room that combines kitchen – white counters with black tops – dining – a glass table with six chairs beneath a long window – and living - a couch and two chairs facing a wall-mounted TV with a coffee table sitting in the center – areas. Even less personal than the previous one, why wouldn’t it be, it’s so difficult to imagine Ratio partaking in satisfying basic human needs or having them in the first place.
Two doors on the left wall lead to other rooms. Aventurine takes the closest to him.
Aventurine likes it better here. A study, of course it is the only room that Ratio actually occupies. Shelves filled with books, documents piling up on the desk – it is a neat pile still, maybe Ratio isn’t shallow personality-wise, not like Aventurine is, maybe he would say well-organized instead of featureless to describe whatever it is going on in his apartment.
Ratio pauses typing on the computer and briefly raises his eyes to Aventurine.
“You may take the sofa.”
Won’t be necessary; the Dreamscape is the gift that keeps on giving – or death is, depends on the perspective. Aventurine is going to accept it regardless – with a smile, with a, “Is there anything I could do now to repay such generosity?”
“Yes. Make yourself scarce.”
He nods.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
***
It is easier to keep track of the passage of time when the window is in sight, but Aventurine already anticipates losing it again. If he were in jail – and he would have been, if he didn’t conveniently die – he would tally the days. He would tally them here, too, on these pristine walls of indeterminate color, either linen or champagne, this room could use a few decorations, but something tells him that Ratio wouldn’t approve of that.
Somewhen in between the moment Aventurine eased himself on the sofa and when almost all the windows on the opposite building went dark, Ratio went to sleep; traveled from his study to the bathroom – the door in the hallway Aventurine didn’t notice right away – and, after, disappeared behind the door which Aventurine assumes leads to his bedroom, not exchanging a word nor a glance with him.
The night has flown into the morning; Ratio – back into the hallway, summoned by the insistent buzz of the bell. He looked refreshed, somehow both like he has had enough sleep – and not any at all, because no one can possibly appear well-rested after they have just woken up.
Aventurine can only hope that he looks – presentable; he would like to avoid unnecessary questions, although Ratio is the last person who would be interested in his physical and mental state. Another reason why he is – convenient.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.” He hears Ratio saying as the door closes.
Ratio has never been particularly polite – certainly not with Aventurine; apparently, he can be - without even turning to ashes. He walks to the table, hands occupied with two containers and a cup holder, upon which sit two plastic cups.
“It appears there was an error in my delivery,” Ratio announces, taking out the cups from the holder and placing them on the table, then setting the containers down beside them. He disappears from the view, reappears again, holding a fork and a knife. “The utensils are in the top drawer by the sink.”
“I am not hungry.”
“I’ll have to simply dispose of it, then,” he says it in passing, as a matter of fact, a wild guess he isn’t even taking; he might know some details of Aventurine’s past – but he probably doesn’t know that the mere thought of throwing food away fills Aventurine’s mouth with the acidic sourness of guilt.
He stands up from the couch, approaches the drawer; meticulously sorted forks and spoons, and knives clink as it slides forward.
Metal so spotless that Aventurine could see his reflection. He used to like it. His reflection, himself, slowly turning his head towards a shop window as he passes by, stopping at expensive cars on the street to briefly peer into a side-view mirror. Ideal, everything has always been supposed to be ideal, and he was, and he reveled in the constant confirmation of that fact.
He isn’t sure that he can live up to it anymore, but prefers not to find out. Fortunately for him, from afar spoons are sh*tty mirrors.
“Are you lost?”
Aventurine shakes his head, taking one of each and slamming the drawer close.
He takes a seat across Ratio, who has already finished most of his meal, and peels off the heat-sealable film from the box, releasing the steam from the hot contents within. It smells divine. His mouth waters at the comforting aroma of the scrambled eggs, the meat – savory, smoky, slightly sweet, the earthly scent of grilled vegetables.
It has been so long since the last time he has eaten – more so, since he has eaten a normal meal; but, solely not to give away his lie, Aventurine, placing all the utensils on the table, raises his gaze to Ratio, hoping to strike up a conversation that would distract him from thinking about food - and realizes, belatedly, that it wasn’t just him who lied.
Not a single person in the world says thank you, have a nice day when they got the wrong order. And Ratio wouldn’t either; wouldn’t at all, it seemed a moment ago. Aventurine has preferred to assume that he had Ratio figured out – not entirely, but at least cursory. Another privileged prick who had everything given to him on a silver platter. Still true, but.
And those are the worst kind. The lack of need, for nature abhors the void, is replaced with imagination; the last thing Aventurine wants is to exhaust himself guessing what Ratio would want for such an unexpected display of charity as payment.
“Is there any particular reason why you keep boring into me?”
“I just can’t believe you eat.”
Ratio frowns. “Of course I eat. And I advise you to do the same. Preferably in silence.”
***
Aventurine isn’t sure what exactly brings him to the study when Ratio is not there; perhaps, sheer idleness and the view out of the window grown boring. Perhaps, curiosity – mild now, but he used to be interested in Ratio - or, rather, in the secrets he kept under that façade of his; a man with a fan club and yet no one knows anything about him save for his academic and professional accomplishments.
He is not fishing for them right now. He might not be the most honorable man, but he is not a proverbial snake either. Not anymore. Still, entering the room feels like he is committing a crime. Although Ratio has never explicitly told him that he shouldn’t, although he has definitely committed far more serious crimes.
It becomes so quiet. The apartment without him, the study, especially. Not eerily, not completely – the building keeps on living after Ratio is gone, but enough to notice the absence of almost silent, in general, presence, the rustling of paper, the tapping of the fingers against the desk, the humming of the computer.
Aventurine never asks where he goes; Ratio tolerates as much noise as he makes, which is – below average. He has been shockingly moderate with the house rules – to the point of not insisting on any, how hospitable of him - but he is – seemingly irritated, every time Aventurine is trying to initiate a conversation, every time he sees Aventurine. He has decided not to push his luck – there is a time and place for that, Aventurine is already living without one, he doesn’t want to lose the other.
Work, what else could there be. Ratio has a mouth to feed now, must be difficult, bless that delivery for keeping accidentally bringing him a second portion. Or life. A ridiculous notion – Ratio having an actual life, friends or lovers, not because he didn’t manage to find anyone patient enough to tolerate him – on the contrary, Aventurine can imagine just how easily people forgive him all his faults – but because Ratio, as Aventurine sees it, wouldn’t enjoy a good old wining and dining on the Friday evening.
It is warming, though, this thought that Ratio is equally deprived of what Aventurine himself doesn’t have.
Aventurine walks around the room, cursorily taking in the titles that he will never comprehend, let alone the content; the names of the people he will never have a chance to meet, for the half of them is dead and the other wouldn’t even look in Aventurine’s direction.
Ultimately, his gaze lands on the bookshelf stacked exclusively with the books by the author who Aventurine had a chance to meet – and who, coincidentally, would also prefer not to look into his direction.
Of course Ratio would have a whole stand dedicated to his precious self.
Selecting a book arbitrarily, Aventurine sits down on the floor and flips open its pages to a random spot, a drawing of a winged – cat, if he had to guess – with a beak seated where the muzzle is supposed to be. He reads the text under it; as he expected, understands – very little, yet continues, because it is either this – or waiting for the night to fall, staring out of the window, what difference does it make.
The longer he reads, the more the ink blurs before his eyes. Then – starts floating, seeping out of the pages; and then – transforms into incomprehensible shapes that grow bigger and bigger, until the black fills his vision entirely, until it becomes – everything, and devours – everything; except the fear – of the end, of the anticipation of the end, viscous and sticky; the miserable remnants of the noise turn into the deafening eternal pause; the oxygen - this is what the clothes feel inside a vacuum bag; his skin – petrified. On the bright side, it is calm – and rest; but there is no bright side, only, only, only…
Nothing. No thing.
An urgent click. Aventurine jolts, hitting the shelf behind him with the backside of his head. He scrunches up his nose - merely a habit, an appropriate reaction to the impact; pain, spreading across his scalp, can’t compete, can’t even compare with the hollow ache yawning inside his chest.
Ratio, standing in the doorframe, looks like Aventurine feels; hit in the head, his hair slightly disheveled, it must be windy today; anxious – eyes wide, his chest visibly raising as he breathes in. He leaves – in silence, probably to take off his shoes, to remove the coat; returns, starts the computer, his back straight, tense, pulled.
“What are you reading?”
Aventurine closes the book; the cover – rich, vivid crimson with golden letters for a golden boy; like the light of the sun on a cloudless evening. Nothing happened – and he replies, as if nothing happened, “ Taxonomic Analysis and Ecological Study of the Sylphraptor.”
“A good choice.”
“I don’t know. Kind of boring. Maybe I’m just not a cat person.”
“Sylphraptor possesses anatomical features reminiscent of both birds of prey and feline predators. It is not, as you put it, a cat .” Ratio speaks slowly, savoring every word. The pace he uses when he talks to a man he deems stupider than he is. “However, if you desire to disprove my claims, feel free to write your own thesis.”
What he desires is for others not to perceive him in the moments of weakness when he isn’t planning on using them to his advantage. And this still – is, although nothing happened. So Aventurine rises to his feet and, after sliding the book back into its place, walks towards the exit.
The voice, almost gentle by Ratio’s standards, pats his shoulder when he reaches the door.
“Have you ever thought about it?”
Aventurine rests his hand on the doorframe, scraping at the weatherstripping with his fingernails. “What? Writing a thesis?”
“In a broader sense. Education. Earning a degree.”
There is not much to laugh at these days – but this, this, Aventurine finds genuinely funny.
“You could. Your brain is in the right place.” Ratio takes his reaction for exactly what it isn’t – modesty instead of who Aventurine is and his circ*mstances.
“This is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
“Or you simply have trouble hearing.”
Maybe. He wouldn’t be surprised.
***
Back in the day that Aventurine would rather not remember, but that he cannot quite forget either, counting cracks in the ceiling used to be his greatest source of entertainment. Before the IPC picked him up, he lacked knowledge, could barely count to sixty, but had not much else to do in between violence and violation.
Ceiling in Ratio’s apartment is flawless. Of course it is, a recently built edifice, everything here smells of a new beginning, of moving out from parents and starting a family. Polished wood and upholstery freshly freed from its packaging.
Aventurine is still doing that; counting cracks, imaginary this time. His choice, he is not in a cell anymore – but old habits die hard, certainly harder than Aventurine does. Not to think about what it is that is before his eyes to not think about what is ahead, because there has never been anything good – and probably still isn’t going to be.
Darkness of the future, though, is a child’s play compared to the real darkness that suddenly descends upon the room. The light, leaving, takes the oxygen with it, takes warmth, takes life – and Aventurine is transferred back into the space where nothing adheres to consciousness for nothing exist, no one exist, the place unfit to live in, the place unfit to even step into, and yet it accepted Aventurine like it was made from the same material he was; the place he barely escaped from.
This is not that place. He knows it, but can’t explain it to the heart, beating so desperately that it is risking breaking the bones. Aventurine forces himself to overcome the paralysis, scrambling to his feet and hurrying, wading through the viscous black, to the entrance; a soft click of the switch returns him the ability to see - and if the only things there is to see is Ratio, standing on the other side of the room, looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and confusion, it is still better than that .
“I assumed you were asleep.”
Aventurine collects himself piece by piece - it takes less and less time with each passing year - steadies his breathing, returned to him with a punch under the ribs as suddenly as it was taken away. He can’t do anything about the heart, maybe one day he would be able to, but he doesn’t need the heart to smile and reply, “And miss the fun of being around you? Please, who do you take me for.”
“Turn off the light when you are done with that,” Ratio says flatly before retiring to his bedroom.
Aventurine sits down, pressing his side to the back of the couch, runs his hands over his face, rubs the eyes – dry from the lack of sleep, aching from the touch – and raises them to the window. A hobby he has developed not so long ago – to gaze at the lights in the building across the street that wink at him coquettishly; hardly more interesting than the cracks – but he, like a magpie, like a moth, has always been attracted to shiny things.
Hair messy, eyes narrowed, Ratio sticks his head out of the door. He is about to take a step but, then, notices Aventurine – and, after throwing a raspy, “The light.” disappears.
Aventurine falls on the couch, folding his hands on his chest. He envies Ratio; in general – in this, too. Before, when Aventurine envied a person, he took what they have – sometimes, from them, sometimes, from someone else. He is more of a beggar now; accepts the crumbs of sleep his exhausted body occasionally bestows upon him, but refuses to lift a finger to work towards the whole loaf; because the darkness under his eyelids is no less terrifying than the artificial one. Because he can’t go back.
But does. When the light is off again and he is off with it, frozen, shrunk, with a traitorous thought in a corner of his mind – to simply ask. Yet he stands up, stepping on the thought’s throat – and saves himself, because if not him, than who.
“Surely you jest. What do you need the light for?”
Breath in, breath out, as inaudibly as he can. “To see you better, of course. Does it bother you?”
“It is going to bother me when I receive the bill.”
“My, who would have thought that you care about such mundane…”
Ratio stops him with a held up hand, “Just don’t forget to turn it off.”
Aventurine, slumping heavily on the couch, stares into space. He will turn it off when the light outside starts matching the light inside. Fortunately, Ratio wakes up after that. Aventurine only hopes that he won’t rise until then – he doesn’t have questions now, but he is too smart not to notice; and he might seem decent enough – more decent than all the people Aventurine has ever crossed paths with combined. But decency is measured by a reaction to weakness; he has never seen anyone who wouldn’t use it to their advantage. Maybe Ratio is not like that, maybe he is exactly like that, nevertheless Aventurine can’t afford to find out in his state.
***
“How long has it been since you have taken a bath?”
Aventurine’s lips tighten around the brim of the cup, crumpling the plastic, as the piece of a fruit that has managed to sneak past the blades of a blender gets stuck in his throat.
Ratio’s greatest vice – he doesn’t drink coffee, he doesn’t drink energy shots, he doesn’t drink anything that would travel down smoothly – and smoothies, despite the name, often don’t.
When the audience is anticipating the act – and Ratio is, his eyes fixed on Aventurine intently - pretending that there is none requires additional subtlety. Aventurine lowers the cup, clears his throat – nonchalantly; and says – nonchalantly, turning the urging fit of cough into words, “I showered yesterday.”
“Did you?”
“You weren’t at home.”
Ratio hums non-committally and, throwing the fork into the container, leaves the table. Aventurine, free from the scrutiny of his gaze, bursts into coughing, muffling the sound with the hand brought to his mouth – and forces himself to stop, when Ratio comes back and sets down neatly folded clothes, a shirt of a noble deep blue and white pants under it.
He knows where this is going, but asks anyway – if only to get a chance to divert Ratio’s attention from the matter, “What’s that?”
“Clothes for you to wear after you shower. Leave yours at the door.”
He reaches the shirt, traces the seam of the button placket with his finger, silky, soft, surface glides effortlessly beneath the fingertips. It’s a nice fabric. Expensive. Reminds Aventurine of the attire he used to wear for bed when he still had both money and sleep.
“I don’t think they’ll fit me. You are, well…” He looks over Ratio suggestively, appraisingly. “Still huge .”
“You are not dressing up for a special occasion. Go. Don’t make me drag you there.”
He wonders if Ratio truly would, but decides not to find out. Holding the pile to his chest, Aventurine gives Ratio a quick smile and a nod, and, on his way to the bathroom, doesn’t turn around to check if Ratio’s stare is following him as the hairs, standing on end on the nape of his neck, indicate that he does.
Aventurine puts the clothes on top of the vanity, starts the water running and – swiftly, so it doesn’t get on him – recoils. Not taking his eyes off the steady stream, Aventurine sits on the lowered lid of the toilet.
Water reminds him of death. But, the worst of all, it reminds him of the afterlife.
It started – simple, because complicated things tend to start very simple; he brought his hands under the tap – the water didn’t burn, didn’t hurt, he would have borne with it if it had, but the places on his skin it touched felt hollow, as if it washed away not the dirt, but the life, the life he had just gotten back.
The life in which he has to grit his teeth to brush them, the life in which he gladly drinks what Ratio does because drinking pure water is akin to drinking the nothing itself. The life in which a simple action takes hours to perform. The life in which water doesn’t clean, but smears fear over him.
It takes all his composure – not to flinch when the door opens without warning. Ratio walks in, his eyes darting between Aventurine and the shower, and in them, Aventurine reads a disappointment of a parent whose child was caught lying.
He, too, is disappointed with himself; not for lying – but for not lying better.
“Don't tell me you contracted rabies.”
“I wouldn’t get too close if I were you. Who knows, maybe I bite.” He chuffs. “Alas, there is nothing for you to fix here, doctor. I’m just waiting for the water to heat up.”
“I’d argue it has heated up an hour ago.” Ratio gestures for him to get in. “Well?”
“A little privacy would be nice.”
“Feel free to look for it elsewhere.”
He doesn’t want to arise even more suspicions, but he can’t move either, crushed by the immense mass of sea divided into droplets that have strayed from the orderly torrent of the shower; into the mere particles of these droplets, hanging in the air and gathering in halos around the lamps, and breathed in with steam that clogs up his sinuses.
With a sigh and envied effortlessness, Ratio steps under the shower head to turn it off. Then, approaches the bathtub; fiddles with the faucet, adjusting the temperature and, after shaking the drops off his palm, kneels in front of Aventurine.
Ratio lifts his hands one by one, removing the rings, the bracelets – the gold earned with blood, Aventurine’s own, someone else’s, comes off a little too easily; the wristwatch – Aventurine’s arm in Ratio’s grip becomes almost weightless – thus pass the remains of the burden of time. The trinkets land on the floor with an apathetic click, like they would on a counter of a pawn shop.
He peels off the gloves – and, with a quick flicker of fingers, undoes the vest, before discarding it on the floor.
Aventurine, if he wasn’t immobilized, would struggle; would lose, too – he has no illusions about taking Ratio down in the fist fight, Ratio is bigger than him, stronger than him – and healthier than him. But now, all he can do is hiss, pathetically, “Don’t treat me like a child.”
Ratio goes for the throat – literally, unbuckling the strap under the collar - metaphorically, too. “Isn’t that what you are right now?” He shifts to the buttons, nudging the first one to escape the slit. “Helpless.” The next follows suit. “Vulnerable.” The final button yields to his touch. “Fragile.”
Grabbing the collar, Ratio tugs the shirt off him and unceremoniously tosses it next to the shirt.
“Would it kill you to be more careful? Can you even imagine how much it cost?”
“Does it matter?”
It used to. Same circus, different clowns, and it would, again. Aventurine would let, just like now, carelessly disrobe him – and all his thoughts for the rest of the evening would be occupied by the articles, forgotten on the tepid ground. But at least then, he would be in his element. In the position of power, doing what he knows he is supposed to do – and, in the end, getting what he wanted to get.
“To me, it does.”
Muscles on Aventurine’s stomach tense up involuntarily as Ratio unfastens the belt. He unzips the trousers, hooks his fingers into the underwear band, and slides the clothes down Aventurine’s legs. This miserable touch leaves warmth in its wake - enough to momentarily fill the hollow; he wishes he could take these hands and press them to his chest, inside it, to his heart itself, where the nothing seems the vastest.
Ratio takes off the socks - and raises his eyes to Aventurine; he has an uncomfortable gaze, both simultaneously heavy and piercing, the I see right through you sort, the sort Aventurine has always despised; and it is this gaze that makes Aventurine want to spit in his face, touching Aventurine is one thing, who hasn’t done that – but this is the peak of humiliation because not a single person in the world is allowed to think that they can see through him.
He knows how to hide. In plain sight, amidst the crowd, in the middle of the desert with no single shade around and on the streets of a huge city. He knows how to hide dressed like a king, knows how to hide dressed like a beggar – and knows how to hide naked, with an alluring smile and seductive, pitched low, “Like what you see?”
Ratio's lips curl disapprovingly as his attention is diverted from Aventurine to the bathtub. Without these frugal hands, he feels empty again, and – cold, but this is a pure physiology. Aventurine draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his arm around them. Nonchalantly, he wants to hope, wants to trick himself into believing, but the truth, as always, is the ugliest thing under the sun – it’s not so.
“Do you know what one is supposed to do in order to teach a child how to swim?”
Aventurine shakes his head. “I myself never learnt how. Not much to swim in where I’m from… But if I had to guess – it’s just like with everything. You throw them in and if they want to survive, they learn.”
Ratio stirs the water, plunging his hand into it up to the elbow.
“Effective yet quite barbaric. Civilized societies use other methods. We show support. Kindness. Compassion. We carefully listen to fears and patiently dispel doubts.”
Aventurine huffs. “Support? Kindness? You aren’t talking about yourself, are you?”
He expects Ratio to argue – to list all the instances when, in his opinion, he demonstrated boundless support, all the instances when he was beyond generous – everyone keeps this kind of tab to collect the payment later.
Ratio stands up; without saying anything, he approaches the vanity, opens the top drawer and takes a towel out of it; then, returns and, pushing a bath mat closer to the tub with his foot, asks, “Could you move here?”
The water looks so peaceful, gently swaying against the sides; like it looked peaceful beneath the black hole.
All that bragging, all those big words, and yet he has done a sh*tty job handling the all; can take a man out of poverty, but not poverty out of a man. And the nothing – he believed that he knew what nothing was, nowhere to fall from the rock bottom and he has started from it. Turned out – he didn’t. The absence of opportunities is tragic. The absence of everything is unbearable.
Ratio dips the corner of the towel into the water; wrings it out, squeezing the fabric with his fist. He outstretches his hand – the dry one – towards Aventurine.
“Look, I obviously don’t know what you have been through – because you aren’t eager to share, mind you – but you are not there anymore.”
He is not there anymore – a long time ago, Aventurine repeated a similar line before falling asleep. You are not there anymore – not on the planet, cursed by a deity and a man alike; you are not there anymore – not in the cage. You are not there anymore – not at the mercy of a cruel master. But those are very concrete things. The roadside dust, blood, the lecherous stares – it all can be washed off. Where is the end to what has never existed, how to wash off water, he has no idea.
He is not there anymore, but there is still in him.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“I do, in fact. So, do stop wasting my time.”
He hesitantly inserts his hand into Ratio’s – and claws at the meat of his palm when the towel, tentatively, touches his forearm.
“I’ll give it back with interest.”
***
Aventurine notices it when he returns from the bathroom, his hands still coated with emptiness – a small box made of white cardboard, bearing a slim blue stripe running horizontally across its middle, above which the black letters state SerenNap . He realizes what it is – and what it is for at once, and devises a plan to get rid of it and act like he has never seen it - at once, and gaslight Ratio into thinking that he has never left it on the coffee table if he asks, but the voice ruins that plan – also at once, “For your insomnia.”
Aventurine sighs quietly. It was just a matter of time – not when Ratio notices, but when he brings it up.
“How kind of you. I don’t have insomnia, though.”
“Do with them what you will.”
Aventurine does with them what he will; what he was going to do anyway. He goes to the bathroom and stares into the toilet bowl. When he comes back, the sun has already risen – unlike Ratio. And, while he still hasn’t, Aventurine lies down on the couch – and partly closes his eyes.
The package burns through the fine fabric of the pants Ratio dressed him in. He couldn’t throw it away in the end, for a reason he can’t explain even to himself, perhaps it has something to do with wasting being a kind of crime in his state, but he can’t take the pills either. Maybe he has insomnia – but it is not a problem, it is a safety guard that prevents him from falling into another abyss.
***
Aventurine has been condemned to death once or twice, but it is staring into the greenish water of the bathtub that truly feels like mounting the gallows; or, rather – staring at it and knowing; knowing the nothing but for what felt like decades, centuries, because time flew differently there, not like a river, but like sea, and everything was sea, pitch black and thus boundless.
Ratio is waiting for him – patiently, occasionally glancing at the tub, probably checking if it turned into what Aventurine sees in it. It didn’t. He wonders whether that girl, Robin, made it – and whether she experiences similar symptoms. He hopes she does. It would mean that he is not going through this alone, that someone else suffers like he suffers. Can’t put a price on this feeling.
“Not going to undress me today?”
“Don’t tell me you refused to bathe on your own solely for a chance to be disrobed by me.”
“ Refused is a strong word. I was just about to.” He managed to fill the tub – and if this isn’t a victory, what is? “It’s you who can’t keep your hands off me.”
“It’s not your lucky day, I’m afraid. I was going to wash your hair.” Ratio points at the bath mat. “Sit down.”
When his sister told him stories before bed – all too terrifying for a child, of course, how could anything optimistic be born out of complete misery – he would press his palms to his eyes or bury his face into a scratchy jute pillow, hoping that it would conceal him from the horrors – and horrors from him. What he didn’t perceive, Aventurine believed, couldn’t perceive him in return and, therefore, couldn’t inflict harm.
Unfortunately, this method only worked with stories – and only when he was young; words never take forms, they are cheap like that. This – this is different. Water exists – eyeless and everywhere; when he is looking straight at it, when he doesn’t; it exists inside of him. Especially inside of him.
“It’s just water.”
It’s just water. And that’s the problem.
He envisions a place where water never was. Water back there used to be life; something to pray for, something to celebrate. Funny how perspective changes over the years.
“Avoidance behaviors often facilitate the progression of phobias.”
“It’s a good thing then, that I don’t have any.” It’s not even a lie; this is not fear, not purely; first and foremost, this is preservation in the flesh.
“I bet you do.”
Aventurine huffs. Ratio might be a butcher knife when it comes to dealing with people and not at all a scalpel, but butcher knives are not less sharp. He knows how to taunt, how to get under skin, how to play dirty almost as well as any scalpel does.
He lowers himself on the floor, crossing his legs.
“At this rate, you could as well have stayed in the hallway. Closer.”
It is like a straw to grasp at; Ratio’s attention – to divert his own, to think about anything else but this as he hesitantly scooches back. If only he had this kind of luxury there. Water was a very lonely thing.
And a solid straw at that – the one that irritatingly pokes at his face instead of fitting neatly into his hand. This so-called patience, so-called kindness. In the dog-eat-dog world, which theirs is, people in need of those don’t last long. What could be worse than receiving them from a man the least unsuitable for providing – and the man who didn’t even name the price.
“You don’t have to do any of that.”
“I am well aware. Lean back.”
The cold edge of the tub presses against the nape of Aventurine’s neck as he tilts his head.
Ratio kneels next to him; he carefully combs his fingers through Aventurine’s hair, pushing it back – a gesture that, too, Aventurine didn’t ask for; a gesture that would make his blood boil, if not for a splash of water that makes it freeze.
It’s distant, at first. The ends, getting heavier; wetness, creeping up the locks – yet his heart is thumping in his ears and his nails dig into the softness of chenille under him as if on their own. Then, still barely noticeable – for the fingertips has lost water, smearing it across the hair on their way - fingers rub his scalp, trace the hairline, massage his temples, lightly pressing on them one by one.
“I didn’t know I was in for a first class treatment. Ever thought of becoming a hairdresser? Or a masseur?”
“Would you rather I dunked your head into the water face down?” Ratio grasps a strand, slides up in a fluid, smoothing motion.
That would have been expected; as indifference would have been expected, as not letting Aventurine in would have been expected.
“Why help me at all?”
“Tell me what happened to you after that grandest death of yours,” - a muscle on Aventurine’s neck twitches – “and perhaps I will answer your question. A truth for a truth is only fair, don’t you think?”
“Sure, I can do that.” Wet fingers brush against his ear; Aventurine masks a gasp with an inhale before a lengthy soliloquy and continues, “Apparently, when one dies in the Dreamscape, they are transported into the dream most beautiful. The Penacony’s idea of compensation, I suppose, we are awfully sorry you died. Imagine – a hotel on a beach. Every suite was an overwater house with an individual pier leading to it, golden sand, the sun is always shining. A bar with a wide selection, liquors from the darkest corners of the universe, you name it, they have it – and they put a small umbrella into a glass. Twenty four seven room service – and the staff? Topless men from the centerfolds of fashion magazines.”
Ratio is listening to Aventurine with utmost seriousness written over his face, but that must be just what he looks like when he is truly concentrated on a task. He can’t not know that everything Aventurine is saying is a blatant lie, he is not truly mediocre.
“But it is unstable, this space. No one is supposed to die in a dream, so why bother? It turns into a nightmare pretty quickly. And not that kind of controlled nightmare people may seek when they come to Penacony. It was just another perfect day in the perfect paradise for me, until…” He winces as the drop, forming on Ratio’s wrist, falls down on his cheek. “Sorry. It’s really difficult to talk about. Anyway, the perfect day it was, until my wristwatch slipped down my hand right into the sea and the tide carried it away. I was absolutely devastated. It’s a limited edition.”
Ratio’s jaw clenches. The grip of the fingers, running from Aventurine’s forehead to the crown of his head, tightens up.
“A truth for a truth, right? It’s your turn.”
“I have my reasons, none of which concern you.”
Another not fear – anxiety, rather, that uneasy, unsettling feeling, doesn’t replace the preservation, but mixes with it. He hasn’t considered the possibility before, because Ratio doesn’t seem like a company man, not like Topaz is, and although she was the closest to a friend he had, he chose Ratio not to burden her with temptation – but he should have. He touches Ratio’s hand, pushes it away to fully see his face, and asks, “You are not planning on selling me back to the IPC, are you?”
The IPC has never been the bigger evil; but there is also something from organized religion in it, and institutions of that sort don’t take the destruction of their holy relics lightly. Besides – he can only guess how much money he caused them to lose on Penacony. The IPC has never been the bigger evil - but they are not his biggest fans now either.
Ratio frowns. “What prompted you to reach this particular conclusion as your initial inference?”
“Well, are you?”
“Of course not. If my intention were to do that, you wouldn't be here right now.”
Or he is just playing a long game. But, no – most likely, Ratio is sincere.
Aventurine breathes out, releasing him.
But not sincere enough.
“A shame, though. I bared my soul here and got such a half-hearted answer in return.”
“On the contrary. You received exactly as much as you gave. Tilt your head back a little more.”
***
It is a fine steak. Covered with a seared crust that contrasts with a consistent pink hue throughout, tender on the plate, the knife glides through the meat effortlessly, soft and buttery in the mouth. Ratio is no stranger to luxury; he might pretend that he is about to gag when he comments on the amount of money Aventurine spends on a perfume, but he is barely any better. Perhaps, he acts on the force of the habit that his parents shoved into him, he does make an impression of a man who was born into wealth. Perhaps, he detests it hence is trying to distance himself from it, but the upbringing always finds the way.
Too bad it tastes like stale bread. In general; regardless of the quality of the ingredients, regardless of how much it costs – he has never managed to achieve that particular state of mind when one starts to find the appeal solely on the basis of the price. Not with meals, at least, because he, in turn, was raised to believe that it doesn’t matter if food is delicious, as long as it is there. He knows the difference between this steak and a cheap sh*t they sell in a supermarket down the street only because he is trained to know the difference to mingle with people who have never needed to be trained. Sophisticated snobbism is somewhat of a job requirement at the IPC.
“I can’t help but notice that you took quite a liking to decomposing on my sofa.”
Aventurine breaks away from cutting meat, raising his eyes on Ratio.
He can see where this is going. Another habit of Ratio’s - he wonders if his parents are also to blame for this, maybe not everything was as perfect in paradise as it seems – to catch Aventurine at his most vulnerable, all animals are when they are feeding.
“I won’t bother you for much longer.” It is the truth, he realizes. He needs to leave – until he develops a dependency the sole escape from would be death, his or Ratio’s, he has been through this before, relied on a man to provide him with necessities. It wasn’t his choice back then, but is this – his choice? Being sold, being driven into a corner – these are inherently similar.
“Do refrain from assuming what I was going to inquire about. However, I am indeed interested in hearing about your plans.”
The problem is – Aventurine doesn’t have any. And he came to Ratio hoping that he would, eventually, come up with some once he is safe, but he hasn’t been truly safe since – he died, he wants to think, but the truth is – since he was born. And it wasn’t a big deal before, but, on the other hand, he has never stood blindfolded on a crossroad. He had to survive. He doesn’t want to survive anymore.
Such irony – where else the Amber Lord would place him if not in resin, sticky at first, and revenge is – but then, still.
"I've always dreamed of being a magician. The spotlights, the stage, the long-legged assistant in a bunny suit – sound delightful, doesn’t it? I believe I would be a damn good one, too. Follow the hands." With a fluid motion, he sets down his fork, reaches across the table toward Ratio, and grasps an invisible object, then leans back, twisting his hand as if showcasing the imaginary item. He covers it with his other palm, whispers nonsensical words, and then spreads his hands triumphantly. "See?"
Ratio’s expression - as if something is irreversibly wrong with Aventurine, and he says, “I have serious concerns about your mental health.”
“How can you? I just stole your heart.”
Ratio looks so tired all of a sudden; the same perfect face, no dark circles under the eyes, no wrinkles, running across the forehead – but a subtle shadow that looms over the features, and Aventurine feels a pang of guilt – unnecessary in his opinion, he didn’t force, he didn’t even ask Ratio to get involved. It passes, and Ratio returns to his old indifferent self; but guilt – guilt stays. And that’s why, too, he needs to leave.
“But, seriously, you need not worry. I’ll play by the ear, like I always do.”
“Yes, play by the ear. And how did that…” He stops abruptly; sighs. “Life goes on. Don’t waste it.”
Ratio leaves before Aventurine thanks him for the pep talk.
***
Aventurine discovers TV.
Fascinating, how the things right under one's nose can go unnoticed for so long. Or not for so long, he can’t tell exactly how long it has been.
He is not really watching it; or, rather, he is watching it in between the blinks, in between these almost-falling-asleep-but-not-quite blackouts, but it dispels the nothing, filling the room with the light and a pleasant humming. Less pleasant for Ratio, he gave Aventurine a look full of disdain – likely this morning – as if turning the TV on was the worst thing Aventurine has ever done and could have possibly do (and it felt – good, for a second to forget that it wasn’t true), but he didn’t comment on it.
And, when he is watching, he loves commercials the most. Unlike in documentaries, animals in commercials are alive for the lack of need to participate in natural selection; unlike in these shows, people in commercials are always happy; always smiling, buying a house, planning a trip, dining in luxurious restaurants; unlike in life, too.
Sometimes, the images seep into this state, and he doesn’t dream – because he isn’t sleeping, his eyes are open – but almost hallucinates. Then, he sees himself as a cat, trying new revolutionary food that will make his coat look shiny and raise his energy level, he doesn’t really understand what it means, because he is a cat, and food tastes like a sole of a shoe drenched in a sauce with a strong cardboard hint, but he meows contently anyway; or as a couple, he is both of them, two women, recently married, and they are walking through a furniture store, shelves sagging under the weight of various lamps, decorative bowls, picture frames with the photos of other imaginary couples behind the transparent plastic, and the room displays are a real consumerist delight, their marriage will never be complete without that neon green stool. Or – he is a young man, and the voice in his head says, sad that the guns don’t reach your enemies in space? try Nova Eclipsor, the ultimate weapon for interstellar warfare and he is overflown with the feeling of finally discovering what he was searching for.
A figure enters Aventurine’s vision, blocking the flickering light; not submerging the room into a complete darkness, but – enough for him to jump out from the state of numbing existence, of this rehearsal before sleep. Not in vain, it turns out – because, a moment later, the flickering shrinks to a dot and ceases.
“I was watching that.”
“Were you? Didn’t seem so.”
Aventurine slides his hand under the pillow his head is lying on, finds the remote and turns the TV back on.
“There is this documentary about snakes. Do you want me to enlighten you? I’ve learnt so much.” He rolls on his back, his body numb from staying in one position for too long.
“I think I am already quite educated on the matter. How do you sleep these days?”
“Like a baby. You never fail to tire me out.”
Ratio disappears from the view.
“Don’t stay up for too long.”
***
Aventurine stops and turns around, placing his hand on the doorframe to prevent Ratio from entering. Ratio’s brows furrow in a silent question.
“I can manage on my own today.”
Ratio doesn’t look very convinced – as if there is a basis for such trust issues – but he nods, taking a step back. Aventurine waits for him to disappear in the study and slowly turns the privacy bolt to lock the door.
The sight of running water, just like it always does, evokes a feeling that he won’t manage on his own today; neither is he planning to. He is going to stay here until Ratio falls asleep and lie to him tomorrow just like he lied to him today.
Aventurine sits on the floor, closer to the shower than he would dare some time ago, but too far from the ideal. Ratio’s methods – if he even can call them that – seem to be working, slower than desirable, and yet – but this fact only suffocates him further. Ratio, in general, does – with his intrusive care, with his motives none of which is – allegedly – Aventurine’s concern, with not demanding anything in return.
And he is correct. About everything. He doesn’t want for Ratio to be correct. Because if he is, it means that Aventurine is – not alright and, more than that, can’t fix it on his own, and if he can’t fix it on his own, he has to rely on other people, and not like he is used to, not negotiate with them or bend them to his will, but bend to theirs.
The worst of it all, Aventurine isn’t even angry with him; slightly irritated, mildly tired of – he doesn’t even remember the last time he was angry, why would he be, anger doesn’t do anything for achieving a goal, it is hot and burns the owner, unlike pure cold calculated revenge.
So, when the door opens, he is still – slightly irritated and mildly tired. He isn’t trying to pretend that he was in the middle of something. Ratio, on his part, isn’t trying to look disappointed.
“Did it ever occur to you that the door was locked for a reason?”
“And what reason might that be?”
Ratio shuts the shower off, sits on the floor next to Aventurine, leaning against the wall.
“Aren’t you supposed to be smart? I’m sure you can think of a thing or two a man could occupy himself with alone in the bathroom.” He makes a circle with his fingers and slides them up and down the invisible shaft deriving twisted pleasure in the way Ratio’s nose scrunches up.
“Don’t be vulgar. Besides, if that’s the case, you certainly have an interesting technique.”
“One has to be creative. You know how long these working meetings can last. No time for basic needs. You are here to show me how it’s done properly, I take it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Aren’t you a flirt… How did you know?”
“If I tell you, you will simply learn how to fake it.”
“And you will deliberately leave me in the unknown? Doesn’t sound like you.”
“Less talking, more undressing.”
He hates it when Ratio is so commanding. “I love it when you are so commanding.”
***
Aventurine doesn’t get to count too many of imaginary cracks tonight – he is back to the ceiling, at some point, happiness in commercial has become sweetly nauseating and misery in between bitterly nauseating; Ratio leans over his, his face turned upside down, as perfect as the ceiling itself. Aventurine belatedly covers his eyes with his hand, says, “So this is what it’s like, to glimpse the face of the divine. Blinding.”
“Which is it?” He moves away, judging by the receding volume of his voice. “Have the pills stopped working or you have never taken them?”
“Neither. Worked wonders, actually. I sleep when you’re not at home.” Aventurine sits up, finds Ratio, leaning against the archway, arms crossed over his chest, with his gaze.
He looks not simply tired, but exhausted. The light that permeates every last corner of the room and doesn’t leave much opportunity for hiding illuminates every crack in his façade.
“Do you ever become weary of lying?”
Aventurine doesn’t. And that’s probably why, getting an hour of uninvited sleep per day this past however long it was, fatigue doesn’t bother him much. Lying is easier than breathing and certainly more natural. It is sincerity that consumes energy – sincerity and what comes after that, a constant living on guard and the anticipation of the moment when it backfires.
But it is a rhetorical question. Moreover, most likely unintentional. Just a slip because Ratio is sick of the lack of reciprocation when he has been so diligently playing a savior. Not everyone can control themselves like Aventurine can – so, as a courtesy, one pretender to another, he is going to act like he didn’t hear anything.
“You need to see a medical professional.”
“Oh, but I am seeing one right this very moment.”
“What I mean to say is,” the pitch of his voice grows louder, more impatient. Ratio reminds him of a brick wall, collapsing by a grain a decade. “You need to consult a doctor you could trust.”
“But I do trust you. Definitely more than I would trust some rando.”
“Do you?”
Aventurine has trusted lesser people – because using them also requires a little trust; in their utility, if anything. A potential for betrayal, an uncertainty – they are not the reason not to trust someone. But Ratio, he is too strong-willed to be used – hence, too strong-willed to be trusted. The minute he decides that the end doesn’t justify the means, he is off the hook – and then, he is too infallible to be blackmailed and either too secretive or too shallow to be manipulated.
For a split second back on Penacony, he believed that Ratio betrayed him.
“Of course. I trust you with my life. There is no one in the whole world I would trust more than I trust you. You are the most trustworthy person I have ever met.”
“Then I am bringing you to my lab to perform diagnostics tomorrow.”
It could do him good. Professional help. Aventurine can lie to other people, he can even lie to himself, but the truth is always there, deep down – when it can be forced deep down, and whatever is going on with him cannot, it is on the surface.
But he knows his body well; like any other man who has to rely on body to survive – if it was an illness of a physical kind, an illness a test would show, he would be aware of it. What’s going on with him isn’t the fault of his body – only of his mind. Time fixes that – but he has been having a difficult relationship with it recently. And if not time, then – circ*mstances.
Besides, he isn’t particularly fond of the prospect of being an object of not financial but scientific interest, but an object nevertheless.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m fine.”
“Fine.” Ratio chuckles grimly, tilting his head to rub the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Come with me.”
Aventurine wonders what will Ratio do if he just – doesn’t. Ratio sounded laughably serious, would he finally act on his threat to drag Aventurine to the bathroom. Aventurine follows him anyway; if solely for his own safety, he has no idea where Ratio's boiling point is and how close he is to it already.
Ratio is standing next to the vanity; beckons at him when Aventurine, unsure of what to do, stops in the doorframe. And, as Aventurine approaches, says, gesturing at the mirror, “Look.”
There are ways to talk without saying, to hear without listening, to exist without living; and to look – without seeing. Aventurine turns his head to the mirror, allows his gaze to glide across the reflecting surface, skirting his own silhouette, and diverts his eyes back to Ratio.
“Handsome as ever.”
Aventurine smiles – and something within Ratio audibly breaks.
Or maybe it is Aventurine’s bones, cracking when Ratio puts his full weight on his body and presses him into the edge of the vanity. Or maybe it is the speed at which he moves, fast like a whip, breaks the sound barrier, and all Aventurine manages to do is brace himself with his hands so as not to fall forward. When Ratio was a child, he must have been the meanest kid on the playground; sharp-tongued and quick-witted, but prepared to use a more violent approach when the universe didn’t change its laws on his demand. As for the question of whether Ratio would truly drag him into the bathroom - the answer is clear now.
Something that broke inside Ratio breaks Aventurine in return, and reminds him of all these times he had been in a similar situation before – all these years of being used as another man sees fit, all these years of being under him – and, because it happens so unexpectedly, he doesn’t catch himself on time, and his breathing spikes up; Ratio’s, too, Aventurine feels as his chest rises and falls against his back; and he can’t tell which of their hearts is beating faster – and it is a little ironic; as if apprehending Aventurine required a strenuous exertion from him.
Ratio grabs his chin, forcing him to face the mirror. Aventurine, closing his eyes, digs his nails into the backside of Ratio’s palm. And Ratio exhales heavily, and secures both of his hands.
He struggles against the grip until Ratio growls enough , and his voice, like a guillotine, cuts off Aventurine’s will, and he goes slack; if not for the hands, holding him, he would flow down on the floor and eventually reach the drain in the shower.
Suddenly too weak to even keep his eyelids shut, he opens them and sees – not a single feature as he remembers it. The wrinkles that weren’t here before, the paleness that he last encountered on the surface of a puddle when he was beyond malnourished, dark circles under the bloodshot sclerae. He looks so small, especially compared to Ratio’s frame, so weak, but, most importantly, he looks older, as if life was sucked out of him, which it was.
“I dare you to find a vocabulary in which this will be a definition of handsome. Or fine, for that matter.”
“I’m sorry my face insults your refined taste,” Aventurine says – to Ratio, but because his eyes are fixed on the mirror, it feels like he is saying it to himself.
“These are measly ten percent of what your body is going through. Impaired cognitive function, mood disturbances, weakened immune function, increased risk of chronic diseases…”
“And why do you care? It’s not your business. I came to you and this was my mistake, I admit it, but I didn’t ask you to feed me, I didn’t ask you to take care of me. I will figure it out without you.”
“Fascinating.” He knits his brow. “You truly don’t understand, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Aventurine rolls his shoulder back. “You are hurting me. Let go.”
Ratio is more gentle when he releases Aventurine than when he was restraining him. Aventurine, for the last time, looks in the mirror - at himself, at Ratio; that, too, doesn’t help him understand – and walks out of the bathroom.
***
The windows in the building across the wide road light up, go dark, repeat. Aventurine stays still – watching as they do, thinking about people behind the glass; he can’t see them from here, but he can – fantasize, about life they lead, like when he was a child he used to fantasize about what being born on another planet would feel like, what would his existence be like if he was truly, and not infamously, lucky.
Childish they were, of course, these fantasies. He imagined himself a farmer, providing for people around him; and the next day he imagined himself a pilot – so he could leave that planet and never return, taking his sister with him – it is now that he wouldn’t even consider the well-being of others, but Kakavasha was better than he is, he knew how to love; and the day after that – he doesn’t really remember, nor does it matter.
For the first time in ever, he has a chance to turn these fantasies into reality. To do – whatever he wants to. But – he is going to escape tonight, although no one is holding him prisoner, but his brain automatically labels it as that - when Ratio falls asleep because he doesn’t want unnecessary questions – and he still has no idea what he is going to do. Neither does he have any idea on what he wants to do.
His clothes are in the hallway, washed, folded neatly, waiting for him to wear them again – and the thought of returning into his old skin tastes, on his tongue, almost sweet, yet leaves the hint of bitterness as it passes.
The sound of the footsteps puts him on guard, but it is just a habit. Aventurine is not angry with Ratio. Still. And it’s not even about anger not serving a goal – just that he has always, almost no matter what, found Ratio’s personality charming, like rough gemstones are charming.
He is going to miss him. Maybe not from this period of their life but before, when they were kind of together in looking down on those other fools at the IPC. When Ratio treated him as equal, which meant - still like sh*t, but Aventurine forgives him for that particular fault of his as he forgives him for all his other faults.
“May I talk to you?”
“Sure.”
“I apologize…” No, that he must see. Aventurine swiftly turns around; frowning in confusion, Ratio clears his throat and continues, “I apologize for what I have done to you yesterday.” He has a tone of a man who has never apologized to anyone in his life; the tone of a man to whom the mere possibility that he can be in the wrong has never occurred. Aventurine is familiar with this tone all too well. “It was unbecoming of me.”
He puts on a smile. “No harm done.”
Ratio nods. “Could you follow me?”
“Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
“So harm was done?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging you. We all have our flaws, you are, well, you. And I… I don’t actually have any. But I learnt my lesson.” He is not truly wary; worse people have done worse to him, and Ratio is probably one of those who take their mistakes into consideration.
“I am not going to do anything to you. Please.”
He is too tired to argue - and doesn’t doubt that Ratio will drag him into an argument, and then somewhere where he wants Aventurine to go - after the other day exhaustion just feels different, encompassing and omniscient.
“Well, how can I say no when you are so polite.”
Ratio leads him to his bedroom. Aventurine has never been there before, but he has assumed that this room would be as impersonal as the rest of the apartment, if not more, because Ratio doesn’t make an impression of a man who enjoys resting, if he could live permanently in the state Aventurine is living, he would even prefer it - although he does follow his own set of rules about sleeping every day, eating every day, taking a bath every day; well, the rich have their quirks.
The king-sized bed, two nightstands on either side with a lamp on each, a built-in wardrobe, the window. Ratio presses a button next to it, and the shutters fall closed, then approaches the bed and says, “Sleep here tonight.”
“And where are you going to sleep?”
“Where do you think?” His eyes dart to the bed.
“What happened to not doing anything to me?”
“This is for the sake of an experiment.”
“Oh? So this is what I am to you?”
“It might be able to help you. Be sensible just once.”
The real tragedy of being between the rock and the hard place is the lack of opportunities to escape the predicament. On the one side there is almost a physical need to conceal his weakness right now – and, on the other, the anticipation of not being able to do so when the light is out. He will probably manage; until Ratio falls asleep, that is, this stage of his plan remains the same.
Besides, it is as decent of a parting gift as any, Aventurine supposes. The only thing he could give Ratio – for all the things he didn’t need but received anyway.
Aventurine smiles and says, “I thought you would never ask.”
It’s been so long since the last time he slept in a normal bed. Beds go against Penacony’s religion, some fool must have told them that it is better to enter a dream from a bathtub, but it is not, a bathtub is only suitable for drowning; and, before that – countless hotel beds, always on the cheap side, even though the quality of the mattresses is often a selling point; a little too soft – or, on the contrary, a little too firm.
He had a similar bed back in his own apartment, a perfect balance between frugality and luxury, two pillows but dressed in satin cases, and the mattress is just right for support but far from unyielding. He pulls the blanket to his chin - the sheets smell nice, too, he can’t quite name it, as it is generally difficult to name the scent of washing products, but something sweet mixed with something fresh.
Ratio lies down next to him; this moment, they are akin to an old married couple – no love lost between them after ten years of living together and they don’t talk – at all – and cheat on one another with someone younger and more attractive, although finding such a person wasn’t an easy task, but they still share a bed. Out of habit, out of convenience, out of why would we need a second bed, out of divorce is such a headache.
“I’m turning the light off.”
Ratio is turning the light off.
And the deep dark nothing widely opens its maw and swallows Aventurine whole.
Nowhere to run and everywhere to hide. In a negative sense, all schemes forever concealed brought to the absolute, more than he ever wanted. And it is impossible to tell where he ends and darkness begins. Are his lungs, with every shallow breath, filled with oxygen – or with a thin air, that entering the bloodstream spreads not life but only stagnancy? Does he even still have lungs or the thin air is absorbed into a sponge that, wasn’t it sealed inside his ribcage, would immediately consume the world? Are those his fingers that dig into the blanket – or is it stagnancy that finds its way through pores, sweat interweaving with slick fabric? His heart – what good is it for if it is beating not for him, but against him?
He asks, his voice distorted because vacuum resists noise, “Doc, are you awake?” And when the answer doesn’t follow, storms out of the bedroom, and blindly brings his hand – or what’s left of it - to the switch – and the cold comforting light slices through the void, sharply and inevitably, like the lightning across the night sky, and, after, settles on the furniture, on the black tops, on the glass table, on the chairs, on the couch, on the TV. On him, too, and – in.
Aventurine makes it to the couch, sits on the armrest, eyes wide, as if he will never be able to see enough of it. And breathes out.
And whether he has been sitting here for a minute or ten hours when Ratio finds him, he can’t tell.
“I went to the bathroom. Stopped to take in the view.” He nods at the window.
“I didn’t ask.”
As Ratio walks past him, Aventurine’s body instinctively turns to keep him in view. He reclines on the couch, runs his hands over his face, chasing off the last remains of the slumber; he isn’t looking at Aventurine, rather – in front of himself.
“My initial hypothesis was that perhaps you couldn’t sleep because you were uncomfortable here. But it’s not the answer, is it?”
“And what is, then?”
“You tell me.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
Aventurine lets out a short quiet laughter; and he doesn’t tell Ratio what he wants to hear, and certainly not what he was ever going to say, but he tells him, “I was going to leave tonight.”
“Why let me know now? You clearly weren't planning to.”
It is a joke, an innocent flirting, another deflection, because he isn’t sure how to answer this question seriously neither would he if he was, “Well, maybe I was expecting you would ask me to stay.”
He wouldn’t have expected it; even in a hypothetical universe where it had not been a joke, an innocent flirting, another deflection. But Ratio says, “Stay.”
And hearing this one word suddenly fills him with a sense of gratitude. Perhaps misplaced, perhaps born only out of the miserable fact that no one has ever done for him even as little as Ratio did.
“Thank you.”
Ratio raises his head on him, meeting Aventurine’s eyes.
“You said I would thank you. For that medicine you gave me. Here. I am thanking you. Is there anything I can do for you? You must want something. No one goes to such lengths if they don’t expect anything in return.”
“I want you to live.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it ? You have no idea how much it is when it comes to you.”
“You have unbelievably high demands, then. I pity your students.” And, quieter, “I am not sure if I have anything to live for anymore. I don’t have money, I don’t have power…”
“Eyes. This is what you don’t have.” He sighs. “I am going to bed. You are welcome to join me if you are ready to try and handle it. Or you may leave. You are now free to decide for yourself.”
Every man wants to believe that he is a master of his own destiny. The truth is – destiny is what happens while he is thinking that. Shaped by other people, formed by other people – and what is left is to pick up the leftovers from under the big boys table, repeating, feverishly like a mad prophet on a city square – yes, this is just like I intended. I outplayed them all. But, without their whim, the game wouldn’t have begun.
If, even for a moment, destiny allows him a mere glimpse of what it is like on the very top, as a payment, it takes away everything. Innocence, sleep, mental stability, life – the lives of people around him. And he is abandoned to wander forever in the dark.
But when the space, empty for so long, is suddenly occupied, it is only natural to feel suffocated; emptiness needs to adapt to a new object that will now co-exist with it. Maybe real trust is, too, a habit. A skill, even.
A chance was all that he has only ever needed; but he himself, perhaps, has been a bit too economical at giving those.
When Ratio reaches the door, Aventurine asks, “Hey, that first option. May I persuade you to keep the light on?”
“Absolutely not. But I might be so exhausted as to forget to switch off one of the bedside lamps.” A pause. “I have a day off tomorrow. If you are still here, we could go outside.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Goodnight, Aventurine. I am glad you are alive.”
